Something to remember for the fifth of November.

Je pense

Je pense, donc je suis

With these five words, Descartes made a name for himself as a philosopher. His profound statement was subsequently shortened to a three-word Latin version – ‘cogito ergo sum’ – and for all I know, he made an excellent living just on the royalties flowing from this famous phrase.

In English, of course, it’s basically ‘I think, therefore I am’, although various sub-philosophers have juggled with the words. ‘I think, I reason, I cogitate, therefore I exist, I breathe, I am a person.’

Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that Descartes was just a fraud, and even though his little philosophy may be memorable and sounds fairly profound, it is deeply flawed, because, basically, it’s as wrong as a snail sandwich, ou en Francais, si vous preferez, une baguette avec beaucoup d’escargots.

So I have discarded Descartes, and replaced him with my own improved version. My philosophy is just as memorable, works well in Latin, and has the distinct advantage of being much more helpful in today’s crowded and fractious world.

For the classicists among us, and in order to establish my credentials as a serious and respected philosopher, I herewith set out the Latin version.

Belongo ergo sum.

Or in English, if you prefer, ‘I belong, therefore I am’.

This insight comes to me after a lifetime of study, but in particular following a period of some months, during which I have experienced the consequences of ‘not belonging’.

It all began at the end of May, 2015, just five months ago, when my heart was attacked. I was actually quite busy that morning, preparing to conduct a wedding service at lunchtime.

The ambulance people were very nice and helpful, and the nurses in the Cardiac Care Unit in the hospital were truly angelic. After a few days, I was discharged, with a large batch of medication, a plan for recovery and recuperation, and, crucially, a sick note for my work.

Now the reader should note that I am, and have been for best part of thirty years, a church minister. I have always enjoyed my job, even if it has often come with a price tag and a few dark days. By and large, I have been a happy minister, cheerfully walking alongside the halt and the lame, holding the hands of those who are hurting, and comforting people who found themselves ‘laid on one side in a bed of sickness’.

But my heart attack changed all that, or more accurately, the accompanying sick note did.

For although I was still fairly reverend, my dog collar by my bed, suddenly, I became a non-person. Quite rightly, and understandably, I was no longer part of anything much. Excluded from meetings, unable to preach, kept in the dark about decisions pertaining to my church and circuit, even social events were not communicated to me, for fear that I might attend and be drawn into church life again.

I have no doubt that much of this was medically necessary, and all of it was well-intentioned, but the result was that I discovered the truth of my philosophy. Belongo ergo sum. Or more accurately, ‘non belongo, ergo non sum’.

Because I gradually began to realise that I no longer belonged anywhere, that there was no flock to surround me, no shepherd to guide me, no sheep to look after me, nothing. Non belongo, ergo non sum.

I have now come to the conclusion that it is only in ‘belonging’ that our life has any meaning or purpose. Belonging - to a family, to a group of friends, to a church, to a support network. And if I no longer belong, or am prevented from belonging, then my life loses any sense of purpose or significance.

There are other factors, of course, which have contributed to this ‘non-belonging’ state, such as recently moving house to a new, and fairly remote area. Hedge End is a nice enough area to live, but we are at the top of a hill, and it is really difficult to have even a gentle walk without becoming very breathless. Going down the hill is easy enough, but the return journey is a bit of a challenge.

‘Going downhill’, of course, has quite a different meaning, depending on context, but I’ll skip over that for now.

There are other factors at play in my ‘non-belonging’ of course. Probably no longer having responsibility for a local church hasn’t helped, and my elder son and his family having just moved to a different continent brings its own sadness.

I miss Andrew and Bernice, of course, but I cannot find the words to express the great gap in my life left by our grandson, John, now being so far away.

Emails and Facetime help, but the lack of a hug for this grandad is serious.

Belongo ergo sum.

I have been thinking about returning our telephone to Argos, from where we purchased it just prior to my heart attack. Because it feels like it’s broken. No-one calls. Actually, that’s not actually true. Someone called at 3.29pm last Wednesday, seven days ago, and I can tell that because the handset keeps a record of calls received. Same problem with our doorbell. It rarely rings, weeks can go by without a visitor. The reader can imagine the excitement when someone rang the bell on Monday morning. It took us a while to remember the sound, and when we did, my wife rushed (well strolled, quickly) to the door to see who had come to visit.

‘Is this number 47a?’, enquired the parcel delivery man. Sadly, we live at number 47, so my ever helpful wife directed him accordingly. Poor man, we almost felt that we wanted him to come in for a tea and a bun, just for company!

A similar thing happened yesterday when the mailman came to the door. All we ever seem to get these days is pizza menus, hospital appointments, and appeals for money from charities, but this time, it was a real letter. As I picked up the envelope in anticipation, I read the name of the addressee and realised that it was intended for the previous occupier. Oh, the irony!

Belongo ergo sum.

So it is clear to me, mainly from my negative learning experience, that it is only in belonging that our life attains any significance. And it is ‘non-belonging’ which is the real sadness in our world today.

‘Non-belonging’ inherently implies separation from others, from society, even from the world, and unless someone happens to enjoy the life of a hermit, it is not the natural human state.

Is this what retirement feels like?

Is this the daily experience of the elderly, often living alone?

Is this my lot from now on?

And what role can the church play in this epidemic of loneliness? Because if we can’t take care of our own, what does that say about our purpose or integrity?

Afterthought

One of the classic descriptions of a church is that of a ‘flock’. I am sure this derives from the idea that we are sort of sheep, and the role of shepherd falls to the pastor.

Although I have never been a real shepherd, I have been a pastor for long enough to realise that the real danger to any sheep is when the silly ewe decides to wander off.

There is safety and security within the flock, both for the sheep and for the shepherd. But when the shepherd falls away, or becomes separated for whatever reason from the flock, it’s a different story.

Finding a replacement pastor may take a while, but most churches sort it out eventually. But what about the pastor himself? Who pastors the pastor? For ‘non-belonging’ is a dangerous place for anyone, sheep or shepherd.

It is a dangerous place for me, as subsequent events proved.

There was a boy
A very strange, enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far
Very far, over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he
And then one day,
One magic day he passed my way
While we spoke of many things
Fools and Kings
This he said to me:
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return"

Nature Boy

The love you make

The Love You Make

The final line of the final song on the final album produced by the Beatles.

It’s called, appropriately enough, ‘The End’, and concludes with these words:-

And in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love

You make.

Of all the fine lyrics penned by Lennon and McCartney, these few lines are, for me, the most poignant and powerful.

But are they true?

Is the love we receive determined by the love that we give, on a sort of pro-rata basis?

Of course, we would all like to think so. If only the world could be a place where the love given would always be returned in equal measure. Just imagine the impact on all our relationships, where a gentle loving word would immediately take the sting out of every confrontation, where there was no need for revenge or getting even. For in those circumstances, love would indeed conquer all.

But things are rarely as simple as this. Most of us will have known the pain of what we might describe as unrequited love. To love someone where that love is not returned is indeed a recipe for sadness and a broken heart.

The Roman poet, Catullus, summarised the conflict in a few classic lines of exquisite Latin:-

"Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?

nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior."

I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask?

I do not know, but I feel it happen and it is excruciating.

Excrucior sounds a bit like one of those spells from Harry Potter, but it simply describes the agony of unrequited love.

It is interesting that the poet sets the two feelings – love and hate – together, almost as two sides of the same coin. For both are strong emotions, and it is possible to both love and hate at the same time, especially in matters of the heart. These two conflicting emotions, although opposite sides, are still the same coin, and they are not mutually exclusive, as one might initially think.

For the opposite of love is not hatred, but rather indifference.

And it is indifference which causes the most sadness. To love someone, and for this to be ignored, is as difficult as it gets.

As Meat Loaf sings in one of his ballads, “You’ve been cold to me so long, I’m crying icicles instead of tears”

And yet, despite all the associated risk and potential pain of love, we still do it, for it is a natural instinct for all humanity. To love and to be loved in return is really what makes our world worthwhile, and so we find ourselves seeking this experience for ourselves. Of course, not everyone finds it, but when it happens, we know.

I have written previously of Billy Joel’s beautiful lyrical offer in his song – “You can have this heart to break”, and sadly for him, and I am sure for many, the risk of loving, of opening our heart to someone, brings the risk of seeing that heart broken.

Yet we do it, despite the attendant risks, for we know that it is a worthwhile quest, and when the quest is successful, it is world-changing and life-defining.

It has to be said that in any relationship between two people, the real power in the relationship is held by the one who loves the least. For the one who loves the least also has the least to lose. The more we love, the more we open ourselves up to the possibility of indifference, accompanied by the risk of abandonment and loss.

The only solution to this, if we really want to avoid the possibility of pain, is never to love in the first place. But as McCartney says, if we choose that route, the love we take will ultimately equal the love we make. To choose to love in a world without love is a brave thing to do, but at the same time, perhaps it denies us the possibility of becoming fully human.

For it is only in love, in relationship with others, in belonging to someone in that sense, that our life has any real significance.

During my enforced sabbatical following my heart attack, as you can see, I have taken up writing as a cathartic expression of my feelings of insignificance.

I even thought about writing a new translation of the bible, or even just the New Testament, or perhaps just a gospel. As it is, I managed just the one chapter (so far), but here it is, for it rather resonates with the Beatles, Meat Loaf and Billy Joel. It may even resonate with you…

If I were to be the worlds greatest preacher, able to captivate and entertain the congregation, with great illustrations and wonderful jokes, even if I saw thousands of people making a response to my appeals – if I did not display genuine love and real compassion, then I would be no better than a mere entertainer, the Bruce Forsyth of Methodism.

If I was the cleverest minister who ever lived, if I knew my bible backwards, could quote Latin and Greek until the cows come home, if my understanding of Methodist rules was unsurpassed, and I could provide smart answers to even the most complicated theological questions – if I did not put other people first and foremost in all that I do, loving them as Jesus loves, then I would be wasting my time and unworthy of my calling.

If I lived sacrificially, giving everything to the church, if I supported every charity under the sun, tramping the street with a collecting tin, if I attended every fund-raising event, and gave all my own money to the poor, even if I surrendered my very life for these causes – if all this was not undergirded with deep love flowing from my heart, then all my sacrifice would ultimately be as useless as a chocolate teapot.

You see, I am called to love – with patience, with kindness, never putting myself first, and never getting puffed up or super-confident.

You and I are called to love, a gentle and sincere love, a love which never angers, never gives up, never holds grudges against anyone.

This sort of love is the only love worth sharing, because it always brings out the best in people, rejoicing with those who rejoice, and weeping with those who weep.

This sort of love is strong, brings hope and encouragement.

Not only that, but this sort of love never fails, it cannot be overcome, it always wins.

Famous Last Words

As has been said before, it's all about the timing.

I may have devised the most amazingly profound thoughts by which I wish to be remembered, but how can I know when to present them. If they are to be my own 'famous last words', then I would need to ensure that my time has come.

After all, it would be tragic if I waited until the very last moment before making my statement, only to expire before I get the chance.

Even more of a tragedy would be to come to that moment, make my great pronouncement, and then for my health to rally. Do I keep silence from then on, in the hope that I won't have too long to wait?

In literature, of course, it's fairly easy, for the plot is in the hands of the author.

This, Shakespeare can conclude with worthy epithets, such as:-

Hamlet - "The rest is silence'

Macbeth -  "Lay on, McDuff, and damn’d be him that first cries hold, enough"

Julius Caesar - "Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar"

Julius Caesar (alternative version) - "Infamy, infamy, they've all got it infamy!"

Romeo - "Thus, with a kiss, I die"

Perhaps this blog is going to become my own "famous last words". If so, the reader will understand that I will lean heavily on the songs which have accompanied me through these many years.

As Phil Collins sings, courtesy of Lennon and McCartney...

Phil Collins - Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End (1998)

Chosen

Chosen

Where do babies come from?

It’s one of those questions which every parent dreads, but which has to be answered honestly. Nowadays, it’s all taught in school, but back in my own day, such subjects were strictly off limits.

I remember asking my mum and dad that question as a young child, and I remember the standard answer. Apparently, they found me at the bottom of the garden in the middle of the cabbage patch.

I realise, now, of course, that this was not true, but as a boy of four years old, I really believed it. Perhaps it explains why it took me years to get around to enjoying cabbage with my meals.

As I grew a little older, the explanation changed, and they began to use a different word entirely. They told me that I had been ‘chosen’. The image which I was given was one of being in a long line of babies, and my mum and dad coming along and choosing me out of all the others. I must say that it made me feel rather special, and my status of being ‘chosen’ was not unwelcome as I began to feel my way into the world.

The cabbage years came and went, and then, in due course, I began to realise that the word ‘chosen’ was not quite what it seemed.

For when I was about eight years old, I think, they told me that being chosen actually meant that they were not my ‘real’ mum and dad, and that I had been adopted, welcomed into the family, courtesy of the Salvation Army home where I had been born, and from where I had been ‘chosen’.

Of course, this was a big secret, and they asked me never to talk about it to anyone. Even the closest family members were not to be included in the secret, and to this day, I still have no idea who among my cousins knows the truth. Even my grandfather didn’t know the truth. He lived in Yorkshire and, every year, he would send me a postal order for £1 for my birthday. Although this was on the 6^th. March, for some reason, he always sent it on the 9^th. May. I recall asking my dad why this was, and he explained that Grandad was just a ‘bit confused’. I later discovered that he had been given to understand that my real birthday was the 9^th. May, which in fact was the day when I officially arrived in the new family from the Salvation Army. He was never told the truth, and to be honest, I really don’t know why. I guess things were different back then.

As I grew older, I managed to live with the idea that I had been adopted, and to be honest, it didn’t make any difference to my life. My mum and dad were still my mum and dad, and my relationship with them was as strong as ever. I even carried my dad’s name – Terence Lord Hudson – and did so with a sense of pride which still remains.

Later on, I found out that he himself had been ‘chosen’, and that his twin brother, also ‘chosen’, was now living in Australia. They had never met, and my Grandad had insisted that there should never be any contact between them. Again, I am not sure why this should have been, but the pattern continued for me.

My mum and dad, having explained the reality to me, asked that I should never make any effort to contact my natural mother or father, and my dad was adamant that this should remain a closed chapter in my life. All very strange now, but back then, I agreed, for I really had no wish to make my life any more complicated, and I sensed that this was a critical issue for my dad. Looking back, I can only imagine that he might have felt threatened had I linked up with my natural family, but of course, his fears were totally unfounded. I had only known one dad, and he was the only dad I could ever wish for.

But to please him, I complied, at least for many years.

The crunch came when I was lying in a hospital bed in A&E, having suffered pains in my chest. As I lay there, linked up to all the monitors and wires, the nurse came around with her clipboard.

“Is there any history of heart disease in your family?”

What could I say? I simply responded that I really had no idea, since I was adopted, and had never known my biological family.

As I lay in the bed, reflecting on what had just been said, I made a ‘deal’ with God. Basically, if you get me through this, I will do my best to find out the answer to the question.

Thankfully, as you can probably tell, I managed to survive that episode, and so the quest began. Our elder son, Andrew, is very much interested in family trees, and he made it his aim to investigate on my behalf.

It didn’t take long to discover the real story, but it did involve a trip for Andrew and myself to Edinburgh, to the National Registry Office for Scotland. There, having established my identity, I was presented with my file, which had been sitting on a shelf for over fifty years. Within, there were my original birth documents, and a small brown envelope containing a written note from a young girl to her ‘darling Ian’, from whom she would soon be parted.

It’s all a bit surreal looking back now, but putting it simply, I discovered that my biological parents had gone on to get married, and they had four subsequent children. Overnight, as it were, I became the eldest sibling of three brothers and one sister. Since then, we have made contact, and I have met them all, and we keep in touch at Christmas and through social media such as Facebook.

Sadly, my sister died not long after our reunion, remarkably enough from a sudden heart attack, which at least gave me a less than reassuring answer to the nurse’s question on my subsequent visits to A&E.

As I reflect on my life, it does seem something of a minor miracle that I am where I am today. Had things gone in a different direction, some would say in a more natural direction, I would have been brought up in the east end of Glasgow, the eldest of five children, in a Roman Catholic household.

As it is, having been born under the care of the Salvation Army at their home for wayward girls, then adopted by my mum and dad, I travel full circle, firstly by becoming a Salvation Army Officer, and then as a Methodist minister.

Does God have a plan for my life? I am certain that he does, and my journey thus far only goes to prove that to me.

We now have a granddaughter who has been similarly ‘chosen’. Lottie joined our family in November 2014, and she is a real source of love and joy. Maybe she wasn’t technically ‘chosen’, but if we had a choice, we would have chosen Lottie for sure.

And something else, which may be difficult to believe, but I can assure you is true, but it seems that football affiliation is genetic, and not a product of our upbringing. Nature, not nurture, as it were. Although all my family, my dad, my brother, my cousins etc. were ardent supporters of Rangers, I found that I was always cheering for Celtic, despite the fact that they were the team only supported by the Catholics. How can that be, you might wonder? Maybe it is just a coincidence, but I prefer to think that God has a sense of humour!

My new family - Dad, Mum, Auntie Clara, Auntie Nan, Gran, cousins Alistair and Linda - Stratford Street, Maryhill, Glasgow 

Just Fifteen

Just Fifteen

She was just fifteen.

Just fifteen, and very afraid.

After all, in the 1950’s in Glasgow, for an unmarried teenage girl to fall pregnant was a terrifying experience. Worse still, this baby would be a hybrid, as well as a bastard.

The father was a Catholic, of good Catholic stock from the East End, whilst the mother was from the other side, a Protestant, the other Glaswegian tribe, from across the divide.

The shame, the black affrontery of it all was just too much for the families to bear, so she was ‘put away’ for the period of her confinement.

That was how she ended up on a large Victorian house in the west end of the city. It was run by the Salvation Army, and was called ‘Homeland’. Essentially, a safe place for fallen girls, and it was to become her residence for nine months.

The ladies in charge were very kind and well-meaning, of course, as one might expect from the Sally Army, but for this girl, it was a time of loneliness and abandonment. No visits from the family, no real communication with the outside world, dependent for everything upon the generosity of the staff.

As the child grew within her, so did that sense of dread, for she knew what lay ahead. She was aware of what would come of her child, at least for a few short weeks.

The bond between the child and the mother who carries for nine months is something rather sacred, and as the days of her confinement passed, so she became increasingly aware that this child, the child of her womb, could never really belong to her.

To do such a thing, to return to the outside world, with a baby but no husband, was simply unthinkable. Such a scandal has to be avoided at all cost. Perhaps there had been a time when she considered a termination, but such things were illegal in those days, and, of course, highly dangerous.

So for nine months, Homeland was her home. And for six weeks after the event.

For on March 6^th. 1954, after her labour, she gave birth to her son, whom she named Ian, after her brother.

For six weeks, she looked after her child. Bathed him, suckled him, dressed him, loved him. By now, of course, she was sixteen, suddenly having to grow up fast, without the network of family support she might have expected in normal circumstances.

As the days passed, so she knew that the inevitable sadness would come. For her Ian would no longer be her Ian. Indeed, no longer her’s at all. Adoption was the only route available for the little boy, and mum knew that this was approaching fast.

She used the time wisely, and among all the other mumsy things that she had to do, she began to knit. A blue cardigan for her little boy. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had, and all that she was allowed to give.

The Salvation Army lady was very gentle, of course, as she took Ian from his mum’s arms. ‘He has to go now’, she said, amid tears.

A final kiss on the forehead, a caress of the hand, and he was gone.

She went over to the window, and from there, through the curtains, she saw Ian’s new parents come out of the front door, carrying her child. She wanted to cry out, but sometimes even silent screams are hard to come by.

They all got into the car, and they drove off, and she wept.

And wept.

And wept.

She was just fifteen.