A Late Holiday - Pt.4

          We had now reached the final, full day of our stay in Amsterdam. Our trip out to Volendam and the surrounding wetlands north of Amsterdam did go ahead, regardless of the cold virus I had attracted. As I said previously, that visit north is something Lucy will describe in due course. I will begin this post with our return to Amsterdam for our final evening meal at the restaurant we visited earlier in the week, Ruering on Lutmastraat.
          We began with an aperitif, a Portuguese Muscat I believe, followed by a 'ceviche mackerel', a lovely entree in which the "juliennated" (if there is such a word) vegetables were warm and al dente, resting on the lovely, marinated and filleted fish. Our main dish was a rib of beef cooked to perfection, which we shared from a platter. There was enough meat cooked to my taste and enough to Lucy's more 'blue' taste, to satisfy each of us. Again there was the stuffed Yorkshire pudding accompaniment, and one other ingredient. Now for those who do not like garlic, please look away if you wish. For us, garlic is always a joy to eat. On this occasion it was half a garlic bulb with its top removed of course, baked with the meat. The scrummy meat juices were served in a separate jug. Now I have had increasing reservations about my favourite Bordeaux wines of late. Whether it is indicative of a change in my palate, or whether there has been a poorer wine produced by that region, I'm not sure. I did however express my apprehensions to mine host who offered us a Cabernet Sauvignon red from Italy. Oh how I wish I had noted the name of that wine. It was one of those delightful tipples that slips down so easily that a bottle can be consumed without noticing it. But that was not to be on this occasion. Finally, having decided to pass on the dessert - I often do that - I had coffee and an unadulterated Scotch, purely for medicinal purposes you understand. It was a happy couple of Brits who walked 'home' that evening.
          The following day, a Sunday, we left our apartment, and took a tram to the central railway station, Amsterdam Centraal. From there we travelled to Bruges (aka Brugge) via Antwerp. After a severe coughing bout earlier, I was less inclined to order my memories of this and the following three days of our holiday, in the way I had done for the Amsterdam phase. I trust that any apparent randomness or haphazard reporting will elicit your understanding.
          We arrived without any certain knowledge of where our accommodation was situated. We were put on a free bus and taken to the town centre, where (we were told) we would be given instructions. Those instructions from the bus driver amounted to nothing more than a kind of 'go thataway!' Whilst Lucy went off to make further enquiries, I waited with that bane of a suitcase and watched, somewhat sporadically, a local troupe of ladies performing belly-dancing in the town centre. Now it has to be said that belly-dancing is not an activity that I can claim to be knowledgeable about. However, I do seem to understand that when a lady wiggles her shoulders, other parts of her upper torso are meant to wobble in unison. That didn't happen on this occasion. Clearly, the ladies enjoyed a good style of living, and there's nothing wrong with that. However, it did mean that there were areas, further down, that went into barely (I use that word advisedly!) controlled wobbles that I think were meant to stay relatively stable. I think that now is a good time to close this subject, before I dig a hole too deep from which to climb. At the end of their performance, they received polite rather than enthusiastic applause. I thought that was a pity, because it takes some bottle to do a performance like that. There are worse ways of spending a Sunday afternoon.
          We set off once more to hunt down our accommodation, our journey taking us along some pretty canals.

Just as we were approaching the vicinity of our haven of rest, we ran into a Sunday street market. Street markets I love; vocal entertainment at such, I loathe - loathe with a passion! We had almost decided to enter a cafe and get some much needed refreshment when to our horror, a wind/brass band with a female player/"singer" decided to let rip.

     "Could you repeat your question, please, dear reader?"
     "No! I didn't say she sounded like a scalded banshee!"
     "Mmmmmm?"
     "It was much worse! And the almost all male band had bags of enthusiasm, but pretty
     well no musicality. Oh our poor ears!"

Needless to say, we passed on the refreshment, and hurried on, at least as quickly as the crowds allowed, to our bed and breakfast accommodation. So relieved were we when we arrived that we hardly noticed the broken mains sewage pipe awaiting pumping-out and repairs a mere few metres from our front door. And this was one evening we were dining in!
          Well I began with food, and now I will end with food. This Sunday evening was one of three of which the restaurant downstairs were open. On the menu was cabbage soup, followed by a fish stew which looked suspiciously like more cabbage soup with fish - cooked of course - floating in it. Now I do not wish to sound unkind, no really! It was good wholesome food, and it saved us going hunting for a restaurant, which in turn would have meant confronting the banshee again. The problem was.......do I really need to go into this? Cabbage soup can, and in my case did, have unfortunate repercussions on the digestive system. Let me just say that for at least twenty-four hours, our range of exploration was limited to areas that could offer good toilet facilities.
          In the next part of my tale, I'll explore some random memories of Bruges, and its public services. Until then.......

A Late Holiday - Pt.3

          Over the next three days, the centre one of which was my birthday, our forays into Amsterdam became more intensive making more use of the tramcar system. We upped our usage by buying 48 hour tickets rather than 24 hour tickets, or single-journey tickets. Why not? After all, one could travel all day, anywhere, on one ticket. That's even better than the Paris Metropolitan. Thus it was that on the Wednesday, we went across town, having lunch at the Rijksmuseum where I had that most delicious of soups, pickled chicken. Now I am somewhat at a loss to describe this delight because, although I can find pictures on the internet, I can only find recipes for 'chicken soup with pickles'; not the same thing at all! (Incidentally, they had some quite good pictures in the gallery!!) At the completion of our day's sightseeing (what a touristy word that is) we went back to our apartment to prepare for the evening session.
          We have a couple of friends in Amsterdam who annually spend time in France very close to where we live; just down the road in fact. One is a lovely sculptress, the other an equally lovely singer in the classical mode. They had invited us to dinner, scheduled for six o'clock, after shorts and nibbles. Now it is quite common for the Dutch to eat that early, around two hours earlier than the French. The result being that on this occasion we went to our planned concert after dinner, whereas after our latest trip to Paris we had dinner after the concert.
          After a delicious vegetarian meal of rice and spiced lentils, our friends walked us to the Concertgebow (concert hall), situated near the Rijksmuseum. What a wonderful performance was going to be our lot. As we entered and had our rucksacks removed, there was a wonderful buzz of chatter around the hall. Now the performance area itself was somewhat aged compared with some we have visited, but none the less pleasant for that. Our seats were behind the orchestra, rather than in the main pit (is that the right word?) or in the gallery. This was ideal for me with my hearing difficulties. Then came that moment, on time, when the audience suddenly quietened - that is always a wonderful moment - and onto the stage came the soloist and the conductor ready to perform the Bartok Violin Concerto. Her performance was brilliant, for which she deservedly received a standing ovation.
          The interval followed, but we remained in our seats enjoying the bustle and release of tension, the happy reunions of various people around us, just enjoying the looks of happiness on their faces. After the interval, when the orchestra had retaken their positions, everyone settled down once more in a state of excited expectancy. I was on a real high, these experiences of live music, so reminiscent of those times - now so long ago - when I worked with young peoples' orchestras in England, a comparatively rare event. I knew that we were in for a feast when I counted ten double basses and twelve 'cellos, so typical for a Shostakovitch symphony; in this case it was his 11th. symphony, "The Year 1905." This symphony was written in commemoration of the Russian revolution of that year when hundreds of Russians met in front of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg to peacefully petition the Tsar. Over a thousand people were killed when the Cossacks opened fire on them. It is a relatively long symphony, but one whose polished performance brought the house down. I cannot adequately express my feelings here, but it was a performance that I will remember for a very long time.
          I will skip what we did during the following day, until the evening arrived. This was to be my surprise present for the day. Off we went, by tram, towards what turned out to be a rendez-vous with a canal boat taking passengers (six in all) on a candle-lit cruise of the Amsterdam waterways. Wine and cheese were supplied for our delectation. I deliberately left my camera behind on this occasion. It had been raining, again, and it was dark. The purpose of the cruise was to spend a happy time with Lucy, not to try to take smudgy pictures through wet, distorting glass. So I fear I cannot show you pictures of that happy evening, but here are a few shots, taken in daylight, of places we passed.

          It is said that if one kisses under a bridge, of which this is an example, one stays in love for the rest of one's life. That's our future happiness settled then!

          This is the Nemo science centre.

          There is an interesting little story, told to us by our guide, that on the opening night of the floating Chinese restaurant, built to accommodate 700 guests, that number of Dutch diners duly arrived. Perhaps someone hadn't done their homework, but the restaurant calculations were based on Chinese people, not Dutch. The result was that the restaurant sank sufficiently far to flood the lower floors. Alright! The story might well be apocryphal, but our guide enjoyed telling it.

          Passing now to Friday, I had by now begun to develop a cold, possibly as an indirect consequence of a very warm concert hall, followed by chilled, damp night air, and our trip on the waterways. Catching a cold (well one doesn't actually catch it, does one?) causes me concern, but only because I almost inevitably contract a cough as a consequence. On this day, we decided to visit the Ship Museum. That, however, is a visit which Lucy will talk about on "box elder." In the evening we once again met up with our Dutch friends whom we took to a delightful Indonesian restaurant. The usual things were on the menu, curried chicken, a beautifully spiced beef, various vegetable dishes and rice, all washed down with a lovely Viognier white wine.
          That ended the three-day-birthday celebrations. We had one more whole day in Amsterdam, but that will have to wait until next time when I will talk a little about our final meal, and Lucy will talk about our trip to the wetlands just north of the capital.
       
Footnote:      Amsterdam is full of feeling, even that of perhaps having had a little too much to eat.

So long for now.

A Late Holiday - Pt.2

          Well the rain didn't let up, and not wishing for another soaking, we repaired to a restaurant at the end of our block of apartments.
          You will, no doubt, recall from my previous post that we arrived in Amsterdam to an almost "end-time" display of weather. The restaurant to which I have just referred was a run-of-the-mill establishment which supplied wholesome, down-to-earth nourishment, just the kind of thing we were looking for, with the chance of a quick scamper back to our apartment, should the heavens once more open. The restaurant, which had a basement, a mezzanine floor and a ground floor with one long table to which we were escorted, was served by two waiters who seemed to be everywhere at once. That latter comment might also be applied to the friendly, black and white cat who made a beeline towards us. You could almost hear him (I assume 'him', but could have been a 'her') thinking that an English sucker (me) had arrived.      
          Now I have a great respect and fondness for cats, and I swear that when he turned his gaze on me, he was subliminally making my choice of dish for me. Anyway, he did enjoy the fish titbits I gave him, when no-one was looking. My meal, which consisted of one course, was red snapper, prawns and mussels, and vegetables. On the side, and this I must not forget to mention, were quartered potatoes, roasted with garlic and rosemary. All this washed down with a reasonably quaffable wine.
          The following day, the rain didn't really let up. But we couldn't spend our holiday cooped up in our apartment, so we went walkabout. We visited a number of canals which were busy with water buses ferrying their occupants here, there and everywhere. These boats were just - but only just - able to slip under the bridges.

Along the way were many small boats moored along the canal walls. We discovered later in the week that houseboats could be bought but not for less than half-a-million Euros.

          On our walk we paid our first visit to the Rijkmuseum (Rijk being pronounced in a manner similar to the German "reich").

On this occasion we dropped in only for hot chocolate and cake, having had - in my case - a warming, spicy lentil soup for lunch. (Later on in the week I was delighted by pickled-chicken soup. Never had that before!)

I was impressed by the building, but in particular by the waiters and waitresses, all of whom seemed to be in their twenties. I cannot quite put my finger on what impressed me, but there was something about their friendly, organised and professional manner which greatly appealed to me. Maybe it had to do with 'service' in its highest sense. In my experience, ageism is not a problem in the parts of continental Europe that we have visited, and the same was true here. Maybe  I'm just getting old and, heaven help me, a little mellow.
          By now it was becoming obvious that if we were to travel around Amsterdam, we were going to have to use the trams.

Although there were buses, the main mode of general transport appeared to be trams and bicycles. The Dutch seem to have developed a range of adaptations to bicycles, each designed for a particular purpose. From a pedestrian's point of view I would simply say, "Walker Beware!" Cyclists travel quite quickly with an apparent total disregard for pedestrians and 'zebra crossings', or whatever the Dutch equivalent is called. More than once we escaped being run down only by a fraction of a second. As the day moved towards early evening, we were glad that Lucy had booked a restaurant a short two hundred metres from our apartment. And after a description of that lovely evening that I am about to describe I will bring this session to a close.
          This restaurant, split into two halves with each half on adjacent corners of Lutmastraat, provided a very attentive service for seated clients in one (our) half, and what appeared to be a more buffet-style in the other. On this particular evening, after a Riesling aperitif with paté, the entree was lobster claw, garnished with salad. Our host offered a suitable glass of wine with each course, the choices being quite excellent. The main course was roast duck breast with Yorkshire pudding stuffed with pumpkin. Now duck breast can be arrive in any state from too red to slightly overcooked. I have to say that on this evening the duck was perfect. The final course was 'tarte tatin' followed by coffee.
          I do hope that my references to food and drink do not come across as excessive, but one of the joys of holidays is the chance to visit restaurants which we could not otherwise visit. For most of my life I ate to live; now in some measure living is about the joy of eating. And that joy says something about my state of being. I might add at this juncture that my weight, when finally we returned from holiday, was no heavier than when we went away.
          Next time I will share my thoughts and feelings about music and candlelight.....and food! For now, a couple of examples of Dutch humour.

          And now, just because I want to,

A Late Holiday - Pt.1 - The Beginning

          As a result of my studies of recent weeks which culminated in the writing of my previous post, I found myself in a state of unease and dissatisfaction. I therefore tried to find historical evidence for the refutation of the non-existence of Jesus the Nazarene so that I could obtain a more balanced opinion as to his existence, or otherwise. That further investigation is opening all sorts of pathways, some of which I have travelled before, and some which will require further investigation. I have this odd sensation of being passed through a sieve but having no receptacle into which to fall. Once again I face the experience of the abyss. I am nowhere near ready to write on those issues that grab my attention so securely. Rather than give up writing here, I have decided to talk about a very mundane subject, our recent holiday in Amsterdam and Brugge (aka Bruges). This exercise will need to be tackled in a number of phases, there being far too much to cram into one post. So here we go.
          It has become a practice of ours, I am of course referring to Lucy and myself, to take time away from home at around my birthday. As we no longer have a dog, at least for now, we are making the most of the opportunity to holiday in places outside France, an activity which requires travel by train rather than by car. Now it has been too many years since I have visited the Netherlands, the last time being when I was serving with the R.A.F. in Germany as part of my duties to Queen and Country. And that was around six decades ago! I should add that for my part, I have never had any great hankering to travel the world. In so many ways, Europe offers pretty much all I desire to experience, this family of nations which has offered the world so much, and which has also been the seat of so much misery and suffering. Yes, I love and sometimes ache for this continent.
          Thus it was that having put the house into relative slumber-mode, we set off across Northern France by TGV [high speed rail], arriving in Paris at a time when thoughts were turning casually towards lunch. We had decided to take a couple of backpacks and a large suitcase to carry our necessaries. As I may never again refer to that suitcase, I must say that lugging that thing up and down staircases when no lifts or escalators were available is not any activity I care to indulge in ever again, so there! But at least there are signs that my heavily bruised calf muscles are recovering. But back to Paris, and Montparnasse Station in particular. This is not my favourite railway station by any manner or means. It is such a pity that from trains one invariably seems to see the backsides of towns and cities. Graffiti-daubed Montparnasse is no exception. On the other hand we were getting away from rural France into the vibrant world that lies beyond, and I was enjoying the sense of rising, mental sap.
          At this point we took the Metro to Paris Nord, discovering that our tickets did actually activate the barriers. On occasions this does not happen and one is obliged to return to the ticket office for a replacement ticket. Of course there are ways round this procedure, like slipping through the barrier on someone else's coat tails. Never, I have to say, have I climbed over or squirmed under the barriers. Well some do! Yes! But one needs to be more fit and agile than me, with a nasty little predisposition to cheating. Mmmmmm? No I don't, and neither does Lucy. The Metro is a noisy, draughty mode of transport, but we like it, and there were not too many stairways to negotiate. Finally, we burst forth onto the station of Paris Nord with about forty minutes to spare. Well if one isn't careful, one can be booked on a train that arrives at one station with only a few minutes to catch a train leaving from miles away. I'd like to put that down to the ticket office's sense of humour. Even so the point would be lost on me. I remember on one occasion arriving at Koln (aka Cologne) in Germany with about two minutes to traverse the whole station for our connecting train. No! Of course we didn't make it! But that's another story.
          From Paris we travelled sort of northwards across flatlands to Antwerp (aka Anvers), Brussels, Rotterdam and, finally, Amsterdam. It was approaching four o'clock on an overcast, wet, in fact very wet, Monday afternoon. We had arrived in the Netherlands. And what a welcome the gods laid on for us. Huddled in a taxi, driven by a little man young enough.....alright let's just say, 'young'......as I was saying, driven as if all the demons from hell were after him, we arrived at our apartment. On the way, oh let us ne'er forget, the heavens opened and down came the deluge. Thunder and lightning, yea Donner und Blitzen to the highest degree, greeted us. It was as if the Gotter-Amster-dammerung was being played out before our very eyes.
          Unfortunately, our hostess was not there to meet us, nor was the key to the apartment where she said she had hidden it, and neither were her parents-in-law at home. So after a number of mobile telephone calls on Lucy's part, and much apologising on hers, we trooped off to a local cafe for some refreshment. An hour later we returned to be met by the in-laws. Now I have to say that Mr. In-law was a great bear of a Dutchman, who promptly grabbed my suitcase (remember that monstrosity I mentioned earlier?) and hefted it up the thirty stairs - in one continuous flight - to our apartment. He arrived back some minutes later panting for breath, well I didn't ask him to carry it up, and gave us the keys.
          Well we had arrived in Amsterdam, and there was for me a sense of coming home to a country that I never feel in France. In the latter case, it is a sense of seeing the familiar, but not home. And as English is the second language of the Dutch (they have no fears that their culture is going to be erased under the weight of those British!) we got off to a perfect start on the communication front. Very quickly, we stopped asking, "Do you speak English?" and instead reverted to, "May we speak in English?" It seemed almost an insult to ask a Dutch person if they can speak English.
          And that is all for now. In the next instalment we discover the culinary joys of Amsterdam, and take our first of a number of tram cars.

Did He, or Didn't He......Exist?

          Now I am aware that in some ways I am the new kid on the block, having been blogging only since April of 2013. Nevertheless, I have never found it so difficult to construct a post as I am currently finding it. Having decided to try to investigate the historical Jesus, because I wanted to know something about him, as well as the Christ experience, I launched into my task with fervour and gusto. Oh dear! I opened up such a can of worms - well that's not really fair - a wealth of knowledge (presumed) and opinion that has almost overwhelmed me. Very high on the agenda came the question as to whether the historical Jesus ever actually existed. But there are other points to make before I get to that.
          The more I studied the Bible New Testament the more I discovered a person that I really didn't want to know. That was a pity really as the whole point of the exercise was to get to know him, insofar as that was possible. What I have discovered is the image of a man who was prone to judgemental behaviour, radical extremism and......well that's enough to be getting along with, except that he never criticised the Essenes. That was a significant finding.
          Students of such subjects as astrotheology, religion, and in particular Christianity are keen to show the strong links between Jesus and Osiris, Odin and many others, thus reducing Jesus to the status of idiot fiction. Now let me say that I am no lover of religion in any shape or form, and that includes dogmatic science. And yes, I fear science also has its high priests who are crossed and angered at your peril, if you want project funding. But I digress. Now it isn't a big jump, from linking Jesus with characters from world mythologies, to saying the presumed existence of Jesus is a fiction. After all, there is little if anything in the histories written about that period of Jesus; the New Testament is a shambles of unbelievable events (if taken literally I must add) written by people we know not what of; and there are no statues etc. of him. We will, at this point, gloss over the fact that creating images was forbidden by the Jewish religious hierarchy.
          Unfortunately for those who point to this dearth of hard information, it is also a fact (apparently) that no-one can be certain of much of the lives of famous Greek philosophers. Presumably, we are entitled to draw the conclusion that they didn't exist either, except that the Greeks were permitted to create statues. So did Jesus exist, or not? If he did, who was he?  
          There were a number of itinerant preachers doing the rounds in the holy land when Jesus was thought to be alive. It would have required very little effort for the Essenes for example, to pick an appropriate candidate, one of their own perhaps but not particularly worthy of the likes of Josephus and others writing an academic treatise on his life and times, and loading onto him a vast body of esoteric, knowledge gained from astrotheology. It didn't even really matter what his birth name was. I think it highly likely that Jesus knew the Kabbalah inside out, which would have been of great benefit. Now I do not know whether Jesus was an Essene, but I am more than a little certain that he followed their ways, and taught their teachings. Even if he wasn't a card-carrying member of that movement, he appears certainly to hold their teachings in his heart.
          I would accept that this is all mere speculation, but can also so much that has been written about this man, whether he existed or not, and his role - probably mythological - if he did live. I now find myself ready let the matter drop, regain my energies, and see where I go from here. It would seem that once again I have gone full circle in my thinking, only to arrive at a beginning, a new beginning I hope. And all the while, like a bright sun shining throught a mist, hangs the question that I still cannot formulate, a question which lies far beyond all the writings, the speculations and opinions that seem to be the sum total of so much theological endeavour.
          Down the centuries there have been many men and women who have entered the way of inner pilgrimage, sometimes outside and sometimes within the bounds of their religions. Also, I cannot discount my own psycho-spiritual experiences. And now I must draw this post to a close. If it has come across as jumbled and haphazard, I'm sorry. It most certainly isn't a literary masterpiece. I can only say that that is probably an accurate reflection of my inner state at present.

A Question of Orthopraxy

         Orthopraxy is defined as correct liturgical and ethical conduct. The question is, how does one define the word correct? As Fr. Richard Rohr says this week in his daily meditations, ".....we don't think our way into a new way of living; we live ourselves into a new way of thinking...." I think that anyone who has become involved in the Twelve Step Programme of spiritual recovery will vouch for the truth of that statement. As I have pointed out in earlier posts, the gift of belief in a power greater than our everyday consciousness, or ego, to save us from insane thinking and behaviour, is offered only after practical work on our psycho-spiritual condition. That work is not usually undertaken until we have experienced real, psychological suffering.
         I suppose we all know that if we wish to become adept at some skill or other, whether it be in some art activity, sport, or an intellectual activity, maybe learning a new language, for example, a great deal of work and commitment is usually required. It is tacitly assumed that the activity we choose has some positive value for us, and maybe our community as well. However, the goal of the aspiring adept may not be worthwhile. Thus the concentrated activity to acquire proficiency in a skill is not of itself laudable. It is the end to which our energies are engaged that may be deemed to be worthy or unworthy, sensible (sensical?) or nonsensical. Also, energy can be expended mistakenly so that bad habits and procedures are generated.
         In the early days of my spiritual turnaround, it was made quite clear to me which of my character traits were positive and constructive, and which were negative and destructive. The practising of the positive traits brought about a new and positive way of thinking, whilst the practising of negative traits had had the opposite effect. In a very real sense, negative behaviour has the effect of sending one into spiritual sleep, that condition that Gurdjieff so often warned against.
         One negative trait in particular (and not the only one!) that I needed to guard against was judgementalism. Trying to reach some understanding of the nature of this trait has occupied my attention, on and off, for a very long time. Of late, I have been reading excerpts from the New Testament because I wish to get to know (insofar as it is possible) this man Jesus of Nazareth, and what made him tick; what was he really trying to say? One thing that becomes very evident is his frequent verbal attacks on the 'Scribes and Pharisees' whom he labels as hypocrites. Now is that being judgemental or not? Similarly, wasn't St. Paul's calling the Galatians "stupid" also judgemental?
         In my book such outbursts are indeed examples of judgementalism. Yet it also displays behaviour that is all too human. Gone forever, in my mind, is the notion of Jesus the Nazarene as the epitome of divine perfection, being replaced by someone I can empathise with, someone who made all the mistakes that I make. Yet for all that, something lived its life through that mortal man, to telling effect; Jesus the Christ, the Jesus Higher Self, the Cosmic Christ.
         Of course, that does not mean that I can indulge in judgementalism with impunity. Gradually, I have come to believe that judgementalism is a negative activity directed at a person, not at their behaviour. I must surely become aware when I am engaged in a behaviour that is likely to damage my thinking process, that is going to turn my ways of thinking toward the realm of insanity, as they have done so in the past. Yet to say that I am this or that, rather than saying I am behaving like this or that, is as judgemental as if I am levelling my negative criticisms at others. Finally, after all these years I think I understand. And there is a bonus. If I can cease from being judgemental, I stand a chance of dealing with its accomplices, pride (arrogance) and self-righteousness. Now that can't be bad.

Old Feelings Aroused

          Of late I have turned to reading the New Testament, admittedly in small chunks. In particular, I am reading some portions taken from St. Paul's letters to the peoples of various cities, such as those of Galatia to whom I referred in a previous post. The reasons for this are perhaps a little obscure, and need not detain us here. What intrigued me were the feelings that arose as I read his words.
          When I was a child and in the process of being educated about the love of God and the excruciating agony suffered by the Christ at Calvary - all for the benefit of saving my pretty worthless soul - I swallowed everything I was taught hook, line and sinker, as the saying goes. As a child Christian, the fishy metaphor is apt. What I could not see then, but can see all too clearly now, was the complete contradiction between what I was taught, and how it was taught to me, and what I trust is spiritual reality.
          To begin with (and let me say here at the outset that this is not a judgemental outburst against those who for all their supposed knowledge and wisdom really seemed to have lost the plot) the teaching of Christ's loving message was completely out of touch with the background of his vengeful Father, ever waiting to dole out punishment for all my little transgressions. Also, the way in which I was taught, so beloved of the Protestant low Church, was very much in the Pauline mode. Thus I developed a mindset that was overloaded with guilt, imminent divine punishment, coupled with a need that I abhorred of seeking to convert others to "my way" of thinking. (I never was very successful at doing that, and maintain my abhorrence at indulging in that practice even now.) Suddenly, my reading of St. Paul threw into high relief a kind of familiarity that was pressing all the wrong buttons.
          Perhaps that would have been a good time to dump my copy of the Holy Bible in the nearest bin, but I have always had a powerful aversion to destroying books. In any case, it was possible that I would have been throwing away the good with the bad. I have spent some days thinking over the feelings that have arisen, and the end result is a deep sadness. No real anger remains over my father's........oh hell, let him go!
          It is the sadness of apparent loss of something that may yet reveal something of deep value. I just don't know. It all seems to be so far too late! And when I look around the world, and frankly I am no lover of mankind, I nevertheless sense a deep regret at the huge loss that our species is suffering in the name of religious and political fundamentalism and egoistic arrogance, of arid intellectualism on the one hand and a swamping by an ocean of emotionalism on the other. Yet for all that is wrong, divisive, demanding and non-loving in this suffering world, I cannot deny that there is some intuitive good. For all the mistakes we make, there are some redemptive aspects to our behaviour. On such small and shaky foundations lies all the hope I can muster.
          A long time ago, I was told that I had barely scratched the surface of Christianity. Maybe, just maybe, the Christ said, and still says, something we - or at least this non-religious I - have a need to hear.