About Rambling Rector

Church of England Parish Priest

NHS encourages irresponsibility?

For Church Magazine, November 2020

You might remember Terry Waite, adviser to a former Archbishop of Canterbury, who was captured and kept in solitary confinement for over three years in Lebanon. He speaks with some authority about how to survive in difficult times. 

He has in no uncertain terms told us to stop being so pathetically wuss (my words not his) about dealing with the privations arising from efforts to stop the spread of covid. We should stop moaning and be constructive about organising our lives. We could read more, be creative, use technology to chat to people. However bad we think it might be, it has to get a lot worse before it compares with being on your own in a Beirut shithole for years. In short, we should take responsibility for ourselves and not expect someone else to come along and sort us out.

Amen, amen.

It applies to every aspect of life, not least health.

Actions have consequences. If you stuff your face with cream cakes from the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same, don’t be surprised if you get fat, develop diabetes, have a heart attack, and suffer from joint disease because your joints weren’t expecting to have to support a ten ton truck.

Part of the blame lies with the NHS—or rather the way we have allowed it to develop. Having it as a safety net is one thing, but now we expect it to deal with the consequences of our stupidity. We think that we have a right to feel as good at 70 as we did at 30. We refuse to take responsibility for ourselves in the expectation that the NHS will sort it out for us.

It’s a bit like praying to a sky-pixie to sort out problems that we have brought on ourselves. Indeed, it is exactly like that. The Dalai Lama has pointed out how silly it is: “humans have created this problem, and now we are asking God to solve it. It is illogical. God would say, solve it yourself because you created it in the first place.” 

And so with health.

Make a weekend visit to a casualty department (after covid, if it ever ends). Wade through the vomit on the floor caused by alcohol overconsumption. Is this what the NHS is for? Why should doctors be non-judgmental? When I was a teenager, my GP told me I was too fat and should do something about it. He was right, and I did. 

None of this is easy to manage. Some of us eat to make us feel better about ourselves. At least the food loves us even if nobody else does. Some of us have genetic predispositions to certain conditions and there is little we can do other than manage them. Life is difficult. We are at the mercy of our obsessions and addictions – and don’t kid yourself that you don’t have any because we all do. Here’s a list.

Nicotine/tobacco. Alcohol. Exercise, Porn. Golf (I’m not old enough to play golf, but I’m told that it’s popular amongst the brain dead). Recreational drugs (cannabis is less dangerous than alcohol; cannabis rice krispie cakes are delicious). Religion: ecstatic trances of mystics are orgasmic, and for some people religion is merely a prop like smoking or drugs or booze to help them get through the day. Some people are addicted to money, power, controlling others, pleasing people, wanting to change people, gambling, internet, social media, books, buying stuff you don’t need, gossiping, criticizing, moaning, being miserable.

We’re all addicted to something—several things in my case. Look at your addictions. If you think you haven’t any, you deceive yourself. We are all in recovery from something.

You hear people compare themselves to others: “if she can eat it, why can’t I?” The sad truth is that as with everything else, our bodies and our metabolisms are unpredictable. We are not all the same. Swallow a handful of paracetamol and see what happens. Some of you will have no detectable symptoms; some of you will die. Or covid: some people have mild or no symptoms, some have serious symptoms that last ages; some die. 

And all of you will die sooner or later. The longer you live, the more likely you are to die. Life is not fair. Life is uncertain. Get over it. 

One of the first things that medical students do is study a dead body. It is a ritual that helps define them as trainee doctors. All their patients will die, and so will they. As a priest, at every funeral I took I pointed to the coffin and said “every single one of you is going to go in a box like that, and it might be later today, so get your affairs in order, make peace with those you need to, and if there’s something you need to do, do it now. And stop moaning”. I had more complimentary remarks as a result of that stark advice than ever I expected.

My reading of Scripture tells me that we are to be responsible for ourselves. You are no good to your neighbour if you don’t look after yourself. The NHS encourages some of us NOT to take responsibility for ourselves, instead remaining as infants expecting nanny (NHS staff) to deal with the consequences of our idiocy.

You could say that the NHS is UNChristian in tolerating irresponsibility.

The British Army: being thirded

Following my blog Avoid the stupid and hardworking about the Prussian Army types that Baron Kurt von Hammerstein-Equord encountered, a friend has written an updated version for today’s British Army. My correspondent is an Army Officer so is well qualified for the task.

Some thoughts from a more modern perspective – about 1952, which is where the Army is stuck. 

The Army is a firm believer in investing in people and maximising talent [pass the sick bag already], which mean that the MOD can pay a consulting firm millions to develop glossy on-message brochures, which they then roll up to sodomise you. The Army’s version of maximising talent is putting the big lads first to act as a human buffer against razor wire. 

The personnel appraisal system has mysteriously endured through successive defence reviews and budget upheavals, I imagine because it is now so entrenched in our language that the thought of changing it would have senior officers reaching for the sal volatile—or the nearest NCO to give him a good lashing. 

We in the Army are “thirded”. Top third, middle third and bottom third. All three are used as a form of introduction, though never in the presence of the subject. “Did you know that Capt Suchandsuch is joining us next month? I’ve heard he’s a solid middle thirder.”

Bottom thirders are referred to in a number of ways. Lizard, melt, creature, and cluster are the most common. In the officer’s cohort insults abound: “I wouldn’t follow him around a supermarket”; “he has all the depth of a car park puddle”; “he has the breaking strain of a soggy kit-kat”. These chaps tend to go to the logistics corps, although there is a smattering of them across the Army. They tend to have utterly unfounded yet deeply held self-belief, and often fall in to the bracket of the dangerously incompetent [von Hammerstein-Equord type 4]. The best thing you can say about a bottom third officer is that he’s bottom third but he knows it. Sadly, a lot of the senior leadership are bottom thirders. They have survived by dint of ‘staying on the log’ – more on that later – and have been promoted simply by remaining alive long enough, but certainly not through merit.

Some of the more progressive, or soft and “caring”, officers have pointed out that “bottom third” is a rather humiliating term – bad for morale – and have suggested alternatives such as “lower third” or “other third”. Needless to say this silly wokery hasn’t caught on, and those who suggest it are shunted off to bottom third jobs where they can’t do any more damage. 

Most people – 90% – constitute the middle third. Synonyms include “won’t set the world on fire”, “bit of a grey man” and “I honestly can’t remember anything he has ever said”. They won’t fuck-up but they bring no glory. They are officers who would make it through a war without firing their weapon or dying. They are generally content with their lot. They aspire to retire on a Lieutenant-Colonel’s pension somewhere in the Cotswolds with a spaniel, a couple of kids at uni and a spouse in a Barbour jacket, Alice band and solid employment. As soldiers, these are the guys you want: reliable, competent, and usually extremely good company. 

Top thirders are either extremely effective or the absolute worst. The worst are the thrusters, those who know how bum-snorkel like a champ, reliably absent when any actual work needs doing, but appearing like a shapeshifter moments before the CO shows up. As officers they epitomise the Sandhurst ethos of “run fast, shout loud”. You can have all the substance of candyfloss, but run fast and shout loud, and well, you’re in the top third, my lad. Thrusters know they are thrusters, and don’t care. They would happily sell their granny for facetime with the boss, and they would just as fast throw that boss under a bus for some crotch-sniffing with a general.

The good top thirders are referred to as genuinely good blokes, gleaming, or golden. They are rare and valuable, both extremely competent and self-aware, and for that reason usually lift the curtain of the Army sooner than most and have all left within six years of joining to earn gazillions in the City. The ones that stay do well, they are the ones who normally make Chief of General Staff level. 

Earlier, I wrote of “staying on the log”. This refers to the log run. On arrival in basic training every recruit is given the necessary kit to survive the impending course, including, ominously, a short length of rope. The purpose of this becomes clear a few weeks in – you knot with another, slip it underneath a horizontal telegraph pole, and as a team, all with your little rope holders, lift the log and run with it forever. There is always a rotating reserve and when your hands begin to bleed or you feel you cannot hold on for much longer, you rotate out and get a bit of a breather, until the next sorry sod raises their hand, at which point you rotate back in. If you fall back or fall over, you get the honour of a place in the jack wagon, the slow moving landrover which follows behind such activity for health and safety reasons. Going in the jack wagon is a heinous sin – you had best be dying, but more likely you are a malingering bottom thirder with an ouchy leg. Staying on the log at the front, setting a ridiculous pace and bellowing “keep it up, chaps” every few minutes is a top thirder’s role, thrusters and good blokes alike. But as long as you are still on the log by the end, even if that means getting out of the jack wagon because your ouchy leg feels a lot less ouchy now the end is in sight, then you pass. Hence the term, stay on the log.

Here ends my correspondent’s text. The parallels with the church are striking.

So there we have it, girls and boys. There are lots of ways to classify people. Perhaps you like von Hammerstein-Equord’s taxonomy. I do. Perhaps you see merit in the Army’s thirding. I do. Perhaps like me you can see lots of overlaps. Invent your own taxonomy. I used to classify people as fxxkers, wankers and buggers. Then I added tossers. But this isn’t really adequate since for me wankers and buggers (as in silly …) are terms of endearment, and none of them sufficiently describes the scabbiest specimens of the species.

In any case, have a good laugh. And for goodness sake, look in a mirror and laugh at yourself.

Avoid the stupid and hardworking

Baron Kurt von Hammerstein-Equord

I have recently – too recently – come across a rather splendid way of putting people into pigeonholes.

It’s based on the quite brilliant taxonomy of the Prussian officer class by Generaloberst Baron Kurt Gebhard Adolf Philipp Freiherr von Hammerstein-Equord (1878-1943).

“I distinguish four types,” he wrote. “There are clever, hardworking, stupid, and lazy officers. Usually two characteristics are combined. Some are clever and hardworking; their place is the General Staff. The next ones are stupid and lazy; they make up 90 percent of every army and are suited to routine duties. Anyone who is both clever and lazy is qualified for the highest leadership duties, because he possesses the mental clarity and strength of nerve necessary for difficult decisions. One must beware of anyone who is both stupid and hardworking; he must not be entrusted with any responsibility because he will always only cause damage.”

Marvellous!

Here is my take.

Clever and hardworking. Reliable, meticulous, imaginative, industrious. They get things done. Inclined to be workaholics. Good friends.

Stupid and lazy. They work to live. Don’t think too much. Not over bothered about standards: “it’ll do”. Good fun.

Clever and lazy. Strategists who see the big picture but have the sense and humility to know that masterly inactivity is often the way. They don’t need to bolster fragile egos by waving their willies about. They are aware of all possibilities, all the “what ifs?”, but they don’t waste their or anyone else’s energy by imposing silly tasks. They are aware of their own strengths and weaknesses and welcome wise advice – indeed they seek it. They can be firm and courageous in making difficult decisions, and neither stand nor impose nonsense. Without doubt, these people should be, but so rarely are, in charge.

Stupid and hardworking. The most dangerous. With their misplaced self-confidence linked to a combination of intensity and density, they fool people into appointing them to senior posts. Because of their arrogance and the ignorance of their own limitations, they wreak havoc and endanger others. They are like black holes, sucking the life force from all they come into contact with. They stifle initiative and surround themselves with even stupider yes-men so as not to be challenged. 

It’s not difficult to categorize people thus. The fourth group is stuffed full of politicians. I guess that most bosses fall into the first (good) and fourth (not good), whereas ideally they’d be in the third – clever and lazy. Doctors are easy to categorize too. And so are clergy. Use your imaginations, but suffice it for me to say that being a member of the fourth category seems to be a prerequisite for preferment.

Baron von Hammerstein-Equord was an interesting man. Aristocrat, Prussian then German army, and plotter against Hitler (how did the Baron survive?). At home he openly talked of planned anti-Jewish action so his many children could warn their Jewish friends. Two daughters passed information to the Soviet Union by means of the German Communist Party – indeed the whole family was somewhat cavalier about their own safety in the increasingly repressive Nazi state. He knew the Gestapo were onto him, but he bashed on.

He died of what might have been parotid cancer having ignored symptoms – typical man – for years. I suppose the cancer got him before the SS.

Two months before he died he said to a visitor “I am ashamed to have belonged in an army that witnessed and tolerated all the crimes”. 

A good and decent man, and clearly an extraordinarily shrewd judge of people.

A story for his birthday

at an Eton choral course

A summer morning in the early 1990s. He was about 15, a pupil at Wesley College, one of the rugby-playing* Protestant schools of south Dublin that both boys attended. (Victoria went to a girls’ school, Rathdown – not a rugby school unless there were some shenanigans that were well hidden.)

For some reason I was at home in Co Wicklow, skiving off work. Susan was elsewhere.

The phone rings.

Hello, is that Professor Monkhouse?

It is.

It’s Brian Duffy here, deputy head at Wesley.

What can I do for you, Mr Duffy?

Well, I’m ringing to let you know that I’ve suspended Hugh from school for the rest of the day.

Oh yes?

Silence.

Do you want to know why?

If you want to tell me, Mr Duffy, and I sense that you do.

This was not the response he expected. I had the impression that it enraged him.

He was talking and laughing in the library. I asked him to stop. I left for a few minutes and when I returned he was up to his old tricks. I didn’t care for his attitude, so I’ve sent him home.

Silence.

Well, Mr Duffy, thanks for letting me know.

Is that all you have to say? Do you have any response?

Since you ask, I think that’s rather pathetic. Infantile even.

He went ballistic. “I’ll have you know that I have only his best interests at heart … ” and more in similar vein. When he’d finished ranting I thanked him again and said goodbye.

The school was about 12 miles from home, and buses were not frequent in the middle of the day, but after a while Hugh rang me from a phone box in Enniskerry and I drove the 1.5 miles to collect him. He noted the hint of a smile on my lips. The rest of the day was pleasant enough.

Petty rules and irrational discipline in a school where prizewinners and pupils honoured at Speech Days often, inexplicably, had the same surnames as governors and members of staff. Incredible, isn’t it?

Not long afterwards Mr Duffy was appointed head of High School, another south Dublin Protestant school, though less rugby. Like Hugh, he has passed to life upon another shore. Perhaps they have met once again in that greater light.

* Before I sign off, let me tell you of an occasion when in the second form (age 13 I guess) Hugh collided with a huge sixth form rugby jock, Leinster trialist Eric Miller if memory serves. Little Hughie said, “hey you, watch where you’re going, you fat fecker”. Within seconds he’d learnt that alliterative skill does not overcome instant karma.

Psalm 119 verse 99 goes “I have more understanding than my teachers”, well known to Hugh from his chorister days. It was a maxim that he took to heart and made his own.

Happy birthday, big man.

Time traveller

Last night I dreamt about him again. 

I often do, at least once a week. He drops in on us quite unexpectedly, staying only a day or two as he takes a break from his world travels.

To say that it’s a delight to see him is a cosmic understatement. Such joy and hugs and laughter. I know that he’ll be off soon, and I know there’s no point trying to persuade him to stay longer. He does what he has to do, as always. I go with him to the airport to see him off.

Last night he turned up when we were in Bradford, a place that has pleasant associations from my childhood. Sometimes we’re in Nottingham, but mostly we’re in Co Wicklow. Of course in my dreams it’s not the real Nottingham or the real Old Longhill near Enniskerry, but that’s what my dream tells me. We’re all there – all five humans anyway: Petra the dog (he always said Petchra) hasn’t yet appeared. Despite his later adolescence in Dublin and his student days in Manchester, they haven’t yet featured, nor has Southwell where he was a chorister. 

He always looks well and is his bouncy cheerful self. I don’t know what his business is as he travels the world, but whatever it is I have no urge to ply him with questions about what he’s been doing or intends to do: I’m just ecstatic to be with him. He probably couldn’t tell me anyway, for he never was anything other than impulsive and spontaneous. 

The curious thing is that this time travelling son of mine is always somewhere between 8 and 15 years old. He’s very young to be so assuredly independent, but that’s entirely in character too. In my dream I wonder how he gets through airport red tape and security, but doubtless he charms the authorities as he charmed others.

He would have been 43 next Tuesday, and next Friday is the fifth anniversary of his death. 

Conversion: church and gym

A bit churchy but don’t be put off.

The Church of England is, to put it mildly, wetting its knickers about attendance. No punters, no moolah. In a bid to save money it’s dumping ordinary clergy and leaving posts unfilled. It’s still appointing bishops and administrators, but that’s modern management for you.

Church hierarchs – and let me assure you that I yield to no-one in my admiration for and loyalty to the church politburo – think that mission initiatives will sort it all out. There’s a whole series of blogs I could write on the idiocy of this, but though I’m convinced that there are too many people on the planet and humanity needs culling, death from boredom reading this blog is not the way to do it. So let’s move on.

In a recent Church Times piece, a senior cleric suggests that missions could be held in gyms and cafes. A retired colleague, Dean Henley, pointed out on the blog Thinking Anglicans some of the difficulties of this in a gym, bearing in mind “the sound of the thumping treadmills, the pop music, the grunting and the slamming metal of the weights machines” and that most of the participants wear headphones. “It might not be the right time to ask if someone is saved as they attempt the downward dog in a yoga class.”

He is absolutely right. I go further.

People who don’t use gyms often have a mistaken view of what goes on in them. Perhaps they see them as social clubs with people chatting, gossiping, making deals, arranging dinner parties, having a pint or a gin after sitting on a bike for 5 minutes in the latest designer gear, peering into mirrors saying “does my bum/belly look big in this?” Like a golf club, I suppose (I’m not old enough to play golf, so I wouldn’t know for sure).

I’ve been a gym rat for over 40 years on and off. What I see are people with focus, determination, discipline, and commitment to healthy living. They mind what they eat and drink, so church functions with their farinaceous and sugar-laden fare are for them (and me) evil. 

For us, gym = church. There are all sorts, conditions, faiths, races, ages, shapes and sizes. The atmosphere is businesslike and purposeful. No gossip, socialising or preening – there just isn’t the time when you’ve got to be back at work. The admiration of someone with a fine physique is not accompanied by snide remarks or by belittling those without, as would often be the case in equivalent circumstances in church where cattiness can be woeful. On the contrary, in gyms there is acknowledgement of the courage it takes to start a journey: mutual encouragement.

So I ask myself: what would anyone who takes physical wellbeing seriously enough to be a gym regular want or need of church? What does church have to offer that gym does not? 

Every good thing that church provides is available at the gym: companionship, common purpose, community, ritual, discipline, time out from the daily grind. People mind their own business but are happy to help when asked. No bossy interference.

And the gym provides one thing that church does not: a sense of achievement.

Does the church offer anything that gyms do not?

Yes. The threat of damnation. Indeed, the church harps on incessantly about this: after a good sing, it has people grovelling for being miserable sinners. Now, given that many of us use the gym as therapy for depression, anxiety and other mental health issues, being brought down low by this medieval control-freakery (control is what it’s all about) is not conducive to mental well-being.

Gym wins hands down.

The church politburo has it the wrong way round. If they are serious about spreading the message of Jesus Christ – life abundant – then rather than running mission initiatives in gyms, they’d be better off making gyms of all the churches. A different sort of conversion.

Cambridge exam memories 1975

I qualified as a doctor in June 1975. As I’ve explained before, since autumn 1972 I’d attended King’s College Hospital in south London but nevertheless remained a student of Cambridge, albeit one who was “using” King’s for the clinical course – a Cambridge cuckoo in a London University nest. At that time Cambridge didn’t have enough resources to look after all its own students (similarly for Oxford, but that’s a dump so we don’t mention that car factory on the upper Thames).

It was, therefore, to the city on the edge of the fens that I repaired for all exams – written, face-to-face, and exams with patients. In those days that meant taking the 36 minutes past the hour from London Liverpool Street calling at Harlow, Bishop’s Stortford, Audley End and Cambridge, then on to Ely and King’s Lynn. 

I have two vivid exam memories from summer 1975. 

The first is the Obstetrics and Gynaecology clinical exam.

“Monkhouse to the patient in bed 23”. I was instructed to take a history from her. So I did.  After about 10 minutes, the examiner hove into view to give me the third degree in front of said lady. The examiner – coincidence or what? – was one of the King’s consultants, Michael Brudenell, a descendant of the Charge of the Light Brigade Brudenells. If he recognized me, he didn’t let on.

Surprisingly, his first words to me were “why would Mrs X know more about her pregnancy than most people here?” A strange question, you might think. In those days I was a very quick thinker and I said without hesitation “because she is a librarian”. Think about that – he wanted to know if I’d been thorough enough to discover her occupation. I most certainly had – such attention to detail was drummed into us from the beginning. 

Then: “what advice would you give Mrs X about feeding her baby?” Without hesitation I said “breast, for breast is best.” “Come, come” said Mr Brudenell, “explain yourself”. “Because” says I “cow’s milk is for cows, and human’s milk is for humans”. Then I thought “you fool, Monkhouse, this is not the time for being a dick”.

Mr Brudenell looked at me for about three seconds – which is a very long time when your underpants are at risk of being soiled. “Haw, haw haw! Very good, Monkhouse. Off you go.”

And that was that.

He didn’t want to know if I’d read the latest research (I hadn’t), or knew the likely cause of a very rare disease found only in Papua New Guinea (I didn’t). All he wanted to know was that I was safe, thorough and coped under pressure. He evidently thought so. Perhaps he liked my impertinence.

By the way, I am right. Cow’s milk is more poisonous to humans than is generally acknowledged. Think snot, allergies, bellyache, bloating, belching, colonic dysfunction, farting, lactose intolerance, and more. As a child of the 1950s in a Cumberland village I had milk from an uncle’s cows poured down my throat. I speak from sad experience and numerous unnecessary hospitalizations. It was another hospital consultant at King’s – can’t remember the name – who said that cow’s milk should come in bottles labelled “poison”.

The other 1975 exam memory is being grilled by three eminent surgeons, all professors or Knights of the Realm. It went something like this.

Examiner: Good morning. Take a seat. Name?

Me: Monkhouse (no such thing as Christian names then).

Examiner: College?

Me: Queens’.

Examiner: And which medical school?

Me: King’s, London.

Examiner: Haw, haw, haw, a royal flush, eh? Haw, haw!

After I’d picked myself up from rolling around on the floor in fawning laughter, I was shown a radiograph (x-ray) of a wrist. There was a fracture of the bone at the base of the thumb where it meets the wrist. I recognized it.

Me: Ah, a Bennett’s fracture.

Examiner: Good, Monkhouse, very good. Pause. Tell me, who was Bennett?

Me, confidently, looking smug: a nineteenth century Dublin surgeon.

Examiner, surprised: Oh. Long pause. Quizzical look. Was he really?

Me: I’ve no idea. I was just guessing. There were so many eminent nineteenth century Dublin surgeons, so I thought the chances were good.

Examiner: Haw, haw. Very good.

Then followed a brief discussion of fractures that can result from falling on the outstretched hand, before I was dismissed. 

The irony is that Bennett was indeed a 19th century Dublin surgeon – in fact (how spooky is this?) he was one of my kind-of predecessors at the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland. There must be a God after all. The commonest wrist fracture, by the way, is named after Abraham Colles, another of my Dublin predecessors – perhaps the most famous of all. See what I mean.

It was very entertaining. Comedy really.

Bible, creation, evolution, science

Autumn. Churches (remember them?) mark harvest festivals and creation.

Churches are stuffed with flowers. My eyes water and my nose streams (it runs in the family).

Churchgoers bring gifts to their god and place them at the front of the church – home grown produce like tinned fruit, vegetables and soup, and packets of rice and pasta. Preachers tell how fortunate we are to be so favoured by the prodigal generosity of Creator God, but stop short of saying that therefore those whose harvests fail must be being punished by the irascible sky pixie.

The keen reader will deduce that I hate harvest festivals. I hated them as a child in Methodist Sunday School and I hated them as a vicar. Most years I managed to avoid having to preach at harvest by inviting somebody else do it. I was able therefore to listen to the infantile platitudes of others.

A friend with whom back in the day I worked at the University of Nottingham is now one of the editors of Southwell Minster (Nottinghamshire’s cathedral) magazine, and given this wonderful time of year, and my background in medicine, zoology and theology, she asked me for an 800-word piece on creation. Here it is.

The earliest Biblical “creation” story is in Genesis 2 and 3: earth, Adam and his rib, Eve, garden and talking serpent. It’s a myth – that is to say a story that expresses profound truth. Actually, I don’t think it’s really about creation. I think it’s an explanation of why humans cock-up. In short, we put on fig leaves to hide our fears, shame and insecurities and big ourselves up, the fig leaf being the first fashion accessory hiding the reality beneath. Herein lies the origin of egocentricity. 

The Genesis 1 story – “In the beginning God …” – came later. It is a glorious panoramic vision of the origin of the cosmos from big bang onwards. It is rich in meaning, with strands reaching back to even more ancient myths. You’ll see that the order of appearance of living things is pretty logical: plants, aquatic creatures, birds, land animals, then humans appearing at the last minute. In this there’s more than a hint of progressive evolution.

There is another snippet of a creation story that for me is spine-tingllng. Read Psalm 104 (preferably the Coverdale Book of Common Prayer version) and Proverbs 8 especially v 22 onwards (any version). Another character is introduced, lady wisdom, Sophia in Greek. Divine wisdom, the pre-existent Christ, present alongside the creator at creation, the unformed stardust of which the universe is made. If this Christ-wisdom is the stardust of the universe, Christ-wisdom is in every one of us. This is marvellously beautiful imagery: don’t take it literally, but let it work on your imagination. 

I said above that the first creation story hints at evolution. Of course writers of Hebrew scripture knew nothing of modern notions of evolution, but given that I do not accept Biblical creation stories as historical fact, I see no incompatibility with what they try to explain and what modern science tries to explain. Did you know that the first few days of mammalian development (yes, we are mammals – apes in fact – get used to it) are a kind of speeded-up evolution as things like tails appear then (usually) disappear, to give but one example. As the 19th/20th century zoologist Haeckel put it, “ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny” (look it up if you’re interested). 

The Biblical stories are poetry, allegory. No more. They attempt to explain what we observe and experience. They are rich sources for speculation and reflection, particularly in relation to Greek and Roman myths and folk tales of all cultures. 

Some people believe them to be scientifically accurate, despite the fact that they were written in a different language by humans with a different world view in a different cultural milieu from today’s – people who believed that the sun orbited the earth and that there were seas under the earth and above the skies. I can tell you that some “Bible-believing” medical students were aghast to discover that women and men have the same number of ribs. The idiocy of fundamentalism.

Arguments about creationism versus evolution are not worth wasting your time on. If people want to insist the Bible is a scientific manual, that the earth was created about 6000 years ago, and that dinosaurs and humans coexisted, good luck with that. Don’t bother me with it, and stop abusing children by teaching it.

What is much more important is something that I’ve already touched upon: “If this Christ-wisdom is the stardust of the universe, Christ-wisdom is in every one of us” and indeed in every living thing. We humans are creatures of this earth, no more and no less, along with “all things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts” and – note this – plants and fungi and bacteria and archaea – and viruses. 

Unfortunately we’ve got this out of kilter, and I’m sorry to say that our reading of the Bible must take the blame. In Genesis 1:28 God reportedly tells humans to “be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it”. The way we have interpreted this amounts to a criminal misrepresentation of the Hebrew. The message should be that we are to be responsible for, to nurture, to be good stewards of, to enable the earth and its creatures to flourish. The idea that the earth is ours to plunder as we like is utterly evil. 

As a race, humans have a woeful record in this regard. We see around us the fruits of our unbridled greed and arrogance. 

In the coming season of creation and harvest, stick that up your smoke and pipe it.