- Walk or cycle everywhere within a 15-mile radius rather than using the car. Regardless of the weather. It's good for me.
- Be kinder to the half-wits I have to deal with every day, recognising that at least some of their stupidity may not be totally their own fault.
- Develop a new Beaker liturgy in Latin, but written in the Cyrillic text, so everybody thinks it must be really, really authentic.
- Have a kind word for everybody. Or, at least, kinder than "loser".
- By following the health advice of the Daily Mail, adopt precisely the mixture of foods to eat and avoid, exercise, and other activities to live forever.
- Stop thinking that Bastard Feudalism was a better way to run a country. Even though it was.
- Give up drinking, except socially or when I fancy it.
- Stop trying to sell insurance to visiting Jehovah's Witnesses.
- Be less gullible.
- Spend the first ten minutes of each day counting my blessings, rather than fearing the worst.
- Look boldly at the worst, and defy it to do its worst.
- Cross everything off my "to-do" list before going to bed.
- Get more sleep.
- Take time for the little things. Like Burton Dasset's brain. I will buy him a tin-foil hat to protect it, maybe.
- Recognise that people I don't agree with, are often sincere in their beliefs and not necessarily evil or just trolling.
- Study logic so I crush the arguments of people I don't agree with, exposing them as the evil trolls they actually are.
- Adopt a Quantum Zen attitude to life, whereby I can simultaneously do nasty things but think I'm doing them for the best possible reasons.
- Read an improving book every day.
- Be kinder to animals. Except the ones I eat.
- Avoid declaring war on any small countries. Except maybe Sweden.
- Recycle old blogposts, to be good for the environment.
- Make more time for others.
- Drink only healthy, chlorinated tap water. So much safer than bottled or rain. And definitely safer than that brook.
- Visit Marston Moretaine in hospital.
- Apologise to Marston Moretaine for persuading him that drinking water from the brook is more natural, and therefore healthier.
- Take up smoking, so I can give up smoking. Then I can be even more smug and aggressively anti-smoker.
- Read a book of the Bible every day.
- Improve my time management.
- Listen to a symphony every day, ensuring that I can really concentrate on it.
- Be more realistic about what I can achieve.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
My New Year's Resolutions
Blogging Review of the Year
It's that time of year again when people do their most popular posts of the year summaries, awards, a stats analysis and a quick lament for the good ol' days of blogging.
But I'm not doing stats. Haven't you people ever heard of humility? For goodness' sake.
So instead of stats, here's a sampler of the oddest search terms by which people have found us this year. Now I know this is likely to be an imperfect list. Mostly because The Alethiophile has a hobby of generating odd Google searches on other people's blogs. So I've filtered out "London" in the Analytics, to try and get some real ones. And my favourites of the year are:
I have no idea what many of these people were looking for. But I hope they found it. Especially the comedy about calculating Easter. That must be a side-splitter.
Finally, I'd like to recommend my own 2nd favourite blog. It's A Skinny Fairtrade Latte in the Foodcourt of Life. And I recommend it because it's a blog that does what blogs are supposed to do, well. So, thanks, Catriona.
My favourite blog is less recommendable, for two reasons. Firstly because some of my readers may not get its eccentric, dark, off-beat humour. And secondly because Mrs Starkadder doesn't blog very often. 3 posts this year. There's clearly been a lot of clettering, and too much trying to cut down on Seth's mollickin'. But it's good when it appears.
Thanks for reading and sticking with us, and we'll see you in the new year. Unless the Paraguayans were right, obviously. In which case, we'll see you somewhere else, if we're all lucky. You've not heard of the Paraguayan prophecy? Oh, sorry. Best not look into it now. Will only spoil what's left of the week
But I'm not doing stats. Haven't you people ever heard of humility? For goodness' sake.
So instead of stats, here's a sampler of the oddest search terms by which people have found us this year. Now I know this is likely to be an imperfect list. Mostly because The Alethiophile has a hobby of generating odd Google searches on other people's blogs. So I've filtered out "London" in the Analytics, to try and get some real ones. And my favourites of the year are:
- a long time ago on a far away moon
- calculating easter comedy
- cockney druids
- john lewis green ink
- new archbishop of canterbury,anglican, justin welby is a druid
- one of leonardo da vinci's invention the owl
- grinling gibbons descendants
- incense in church dangers
- liturgical pie chart
- sombre hair
I have no idea what many of these people were looking for. But I hope they found it. Especially the comedy about calculating Easter. That must be a side-splitter.
Finally, I'd like to recommend my own 2nd favourite blog. It's A Skinny Fairtrade Latte in the Foodcourt of Life. And I recommend it because it's a blog that does what blogs are supposed to do, well. So, thanks, Catriona.
My favourite blog is less recommendable, for two reasons. Firstly because some of my readers may not get its eccentric, dark, off-beat humour. And secondly because Mrs Starkadder doesn't blog very often. 3 posts this year. There's clearly been a lot of clettering, and too much trying to cut down on Seth's mollickin'. But it's good when it appears.
Thanks for reading and sticking with us, and we'll see you in the new year. Unless the Paraguayans were right, obviously. In which case, we'll see you somewhere else, if we're all lucky. You've not heard of the Paraguayan prophecy? Oh, sorry. Best not look into it now. Will only spoil what's left of the week
On the Eve of Creme Egg Day
And so, as the circles of the world turn, ever-spinning, never-ending, like an ever-spinning wheel, we reach Creme Egg Day Eve. All over the country, small people, jaded in just six short days with the contents of endless Selection Boxes, put small egg boxes on the window sill and hope that the Creme Egg Goblin will arrive in the night. He won't, of course. Because they actually go on sale tomorrow. And the Creme Egg Goblin is therefore universally despised among the more productive and successful fairy-tale gift-bringers, such as the Tooth Fairy, Father Christmas, and Richard Dawkins. As a result, he spends the rest of the year sulking, and trolling Santa's Elves on Twitter. Or is that Richard Dawkins? Can never get those two separated in my mind, for some reason.
Before we consider the shocking out-of-season-ness of the annual complaints about Easter Eggs arriving on the 1st of January (I swear the complaints get earlier - this year people are complaining before the Creme Eggs are even in the shops - yet it's been 1 January for Creme Eggs for ages), I'd like to consider the logistics of getting Creme (and other chocolate) Eggs to the masses.
See, what those people who only want to see Easter and Creme Eggs in Easter Week itself (and presumably a bit of Holy Week, so people can actually buy them in time for Easter Day) - is that what they are asking for is something that would make those eggs incredibly expensive. If the Chocolate Egg-producing community (for it is a community, famous for its punch evenings and inter-chocolate-factory-worker marriages) were only going to pile eggs into the shops for a week or two before Easter, the following would be required:
A load of lorries that would sit around idle the rest of the year;
A load of land to park said lorries;
A load of lorry-drivers to deliver the eggs very suddenly, and then get laid off or go to work in holiday camps and other summer-season workplaces.
And EITHER - A mass of warehousing, all year round, that starts empty every Easter Day and then fills up until the following Lent
OR - A load of chocolate egg-making machines, that stand around idle all year. For egg-making machines are specialised things. They can't be converted, for example, to make rugby balls, light bulbs or other ovoid products the rest of the year. And that's a lot of expensive plant, occupying a lot of expensive warehouse, gathering expensive dust for most of the year.
So, economically, the chocolate egg people do the most sensible thing. They have about the right number of machines to make eggs all year round. Chocolate is a good keeping product, after all, being largely made of sugar. And they make eggs all year round. Eggs for export can be shipped out early, of course - some sea journeys can take a while, and if you are exporting Easter Eggs to, for example, environmental reporters in the Antarctic, they can take a heck of a while to get there.
But the other eggs pile up, back at base. Occupying warehouse space that could be used for Mars, Dairy Milk or other chocolate-based comestibles. And warehouse space is relatively expensive. So, as soon as possible, to save on rent and make way for Snickers, Turkish Delights, Crunchies or whatever, they really need some way to get them out of the door.
Meanwhile from 25 December onwards, the retailers have an opposite problem. All those shelves that were stuffed with Xmas puds, mince pies, cakes, advocaat, and gift boxes containing a slice of blue cheese, some crackers and a half-bot of port, are now empty. Shoppers don't trust empty shops - they assume the company may be going bust. The shelves must be full, to give an impression of life, vitality and flourishing sales.
So at this point you may be thinking - "If the shop shelves are empty, but the chocolate egg producers are paying for warehouse space for eggs, maybe there's some sensible way out of this? Surely the most sensible thing would be to push all the chocolate eggs into the shops - they'd occupy otherwise idle shelf space, they'd be all shiny, the makers wouldn't have to waste rent on warehouse space, and the retailers might make a few bob from people who suddenly notice the Creme Eggs on the counter where the Ferrero Rochers were? Wouldn't that be a sensible thing to do?"
Have a happy Creme Egg Day.
Before we consider the shocking out-of-season-ness of the annual complaints about Easter Eggs arriving on the 1st of January (I swear the complaints get earlier - this year people are complaining before the Creme Eggs are even in the shops - yet it's been 1 January for Creme Eggs for ages), I'd like to consider the logistics of getting Creme (and other chocolate) Eggs to the masses.
See, what those people who only want to see Easter and Creme Eggs in Easter Week itself (and presumably a bit of Holy Week, so people can actually buy them in time for Easter Day) - is that what they are asking for is something that would make those eggs incredibly expensive. If the Chocolate Egg-producing community (for it is a community, famous for its punch evenings and inter-chocolate-factory-worker marriages) were only going to pile eggs into the shops for a week or two before Easter, the following would be required:
A load of lorries that would sit around idle the rest of the year;
A load of land to park said lorries;
A load of lorry-drivers to deliver the eggs very suddenly, and then get laid off or go to work in holiday camps and other summer-season workplaces.
And EITHER - A mass of warehousing, all year round, that starts empty every Easter Day and then fills up until the following Lent
OR - A load of chocolate egg-making machines, that stand around idle all year. For egg-making machines are specialised things. They can't be converted, for example, to make rugby balls, light bulbs or other ovoid products the rest of the year. And that's a lot of expensive plant, occupying a lot of expensive warehouse, gathering expensive dust for most of the year.
So, economically, the chocolate egg people do the most sensible thing. They have about the right number of machines to make eggs all year round. Chocolate is a good keeping product, after all, being largely made of sugar. And they make eggs all year round. Eggs for export can be shipped out early, of course - some sea journeys can take a while, and if you are exporting Easter Eggs to, for example, environmental reporters in the Antarctic, they can take a heck of a while to get there.
But the other eggs pile up, back at base. Occupying warehouse space that could be used for Mars, Dairy Milk or other chocolate-based comestibles. And warehouse space is relatively expensive. So, as soon as possible, to save on rent and make way for Snickers, Turkish Delights, Crunchies or whatever, they really need some way to get them out of the door.
Meanwhile from 25 December onwards, the retailers have an opposite problem. All those shelves that were stuffed with Xmas puds, mince pies, cakes, advocaat, and gift boxes containing a slice of blue cheese, some crackers and a half-bot of port, are now empty. Shoppers don't trust empty shops - they assume the company may be going bust. The shelves must be full, to give an impression of life, vitality and flourishing sales.
So at this point you may be thinking - "If the shop shelves are empty, but the chocolate egg producers are paying for warehouse space for eggs, maybe there's some sensible way out of this? Surely the most sensible thing would be to push all the chocolate eggs into the shops - they'd occupy otherwise idle shelf space, they'd be all shiny, the makers wouldn't have to waste rent on warehouse space, and the retailers might make a few bob from people who suddenly notice the Creme Eggs on the counter where the Ferrero Rochers were? Wouldn't that be a sensible thing to do?"
Have a happy Creme Egg Day.
Monday, 30 December 2013
Heads you win, Tails you Can't Lose
A striking comment from Drayton Parslow, whom I had a chat to over the fence earlier.
I forget how we got round to it, but I mentioned to him that Jehovah's Witnesses are annihilationists - believing that those who are not saved by the last judgment won't be condemned to an eternal Hell, but will simply cease to exist, like daleks meeting Rose Tyler on a "bad hair" day.
"Oh," remarked Drayton, "that's not much of an incentive, is it?"
Never thought of it like that before. I reckon that he's wrong, but I'm not quite sure how.
Sunday, 29 December 2013
BBC - Propper-up of Patriarchy
The latest in my series, "unlikely things that prop up patriarchy".
It was, of all things, reading James Delingpole that made something click. His comment on the fact that the assistants in Dr Who have to be both sexy and tough:
But then you go and look at the make-up of the BBC's comedy panel shows, and notice that this problem isn't confined to Doctor Who. The people who make up Mock the Week, or Have I Got News for You, or QI, or Would I Lie to You. It's the same with all of them. The BBC's representation of women is, when you look at these shows, worse than the ordained women in the Church of England, or round about the same proportion as the parliamentary representation of women in the Conservative Party (but not, oddly, the Lib Dems).
So come on, BBC - for goodness' sake. Try and beat the Conservative Party. Or really go for it - see if you can catch up with the Church of England?
It was, of all things, reading James Delingpole that made something click. His comment on the fact that the assistants in Dr Who have to be both sexy and tough:
"Yeah, OK, so it may be very post-modern and PC and Grlll Power, and all, that to have female assistants who are, like, bold, and sassy and totally unflappable in all situations."Except it isn't, is it? If the BBC wanted to be really post-modern and PC, it could do something very simple. It could have a female Doctor. And then she could flirt with a male companion (or female, according to choice) and the companion could run around screaming and getting caught by aliens, and the balance of the Universe would be restored. Isn't it that easy? Just let the Doctor be a woman, and the problem of flappy, squeally uselessness in the companions would be solved instantly. You can have a male, flappy, squeally, useless assistant.
But then you go and look at the make-up of the BBC's comedy panel shows, and notice that this problem isn't confined to Doctor Who. The people who make up Mock the Week, or Have I Got News for You, or QI, or Would I Lie to You. It's the same with all of them. The BBC's representation of women is, when you look at these shows, worse than the ordained women in the Church of England, or round about the same proportion as the parliamentary representation of women in the Conservative Party (but not, oddly, the Lib Dems).
So come on, BBC - for goodness' sake. Try and beat the Conservative Party. Or really go for it - see if you can catch up with the Church of England?
On the Wise Locations of Houses
We've waved Charlii and Young Keith off on their honeymoon. They're going to be spending a couple of weeks in my bolt-hole in Great Tremlett, due to Keith's understandable nervousness about going anywhere near Paris.
At least they won't be suffering from floods. Great Tremlett is like a city builded up, on a limestone hill, thus dodging the flooding that is inclined to break out in the clay of the valleys, where the brooks are. It's one thing the South Midlanders of old seemed to understand well - the idea of living above the flood line. Every village you see is perched on a hill. Good news for the summer trade of the pubs as well - ensures people are always in need of a pint, just when one becomes easily obtainable.
Don't get me wrong - flooding's a dreadful thing to happen to you. But that's why, in these parts, they try and make sure the things that flood are those that are dispensable or, as at Cosgrove caravan park, up on blocks. It's easy to blame climate change for flooding, but then why keep building housing estates on flood plains? Sure, it's easy to build on flood plains. Keeps the house prices down. But they have that name for a reason. Round here, we have stories of the way the Ouse flooded between Olney and Emberton, and flood marks up the walls of the really old riverside pubs - dating from long before the CO2 levels started to rise. If you're gonna live on a flood plain, the really wise builder puts the house on stilts.
Likewise when the houses fell off that cliff in Hemsby. There was a reason why they were cheap in the first place. And the cliffs there are basically sand. Fun and cheap while it lasted, but the end was always coming.
So my advice, if you're buying a house, is to see whether you really like the riverside view, or the brook that runs through an enormous car park before babbling through your back garden. And if you do, buy a house further up the hill. You know it makes sense.
At least they won't be suffering from floods. Great Tremlett is like a city builded up, on a limestone hill, thus dodging the flooding that is inclined to break out in the clay of the valleys, where the brooks are. It's one thing the South Midlanders of old seemed to understand well - the idea of living above the flood line. Every village you see is perched on a hill. Good news for the summer trade of the pubs as well - ensures people are always in need of a pint, just when one becomes easily obtainable.
Don't get me wrong - flooding's a dreadful thing to happen to you. But that's why, in these parts, they try and make sure the things that flood are those that are dispensable or, as at Cosgrove caravan park, up on blocks. It's easy to blame climate change for flooding, but then why keep building housing estates on flood plains? Sure, it's easy to build on flood plains. Keeps the house prices down. But they have that name for a reason. Round here, we have stories of the way the Ouse flooded between Olney and Emberton, and flood marks up the walls of the really old riverside pubs - dating from long before the CO2 levels started to rise. If you're gonna live on a flood plain, the really wise builder puts the house on stilts.
Likewise when the houses fell off that cliff in Hemsby. There was a reason why they were cheap in the first place. And the cliffs there are basically sand. Fun and cheap while it lasted, but the end was always coming.
So my advice, if you're buying a house, is to see whether you really like the riverside view, or the brook that runs through an enormous car park before babbling through your back garden. And if you do, buy a house further up the hill. You know it makes sense.
Liturgy of Everybody Getting Up too Late
Oops. It would appear that, due to chronological confusion caused by Christmas, nobody got up in time for this morning's Pouring-out of Beakers.
Can all Beaker Folk please say some prayers of their own, skip around an ash tree or watch last night's Match of the Day, according to their own tradition.
Can all Beaker Folk please say some prayers of their own, skip around an ash tree or watch last night's Match of the Day, according to their own tradition.
Saturday, 28 December 2013
Holy Innocents, and the Dangerous Herod Boys
So a friend was telling me a story. About a woman - a Christian - who was catching a train. But due to some unlikely coincidence - or, as I normally call them - coincidence - she missed it. The train went on and crashed, killing everybody on it. So the woman was saved, because she was a faithful Christian.
I did ask my friend if he had any information as to the state of regeneration of the people who did actually catch the train - given this story was based in the United States I was guessing there might be a few Christians who actually made the departure time - but sadly he was unable to inform me.
The Holy Innocents are a reminder that the work of God still takes place in a dark world. As the tinsel and angels crowd round the manger, an evil king, scared for his succession, comes down like the wolf on the fold.
We get the discussions about whether this story is true. There seems little point arguing with it, if you accept the Gospel stories as true in general. It's consistent with everything else we know about the Herod family. It was likely to be quite small in the scale of genocides - maybe 20 or so baby boys. It's not that different to what we see in our own lifetimes, across this still-dark world.
It just cries out, for me, a question about God's action in all this. Herod's acting completely to plot. This is what Herods do. This is what all vicious, suspicious dictators, from Tiberius Caesar to Kim Jong-un, do. You might even, if you were to put on your Reading Glasses of Hermeneutical Suspicion, see some parallels in the way kings David and Solomon act when they come to power.
But what is God doing here? Just the one family - his own, if you like - get the warning. All the others - nothing, or maybe a dream that is ignored. So the God-child gets away, apparently so he can fulfil a Hosean prophecy, while the others die - the first witnesses to Our Lord, in later tradition.
But like the dictators, God also has form here. After all, as the Egyptians were killing the Hebrew babies, there was one who snuck through, hidden in a basket. As the children of Jerusalem died at the hands of the Babylonians, just a remnant survived. This is not a bug. It appears to be a feature.
The Powers that Be caught up with him in the end, of course. The job Herod's men failed to do, Pilate's bunch managed later on. Maybe some cursing Jesus around the cross - old men now, of course - were among those who couldn't catch the King of the Jews 30-odd years earlier. Satisfied to see the job finally done. The final Holy Innocent.
And that's where the odd part of the story - the one I trust in, though I can never quite understand it - cuts in. The bit where God says yes, I didn't save all the kids n Egypt - and a lot of innocent Egyptian babies died, too, don't forget. And I didn't save the babies in the fall of Jerusalem. And I didn't save the Holy Innocents. And in the centuries to come, this theme will repeat itself - again and again.
But here, where the might of the evil Roman army has pinned me, where my own people's leaders have betrayed me - where the Herod family have let me down, yet again - here I share in all the other senseless deaths. Here I take part in your senseless death. And if I join you down there, I'll drag you back up with me.
I did ask my friend if he had any information as to the state of regeneration of the people who did actually catch the train - given this story was based in the United States I was guessing there might be a few Christians who actually made the departure time - but sadly he was unable to inform me.
The Holy Innocents are a reminder that the work of God still takes place in a dark world. As the tinsel and angels crowd round the manger, an evil king, scared for his succession, comes down like the wolf on the fold.
We get the discussions about whether this story is true. There seems little point arguing with it, if you accept the Gospel stories as true in general. It's consistent with everything else we know about the Herod family. It was likely to be quite small in the scale of genocides - maybe 20 or so baby boys. It's not that different to what we see in our own lifetimes, across this still-dark world.
It just cries out, for me, a question about God's action in all this. Herod's acting completely to plot. This is what Herods do. This is what all vicious, suspicious dictators, from Tiberius Caesar to Kim Jong-un, do. You might even, if you were to put on your Reading Glasses of Hermeneutical Suspicion, see some parallels in the way kings David and Solomon act when they come to power.
But what is God doing here? Just the one family - his own, if you like - get the warning. All the others - nothing, or maybe a dream that is ignored. So the God-child gets away, apparently so he can fulfil a Hosean prophecy, while the others die - the first witnesses to Our Lord, in later tradition.
But like the dictators, God also has form here. After all, as the Egyptians were killing the Hebrew babies, there was one who snuck through, hidden in a basket. As the children of Jerusalem died at the hands of the Babylonians, just a remnant survived. This is not a bug. It appears to be a feature.
The Powers that Be caught up with him in the end, of course. The job Herod's men failed to do, Pilate's bunch managed later on. Maybe some cursing Jesus around the cross - old men now, of course - were among those who couldn't catch the King of the Jews 30-odd years earlier. Satisfied to see the job finally done. The final Holy Innocent.
And that's where the odd part of the story - the one I trust in, though I can never quite understand it - cuts in. The bit where God says yes, I didn't save all the kids n Egypt - and a lot of innocent Egyptian babies died, too, don't forget. And I didn't save the babies in the fall of Jerusalem. And I didn't save the Holy Innocents. And in the centuries to come, this theme will repeat itself - again and again.
But here, where the might of the evil Roman army has pinned me, where my own people's leaders have betrayed me - where the Herod family have let me down, yet again - here I share in all the other senseless deaths. Here I take part in your senseless death. And if I join you down there, I'll drag you back up with me.
Friday, 27 December 2013
Rejecting Vincent Tan's Kind Offer
I'd like to thank Mr Tan for his kind offer to take a controlling stake in the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley. It's not that I don't appreciate it, but I've had to say no.
In the first place, his demand that we only attend worship in red hi-viz. Sure, it's a nice colour. But I don't want the Beaker Folk out on the roads protesting. But I could probably cope if it was just that.
It's more the way he said we'd have 3 years to get onto "Songs of Praise", or I'd get the sack. It's a cut-throat world, English Christianity. I might think I'd signed the right worship group to get us into the top 4 in the Nu-Worship Premier League, but if they just didn't perform, or Liverpool Anglican Cathedral over-performed - I'd be out on my ear. And then old Vince would be off in an embarrassing attempt to lure some exciting new Archdruid - one or other of the famous David Walkers, or Nicky Gumbel or somebody.
No, on the whole, it's better we stay as we are. Second-division, unfashionable, but very definitely a local religious community. If I really wanted to be in Europe, I'd join the Catholics.
In the first place, his demand that we only attend worship in red hi-viz. Sure, it's a nice colour. But I don't want the Beaker Folk out on the roads protesting. But I could probably cope if it was just that.
It's more the way he said we'd have 3 years to get onto "Songs of Praise", or I'd get the sack. It's a cut-throat world, English Christianity. I might think I'd signed the right worship group to get us into the top 4 in the Nu-Worship Premier League, but if they just didn't perform, or Liverpool Anglican Cathedral over-performed - I'd be out on my ear. And then old Vince would be off in an embarrassing attempt to lure some exciting new Archdruid - one or other of the famous David Walkers, or Nicky Gumbel or somebody.
No, on the whole, it's better we stay as we are. Second-division, unfashionable, but very definitely a local religious community. If I really wanted to be in Europe, I'd join the Catholics.
John the Divine - a Better Story
I've no evidence it's true, but it's the tradition of at least some of the Church, and I think it's a better story. And, as the old quantum scientists knew, sometimes it's the more beautiful story that's the true one.
And that is that the author of John's Gospel was the son of Zebedee, was the disciple whom Jesus loved, was the writer of the Johannine epistles, was the exile on Patmos.
A form of martyrdom, to be sure. To be cast on that island, knowing that all those he had known and loved - Peter, Andrew, his brother James, Jesus's mother - all were gone. Many killed, in the name of Jesus, and John left all to himself, an old man, waiting. Always waiting.
He knew, in his long life, the terror of Babylon. He knew the truth of the Beast. It was his first-hand, daily experience. But on a Lord's Day, he turned to see a voice that spoke. A voice he'd heard in the Garden, in a boat, by a sea, in a locked room, in a governor's palace, from a cross.
He turned, and saw, and believed once again. And, though he was now old, and the One he loved was ever young, he knew that hope was there, and hope was with him, and one day all things would be made new.
The Critics don't like it, but I think it's a better story. And, as the old quantum scientists knew, sometimes it's the more beautiful story that's the true one.
And that is that the author of John's Gospel was the son of Zebedee, was the disciple whom Jesus loved, was the writer of the Johannine epistles, was the exile on Patmos.
A form of martyrdom, to be sure. To be cast on that island, knowing that all those he had known and loved - Peter, Andrew, his brother James, Jesus's mother - all were gone. Many killed, in the name of Jesus, and John left all to himself, an old man, waiting. Always waiting.
He knew, in his long life, the terror of Babylon. He knew the truth of the Beast. It was his first-hand, daily experience. But on a Lord's Day, he turned to see a voice that spoke. A voice he'd heard in the Garden, in a boat, by a sea, in a locked room, in a governor's palace, from a cross.
He turned, and saw, and believed once again. And, though he was now old, and the One he loved was ever young, he knew that hope was there, and hope was with him, and one day all things would be made new.
The Critics don't like it, but I think it's a better story. And, as the old quantum scientists knew, sometimes it's the more beautiful story that's the true one.
Arboreal Ursine Activities Update
An adulterous politician who wanted to bring in draconian, illiberal surveillance laws while in power, wants satire brought under control. Who'd have thought it?
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