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For the first time in a long time, I found myself watching the Queen’s Speech this year; that annual broadcast of thoughts from Her Majesticness to her subjects.

I expected some dull platitudes about Christmas, family, the Commonwealth, hope for the future, and the togetherness of the “nation” in the face of various unspecified challenges.  While she certainly delivered on that underwhelming front, I was also moderately surprised by the substantial mention of Christianity, Jesus and the story of his coming from the Bible.  She said that as people we need saving from ourselves, referring to this “great Christian festival”.  She also spoke of the love of God, described Jesus as “a saviour, with the power to forgive”, quoted the Bible, and spoke words of personal prayer.

It was quite astonishing.  Of course, I agreed with her sentiments and thoughts, and it was a well-written and quite powerful presentation of the Gospel story at Christmas time, with a fairly uncompromising portrayal of Jesus as the hope for the world.  In three or four minutes, it was as good a sermon as you could hope to hear.

Why do I feel uncomfortable about it, though?

The thing is, agreeing entirely with the substance of a message doesn’t mean I agree with the basis on which it was made.  We live in a constitutional monarchy where our head of state is also automatically head of the Church of England.  This establishes Christianity as an official religion, its intertwining with government evident in many other ways, not least CofE bishops sitting by right in our parliament.

The Queen’s status, therefore, as an inherently religious head of state undermines the validity of her statement.  Her words are not broadcast to the UK and her other realms by popular demand or because, purely on the quality of her words, the speech goes viral and captures the public imagination.  They’re broadcast because she’s the monarch.

And how damaging it is to the Gospel message that it is pronounced from on high by a privileged monarch who is constitutionally obliged to believe it.  Yes, there’s no chance of our monarch ever being Muslim, Jewish, Sikh or Hindu; or, heaven forfend, an atheist or agnostic.  Neither is there any chance that our monarch might feel more comfortable in another branch of Christianity, such as Orthodoxy or Roman Catholicism.  And within Protestantism there’s no choice either: he or she must be Anglican, and specifically Church of England.

There’s nothing wrong with a head of state speaking personally about their faith, and I don’t doubt that the Queen is a committed Christian.  Many heads of state speak of their faith, not least in the USA, but at least then they can be held to account for their views and are often constitutionally prevented from allowing their religious convictions to prejudice the machinery and decisions of government.  In the UK, such safeguards do not exist: our monarch is there by birthright and cannot renounce the Church of England without also renouncing the throne (or at the very least, triggering a massive constitutional crisis).

I blogged about this before in relation to the royal wedding last year, but it is disgusting that the Church of England is happy with this bloated, artificial, constitutionally-upheld sense of importance, and Biblically repugnant that it can only speak the good news of Jesus while being propped up by the trappings of establishment.  And their complicity in the potentially very cynical confirmation of Kate Middleton into the Church of England is the kind of opportunistic, Machiavellian politics you expect from a corrupt archbishop in the Middle Ages.

When the message of Jesus is at its best, it speaks for itself.  When it is at its worst, it is a tool of human self-interest.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the best thing that could happen for Christianity in this country is disestablishment, as it would remove the cloud and clutter of constitutional privilege and force its believers to rely on nothing more than the power of the Holy Spirit.  Read the book of Acts to find out what such a light-footed, resourceful, dynamic, attractive and above all Christ-centred community would look like.

Not, of course, that other churches who don’t have this privileged position don’t still try to tell people how to live their lives anyway.  I was aware of two instances here in the Highlands over the festive period that infuriated me.  One was the decision taken by the Stornoway Amenity Trust to end their Hogmanay street party in Stornoway at 11pm.  An hour before New Year.  This was because the following day, starting at midnight that night, was the sabbath, a day treated with Taliban-like sanctity by some (and significantly less than you’d think) people of the island.  Many Stornowegians were livid, and rightly so.

The other example was a protest made by the Free Church (Continuing) in Skye about a Hogmanay party in a hotel next door to their church.  Again, they were concerned about the fact that the sabbath would be broken by the party continuing after midnight, despite the fact that it would not in any way encroach upon the following morning’s Sunday services.  The protest, in the form of a letter to the West Highland Free Press, basically presupposed that the church had the right to tell a licensed premises what it could do, when the hotel was acting purely within the law.

Who is the church to tell people how to live their lives, if those lives do not affect the church?  The church has no authority except that which it gives unto itself.  If individuals wish to adhere to that authority, that is a personal choice for them.  But there are others who choose not to (or who do not even acknowledge that there is a choice that needs to be made), and they should not have their lives encroached upon by those who would seek to tell them to live their lives another way.

For sure, in a pluralistic society we need to fully respect the freedom of worship and conscience.  But attempting to stop civic celebrations from taking place is an abomination to democracy – unless of course those civic activities prevent the private or collective practice of a religion, which in these two cases it absolutely did not.

Christianity will be all the stronger in this country when its followers recognise that religious authority is a matter for its adherents and is not something that can be dictated to any individual, let alone an entire country’s constitution and system of government.

We need a head of state that is not an institutionalised tool of a religion.  And we need churches that regard themselves as preachers and actors of the Gospel and ambassadors for Jesus, not self-appointed authorities and moral guardians over civic society.  Once we have those, our country (and our churches) will be so much better.

Nicole and I went for a walk up Craig Phadraig this afternoon.  It was the first time I’d been up there in years, which is a shame as it is one of the few hills close to Inverness which allows for great views – or at least they would be great if it wasn’t for the thick forests around it.

Just like Craig Dunain or Tomnahurich, there are too few gaps in the trees and thus too few opportunities to see the beautiful landscape around the city.  Another reason for my massive iconic tower idea for Inverness.

Anyway, most of the few gaps in the trees up Craig Phadraig are west-facing, giving views of the Beauly Firth rather than Inverness, which is what features in my photos.  These ones were taken right from the top, which is the sites of an old vitrified Pictish fort – the seat, apparently, of Brude, king of the Picts.  He was famous for, among other things, receiving a visit from and being converted to Christianity by St Columba.

Talking of Christianity, happy Easter for tomorrow, if you’re that way inclined.

I’ve been listening this morning to the Radio Five Live phone-in about the legal moves to allow gay marriage in the UK.  I am wound up to the point of anger about much that I’ve heard, not least the comments from Canon Chris Sugden from the Church of England about why gay marriage is wrong.

Just to set the scene – especially for those not reading in the UK – we have had in this country for some years now civil partnerships, whereby same-sex couples can get legal recognition and protection much as if married, albeit not strictly in name.  Legal moves are now afoot, as this article outlines, for marriage to be open to homosexual couples and civil partnerships to heterosexual couples.  As famous campaigner Peter Tatchell persuasively pointed out in the phone-in, it’s comparable in a way to Apartheid, in that we have one institution for people of one sexuality, and another for others – in a way that we wouldn’t dream of doing along for instance racial lines.

There is a little mileage in the opposing argument that if gay people have civil partnerships then they don’t need marriage as an institution, but then of course if marriage was open then we wouldn’t need civil partnerships, which I have always thought to be a rather odd compromise in the first place.  When they were introduced, I never saw the case for a distinctive civil partnership arrangement, wondering why we didn’t just equalise marriage and solve the problem in a much more straightforward way.

What I particularly want to dwell on in this post is some of the myths and prejudices pedalled by Canon Chris Sugden.

First, he was saying that the Bible ordains marriage as between man and woman in a loving relationship.  That may seem true on the face of it, but many of the arguments as to why homosexuality is not clearly Biblically condemned also apply to justify that this too is a stretch.  Yes it is clear in many passages that marriage is for men and women, but of course the Bible was written in eras of very different social norms and very different understandings of sexuality, such as condemning same-sex practices as ritual pagan activities.  Indeed, it was powerfully pointed out to the Canon by a caller into the phone-in that there were Biblical justifications for and descriptions of polygamy – so, the caller asked, if the Biblical interpretation of marriage changed before to prohibit polygamy, how can it be claimed not to be changeable today?

Secondly, the Canon claimed that marriage between men and women as a basis for family life is proven to be the optimum conditions for bringing up children.  Now I am not a sociologist and do not have the facts to either endorse or contradict this fact.  But I do know enough to state that generalities are insufficient in this debate.  Maybe, to be generous, it is entirely true that heterosexual marriage is the best environment for children.  But does that mean that homosexual couples are therefore inherently less capable of bringing up children?  No doubt some are, some aren’t: just like with heterosexual couples.  Indeed, the implication that heterosexual marriage, especially of the Christian variety, is better flies in the face of the many potential flaws of heterosexual marriage – many are violent and oppressive, many are loveless, many are broken by lies, cheating and so on.  No doubt defenders of marriage as a heterosexual institution would not claim it is a perfect institution, but can with hard work be effective, happy and a great environment for children.  Fine.  So, then, by logical extension, can a homosexual marriage.

Allied to this point was the argument made by the Canon that one of the inspirations for the Victorian-era moral crusade in favour of stable marriage and family life was to counter the detrimental effects on relationships, such as prostitution.  Fair enough as an argument in itself, but in the context of the debate in hand, the implication is that homosexuality (or specifically, loving, monogamous homosexual relationship) is as much a threat to marriage and family life as prostitution.  To compare homosexuality to prostitution is not only shameful, brutal prejudice, but actually harms the Christian cause and the power of the other contributions Christians would make to society.  If one school of thought in Christianity is seen to pedal bigotry, all Christians are often tarred with that same brush and thus their contributions to social discourse are seen as inherently lacking in credibility.

Third, it was claimed by the Canon that marriage is a Christian institution, with Biblical definitions and endorsement.  Correct of course, but not exclusively Christian.  As a caller to the phone-in pointed out, marriage has existed throughout the ages in civilisations and cultures throughout the world, including before Christianity, and so one religion cannot claim monopoly over or ownership of what is both a historic and natural human condition and also a secularly and legally recognised state.

It is this arrogance inherent in the third point which particularly angers me.  Christian organisations and leaders do terrible damage and insult to Christianity when they fail to make arguments that those who do not follow the faith can relate to or engage with.  For instance, to offer a Biblical defence of marriage as a heterosexual institution blindly ignores the fact that there are people out there who do not accept the Bible as a source of law or guidance (not to mention arrogantly assumes that this particular interpretation of the Bible is the correct one) and have no desire to be subject to it.

Of course, none of this would be surprising to anyone who knows Canon Chris Sugden.  I’d never heard of him but having quickly popped his name into Google I’ve discovered he is a key actor within the Fellowship of Confessing Anglicans, a Church of England pressure group whose ostensible motivation is to ostracise gays from the church and claim that one particular human interpretation of the Bible is somehow a timeless and inerrant one.

The church must learn humility.  It must learn that it exists in a society that it doesn’t control, doesn’t rule, doesn’t have any formal custody or responsibility for.  Its rules are not the default for those outside.  It cannot claim a monopoly over marriage – which is after all a civil act which can, with choice, be also a religious act.

Of course, there is a case to be made (though I am unsure how persuasive) for people to opt out of endorsing gay marriage or for churches to vote to refuse to conduct religious ceremonies for gay couples, or at the very least to be entitled to their views.  But this is where the issue of choice comes in.  We cannot be in a world where a minority view gets 100% of the implementation, when we’d be better off simply giving people choice: whethether that’s a choice to do something (eg get married as a gay couple) or not do something (eg give approval to someone else’s relationship choice).

The sooner there is fairness and equality in marriage, the better.  And our churches – particularly certain sections within them – must understand that belief in an absolute truth by one person or group does not make that truth inescapable for those that do not believe it.  Of course, an absolute truth is by definition ultimately inescapable, but one person’s belief in it doesn’t make it any more so nor does it justify the right to force the consequences of that truth when it is not universally accepted as an absolute truth.

Just to put things into a bit of perspective, let me point you towards this fantastic article by Ricky Gervais about atheism and Christmas.  Among the many points he makes is this powerful one:

Since the beginning of recorded history, which is defined by the invention of writing by the Sumerians around 6,000 years ago, historians have cataloged over 3700 supernatural beings, of which 2870 can be considered deities.

So next time someone tells me they believe in God, I’ll say “Oh which one? Zeus? Hades? Jupiter? Mars? Odin? Thor? Krishna? Vishnu? Ra?…” If they say “Just God. I only believe in the one God,” I’ll point out that they are nearly as atheistic as me. I don’t believe in 2,870 gods, and they don’t believe in 2,869.

Of course, as a Christian, I firmly believe that my God is the one true God.  I believe that God’s truth is an absolute one and none of us can ultimately escape it.

But I don’t for one microsecond believe that gives me a right to tell others to adhere to the societal implications of my interpretation of that God.  Nor do I doubt that my disbelief in 2,869 Gods is any more justifiable in my own mind than an atheist’s disbelief in 2,870 is in their mind.

Any Christian who thinks they can dictate to society what it does with marriage, should be compelled to read Gervais’s testimony first, then ask themselves if their arguments actually advance the Gospel, or just undermine it.

Okay, so the last in my summer flurry of book reviews: “Deep Stuff” by New Zealand writer Mike Riddell.

“Deep Stuff”, as you might expect, is about just that – deep stuff.  It’s the story of five young housemates somewhere in England who gather once a week for food and discussion.  In essence it’s a thought-provoking and often moving exploration not particularly of these characters but of the big issues that affect our society today.

I was recommended “Deep Stuff” many years ago (by Gareth Saunders, I think), and it was only when I went on my pre-holiday flurry of book-buying that I thought to finally get round to acquiring it.

And that links in with one problem I have with Deep Stuff – that I bought it over a decade after its publication, leaving it ever so slightly dated.  The cultural reference points of the characters’ discussions are very late ‘90s, and it’s an indicator of our fast-moving culture and society that concepts such as smartphones, Facebook, the war on terror or reality TV seem notable by their absence from what is trying to be (and probably at the time was) a cutting-edge book about today’s world.

But such is the nature of writing socially-relevant commentary, and it is only a minor quibble about what is on the whole a powerful, engaging book whose characters and issues fast get under your skin.

The house is brought to life by John, a friendly and outgoing social worker from New Zealand, whose arrival as a tenant shakes up – without upsetting – the existing dynamics in the house.  Camp and intellectual writer Quentin, gritty Irish girl Siobhan, blunt computer programmer Tanya and image-conscious daydreamer Claire all eventually respond well to John’s direct personality and attempts to get to know them, and before they know it they are taking it in turns to make Friday night dinner, the cook providing a discussion topic.

The housemates’ discussions – of everything from sex to death to fame to family – strike at the hearts of their lives, their upbringings, their beliefs and their perceptions of the world, and the conversations become more intimate as the housemates share deeper and more painful stories from their lives.

New boy John is a Christian (as is the writer), and while this occasionally comes up and John subtly steers a lot of the discussions to the really big questions about life, the universe and everything, we are nudged to no particularly Christian conclusions, and “Deep Stuff” could not accurately therefore be described as a Christian book.  I’d recommend it therefore to anyone interested in how people relate to the world they live in and the people around them.

While the characters are well-crafted and compelling, it does seem that, occasionally, their contributions are abstract: that it matters not who is making each certain point, just that the point is being made and explored.  Even the stories the housemates tell or make up to illustrate their points sometimes seem more powerful and real than they themselves, and most of the time the five young folk appear simply to be tools for dissecting the issues within each chosen topic.

In that sense, “Deep Stuff” could be put – albeit loosely – in the category of metaphor-packed pop-philosophy, alongside the likes of Paulo Coelho, Sophie’s World and so on (not that I’ve read the genre all that deeply); where the themes and dimensions of human existence are more the point of the story than the characters themselves.

That’s not a criticism, particularly, because the ‘deep stuff’ and the way it is all explored is thoroughly provoking and lingers in the mind, and we are left thinking about the ideas rather than any judgements we may reach about the characters.  Indeed, the book has a compelling feature in the form of one or two quotes in the margin of each page from famous people that relate to the particular point being discussed in the story.

Far from being distracting, these enrich the thought process and help to unpack the dialogue.  They include quotes by folk from Kurt Cobain and Douglas Coupland (told you it was very late ‘90s) to Woody Allen and Carl Jung.  Some of my favourites include…

The trouble with the rat race is that even if you win you’re still a rat. (Lily Tomlin)

Money doesn’t talk, it swears. (Bob Dylan)

When authorities warn you of the sinfulness of sex, there is an important lesson to be learned.  Do not have sex with the authorities. (Matt Groening)

The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals.  That doesn’t mean God doesn’t love heterosexuals.  It’s just that they need more supervision. (Lynne Lavner)

I don’t consider myself a pessimist at all.  I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain.  And I feel completely soaked to the skin. (Leonard Cohen)

The ending of the book isn’t wholly unpredictable, but is nevertheless powerful and moving, as eighteen months after the houseshare ends all five characters reflect on how their lives have been moulded by the other four and the deep stuff they discussed.

“Deep Stuff” is a well-written and wonderful book, and I’m glad I’ve got round to reading it.  Even several years later.

I’m increasingly coming to the conclusion that there are two Christianities.

Cue sharp intake of breath from hardline evangelical readers who think I’m about to reinterpret God in a heretical, post-modern way; and sigh of boredom from hardline atheist readers who’d rather move on and browse something else.

But read on, please, hardline evangelical readers and hardline atheist readers alike – what I am about to say is about and for both of you.

I picked up recently via Twitter on this article by Johann Hari – “The slow, whiny death of British Christianity” it’s called.  It talks about how new statistics say that Britain is now “the most irreligious country on earth”.  This, Hari surmises, is cause for celebration because it will help undermine the case for the privileged position Christianity and other faiths have within our society.

The problem is, however, that Hari’s ire is stoked by a narrow, potentially even lazy, view of Christianity – one which holds or seeks a privileged position in law, education and politics, which holds prejudiced views about certain minorities, and will regard any criticism of it as an assault on freedom as a whole.

Of course, the thought occurs: should we blame Hari or any other committed atheist for judging Christianity on what they see?  Maybe the only Christianity they see in political and social discourse, in the pages and screens of the media or with their own eyes is the Christianity that abuses children and covers it up; that wishes to deny homosexuals – and, sometimes, women – equal rights; that seeks to determine what healthcare or education people including non-believers receive; that greedily protects its ex-officio parliamentary seats; that thinks it has the right to stop people watching whatever films or theatre they want; that confuses the right to evangelise with the right to impose the consequences of belief upon those that do not share that belief; that maintains it has the right not to be insulted or intellectually confronted; and so on.

Maybe such hardline atheists do not see a different Christianity: one which practices charity, selflessness, humility and modesty, which fights against poverty, injustice and war, which offers unjudging, caring comfort to the weak, the dying, the sick, the lonely, the depressed, the despairing, the angry and the hopeless… all often quietly, and under the radar of the media.

Maybe such atheists just don’t see these things, and if so, you can’t blame them for only judging Christianity on the aspects they see and hear about.

But frankly it doesn’t take too much searching to find evidence of a Christianity that is like that – and remember that atheists rightly pride themselves on their commitment to rationality, logic and evidence in their considerations.  So to tar all of Christianity with the same brush as you tar a number of nasty, warped manifestations of it, is lazy and unhelpful in resolving the issue of how faith, society and politics interact.  And even if – perhaps with some justification – critics might say that the line is blurred between those two Christianities, that doesn’t excuse the inability to distinguish between the two extremes.

Let’s consider a couple of parallels.  For instance, were the British Humanist Association to be found to be engaging in corrupt financial practices, to be operating illegally, or for some of its staff to be found committing crimes using BHA premises or resources, should I assume that atheism is consequently an evil of society?  Of course not - I should just assume that this one organisation is rotten or negligent.

A second parallel can be found in a real and famous example: should the declaration a few years ago that the Metropolitan Police was “institutionally racist” validate the view that the police should be abolished?  Of course not - the problem is the institution, not the cause.

So why can’t arguments like those in Hari’s article not make the same distinction between those institutions, structures and individuals who are arguably (or demonstrably) contrary to equality and justice, and those that aren’t?  Why do criticisms like those in Hari’s article lead to the scattergun conclusion not that the perpetuators of bigotry, privilege, abuse and so on should be opposed, but that the entire faith should be opposed?

To tangle up a movement or cause with the rot within an institution that embodies it, is perhaps easy to do but careless, and the consequences are counter-productive to the atheist movement, because it loses a huge number of potentially very influential allies: those moderate Christians who agree with them.

And this is where I start to get to my point.

There are Christians out there who believe that those responsible for child abuse in the church should be investigated and where guilty prosecuted: no matter how high up the chain of command they are or how infallible they believe themselves to be.

There are Christians who believe that our children must learn in school about religion and faith as influences on human history and society, but who do not believe that school is an appropriate environment for prosletysing or religious instruction.

There are Christians who believe that to reserve parliamentary seats to senior officers of one organisation (the Church of England) within one tradition (Anglicanism) of one denomination (Protestantism) of one religion (Christianity) is an affront to democracy; who believe that the head of state being the head of that same organisation is a disgustingly theocratic anachronism.

There are Christians who believe that to hold prejudice against or deny full equality to homsexuals, women or indeed any person either within or beyond the church is both immoral and Biblically baseless.

There are Christians who believe that churches should not receive public funds to spread their message.

There are Christians who do not believe that in a fair, inclusive democracy religion should be exempt from the law.

There are Christians who believe that their faith is strong enough to face scrutiny, criticism and even insult, and in fact know that the strength of their belief depends on this happening (see this post from a while ago for more on this topic, including a link to a fascinating article by Frank Skinner).

And there are Christians who believe that a secular democracy doesn’t mean one where Christianity is oppressed, but where it is simply disestablished from the machinery of government and public administration.

And they’re not a fluffy, liberal, fringe minority.  They’re normal, mainstream Christians, evangelical in zeal if certainly not in doctrine and dogma.

When the Christian viewpoint heard in the media is frequently that from bigoted and conservative organisations like Christian Voice or CARE, or privileged, antiquated church leadership like that of the Church of England, it frustrates me that there is no pan-denominational organisation out there that is recognised as a mainstream Christian voice and quoted as simultaneously upholding both the Christian message and a belief in secular democracy: an entirely uncontradictory stance.

If such an organisation exists, I’ve not heard about it, and I’d probably throw myself into it.

And yet atheists who call for the secularisation of our democracy rarely seem to acknowledge the existence of such mainstream Christians, let alone seek to form coalition with them.  In Hari’s article, he shouts down a call from the Church of England for certain exemptions from laws concerning gay equality by quoting the criticisms of “Lord Chief Justice Laws, who is a Christian himself”.

Aha, so Hari’s ire isn’t about Christianity, it’s about the actions of some within it…?

…Sadly, no.  He appears not to think for a second that there might be many Christians out there who do not hold the views of the bigoted end of Christian leadership, and he ignores the capacity or potential that such a voice might represent.  It seems that for many (though I am sure not all) atheists such a moderate Christian view simply doesn’t exist (and if my perception is wrong there, I’d love to hear otherwise).

Again – such a voice should organise.

But just imagine.  How much more powerful would the debate be if it wasn’t simply perceived rightly or wrongly as an atheist assault on Christian belief, but instead seen as a popular, diverse movement for free and inclusive democracy versus an out of date and confused establishment?

When it’s only atheists calling for these things, it becomes a war about faith, which misses the point the atheists are trying to make; when atheists and Christians call for them together, it would become about the kind of liberal democracy we want to live in.  And that’s a much more powerful, relevant and productive conversation.

Of course, as something of an aside, there are also Christians out there who believe that these changes would be good not just for society, democracy and government, but would be good for the church and the advancement of the Gospel too.

Hari writes:

As their dusty Churches crumble because nobody wants to go there, the few remaining Christians in Britain will only become more angry and uncomprehending. Let them. We can’t stop this hysterical toy-tossing stop us from turning our country into a secular democracy where everyone has the same rights, and nobody is granted special rights just because they claim their ideas come from an invisible supernatural being.

But far from dying a “slow, whiny death” as Hari puts it in the title of his article, these other Christians that he ignores will not become more angry and uncomprehending – for they, and this includes me, believe that a church that is free of the baggage of establishment and that is unencumbered by the weight of privilege would not crumble.

Instead, it would be a liberated, light-footed and socially radical church focussed purely on the spirit and message of Jesus.

It would be a church in the mould of the early Christian movement as described in the Book of Acts: a church that would focus on the gifts of the spirit because it has no other gifts to rely on.

It would be a church that, like in many parts of the world where Christianity is banned, discouraged or warped, would flourish like unstoppable wildfire.

Which is maybe what some atheists fear and why they refuse to see common ground with such mainstream Christians in the advancement of secular democracy.

Which leaves this question for hardline atheists like Johann Hari and others: which do you most fear – a church like today, seemingly drunk with privilege; or a disestablished Christian movement consistent with the ethos of a secular democracy?

If the answer is the latter or both equally, then that would demonstrate a theophobia unbecoming a good, rational atheist.

If the answer is the former, then let’s talk.

Nicole and I head off to Glasgow this evening, on the joyful Megabus, something I’ve not had the pleasure of for a long time.

I’ll be signing copies of “Up The Creek Without a Mullet” at Waterstones on Sauchiehall Street on Saturday at 11am.  It’s a bit of a Sandstone Press jamboree, in fact, as I’ll be signing alongside fellow Sandstone author Moira Forsyth.  Let’s hope we each sign the correct pile of books.

If you’re around and want to get a personalised, signed copy, or just chat about the book, life, the weather and everything, then it would be terrific to see you.  Full details here.

Soon after that, we’ll be dashing to Hampden, along with most of the rest of the population of the Highlands, for the Scottish Cup Final between the mighty Ross County and Dundee United.  It should be quite an experience.

Meanwhile on Sunday morning, I’m looking forward to catching up with St Silas, my former church in Glasgow.

A fun weekend lies ahead.

I finished the controversial and hugely-selling Christian book “The Shack” the other night.  It was a long, hard slog, I tell you.

It tells the fictitious story of a middle-aged man called Mack, who is emotionally crippled by sadness, both as the victim of abuse and also having lost a child in the most horrific circumstances.  Mack is given an invite from God to meet him at the same shack his daughter was brutally murdered, and when he takes it up he spends a weekend with God.  Well, more accurately, God the father (a big, African-American woman) God the Son (a practical, warm-hearted best-friend type called Jesus), and God the Spirit (a weird pseudo-apparition you can’t quite look at, called Sarayu).  They spend the weekend in philosophical nonsensicalness that would make the Matrix sequels seem of modest pretension, and eating more food than the Famous Five ever got through.

If you think that’s silly, the bigger storm is surrounds the criticism the book has received for its allegedly dodgy theology, containing as it does a claim that it presents God as someone who demands no action from us and who gives us love unconditionally.  Now this is a theological minefield I don’t think I have the armour-plated wellies for, but I can see the point that the lack of redemption or confrontation of one’s sins is far from the whole story.

However, that is among its lesser crimes in my view.  The greater crime by a considerable country mile is cheese.  Lots and lots of cheese.  The book drips with horrible, schmaltzy, American cheesiness that speaks nothing to people who are either on this side of the pond or who have anything more than absolutely zero pragmatism in their heads.  Given the dark undertone of the book, such waves of cheesiness made the book so lacking in credibility, readability or anything else-ability.

I quickly lost interest in the book, and reading the rest of it became a ridiculous endurance challenge I insisted on overcoming.

There were one or two interesting thoughts presented by the book, but the cheesiness overwhelmed them.  Now don’t get me wrong, I love cheese.  Cheese is great.  But it belongs on toast, or in a sauce, or on pasta.  Not in music, and most definitely not in books like “The Shack”.

I’ve just stumbled across this excellent article by comedian Frank Skinner in (whisper it) The Times.

Frank Skinner is an irreverent and often crude comedian but, notably, is a committed Christian and has frequently spoken about his faith.  His book Frank Skinner is a fascinating insight into his faith, upbringing and career, and while it’s not for the faint-hearted it is certainly engaging, hilariously funny and, well, frank.

Anyway, the above Times article is a short commentary on the recent complaints about the disadvantages Christianity is claimed to be facing.  Skinner argues that it is actually when it is oppressed, discomforted, that it is at its best, and that the decline in church attendance is a great sign that church is becoming less something that everyone feels they have to go to, and more something that people actively choose to go to.

He further argues that there’s nothing wrong with Christians being distinct, different, apart, because it means that we’re standing up for our faith; even, he says, when it means we are unfairly judged as a result:

Most British Christians are badly dressed, unattractive people. We’re not pushy and aggressive members of society. We’re a bit like Goths — no one can remember us being fashionable and we talk about death a lot. I love the glorious un-coolness of that.

How refreshing that, when the loudest Christian voices around tend to be bitter campaigners complaining about gays, the assaults on Christian education or the writings of Richard Dawkins, we have sensible folk like Frank Skinner standing up to profess their faith and demand no privilege.

We need more people like him.

On the train back from Edinburgh on Friday, I finished off the last couple of chapters of “Velvet Elvis” by Rob Bell.

Rob Bell is a well-known American pastor, speaker and writer, and is influential in a lot of very modern explanations of what Christianity is all about. I first started reading Velvet Elvis at least a year ago, and it basically got a bit lost in the book-time continuum and I only got around to finishing it off.

It subtitles itself as “Repainting the Christian faith” and aims to go back to basics, explaining where Christianity came from and what it’s all about. It rips away a lot of the paraphernalia, the “religion”, and strikes at the heart of the message. While it’s powerful stuff, it’s often hard to read, and this is why I think I ended up taking so long over it. In an attempt to write in a very contemporary way, his overly-conversational language is a bit hard-going, his tendency to write in short sentences often impeding the ability to be free-flowing in his message.

I might be being a bit harsh – I actually can’t remember much of the first half of the book (other than one or two very helpful explanations of the culture of the Jews at the time of Jesus), and so perhaps should go easier. Let me conclude by quoting a very powerful comment from towards the end of the book, with my emphasis added, about what the church is actually for (and what it’s not for):

The church doesn’t exist for itself; it exists to serve the world. It is not ultimately about the church; it’s about all the people God wants to bless through the church. When the church loses sight of this, it loses its heart. This is especially true today in the world we live in where so many people are hostile to the church, many for good reason. We reclaim the church as a blessing machine not only because that is what Jesus intended from the beginning but also because serving people is the only way their perceptions of church are ever going to change. This is why it is so toxic for the gospel when Christians picket and boycott and complain about how bad the world is. This behavio[u]r doesn’t help. It makes it worse. It isn’t the kind of voice Jesus wants his followers to have in the world. Why blame the dark for being dark? It is far more helpful to ask why the light isn’t as bright as it could be.

Amen to that.

I got back earlier this afternoon from my stag do.

Part one was a tremendously fun day of paintball, quad biking and clay pigeon shooting at Highland Activities. They’re based in Kinloch Laggan, on a vast estate in a beautiful part of the world where cheesy TV drama Monarch of the Glen was filmed. Part two was a night of food, music, one or two beverages and lots of laughs at a house in Contin.

It was great fun but I am now shattered.

The last thing I needed, then, barely half an hour after getting home, was some Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking on the door.

Funny really, because I somehow knew that it would be some sort of religious visitor when I heard the knock, and it was only Monday past that I had two other JWs trying to tell me something or other. Like that earlier visit, I gave them short thrift, interrupting their polite spiel to tell them I wasn’t interested and was a Christian, closing the door in their face as politely and firmly as I could.

It brought to mind that I had them at my door a few weeks ago too – and that wasn’t the first time. Always in two, always starting out with an indirect line of conversation – starting out with leaflets about drug abuse, blood transfusions or “the truth”. However, I am now skilled in instant recognition of copies of “The Watchtower” so am able to interrupt their enquiry before they get too far into their stride.

I am sure I should deal with them in a better way – by authoritatively taking apart their arguments, or showing their faith up to be an alarming misuse of the Bible; and of course I could certainly be more polite. All of the above require patience and research, however, and I have a tendency to neither, at least on this matter.

But more than that, I am a bit concerned that they have been at my door so much lately. Either they are rubbish at cross-referencing their outreach plans, or they are just hugely persistent. And am I doing something wrong? Am I only encouraging them by answering the door?

Now they know someone lives here who isn’t 100% rude or abusive (surely not that rare?), are they going to redouble their efforts? There’s a Kingdom Hall not a million miles away from my flat, so perhaps I am one of their targets – handy, unthreatening, and professing a faith they regard as close to their own.

I wonder how soon it will be before they’re round again…