By Dwight Swanson

Dr Hugh Rae, ‘The Doc’, slipped away from this world early Monday morning, the 1st of June. He was 87 years old, but his leaving was sudden—barely three weeks from the diagnosis of cancer. He lived life in a hurry; it seems he left life in the same way.

Such life is insuppressible.

He taught us how to live well. In his dying, he taught us how to die well.

The evidence for the resurrection lies in those two sentences.

Even after two weeks I can say little more than I posted on my Facebook page when I received the news of his death: The best of men, the prince of men is gone; and we are orphans.

By Dwight Swanson

Land of Contrasts

To try to describe a visit to India is a study in selection. India is a vibrant and vivid land of colour and contrasts. The Editor’s visit coincided with the conclusion of the five week-long elections and new government formation as well as the IPL cricket tournament. This is the world’s largest democracy, and it matters to people as much as cricket (which is saying a great deal!). If only the proud West held democracy in such respect.

It is a land of great poverty and inequality, as well as great dignity, history and creativity. A visitor to any country tends to observe the things that are most different to his own culture and experience, or of his own interests. This observer is no different. In these snapshots the Editor relates stories of two Indian Christians—different by virtue of being a 2% minority in their country. Their stories need to be heard. The Editor is a teacher. These are about some of his students. Sadly, Christians are not safe in many parts of India these days. Thus, initials are used in the place of names; and they have been changed.
Picture 1

B., now in his twenties, was born in a remote village in NE India. There was no electricity, no running water. When his father bought a radio (battery operated?), all the villagers gathered around—not to listen to it, but to touch it. Firewood had to be collected from a great distance. The nearest market was a day’s journey away, by bus; he remembers the first time he rode the bus, how exciting it was, and what a big world he found.

When he was older, a battle between insurgents in the area and government forces passed over the village. Miraculously, no one was killed. As a result of the attack the government moved the entire village to another area. The happy result for B. was that he was able to go to school. He was older than other pupils; parents bringing their children for the first time would come to him and say, ‘Here is my child, sir, please take good care of him.’ But, he was in school.

He responded to the sense of God’s call on his life for service, and went away to study for Christian ministry. It was difficult; not so much the studies, but the conditions. When he and his fellows from his region were ill, no one would nurse him, because they did not want to catch the virus.

At the end of his first term he determined to go home. Although he had a reservation on the train, traffic delays on the way meant he had to jump on the last railcar as the train was leaving the station, and ended up with standing room only. Other late-comers continued to press into the car. At the same time, some youths already in the car threatened B.—if he touched them, they would kill him. The leader took out his knife.

There he was, being pushed by the crowd behind, and threatened before if he got too close. He cried out to God, certain that his life was about to come to an end. Then, someone asked him what was wrong. When he told him of his fear, the man turned to the youth and said, ‘I am protecting this person. If anyone tries to hurt him, I will kill him.’

As B. put it, ‘I was so relaxed!’

The certainty that this deliverance was an answer to his cry for help to God, he decided that he would return to his theological training after all.

While he was away at school, rebels came to his home village again. They demanded to be fed, and the villagers had no choice but to feed them. Government forces learned of their presence, and soon a full-scale battle encompassed the village. Someone from a neighbouring village learned of the battle, and phoned B. to inform him. He promptly left school to get home as quickly as possible, fearing the worst for his family.

But, once again, the miraculous proved the case. Although spent ammunition shells littered the whole area, no one in the village perished.

Looking back on this, B. says, ‘I realise how much God has given me, and how good he is to me.’

He is one of my MA students in Bangalore. For him to get here for the two-weeks of class took five days: two days by bus, then three days on the train. And he feels blessed.

When I wonder whether teaching is worth it all, I shall think again of my student B.

Picture 2

Although India is officially a ‘secular’ state, the rise of Hindu nationalism has created a hostility to minority religions amongst the vast poorly educated Hindu population. Churches have been vandalised and burned; Christians have been beaten and killed. The local police seem to stand by and watch, if not take part.

M. came to the course last year shortly after having been arrested and held for several days on the charge of buying conversions to Christianity. The circumstances were that he was travelling with some of the church leaders from his region to a national gathering of the denomination. The distance was great enough to require spending one night along the way in a hotel. The hotel manager knew that the people with the pastor were from a poor village area and would not have their own money to travel and stay in a hotel. Therefore, he assumed the pastor was bribing them to come with him. So he called the police. He and his son were arrested, and eventually released on bond, pending hearing and possible trial.

What the manager would not know or understand is that the churches support their leaders, and pay expenses to gatherings where they represent their local people.

While under arrest, a policeman volunteered to M. the information that Christians are easy to abuse, because they do not draw attention to the injustice, as the Muslims do. M. responded, ‘This is what we do.’ A Muslim offered to arrange revenge for him.

That was a year and a half ago. This trip I was supposed to have M. in class again, but knew he would be delayed because the hearing had at last been scheduled, for the day he was to be with us. That hearing heard the prosecution evidence; they had obtained statements from people in the village saying the M. had paid his members to become Christians. They obtained the statements by paying these people to say this. Meanwhile, during this whole period, M. had been prevented from going to the village in order that he may not try to influence the people in the church!

Subsequent to the prosecution evidence, the court instructed M. to go to the village and obtain affidavits from a certain number of people to support his defence. He did that, and he was due to appear before the court on the day I left the country. I await the result.

The election by an unexpectedly large margin of a Congress government is taken as a good thing by Christians and other minorities. It is the largest majority in 30 years, and the first time a government had been elected to a second term in nearly as long. People have voted for stability; and they have resoundingly rejected the divisive sectarianism of the BJP, Hindu nationalists.

Having noted this, however, the persecution of minorities will not stop over night. For one thing, three states—including the one I was visiting—continue to be governed by the BJP (Hindu nationalist party). Just the night before I left a church in the region was attacked and vandalised. Christians in this state do not expect the harassment to stop—women being attacked in the street; churches damaged; property ownership contested, etc.

But this is not the whole story, either. Since the Iraq invasion led by the US and the UK, Indian Christians are being told to ‘go back to America’. So, not only the majority Hindus, but the fellow minority Muslims have turned on Christians.
It would appear that these millions of native-born Indians have become more ‘collateral damage’ of the Bush/Blair war on terror.

By Dwight Swanson

Maundy Thursday

It is only a fifteen-twenty minute walk to the Mount of Olives, across the Kidron Valley, from old Jerusalem. That is not so far as to wear one out. But, Pesach is a busy time. The week in advance is full of activity and crowds, and preparing for the meal. By the time the Passover meal itself is over, the fresh air and a walk would be sure to bring on sleep.

I know. That is what happened to me on pilgrimage. I had been to all the Maundy Thursday services available, with both Eastern and Western churches. The Greek Patriarch sat on a high platform with twelve fellow important priests, and washed their feet, though one could not see what was going on behind the railings. The Anglican bishop, on the other hand, washed the feet of ordinary people who volunteered.

After that service, my fellow pilgrims went on to the Garden of Gethsemane ahead of me; I came later, walking through quiet Old City streets until approaching Stephen’s Gate—the sound of breaking glass and raised voices came from some boisterous lads between me and the gate. It was the first, and only, sense of danger I had ever had in the Old City. And it came to nothing.

Crossing the Kidron, I entered the Church of All Nations, joining the crowds in silent prayer and meditation of the night of Jesus’ betrayal. And I could not keep my eyes from closing; I was so tired. I wanted to pray, but my mind was numb from the busyness of the day. I wanted to sleep.

I know how the disciples felt. I know how hard it is to watch and pray. I cannot fault them.

This year, again and far from Jerusalem, I have heard the story of that night read out. The meal; the washing of feet; the trek to Gethsemane. The slumber of the disciples. And I feel the guilty shame of not being able to stay awake when the Beloved Teacher was facing the fight of his life, when all the world was about to turn upside down. When Darkness reigned.

It is still difficult to pray on this evening, knowing my own failure.

Good Friday

It fell on me this year, for the first time, to carry a rough hewn wooden cross. It is not a fixed part of my church’s practice; I have been part of services in other years where someone carried a cross over their shoulders. For the first time in my very middle-aged life I have done so.

I did not think much about it before time, and I did not expect any particular emotions. My part was simply to carry the cross into the church and to the altar. But, as I placed it over my shoulder I became aware of two different kinds of feeling. One, the weight and roughness of the wood (and that, not full-sized); two, a sense of being a fraud; of embarrassment. I have no right to mimic Christ in such a manner.

Again, I am much aware of my own short-coming in the midst of worship.

Easter Morning

It is not about me, of course. It is about the resurrection of Jesus, which transforms life, including my own failings.

Today was glorious celebration of life and transformation. If we believe the British media, churches in England will all have been virtually empty on this day. But, ours was packed to over-flowing. It was literally standing-room only. There was great anticipation, evident in the joyous singing.

In keeping with Christian tradition going back as far as any record tells, this service included a baptism; a dunking of an adult wholly under water, splashing in and splashing out of the portable pool brought in for the purpose. The whole congregation gathered around outside, at the entrance to the church, and sang and watched as a new Christian bore witness to transformation, and all pledged to walk alongside her on the pilgrimage of her life from this moment on.
I wish I could tell you her whole story—but this is not the place to relate it. But, a year ago this person was in prison, serving a sentence for a serious crime; coming out, this group of Christians has become her family and support. Few would recognise her from the person who was arrested some years ago. Her transformation is visible on her face, and in her life.

Easter is about resurrection from the dead. All of us standing around that small body of water witnessed a resurrection. This is what Easter means. Not my own failings, but the transforming grace of the resurrected Christ.

By Dwight Swanson

A major study on the state of childhood in the UK has been released to a mixed response. The Children’s Society report, A Good Childhood, was based on research which took into account over 35,000 contributions from children, parents, and teachers from all over the country; but, mostly from children. Unsurprisingly, the one thing most children say they want more than anything else is—love.

The report, published by Penguin Books, presents the results of the research in a readily available format The details on which the report is based can be followed up on the charity’s website. The book offers the basic evidence, and makes recommendations for families, teachers, government, and society in general. Many of the conclusions clash with the predominate narrative of the day; thus the mixed response.

For one thing, the expression of the desire to be loved seems rather simplistic, and even cliché, to our hardened society. The issue is how to interpret this simple statement.

The writers of the report, Richard Layard and Judy Dunn, begin by attributing the sad state of childhood experience in the UK (bottom of all EU countries in every report, if sometimes ahead of the US) to one overarching factor: excessive individualism—the individual pursuit of private interest and success.

They then go on to offer seven elements for a flourishing childhood at the very beginning of the study:
1. Loving families
2. Friends
3. A positive lifestyle
4. Solid values which give meaning to live
5. Good schools
6. Good mental health
7. Enough money

The criticism of a culture based on individualism seemed simply to offend those who needed to be offended. But, the first item on the list drew the harshest immediate response from critics. This observation—that the best environment for children is a stable setting with two parents who love and show love, who set boundaries without dictating—was considered to be a stick to beat single parents, particularly single mothers. These poor women will be made to feel at fault by this study for failed childhoods, and made the scapegoats for society’s ills.

This is a cheap shot, seemingly intended to shift attention to a more comfortable focus—those poor deprived and brave people that we all feel sorry for. That the study shows the best chance of a good childhood is a stable family relationship with two loving parents is not to place blame on single mothers; it is simply to state that which is plain to see. To reject the finding out of hand because against current orthodoxies is a blatant refusal to face facts, and not impressive in people who have influence on public policy.

We live in a society which views single-parent homes as normal and satisfactory. There is neither value nor gain in blaming those who live according to society’s norms. This report places the source for this commonly accepted norm on an individualism in which people ‘have babies’ for their own short-term purposes and satisfaction rather than to nurture young human beings to maturity. Like the posters say, a child is not just for Christmas. Single-parents can be considered victims of societal failure; but their children are the greater victims.

For their sake, the positive message needs to be heard. Life-time commitment in relationships, into which children are born with a similar life-time commitment of nurture and love, is the environment of love which children need. And they know it, even if they have never experienced it themselves.

Children can grow in single-parent settings, to be sure. Such a setting is preferable to abusive family life. But it is so much harder, and gives children only half a life-story. And raising children is about the children—not about the parents.

By Dwight Swanson

For an Israeli perspective on the Israel election, read "'Waltz with Bashir,' Gaza, and the post-moral world"
By Bradley Burston, in Ha'arets Newspaper:

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1060891.html

By Dwight Swanson

The Editor is in America on this day, a remarkable day:

In the morning I watched the Inauguration on a big-screen television in Kansas City, Missouri, in a room full of young, white, evangelicals who watched intently, and applauded at the end of the new President’s speech. In the evening I joined, with many of these young people, in worship with an African-American congregation of the same evangelical denomination. The combination has been deeply moving in many ways.
One cannot but be moved by this day, and be hopeful, except a cynical heart of stone. This is a report on the spirit of the day, rather than the politics.

The church placed a picture of Obama with Martin Luther King behind him on the screen behind the pulpit. Such symbols are out of place in a house of worship, as much as a national flag; but on this day, as on no other, the symbol portrayed the exuberant celebration shared by all African Americans. Yesterday was Martin Luther King, Jr, Day—the 80th birthday of King; today they saw what none of them thought would happen in their lifetime come to pass. The symbol can be forgiven on this day.

The first hymn was introduced as ‘The African American National Anthem’. I could not sing with them, for the words were written in 1900 by James Weldon Johnson, a school principal for whom slavery was still a living memory. I listened, and saw how much the words still pertain to these people, and grasped a little more of the reason for the exuberance of this celebration.

I also recognised quickly that I had heard the words before today. They are the opening words of the benediction of the Inauguration ceremony by the Revd James Lowery. The words of the hymn deserve a reading:

Lift every voice and sing,
‘Til earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on ‘til victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast’ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
‘Til now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.

This was a worship service of an African American congregation which is part of an evangelical denomination which voted 99% for Bush and McCain. I wish that 99% had been able to attend this service. Firstly, they would have to look at the Obama presidency in a different light. But, secondly, they would look at Jesus Christ in a different light.

The preacher, a senior figure in this same denomination (seen in the photo above), quoted quite a bit from Martin Luther King, Jr. His sermon title invoked Obama’s campaign slogan with ‘Remembering the Dream’. But the sermon was not about King, or about Obama. The preacher affirmed that Americans remember King’s 1963 speech about his dream, but that few remember the dream itself—and its hope for equality and justice for all Americans. Yet, his ultimate point affirmed that the fulfilment of that dream will be found in the resurrection, in Easter morning. He called it the dream of Jesus.

On this day, a day of celebration, observing the exuberance, this was good focus.

By Dwight Swanson

Blood on the Door

Violence came to my doorstep, again. This time I met the victim.

I was just turning off the computer for the night, a little after midnight, when I noticed that the security light at the front door was on. Looking out the upper floor window I could not see anyone, so assumed a passing cat had set off the light. Then the door-bell rang, twice.

The windows looking out on the porch are occluded glass (I think the American term is ‘frosted’), so I could only make out a blurry outline of someone standing at the door. I called out, ‘Who is it, and what do you want?’, in a tone meant to convey suspicion and distrust. The response was, ‘I’m injured, and need some help.’

I looked carefully, to see if there was more than one person, in case it was a set-up. But, the tone of voice sounded convincing enough. I opened the door. A man stood there with bloody hands.

The story I heard in the next few minutes was this: he was walking home from his girl-friend’s house when three black men started chasing him. He finally got away by climbing over a wall just opposite our house—but the wall had barbed wire at the top. Thus, his hands were injured.

I got him in my car, and took him to A&E (ER), just five minutes’ away. It was the simplest thing to do. And, I was home and in bed within fifteen minutes of hearing the doorbell ring.

If you look closely at the picture above, you can see his blood on the door. Not a lot, though. The young man will recover quickly. I lost no sleep.

Ours is a violent world. News reports offer ample evidence every day of this fact. Terrorist acts are common occurrence in some parts; internal war is waged in many parts. For middle-class Westerners like me, this news is part of the morning rituals, alongside the mug of coffee and a flick through the on-line newspapers. The violence happens. I pour another cupful of coffee.

Seldom does it come to our neighbourhoods; certainly not our own doorsteps. Not even 9/11 happened near me.

But, my friend Leo, from the Congo, hears the news stories differently than I do. Violence came to his door one night, and he jumped out a back window to escape it, and ended up in my city, and my church. The tiny streak of blood on my door is nothing in comparison; the pounding came to his family’s door another time, and his wife had to flee for her life. His parents and child still await a time when he can return home, still fear the pounding on the front door.

It seems we do not really sit up and take notice until the blood is at our own door.

By Dwight Swanson

The election is history. People seem to be struggling to move on in life. There is so little to talk about now!

The Editor has not yet offered his post-election analysis. That reflection will come, eventually. But not yet. Because life goes on. Here is what life is like here lately…

Today provided the sort of variety that makes life interesting (not including starting the day off by dropping my wife off at the hospital to have her hand x-rayed). The morning consisted of succeeding appointments to discuss: environmental ethics from the perspective of African creation stories; the problem of interpretation of the holy war motif in the book of Joshua—the command to ‘smite’ all the people of Canaan; barrenness in a society which views infertility as a curse; and how a church can offer a sense of community in a transient society (and why national and city governments, with all their money, cannot).

For an after lunch treat, a seminar on imitation in Greco-Roman literature.

That was just today.

Over the past week there have been other demands for attention. A visit to a church member serving life in prison for murder; putting on a comedy sketch for the church party, celebrating 119 years of life in Manchester; an afternoon with one of my oldest and dearest friends, catching up on the last couple years since we saw each other; listening to a genome scientist explain what his mapping of bits of DNA has discovered; learning from a Nigerian about persecution of fellow Christians in the north of his country, and how church leaders work with Muslim leaders to bring an end to it; following discussion by local church leaders on plans for change in the church structures to ‘empower’ the local churches in working together.

All of this is besides the regular teaching subjects. One cannot complain of a dull routine.

And, there has been little time to worry about Obama.