Pleasing the Invisible Man

Once upon a time, the world was like a scene from Mary Poppins, when the people that you worried about were those stood before you, towards whom you extended the highest courtesy and manners. Men would open doors for ladies, or even give up their seat. Children could step out on to the street and fly their kites with the grandees of society looking benignly on with their waxed walrus 'taches and pot-bellies. 

The Bible tells us to love our neighbours, and I am happy to take that as Gospel (get it?) and so it is that we should extend the highest regard to those among whom we live and breathe and have our being. 

But then the world got all strange. Actually, it sort of turned over on its peculiar head and we live in a world that Mary Poppins and Dyke Van Dick would struggle to comprehend - and me too if I am honest. 

It seems to me that society lives for, and is afraid of, The Invisible Man. Let me explain:

 - Our kids cannot play freely in the great outdoors because of the risk and threat projected upon them by the Invisible Man

 - Christians can't have Christmas in a (largely, but not exclusively) Christian country because of the projected offense on the part of The Muslim Invisible Man

 - We can't say entirely lumps of our language for fear of offending the feminist scruples of Lady Invisible

 - We can't observe the dark grey quality of something's colour because of the offense it might cause West-Indian, African-American or African Invisible Man

- Our language is completely short-circuited because the Invisible Man will bring a lawsuit upon you

- We are in danger of neglecting our own because of what the Invisible Man (often referred to as "other people") might think

- We stop starting things because the Invisible Man would find fault and throw books at us

In simple terms, we have stopped so much worrying about those we can see in favour of those we cannot. And we are doing it often and obsessively. More is the case that the Invisible Man that governs and conditions all that we do and are is an entity that we may never meet, and so often at the expense of those near at hand. I see this all around me - people poleaxed by a guilt projected upon themselves by someone who never lived, or else so afraid to live because a non-existent person would become injured in some measure by their life-choices. Christians are good at this stuff.

I think it fair to say that life is a gift, and one we are called in vocational terms to embrace and live as fully as we are able. It may be that the Devil (or whatever entity you run from in life) is entirely Invisible and plagues us with our good will and best intentions. 

Just saying. 

(The use of the word 'man' is not intended to offend Invisible Women - but mirrors the song I used at the top of this)

We Will Rock You

I have just enjoyed a wonderful documentary about the group Queen, a group that means a considerable amount to me, and whose music is a significant part of who I am, in many ways. It was a programme that told the first half of the story of a remarkable band whose music found such considerable success in the latter part of the last millennium. It is unlikely that you will have no idea to whom I refer, but if you are one such person, they are group who wrote and recorded Bohemian Rhapsody! 

I place a considerable value on the place of music. I am, perhaps, set in my ways as regards the things I enjoy - and my family might testify that I always was. Just listening to an hour of telly devoted to the musicians who underscored perhaps all of my teens and twenties has proved to be haunting and wonderful, all at the same time. 

My taste in music favours those groups or choirs or orchestras that demonstrate commitment and what I regard to be technical musical excellence. I cannot abide flaccid disposable pap, and this probably why most modern throw-away garbage is a source of irritation to me. It is perhaps why on one hand I can enjoy very heavy rock music while on the other taking delight in Spem in Alium. Music is for the soul, in my estimation, not for a light snack. I take pleasure in gifted musicians crafting their art, be that acoustically, electrically, chorally or any other ally you can think of. My foray into the synthesised began and ended with Jean Michel Jarre. He got in because he was a prodigious pianist. I just like my music to be good and not flim-flam. I can even warm to a gifted rapper, as my parish community may have noted had they been to the right parties! (OK, perhaps not gifted, but very amusing). 

I cannot imagine a world without music. I am never (literally) more than two or three feet away from my own source of music, and I have long resolved that, if I were to be cast to the proverbial desert island, or indeed if I was granted a day left to live - that my iPod would be among those things involved in the arrangements. Music is such a pure and evocative force, when done right (a subjective thing, of course). It is who I am, and the way markers in the journey from who I was. My daughters already have a repertoire of the stuff they like (which has a little too much Abba in it for me, but we are all different). I have even discovered some (I lean on 'some') worship music that, under duress, I could say I like. 

I once pondered long and very hard on an issue of sensory deprivation, and I am absolutely sure that I would sooner lose my sight than my hearing. This is perhaps a naive comment from one who has the nominal choice, but my thought was that I would far sooner lose the ability to see a wonderful view or even the faces of my babies than lose the ability to hear them sing. Music is such a wonderful sacrament - a gift from and of God, that no less sustains me than the blessed Body and Blood.

Through the eyes of children II

The last time I wrote on this topic, I was wounded by the power of a relative baby http://vernacularcurate.blogspot.com/2010/01/through-eyes-of-children.html - and so I approach this topic again from another perspective, a happier one I think. 

The thing that I discover as I get older is that life and its concerns (good or bad) seem to increase in both speed and physical volume. A decade ago, I worried about how my Marriage was going to go (it is, by chance, our anniversary today), and a bit about how my then store in Tunbridge Wells was faring in a difficult trading period. I worried about money a bit, and was looking forward to our honeymoon in Gran Canaria - that was about it. Today, I worry about the kids, my work (subdivided into EDL, next Sunday's sermon, the wedding in the middle of the EDL visit, the Charity Commission return, the website that needs updating in a little while, and so on), how Jo is getting on court today (not as the defendent, I assure you), the fact that my shoulder always aches at the moment, the lack of sleep thing etc etc. I am happy in my life, but an orchestra of stuff plays its Cranial Symphony - and the tempo is perky just right now. 

Jo, Jessica Rebekah and I, with the excellent Katie and her daughter Izzie, went to London to see the Queen on Saturday. That's right, we decided to up-sticks, get on the train with our kiddie paraphernalia and schlap to the Capital for a little sightseeing. What a wonderful day we had. Why? We only managed on open-top bus ride when there ...

No, mate - that is what I did. 

What the kids did was get on a train, be excited about that almost to micturition. They saw ten-million sheep, and were so delighted that they told everyone on the train about each one as they passed it. We saw planes - oh my word we saw planes. They saw blossoms, lots and lots of blossoms. There were hawsees and moo-cows and that was even before we left Buckinghamshire. Then we got to Marylebone and got the Tube, and got on the longest set of magic-stairs ever (that is what we call escalators). Rebekah asked a Rastafarian man (after waking him) why he was wearing a big hat. He smiled and graciously answered. Then we got to Piccadilli and caught the big red bus and we drove and drove. We went passed the the Queens' house ('Daddy, does the Queen live in the chimley?', 'Yes baby, and I think she is looking, so wave' - we waved). We saw the Household Cavalry moving towards the Buck House for Changing of the Guard - Jessica nearly ruptured a lung at that sight. We went to Old MacDonalds and they had baby-burgers (shut it, you snobs - it is easier than carrying a picnic) - then we saw the river ('no Daddy, that's the sea', 'Boat, Daddy, look - a boat'). Then we passed some protesters in Parliament Square ('that lady is smelly isn't she Daddy', 'no, baby, because she lives in a tent doesn't mean she is smelly - maybe a bit dusty'). Jessica asked if Westminster Abbey was my church, and my reply was 'not yet'! I told Rebekah that Lambeth Palace was where daddy's boss lived and she now thinks that Jesus lives in Lambeth Palace - d'oh! Then we went home in much the same way as we arrived.

The fact is, I got to see every detail of every building in London - largely to answer to the girls' questions as we went by. I have never had such a close and detailed look at my Capital city, and all because of two two-year-olds who want to see everything. What a gift to us they are, both in themselves, but because of the renewed perspective that they offer. I only wish that toddlers could read and have access to Scripture and Doctrine - we'd have it sorted in minutes.