Painting Fakes

Since last Sunday’s sermon I’ve been thinking about the letter to the Laodiceans. My wife grew up among the Brethren and we spent six years when we were first married going to a Brethren assembly. Most of them read the seven letters of Revelation as seven eras of the church, with Laodicea as our present era, the final one before Christ’s return. I don’t go for this entire prophetic system – it’s way too forced – but it’s an interesting insight into our current age. We are lukewarm, neither one thing nor another. I think the current debate about climate change is a great example of how this happens. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change represents the majority opinion amongst climate scientists, that global warming is happening and is caused by human-generated pollution. Governments try to act on this understanding, but there are plenty of dissenting voices, saying there is no global warming, or it's caused by something else, or it's way worse than the scientist...

In the 2002 movie adaptation of HG Wells’ The Time Machine (which bears only passing resemblance to the book), its chief character is driven to complete the invention of his time machine by the murder of his fiancé. Traveling back in time, he repeatedly attempts to prevent the murder, only for her to die in some other way. In despair, he travels far into the future and meets someone of highly advanced intellect who explains that since the murder triggered the invention of the time machine, it can only exist in a time stream where the woman dies. Ever since Wells’ novella, time travel has been a staple of science fiction. Usually, as with Wells, the ability to travel through time represents a technological triumph, although ultimately a mixed blessing as various versions of the paradox perplex or endanger the participants. The Time Traveler’s Wife , both the novel by Audrey Niffenegger and the recent film adaptation starring Eric Bana and Rachel McAdams, makes it a disability. ...

Apropos of pretty much nothing, I'm sitting here listening to Tom Waits CD "Alice". It has this great song called Poor Edward , the lyrics of which go like this. Did you hear the news about Edward? On the back of his head He had another Face Was it a woman's face Or a young girl They said to remove it would kill him So poor Edward was doomed The Face could laugh and cry It was his Devil twin And at night she spoke to him Of things heard only in Hell They were impossible to separate Chained together for life Finally the bell tolled his doom He took a suite of rooms And hung himself and her From the balcony irons Some still believe he was freed from her But I knew her too well I say she drove him to suicide And took Poor Edward to Hell. Very spooky! And fascinating. The two sided personality, good and evil co-existing in the one person. More fascinating - Mr Waits (or the song's narrator) sets you up to think that the sonmg is about Edward, but then at the end he...

I’ve recently heard a couple of sermons based on passages in the New Testament talking about persecution. The most recent was just this Sunday, based on Revelation 2:8-11 – the letter to “the angel of the church in Smyrna”. The Lord, speaking through John, says, “Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the Devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life.” Unlike most of the book of Revelation, the meaning here is unambiguous. They will suffer a severe official persecution, and they should stand firm (ie not renounce their faith) even on pain of death. The same message is repeated in other New Testament passages. Preachers these days struggle to make these passages relevant to their hearers, and with good reason. In Western societies Christians haven’t experienced this kind of persecution for a long time (although they do in other so...

On the Hill of Tara all four points Stretch to far horizons. The sheep are lords of all they survey, And the mounds and gullies sing of former glories. The tourists dance around the phallus Singing of glories to come. At Newgrange the inscrutible dead Sleep the sleep of millennia, Protecting the secrets of their strange carvings. After so much labour, Carting stones so many miles, Rolled on makeshift logs Lifted labouriously into place So the sleepers within can catch the fleeting sun To light their eternal darkness. In every town there is a reminder Of the days long gone And of the days hardly gone - The fight with the English, The bombings, the murders, The Protestant churches firmly locked. Things grow and change, The golden arches beside the Boyne, The half built houses on every street The "yes" and "no" to Europe at every junction, The English papers, the European soccer, The Chinese students walking the streets. Time marches, the ...

I thought you might enjoy some extracts from the journal I've been keeping on my travels. The monks chant, their drone puctuated by cymbals, quickened by the building, fading pounding of the drum. Behind their striking purple, their gaudy green and yellow, worshippers bow in street clothes, shoes in plastic shopping bags, some kneeling, telling over beads, holding out bags and packages for the mysterious blessing of the fire. Above, the fierce god in his blue war paint scowls at his worshippers, his blue attendants matching his ferocity, brandishing sword and chain, fiery halo and pointed fangs. Yet around the walls his worshippers remain calm, unafraid, seated in their socks slippers stowed carefully beneath the sepia sky. Outside, the fierce sun shocks us out of winter. The carp beg beneath the bridge. The blossoms defy stereotype. The old man smiles a greeting, or a comment, or perhaps asks a question I can never answer. Later, on the bus, the yo...

Speaking of socially tinged science fiction, I picked up another book at the same Lifeline sale. It’s called Out of the Silence be Erle Cox . It was published in 1925, and what I said about the advance of science fiction writing since 1977 goes double. It’s a clumsy book, but fascinating. After a very obviously SF prologue, the story proper starts like something from Miles Franklin or Frank Dalby Davison. A young vineyard owner, Alan Dundas, works on digging his dam, is visited by his friend from town, and gets lined up for a romance with a nice local girl. The difference, however, is that he is prevented from getting very far with the dam because a huge solid construction is in his way just beneath the surface. Intrigued, he digs on and finds the door. There follows a rather laboured rewriting of Sleeping Beauty as he is forced to overcome various life-threatening traps on his way to the centre of the structure, where he finds an extraordinarily beautiful woman in suspended ani...