Society

Soccer, Money, Loyalty and the Meaning of Sport

I have supported Manchester City since I was 8. Thus, for most of my life, I was included in perhaps the most beloved group of fans in Anglo-speaking football culture. City were a giant club that were not so much sleeping, as comatose. They constantly got relegated, quietly flirted with bankruptcy, and were renowned for teams that shot themselves in the foot on the field. But through all the bad times, City fans stayed loyal. They had a collective sense of humour about the strange indignities that came from following a team that constantly dashed hope.

That is not how City fans are seen now. About 10 years ago the former Thai prime-minister and possible war criminal, Thaksin Shinawatra, bought the club and things changed. No longer were City signing strong, slow, dependable players who would gladly bleed on the field. Elegant, exotic foreigners who were dainty on the ball and swift off it started to pack the squad. Less than 2 years later, Thaskin sold out his share at a monumental profit to the royal family of Abu Dhabi. Since then, Manchester City have spent a billion pounds and a good chunk more expanding the stadium, developing social housing around east Manchester, launching a professional woman’s team, and developing the most elaborate and well-funded soccer academy in the world. Most of the money has gone on assembling a collection of world class players for the (male) team. Success has followed. Man City have gone from being the fond butt of soccer fans’ jokes to being the blinging, oil-drenched symbol of everything that has gone wrong with football.

A handful of players who were with the club before the oil money arrived are still around. But now that Man City have a new manager, Joe Hart, one of those veterans and the first-choice goalkeeper, has found himself surplus to requirements. Hart is one of the few English players good enough to stake a claim in the City team and so, predictably, this everyday occurrence in the game (players get dropped and fall out of favour constantly) has become a mini-storm of increasingly heated comment.

Hart is thought of fondly by City fans. But those who follow the club’s fortunes week-in and week-out have been long familiar with his regular lapses in concentration. For every game saved by a stellar Hart performance, there seems to be a game lost by a Hart fumble. The new manager has a very distinctive way of playing the game that requires the goalkeeper to pass the ball fluently. Hart will never be able to do this and more importantly, doesn’t really seem that interested in trying, and so his demotion is more of an inevitability than a horrendous injustice.

But friends have suggested that this little personnel change is an expression of the ongoing erosion of whatever trace of nobility is left in the game. The general conclusion seems to be, “What does loyalty mean when a guy can be dropped like this?” The fact that Hart pointedly refused to pass the ball in his first ever game under the new manager, and instead kicked the ball long every time it came to him, is rarely discussed. The fact that Hart is error-prone is downplayed. That Hart is still paid £110,000 a week to sit on the bench appears a moot point.

Hart would have to go a long way to become City’s historically outstanding goalkeeping servant. The most popular player in the history of the club was a former Axis paratrooper, Bert Trautmann, who took his place between the sticks over 500 times for the club. The team reached the final of the FA Cup in 1956. They played Birmingham City and were guarding a 3-1 lead with 17 minutes to go. Spud Murphy, who had scored five goals on Birmingham’s run to the final, broke free in the 73rd minute and the City keeper stormed out to confront him, diving at his feet and expertly seizing the ball. But in the clash, Trautmann was injured. The physio came on and it looked like Bert’s final was over. The City players knew there was something amiss and some pleaded with him to see sense. He refused. He played on. Birmingham assaulted the City goal but Trautmann and his defence stood firm and triumphed. As he walked the famous steps of Wembley to receive his winner’s medal from the British monarch, his neck was visibly distorted. Prince Philip apparently commented on it. Later x-rays revealed he had broken his neck in the clash with Murphy. And played on.

These kinds of stories are allegedly what sport is all about. Trautmann’s Herculean strength and determination, his phenomenal commitment to his team-mates and his extraordinary skill are meant to inspire us. I get all that. But isn’t that, at base, deeply stupid? The guy broke his neck so badly, that it broke in on itself, the third vertebrae cracking in on the second, and only for that reason did he not die there and then, instantly. Trautmann is a legend, immortalised at the City football stadium in a statue and remembered everytime the club has success. But I’m glad Joe Hart will never risk his life so as to win a game.

Elite sport exists today primarily to encourage our consumption. This is true for the Olympics and it is true for the NFL and it is true for Man City and Arsenal and the other “well-run” mega-rich teams of European soccer. It is even true for the notionally amateur Gaelic games. It’s an excellent distraction that primes our minds to look at advertisements. That’s the economics behind Joe Hart getting paid almost £6 million a year to catch balls. It’s not about the game. It’s about the money. And if you doubt that, remember how it is also about defeating the scourge of dandruff.

Joe Hart, Head and Shoulders

But Bert Trautmann should remind us that it was never about the game. It was about glory. The modern game might, therefore, be an improvement. Money is much more flexible than glory, and as a motive it doesn’t encourage people to cripple themselves in quite the same way.

The theology of all this is complicated. But what appears critical to me is how sport exposes the mechanism of capitalism in today’s world, not least in how elusive it is. While we think the scandal is multi-million euro transfer fees and stratospheric wages, like a skilled magician, Mammon has guided our eyes away from the action. He picks our pocket and we are too busy cheering our idols to even notice.

Your Correspondent, Head and shoulders above the competition when it comes to explaining the meaning of sport

Adventures

5 Places for Christians to Visit in Paris

I have a friend who is a brilliant travel blogger. I can’t even travel well, let alone blog real good! But sometimes when I am planning to go on a trip some place, I wonder why there isn’t more niche information out there. My best friend is an architect and when he jets off for a weekend break to Porto or Lodz or whatever city is going to be discovered by the style magazines next year, he can fairly easily find the five or ten buildings he simply must see in advance. The same would hold if your passion was food or sport or shoplifting from designer stores. Guidebooks will presumably tell you about the best restaurants and the location of the sports stadiums and the shops with lax security. But when it comes to really obscure, niche, weirdo concerns like, religion, travel literature is surprisingly silent.

(Just as an aside, while I am spouting off about stuff I know nothing about: Why are there no Gaelteacht holiday resorts aimed at families in Ireland? I bet you could make a killing by building a nice little spa resort out in Belmullet and running it like any other resort, except that there are Irish lessons in the morning for the kids and the grown-ups and that everyone agreed to only speak as Gaeilge.)

Staying in Paris over the summer, I searched for a walking tour of its Christian sites of interest but to no avail. Maybe my Google mojo had deserted me and such a thing exists but I wasn’t able to find any guidance for places to visit that weren’t basically architectural tours (the churches are pretty!) in disguise. But I walked all over the city and I stumbled into some interesting and unusual places that would be of interest to Christians (especially theologically-inclined Christians). So here is my Unusual Parisian Pilgrimage.

1. The Sorbonne
Since Paris remained Catholic, France remained Catholic. But there was a time back during the Reformation when the country was aflame with theological dispute and passion. The continued relevance of the minority population of Reformed Christians in France can be testified to by the life and work of the insanely prolific sociologist Jacques Ellul. But the first out-of-the-ordinary place to visit on your little day of pilgrimage in France is the Sorbonne.

The reason?

Because for a brief period, two of the most significant figures of the Reformation overlapped there in their study, and went on to have a dramatic role in shaping either side of the conversation. John Calvin, the father of Presbyterianism was a student here at the same time as Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits. Presbyterianism and the Jesuits provided much of the intellectual muscle of their respective positions and it is fascinating to imagine them sharing small talk over porridge in the morning.

Sorbonne

Today, of course, the Sorbonne is the centre-piece of the acclaimed University of Paris and tours can be arranged. They probably won’t focus much on this obscure side-story however…

2. Thomas Aquinas
The most important theologian in the history of the church famously lived in Paris. The Dominican friar, Thomas Aquinas, assimilated Aristotelian philosophy with Christian theology and produced a work that has systemically shaped Christian thought and practice (for good and ill) since then. His thought continues to be studied by philosophers and political scientists, and I imagine that hidden in his extensive writings, everyone could find something that applied to their craft or field or calling. Famously, at the end of his life, he had a vision of some sort that convinced him that all his writing was for nothing. “I can write no more. All that I have written seems like straw.” Theologians since him have chosen not to take his wisdom seriously on that count.

Considering how monumental a figure Thomas is, it is amazing that there is nothing much made of him in Paris. There is a notable painting in a side-chapel in Notre Dame but that is all I could find. Except, of course, for a little parish church in his honour, located on a little square at the end of a lane, also named after him. So if you are that way inclined, you can drop in and say a prayer of thanks for the big Italian brainiac, and ask God to let you know sooner than a year before you die if it turns out everything you’ve spent your life doing is worthless…

Rue St. Thomas d'Aquin

3. Hammurabi’s Code
The Hammurabi Code is in the basement in the Louvre. The Louvre is a museum in the middle of Paris. It is 700 metres long and it is a palace and there is a glass pyramid in the middle of it and it is the most famous gallery in the world, so you will probably be visiting there anyway.

But when you visit, as you grow exhausted by the crowds of people taking selfies or even more inexplicably, just taking photos of everything, you can slip downstairs to the much less visited section on Egypt and Babylon. Standing in the middle of one room you will find a breath-taking obelisk of diorite, black as night, with intricate carvings etched into its surface. This is the Code of Hammurabi, a legal monument from the Babylonian empire first cast in stone about 3750 years ago.

No one will bother you as you pay close attention to it because practically everyone in the room is just lost, and looking for a Da Vinci to take a photo of. But if you are fond of reading the Bible, then this exhibit is worth going out of your way to examine. The Law, that Moses gave the Israelites, and that is recorded in the Pentateuch, was most certainly formed with the rulings listed on Hammurabi’s Code in mind. The Law of Israel draws on, remixes, and parodies the law of the Babylonians. This big, beautiful stone testifies to that very real, historical world of military power and kings-glorified-as-gods that we find in the opening pages of the Old Testament. And in that complex way, the Code can inspire devotion very different from the stunning stained glass of Saint Chapelle or vaulted ceilings of Notre Dame.

Hammurabi, not Harambe

4. Passage du Harve
The penultimate stop on our little pilgrimage is to a shopping centre. Paris is riddled with passages couverts, laneways that were roofed and then developed into prototype shopping malls. They are sometimes called arcades. The reason I propose wandering down through one of these unassuming but pretty temples to consumerism is not just that you might want a Starbucks, but because of the way in which these developments can help us understand how confusing is the world in which we live.

Walter Benjamin was one of the great philosophers of the 20th Century. He lived in poverty, made some of the first radio programmes intended for children, spent all the money he had on books, and committed suicide trying to escape the NAZIs. He also, in that great theological tradition that Thomas began (and Karl Barth perfected), left his masterpiece unfinished. As a young man we wanted to write an essay about the joy of learning about a place by walking around and he used the Parisian arcades as the context. But the work swallowed him and the Arcades Project expanded and grew to a scale no one could ever finish. Benjamin had that knack that all Christian ethicists should aspire to replicate, whereby a sign in a shop window is as worthy of deep reflection as an ancient middle-eastern legal code or the achievements of a historic university.

Benjamin’s Marxism never transcended his Judaism. He is invariably despised by the kinds of intellectuals who think that belief in God is a brain disease that afflicts the morally weak. They insist his dense prose hides everything, because behind it lies nothing. But I have never understood that criticism. Maybe trained by the internet browser to appreciate hyperlinked things, Benjamin’s roving mind always provokes me to thought. As I wandered down the Parisian arcades, I thought about how it wasn’t Baron Haussmann’s vision, nor Gustave Eiffel’s ingenuity that made Paris great, but the imagined engines of commerce, that rest collectively inside our heads and make us want a juicer that we can control from our mobile phone. Our consumption consumes the world and I thought then about Benjamin and his Angel of Progress, who is driven forward with his back to the future, facing history:

There is a painting by Klee called Angelus Novus. An angel is depicted there who looks as though he were about to distance himself from something which he is staring at. His eyes are opened wide, his mouth stands open and his wings are outstretched. The Angel of History must look just so. His face is turned towards the past. Where we see the appearance of a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe, which unceasingly piles rubble on top of rubble and hurls it before his feet. He would like to pause for a moment so fair, to awaken the dead and to piece together what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise, it has caught itself up in his wings and is so strong that the Angel can no longer close them. The storm drives him irresistibly into the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubble-heap before him grows sky-high. That which we call progress, is this storm.

It turned out Benjamin never managed to make sense of the world by walking down arcades. And we cannot make sense of history which drives us irresistibly into the future a-top the rubble-heap of our consuming love of progress, but for an out-of-the-ordinary Christian pilgrimage, I recommend wandering the passages.

Passage du Harve

5. The Tomb of Oscar Wilde
It should be of comfort, I suppose, that Ireland is better at making missionaries than theologians. I seem to remember Augustine refers to the great heretic Pelagius at one point as a porridge-eating Scotus, which suggests that old fool might have been Irish. We generated John Scotus Eriugena in the 800s but he was suspected of heresy as well and since then, we’ve gone through a bit of a fallow period. When Bono is your most prominent God-talker, and Sinéad O’Connor is in second-place, you know you’re in trouble.

But I have always thought of Oscar Wilde as a theologian. I would maintain that along with The Brothers Karamazov and Gilead and Silence, any introduction to Christian literature has to dwell for a long time with The Portrait of Dorian Gray. Wilde has understandably been adopted as an icon of the LGBT movement. It ought not need to be said but I shall say it anyway: That doesn’t mean he can’t also be a Christian from which we learn.

My suspicion, which I might get to test out properly some time, is that you can read all his work through two dynamics. Firstly: The history of the world will, in the end, turn out to be a comedy. Jesus is the Christ, and therefore, even in the sky-high rubble-heap of history that surrounds us, we can hope and we can laugh. As he writes, “Since Christ the dead world has woke up from sleep. Since him we have lived.”

Secondly, sin is a lethal seduction that traps us. This is the insight that drives The Portrait. It is always under the surface in fairy tales, where the disfigured are very often the ones who communicate grace, while the beautiful are revealed to be ugly below the skin. It is hard (impossible?) to follow this line of thought without confusing it with Wilde’s own life and with the form that the political conversation around LGBT liberation takes in today’s discourse. But Wilde could laugh because he knew there would be good news at the end. And he had to laugh because in the here and now, so little could be trusted.

So if I am right that Wilde is the rarest of things: an Irish theologian worth reading, then surely it is worth walking to his grave and paying your respects? I think the actual monument is hella ugly, made even worse by the protective perspex erected to protect it from graffiti. But the Pére Lachaise cemetery is strikingly beautiful in its gothic splendour. And a graveyard is always a good place to finish a pilgrimage, right?

Oscar Wilde Tomb

Your Correspondent, How can someone with glasses that thick be so stupid?

Books

We Were Just Sitting There Talking When…

When Wife-unit and I got married, someone made a speech about how they were convinced we were going to change the world. We struggled to change a tire on a Fiat 500 earlier this week, so I suspect that that claim has only grown more embarrassing with every passing year.

In our defence, we lived fairly intensely back then and people were often gripped by the sheer importance of the work that we all together were doing. We were making history, as young leaders in the first Presbyterian church plant in Ireland in a century. We were on the sharp edge of a movement that was sweeping the western world, establishing new and vibrant church communities that would rejuvenate Christianity and, to use the deeply arrogant language that was prevalent at the time, “incarnate” the Kingdom of God.

I don’t know what we were doing.

I share this bafflement with my friend, D.L. Mayfield. In her new book Assimilate or Go Home: Notes from a failed missionary on rediscovering faith, we get to follow along the journey as she discovers a vocation for ministry among refugees and then in the course of doing that ministry, learning that much of what she thought was ministry was wrong. Reflecting on my own experience in the light of this beautifully written book, I am prompted to suggest the following koan: True vocations start from mis-hearings.

The book is structured around four movements: Anticipation and Excitement, Reality Sets In, Depression and Culture Shock, Stabilization. These are the four stages traveled by the typical refugee as they settle into their sanctuary society. It is a revealing insight to the subtle theological weight of this work that Mayfield present ministry in terms of distressing displacement.

Mayfield tells how she hurled herself into ministry with refugees in her hometown. Fueled by the hagiographies of missionaries and evangelists that she read as a girl, her anticipation was that she would change the world, or at least change their world, those lucky few who would be subject of her attention. I don’t know how good she is at changing tires, but she has likewise failed to change the world.

Critically, the disillusionment and discouragement that she endures in these years of unspectacular ministry consisting of car rides and babysitting, failed English lessons and floundering food exchanges, is a loss of confidence in the traditions and assumptions she had inherited from the evangelical Christianity of her youth and her culture.

In Bible college, I was learning how to evangelize, how to convert those who believed differently than I did. Meeting the refugees was like enrolling in a practicum course: I could use all the tips and tricks I was learning in the classroom and implement them in the real world. Except, of course, nothing ever happened like it did in the textbooks.

The trauma inflicted on a refugee affects their ability to learn and remember. In the torrid tumult of being chased from your homeland, apologetic arguments about the divinity of Christ turn out to not be top of your agenda. Mayfield deftly explores the complex self-motivations that are at work in our outreach, the deep soul-reasoning that makes us hungry to be of use, any old kind of use at all. To say we are justified by faith, by grace, is to say that we cannot vouch for any merit of our own. The long struggle that Mayfield experiences is truly an account of conversion because she painfully comes to the end of her tradition and finds that it cannot convert her friends and it cannot sanctify herself. Our goal in the Christian life is not to make people more like us. To the extent that we seek safety in theological accuracy or in ministry competence (I winced in reminiscence at the evangelical leadership conferences as I read the “Life List” chapter) or in any other avenue that justifies us and our apparently insane insistence that we have the truth of the universe at our disposal, we evade the living God and miss out on the call he actually makes. Or as Mayfield puts it:

“All I over wanted to do was oppress people, in the kindest way possible”

This book is about American Christian experience engaging with American refugees. But it is deeply relevant outside that context because of how it presents an account of ministry as presence. Again and again we find that what matters is being with people. Patient attention to the ways of others is a much more significant aspect of being involved in Christian work than being able to say all the right things or co-ordinate strategy in all the right way.

Throughout the book I couldn’t help thinking of how it resonated with Dorothy Day’s The Long Loneliness. Day was the founder of the Catholic worker movement and she spent her life agitating for the rights of the poor and serving them food from her kitchen. She and her companions lived in community and offered hospitality to everyone who needed it. She did not change the world. Arguably, the plight of the worker is more precarious today than it was fifty years ago. The neighbourhood in which she primarily lived and worked, the Bowery, has now been gentrified beyond all recognition. Her homeland is no closer to pacifism than it was when it was dropping nukes on Japanese kids.

Dorothy Day

She was, in many ways, a failed missionary. She was keenly attentive to the self-deception entailed in do-goodery. She knew that the only antidote to the long loneliness of waiting for the Kingdom was community. She had to be converted out of the conviction of her youth to actually pursue the thing that convinced her.

Day summed up the work of her movement in the following way:

All of them understood the works of mercy – old-fashioned prayer books list them. The corporal ones are to feed the hungry; to give drink to the thirsty; to clothe the naked; to harbor the harborless; to ransom the captive; to visit the sick; to bury the dead. The spiritual works are to instruct the ignorant; to counsel the doubtful; to admonish sinners; to bear wrongs patiently; to forgive offenses willingly; to comfort the afflicted; to pray for the living and the dead.

And Mayfield closes her work in the following way:

We aren’t being asked to assimilate, but we are called to make our home here more like the kingdom we have always dreamed about but were too scared to believe was possible. Because God’s dream for the world is coming, looming brighter and brighter on the horizon.

That Kingdom action to which we are called is the business listed in the old-fashioned books. Living with people, eating with people, listening to people, helping people with the concrete things that trouble them. We weren’t called to save the world. We are called to follow the One who has already done that.

When Day looked back on her life – a life full of dramatic and remarkable events – she described it as nothing more than a long stretch of days when “we were just sitting there talking when…” they decided to feed whoever was hungry or set up farms of refuge or publish a newspaper about a longterm green revolution. “It was as casual as all that… it just came about… it just happened.” The ministry of the church that arises from genius technique dismisses such talk as unprofessional or careless. But this is how the work of God occurs. “It all happened while we sat there talking, and it is still going on.”

If you are involved in the mission of the church, I think you should buy and read this book. It’s on sale tomorrow.

Your Correspondent, Tugs at the heart, fogs the mind

Ethics For Everyday

On Byron Burgers and Consumer Boycotts

Tim Maly on how globalisation implicates us:

Something that journalists sometimes do is publish a disclosure statement. It’s sort of like an About Me page except it’s a listing of all their conflicts of interest—all the areas of coverage where you might have good reason to think they should not be trusted. It’ll say things like I once worked at Google or I’m married to an employee of Microsoft.

I have never written one of these but I have fantasies about doing a comprehensive one. It would be the length of a novel, I think. An endless and yet incomplete litany of all the blood, privilege, history, and compromise on my hands.

I am training to be a Christian ethicist. That is a kind of theologian that Christians (used to?) like to have around to tell them what to do so that they can always feel like they are doing the right thing, or at least not doing the wrong thing. It should come as no surprise to Christians that Christian ethicists cannot do this; we cannot tell right from wrong. Surely that’s one of the most interesting things that Christianity claims about the world. As the prophets, the Psalms and Paul, not to mention Jesus and 50 Cent remind us, only God can judge that.

So one of the reasons I think Christians believe they can get by just fine without theology is how unsatisfyingly “vague” are the outputs of all these ethicists at work. All the church wants to know is: “Whether communion is just a meal or does something hocus-pocus-y happen at it?”, and “Can gay people get married and if they do, can they be on the flower rota?”, and most importantly, “Where can I go to stock up on my Autumn wardrobe that is both on fleek and ethical?” We’ve been busily toiling away in the TheoLab for three years now and we do not yet have straightforward answers to any of those questions.

What even is the point?

When I say I do Christian ethics, people think that I write footnotes that validate what they think is right, or wrong, or stupid. But what I actually do is description, not prescription. I don’t produce answers. Rather, at best, I refine questions. This is very valuable work, even if it isn’t valued much. It has a use-value, even if it (currently) has a low exchange-value. But the one thing it doesn’t do is make things simpler. It doesn’t tell us the one true way to proceed. At this point it is important to remember that if the Gospel is true, we are as lost in our virtue as in our vice (See: Jesus of Nazareth, Parable of the Two Lost Sons, Bethany: Dr. Luke Publications, 30AD.) so even if I was able to tell you what is the right thing to do with the Christmas bonus that is still sitting in your bank account, it would be only a little more valuable in the eternal stakes than some bozo accountant encouraging you to invest it in East Asian online gambling firms.

I have many Christian friends who are troubled by the ethics of the things they consume. They want to have a phone that wasn’t made by slave labour and eat meat that wasn’t bred in torture and go on holidays with carbon offsets for the plane ride. I do not intend to malign such efforts, but as the Tim Maly quotation at the top of this piece reminds us, there will be no end to the deliberations involved in buying things rightly, and one thing I am pretty sure is a dead-end is spending your life deliberating about your purchases. The slippy, trickiness of sin means that even our concern for others and for justice and creation-care folds in on itself and we end up navel-gazing about adding possessions more effectively to our store of treasures.

I encountered this problem last week when I heard about the Byron Burger scandals. Byron Burger opened earlier in the year in Aberdeen and it was a cheap(-ish) place to eat a good meal. Such small events can matter when you live in a small city like Aberdeen. The restaurant was directly across from the cinema and so we fairly often found ourselves coming out of Fastly Furiousing 12 starvacious and Byron ended up as our culinary destination.

But it turns out that Byron are cruel employers. They had some staff in London, some of whom had worked for the company for years, who had come to Britain on falsified documents. When the British authorities notified them of this, Byron agreed to organise a staff in-service day which was actually just an ambush. Their employees showed up to learn new ways to wash their hands or to refresh their manual handling skills and instead they were directed into a room where they were arrested and then deported.

Now as my non-EU friends in Aberdeen will tell you, British immigration services are surely among the most obnoxious in the world. And they can prosecute companies that employ “illegals” and fine them up to £20,000! But Byron don’t actually have to go so far as to collude with the political regime. When this news broke, there were protests outside Byron restaurants and people declared their commitment to boycott the company in the future. In accordance to the Newtonian laws of contemporary discourse, when news of that outrage broke, a counter-outrage erupted which declared that Byron were doing the right thing in getting rid of “illegals” and that the leftie-hippy posers who thought that they were fighting for the rights of the oppressed were actually systemically embroiled in denying their ordinary, decent, unemployed British neighbours a chance at a job.

So who is right and who is wrong?

This problem is like every other problem in that it isn’t tractable in that way. And my point is that Christians should know this and even revel in it.

Let us describe the problem. There is language of “illegals” that we would need to consider. Christians, informed by the monumental Biblical teaching on the Stranger would query how someone can be illegal. Acts are illegal, people aren’t. We are invested in using words rightly so we might want to put a big question mark over the rhetoric upon which the broader culture constructs this problem.

There is the question of sin on the personal level, which is the angle Christians are most likely to go to first. This question takes the form of “What about the people who forged documents – weren’t they lying?” This is true and lying is wrong. But it is funny how the obvious companion sentence never appears: “What about the managers who said that it was a training day – weren’t they lying?” Also, how unfortunate are Byron? This one little company ends up with as many as 200 staff with faked papers in just 15 of their restaurants! Those conniving immigrants are obviously running an extraordinarily sophisticated con-job to pull the wool over the eyes of the HR department so successfully! Surely their cunning would have been paired with loftier criminal aims than earning the right to sweat in kitchens?

But the question of counterfeit documents brings up the question of why people from Brasil would ever want to flip burgers in London. Pondering whether or not to avoid a burger joint quickly presses us up against the profound inequalities that mark the global economy. People risk deportation and engage in illegality to work exhausting hours for minimum wage in the back of a London eatery. More than that, they leave their families and friends and cultures behind them to do this half a world away. What sort of insane system have we constructed that means that mothers in Sao Paulo say goodbye for good to their sons just so I can have a quick bite after Minions IV: The Minions Rise?

But before we are entirely swallowed up in the cavernous abyss that is thinking hard about simple issues (a restaurant boycott), we remember that this entire scenario is created by laws that are written by British civil servants and legislators. Britain is a sort of democracy (albeit with a monarchy, no constitution, a hereditary parliament and various other “historical quirks”) so those laws are made by the people voted into power by British people. Britain needs foreigners (to flip their burgers and to negotiate their trade deals now that they are leaving the EU) but Britain sort of hates foreigners. Even the British (notionally) left wing party thinks immigrants need to be “controlled”. How do you convict Byron Burgers of wrong-doing when they are part of a culture that is arguably sick with fear? They needed to avoid the fines that could come their way! What could they do? (Potential better answer: Normalise the working arrangements of their loyal staff.)

Labour immigration mug

This is to say nothing of the issue of eating animal flesh at all. In a world enduring catastrophic climate-change, our continued consumption of beef needs to be scrutinised. It is not unlikely that our grandchildren will stand agog when they hear of how happily we munched on burgers while methane-fuelled climate change flooded Bangladesh. Telling them that we were too excited by George Clooney’s turn in “Prognosis: Dinosaur” to think about what we were doing is unlikely to win us much credit.

How do we navigate our way through this morass? What thread do we pick up that helps us make sense of a mess that we know is a mess, but for the life of us we cannot put into a neat order. Christian ethicists describe the problem and in so doing, when we are lucky (read: providentially appointed), we end up with a perspective that allows us to see the possibility of a better way of doing or saying the things we are trying to do or say.

The staff who were employed by Byron on dodgy permits paid tax. The documents got them in the door, but they also got them in the system. Byron Burger, however, it appears, did not pay their tax in the same way.

The people who own Byron own companies in Luxembourg, a tax haven. Those companies lend money to Byron and charge interest rates above the market level. Byron pays back those loans in a fashion that most effectively minimises their tax burden in the UK.

The people who were deported had no aid to call upon. The people who arranged their deportation have all the aid they need. The people who were deported did not avoid investing in the common fund. The people who arranged their deportation did avoid investing in the common fund.

The people who own Byron broke no laws and the people who were deported did. After describing the situation, that sentence is loaded with surprising ethical significance.

When we describe the situation, we very often find the situation is different from what we imagined. There are problems with the language of “illegals” and there are problems with counterfeiting documents and there are problems with global inequalities and there are problems with societal xenophobia and there are problems with meat. But if we pull on the thread of the entitlement that allows one group of people to dance around the moral responsibility of paying tax – in the light of the deportations and the protests and the counter-protests – we begin to spy a way to make sense of the mess.

The people who own Byron think that the money that straightforwardly would go to pay for schools and streetlights and immigration officers is better off in their pockets (albeit in trousers hung in a wardrobe in Luxembourg). The people who own Byron have money that has freedom to travel. They can dispatch it to a tax haven over there or an investment over here without reference to permits or visas or fear of immigration control. The human beings whose labour generated that money do not have that freedom. They do not live without fear.

I am boycotting Byron and wrote a letter to the manager of the local branch to explain to them why. I am not just boycotting them because of their humiliating treatment of their loyal staff. I am not just boycotting them because I am a migrant who feels solidarity with the plight of migrants less privileged than I am. I am boycotting them because if the practices of Byron Burger were the norm, this society would be royally screwed. I’ll pack sandwiches when I go see Leaving Las Vegas II: The Return to Las Vegas.

We can’t make ourselves ethically right. But we can do what we can to make things less wrong.

Your Correspondent, Just back from Bible Camp where he was learning to be more judgemental

Adventures

Lille and What it Means to be European

When I was a child I read books. I also played computer games and imagined in my back garden what it would be like to be a footballing hero. I did lots of things when I was a child but one of the things I started doing when I was about 14 was obsessively tracking down every word written by a particular author.

My brother gave me a book for Christmas called Microserfs and I devoured it and then read it again and then used the money from my little jobs to go buy the other books this chap – Douglas Coupland – had written. Whole sentences were burned into my memory as I explored ideas that were entirely new to me through these odd novels that often didn’t even seem to have plots. Can it be coincidence that the teenage-atheist-Me read Life After God and failed to understand it one lazy summer week spent being otherwise bored in my family home in remotest Co. Leitrim and then five years later found myself Christian?

I thought of this: I thought of how every day each of us experiences a few little moments that have just a bit more resonance than other moments—we hear a word that sticks in our mind—or maybe we have a small experience that pulls us out of ourselves, if only briefly—we share a hotel elevator with a bride in her veils, say, or a stranger gives us a piece of bread to feed to the mallard ducks in the lagoon; a small child starts a conversation with us in a Dairy Queen—or we have an episode like the one I had with the M&M cars back at the Husky station.

And if we were to collect these small moments in a notebook and save them over a period of months we would see certain trends emerge from our collection—certain voices would emerge that have been trying to speak through us. We would realize that we have been having another life altogether; one we didn’t even know was going on inside us. And maybe this other life is more important than the one we think of as being real—this clunky day-to-day world of furniture and noise and metal. So just maybe it is these small silent moments which are the true story-making events of our lives.

I was newly online and I found an archive of all the journalism that Coupland had produced earlier in his career and I saved those articles in a text file and copied them to a floppy disk and put it in a special box with the little tab set so that no one could accidentally copy over it. I often re-read the articles, especially the ones that were about things I knew nothing about, which was most of them.

One of them was about an architect called Rem Koolhaus (one of the sentences cast in stone in my mind: “pronounced, almost unbelievably, Cool House”) and the development that he was a part of in Lille, in northern France. A copy of this article persists online. It was brimming with the optimism which was the most distinctive aspect of Coupland’s writing that I imbibed. Against the pessimists, Coupland was always seeking to remind us of the good things going on around us. We no longer died of dental abscesses and we could fly half way around the world in an afternoon. Decades later, having drunk deeply from the wells of Reformed Christianity which is anti-optimistic because it is hopeful, I would feel a need to ask my teenaged self to consider that people still do die from sore teeth and that all those airplanes were actively destroying climate stability. But I was less of a killjoy back then and when Coupland wrote about this architectural development which is a taste of “the mythology of Europe, 1992”, I wanted to go to there.

Liz Lemon

Last month I went there.

Wife-unit and I took a train from Gare du Nord which covered the 200km effortlessly in an hour and a minute and deposited us in a city very different from Paris. It was also very different from the city that Coupland visited.

Because the mythology of Europe, 2016 has taken a dark turn.

You come out of the train station and rising up all around you are the Koolhaus buildings and their siblings. There is no sentimental allusion to the past. The people who have erected the buildings of Lille have, as Koolhaus put it, been “solicited for their power to physically articulate new visions.” A depressed post-industrial city has been metamorphosed into a logistical and finance hub. People work in offices high in the sky and travel around on bicycles that are shared communally. It is immediately invigorating.

Lille 1

Back in the 90s, when the Euro was an idea in the brightest minds of Frankfurt and Nigel Farage was a middlingly-wealthy wheezebag, Coupland wrote:

Euralille looks and feels as if a lunar research station has crash-landed onto a small, respectable French market town. This is meant as a compliment.

Lille Civil Service

Coupland lists 11 trajectories that mark both the mythology of the early age of the internet and the architecture expressed in Lille.

    Transnationalism and diversity
    Vectorization
    Asynchronicity
    Deregionalization
    The obsolescence of physical space
    Rupture
    Discontinuity
    Drive thru-ness and fluidity
    Centerless cities
    De-industrialization

Lille

This excited me immensely as an adolescent because it spoke to me of the wide open future that was ahead of us all. Distance would no longer divide and history would no longer cling to us and we would tame the forces that dragged us apart from each other. Coupland, waxing lyrical about the architecture, writing:

Walls become doors; doors and walls vanish altogether; geographically distant rooms and places are afforded in-your-face visual intimacy with one another. Top becomes bottom, and vice versa. Roads and railways penetrate and flow through structures.

Lille

This is how the buildings are and they are lovely. But it turns out this is not the end of what Lille means. Coupland didn’t realise it and I definitely didn’t realise it but what he was describing was not the optimistic future of a Europe at peace with itself and making peace with others. This is not what Europe turned out to mean. The revolution he was describing was not an opening of a level field of social harmony.

He was describing neoliberalism.

Koolhaus literally described the architect as propagandist and that didn’t cause the teenaged-me to pause. For what was he propagandizing? The answer, even if he didn’t know it, is in the interview:

“Chaos simply happens. You cannot aspire to chaos; you can only be an instrument of it.”

The secret anthem of neoliberalism is that one should never let a crisis go to waste. Chaos happens, it turns out, because it is engineered. A generation after the Euralille project, the city is marked by the same racial and philosophical tensions that fracture France. It is marked by the same economic inequality that threaten the coherency of the entire society. Its homeless and its poor struggle alongside the super-fast trains. Old people queue to squander their money in sad little casinos. The mythology of Europe in 2016 is concerned more about wealth won without effort than Coupland could have dared to fear.

The month before I visited, Great Britain decided to leave Europe, a prospect unimaginable in 1992. It is still connected materially by the EU-enabled Channel Tunnel, which terminates at Lille. The audacity that dared to build a train under the sea and the confidence that tried to revitalize an entire region through architecture has drained away. Euralille is still a lovely complex. But it is little more than a shopping centre. The pavillion’s pond is dark green from uncleaned water. The square is marked by artless sprayed tags, unremoved. The concrete struts supporting the structure are visibly uncared for. The police station is clearly under-funded and is dwarfed by the fast food joints that surround it.

BK Lille

I trekked to Lille to honour my younger self and his strange passions. I found the buildings as stunning as I hoped. But I found I had lost the optimism of my earlier years. Who would have thought that concepts like “rupture” and “discontinuity” and “transnationalism” and “centre-less cities” would have a downside?! You can dress up a shopping mall and call it urban regeneration and you can dress up neoliberal economics and call it European integration but eventually the chaos you are creating will begin to show. It’s what we do when the crisis breaks out that decides whether we are right to be optimistic or have any reason to be hopeful.

That’s not the mythology of Europe, 1992. It’s the imminent reality of Europe, 2016.

Your Correspondent, The human equivalent of petrol-station sushi

Dead Letter Office

A Note On Recent Posts

I wrote recently about living in France in the age of terror and yesterday I fled from the Louvre with a group of tourists and staff because a panic had erupted in the main lobby (under the pyramid). It was a false alarm, apparently caused by a faulty fire alarm and a dodgy escape door but for us who were quietly having a coffee and looking forward to another 4 hours wandering the rooms in awe, none of that was apparent in the moment. There was a kerfuffle slightly louder than what usually bubbles in any public space with thousands of people and lots of really bored kids. Then that kerfuffle grew in intensity. When I looked up from my book I saw people sprinting past the cafe, out towards the exits, while screaming. I looked the other way and saw the pupils dilate on the American couple who had been ahead of me in the queue, and decisively, the cold fear in the stiff postures of the staff manning the coffee bar. We all moved at the same time, calmly but decisively. I packed my phone away, utterly dominated by the idea that I needed to ring my wife when this was over so she wouldn’t worry. I hesitated and then packed my book as well, because it wasn’t my book. My supervisor had lent it to me and it was a signed copy and the last thing I needed on top of being killed by terrorists was to have lost someone’s book.

Anyway, there were no terrorists. There was much more confusion than the press reports present. The staff that we encountered did not know what was happening and were all scared shitless, to use a technical term. But what is true is that everyone I encountered was calm and decent and serious. Our little group of 6 picked up stragglers in the maze of huge corridors under the Louvre. People were apparently panicking up in the main museum but we were apart from that entirely, able to walk at a quick pace, but ensuring that no one was left behind. No one was crying. No one was having a heart attack. Maybe everyone suspected it was a false alarm because the adrenaline had been pumping for 60, 120, 240 seconds and still nothing bad had happened. We exited via a staff entrance. The army and the police hadn’t even arrived yet; we were that efficient in our escape. The waitresses were hanging around wondering if their jobs were under threat if it turned out to have been a hoax or a false alarm (the precarity of labour is, after all, the mundane terror that afflicts the European Union) and the Americans basically gave up and went back to their hotel and I was left with a woman from Central America who had told me along the corridor that she had heard alarms beeping erratically throughout the day but that when she saw the stampede it was such that she assumed something horrendous had happened. People reported on Twitter that they heard folk shouting “They’re shooting!” and I definitely interpreted the cacophonous cries as a response to human agency. Inside the Louvre, people were looking over their shoulders while sprinting, because they running from something. Out on the street, amidst the stylish people smoking cigarettes and beeping horns, it was growing clear that there as nothing to run from. Nothing horrendous had happened. Someone panicked, and some idiot probably thought it was funny to shout about terrorists and instead of his friends laughing, there was the cold sweat of hundreds of human beings erupted into evolutionary flight. The woman and I had an awkward moment where it would have been fitting to go for a drink or a coffee and talk about normal things until our heart-rates stabilised. But I was driven through the whole thing by the deep urge to tell my wife that everything was ok. So we shook hands and parted ways, beseeching the Lord to keep the other safe for the rest of their trip.

Existential fear was a surprise.

In the corridor, I stopped to introduce myself to the two people directly beside me; Sienna and Tom. I guess I figured that if the shit hit the fan, being able to call each other would help. But it was habit, kicking in. You introduce yourself to people. Even in the midst of the terror that this might be terror, basic, everyday normal human interactions go on.

I think that shouldn’t be a surprise.

*

The night before I had written a thing about plagiarism and then I went to sleep and I woke up because of the noise on my noisy street and I realised that the thing that I had written was actually an academic article without the footnotes. After the thesis is finished, I need to publish articles to keep the academic side of things alive, and so I had to take that thing about plagiarism down, ironically for fear of auto-plagiarism.

Auto-plagiarism. It’s a thing, allegedly.

Don’t fear terrorists, fear university administrators with Turnitin privileges.

Anyway, that is just to say that my decision to withdraw the piece had nothing to do with Mrs. Trump hilariously plagiarising Mrs. Obama. The embedding of the rickroll in the midst of it was a touch of genius.

*

This morning a bird pooed on me but it only hit my hand, so that was a small mercy. And this afternoon I mined out some thesis gold before having Korean food for the first time (in a restaurant at least, since a Korean friend in Aberdeen cooked dinner for me once but she included potatoes because she had heard that Irish people only eat spuds), in a lovely little local place with whimsical cartoons and toys on the wall. My classmate, from Seoul, had told me to order beef bibimbap if I ever went for Korean food and so I did. It was delicious. I was the only person in the restaurant and the old guy running the place advised me on how to eat all the different pieces he served me and sent me away with a Korean sweet (the only unappetising aspect of the meal). When I got home, there was new graffiti on the wall of my building that is utterly delightful.

The day I had

It is no exaggeration to say that the world seems dark and it appears to be getting darker still. But that is not the end of the story. It was very, very hot yesterday morning in Paris. Or at least it felt that way to me; I have lived on the edge of the North Sea for three years now, after all. I was walking to school through the Luxembourg Gardens, taking a new route, as is my wont. I came in through an unfamiliar gate and stumbled into an area where they were growing these magnificent plants. Hoses arched over the green stalks and automatic sprinklers were arcing water into the air, about 7 feet high. Mini rainbows sprung up across my field of vision. The morning joggers made a beeline to run through the vapour falling from on high, as did I. My shirt was drenched in short order and it was more refreshing than watermelon in the afternoon. I was reminded of this from Gilead:

That mention of Feuerbach and joy reminded me of something I saw early one morning a few years ago, as I was walking up to the church. There was a young couple strolling along half a block ahead of me. The sun had come up brilliantly after a heavy rain, and the trees were glistening and very wet. On some impulse, plain exuberance, I suppose, the fellow jumped up and caught hold of a branch, and a storm of luminous water came pouring down on the two of them, and they laughed and took off running, the girl weeping water off her hair and her dress as if she were a little bit disgusted, but she wasn’t. It was a beautiful thing to see, like something from a myth. I don’t know why I thought of that now, except perhaps because it is easy to believe in such moments that water was made primarily for blessing, and only secondarily for growing vegetables or doing the wash.

Ames goes on to add, “I wish I had paid more attention to it.”

When times are dark, that’s when you really have to pay attention. Let’s make sure we pay it for the things that matter.

Your Correspondent, He was right about the stars; each one is a setting sun

Ethics For Everyday, theology

Nice Frames

I am currently a scholarship student at Institut Catholique de Paris, which sounds very impressive, but it actually means that courtesy of the Scottish Catholic Church, I spend the morning failing to learn how to count in French and I spend my afternoons reading Karl Barth in the shade at the Luxembourg Gardens.

Life can be very hard.

I eat an inordinate amount of bread and cheese and am regularly scandalized by how expensive everything is, how hot it gets, and by how friendly the locals are. I stay in a tiny little one room flat so that it feels like I go to sleep on the footpath every night. I am in class with nuns from Iraq and priests from Korea and undergraduates from America and for some reason I set the alarms off in the library simply by walking through the front door.

I wasn’t in France when the tragic attack occurred in Nice on Bastille Day. And Aberdeen is only a few hundred kilometres further from Paris than Paris is from Nice, but everyone I have had small talk with from cab drivers to airplane companions to colleagues in Aberdeen have gently raised the topic of terrorism’s threat with me. No one is actually frightened for my safety but most people now seem to equate France with threat.

*

I live here on a little lane-way between two main avenues, close to the metro and bustling bistros and a parish church that cultivates its gardens so that it becomes a little ad-hoc park for the locals. There is splendid street art adorning the walls and directly across from my front door is an entrance to an art college where, for centuries, the weaving and printing of fabrics has been slowly perfected. The staff in the boulangerie already recognise me and get in the way of my learning by using me to practice their broken English, much closer to being all-together than my fragmentary French. Paris is a lovely place to live.

You could live here a long time and never realise that France was approaching its 15th year occupying Afghanistan. You could probably be a tourist here every year of your life and no one would ever mention to you that French military forces are currently engaged in Mali and the Central African Republic. You probably know that France is one of several Western powers who regularly bomb targets in Syria and Iraq from supersonic jets that can fire missiles into houses from 800 miles away. France is a dangerous enemy to have.

It would knock me off balance if a cab driver framed “France” and “threat” in these terms.

*

When my niece heard about the Nice attack her instinctive reaction was to lament the fact that the police shot the driver instead of arresting him. We shake our heads and with a tone of quiet gratitude for her naive innocence we feel a need to interpret those words away. “She doesn’t understand yet.”

She knows more about the attacks than I do because I don’t listen to radio and I don’t buy newspapers and I don’t watch the television and I curate Twitter so that it is mostly about weird jokes and I only have a Facebook account so that I can see what’s happening on the Aberdeen Divinity page and when the dust settles on horrible things, I go back and read about the things that seem important. I patched this approach to media together after reading how the great 20th Century Catholic mystic Thomas Merton only ever read newspapers that were weeks and weeks old. The news is mostly noise. The staleness of old news allows whatever truth remains to rise to the surface.

When I told one dear friend who was expressing concern that I only vaguely knew what had happened in Nice, she was slightly appalled. Did I not think that to follow the news was a moral responsibility? I told her I found the news confused me and when it doesn’t confuse me, it either enrages me or terrifies me. Increasingly, it does all three at the same time.

My niece knows very little really. She can tinkle away at a piano and she can do some Irish dancing and she is learning how to play camogie but she would be lost with a calculus problem and she doesn’t know how to navigate a job search and she’s never been dumped and she can’t cook and her understanding of the philosophical roots of parliamentary democracy is rudimentary at best. She doesn’t subscribe to the Economist and she listens to no podcasts. She understands, however, that every human life that is brought to an end is a tragedy. She hasn’t learned enough to discard that. Sure, she doesn’t even understand what she knows, but who does. Who knows the weight of such tragedy?

*

Tomorrow, after school, I’m going to the Louvre. I’ll pay particular attention, as I always do, to the frames. The frame determines the piece. The edge of the canvas is the limit that gives meaning to what is inside the painting. When we frame things in certain ways, it makes certain creations possible and rules others out. You can’t establish a triptych in the same setup as a landscape.

How we frame the world limits what we think is possible. In a very concrete sense (far from Richard Dawkins asshattery) if you believe in God there are horizons available to you that are impossible to the most sincere atheist. If you insist that the world is plenteous, and not scarce, opportunities present themselves that otherwise cannot be conceived. If you make space to lament the death of the terrorist and his victims, your frame has allowed you to grasp something about reality that is too often excluded. If you make the space away from the data and the noise of news you can very quickly begin to imagine the families in Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and the Sahel who were killed by stray French bombs or assaulted by exhausted, dehydrated French soldiers.

You can even begin to imagine the plight of the soldier who finds himself afraid and tired and stressed and somehow bashing a door in and punching a young mother in the face. You’ve never flown a jet, but you can empathise with the pilot who sweats at night considering whether that missile did in fact go astray.

And once you have stood in those shoes, it will be a short and inevitable walk to consider the people who decide to kill families celebrating Bastille Day or murder music fans while they listen to rock music. Remember, to imagine those reasons and inhabit them temporarily is not the same thing as condoning them or licensing them or validating them. It just means that ISIS are indeed your neighbours, in ways that will both terrify and console you.

You can see yourself in them and still love Paris and still mourn with France and still cry when you see the footage of the grieving families but you will remember all the grieving families that never get shown on your television and never get prayed for in your church and never get photographed for the front pages of your newspapers and like a little child you will stand baffled at how things could go so far that they couldn’t somehow talk it out.

If you practice this strange habit of framing things wide, you’ll soon fear more how Rupert Murdoch can make you scared than you will fear for friends living in France. This won’t stop terrorism or even stop the war on terrorism. It may not even dent the profits of Rupert Murdoch. But this patient business of holding complicated truths in tension will generate communities where bakers welcome Irishmen and landlords leave up beautiful graffiti and people from all over the world can live on the same street and be neighbours.

Your Correspondent, Puts anti-freeze in the wine

Dead Letter Office

Change of Time for Sunday Event

I need to announce an update on my upcoming event about the theology of wealth.

As many of you know, on Wednesday evening in Lille, a city in northern France, a Wicklow man known as Wessi placed the most delicious pass in the history of football on to the rushing head of St. Robert Brady. The redirected ball flew past the highly regarded Italian goalkeeper Sirigu and into the net. By the end of the game, the Italians had not been able to respond and the Boys in Green were victorious.

Following the maze-like logic of soccer competitions, as the worst of all the best of the losers, Ireland thus qualified for the next round of the European Championships. We play the hosts, France, on Sunday, with battle commencing at 2pm GMT.

That would have been around the time I had hoped to have y’all in stitches as I answered your probing and smart questions about my theology of wealth with aplomb. Instead, the wise people in the church that are hosting the event had decided to move the event forward to 12.15pm and that means if you want to come, you can both hear my half-baked ideas about praying as a form of revolution and watch footage of Roy Keane sitting angrily on the sidelines as Irish players act as if the ball is a time-bomb that they don’t want to touch.

I am keenly aware that the god known sometimes as Juno but in this case Britannia – the power of ethnic identity – has this morning gone into battle with the god known as Mammon. The newspapers call this reality #brexit. It will have dramatic short and long term ramifications for the economies of the island of Ireland. I hope you will join me in praying for Britain this morning. That nation has made a catastrophically dangerous decision and the pain will be felt most keenly by the young and the unemployed, the disabled and the alien. I never thought I would be sorry to see David Cameron go. The world is an odd and baffling place. But it seems to me that a deep theological interrogation of how wealth can blind us to the reality of things is as important as ever.

Come and help me find a way to have that conversation.

Your Correspondent, Busy like a currency trader

Dead Letter Office

Announcement: Public event based around my research

In Maynooth on Sunday June 26 at 1pm I will be doing something I’ve never done before: trying to explain the last three years of reading and thinking and writing in a way that doesn’t require footnotes.

Basically, I have been invited by the church I used to work for, the Presbyterian Church in Maynooth, to give an introduction to the theology of wealth. I will be road-testing a theory I have about how to explain my academic research in ways that are accessible and meaningful and helpful. Invariably, it will be a horrendous mess and the people who take the time to attend will remember it only for comedic value.

Without giving the game away, I think that the only hope that wealthy western Christians have is prayer.

Please feel free to come along; I’d love to see you and I would really appreciate your feedback. The location details are here.

Now, I am going to go meet Ben Folds.

Your Correspondent, Actually is going to meet Ben Folds right now.

Dead Letter Office

To Explain My Absence

I have not been around here very much but that is only because I have been furiously furrowing my brow in an effort to figure out how to talk about Jesus and parables, Mammon and Ireland, greed and grace, in a way that passes a PhD viva. I am making progress but it means I might not make anything for this place for a while. I am reminded of these wise words from Karl Barth:

Is it not, perhaps, a weakness of Protestantism that we speak too much, too quickly (without proper punctuation), and without due and proper reflection? Might not a reasonable asceticism in this regard be a valuable asset even in our Christians and theological circles? Is it not indispensable to a true speaking?

– (CD IV.2, 16)

So consider my absence an attempt to shut up long enough to maybe one day speak truly.

Your Correspondent, Gonna make like a tree, and get outta here.