I am not an architect nor skilled in the vernacular of the profession, I am though a user of buildings and have a reasonable sense of what I like and don’t like, though often it is a gut or instinctive reaction rather than one I can necessarily rationalise.

I am also a community worker who has spent decades at work in conflicted communities which are shaped by the violent and brutal architecture of a securitised Belfast. Communities who are surveilled at every opportunity and have learned to live with a sense of being mistrusted. Communities which learn through architecture where they are welcome and where they are not. Communities which understand in a visceral way the political fault lines that run beneath all of Northern Irish society but which erupt with violent force in the interface areas, which therefore need to be policed.

These communities can be insular and self-referential. They are often not porous in the sense that healthier communities may be, by which I mean people move freely in and out and strangers are welcome to enter.

All of this came to mind standing outside the Mac. If it is genuinely a public building to house the creative arts then why is it so foreboding?

Sandwiched between Exchange Street, Exchange Street West and St Anne’s Square the building is imagined as a collision of two different structures within which are housed the public spaces. Small wonder then that the interface of these buildings is marshalled by a tolkienesque black basalt elevation and a watchtower, complete with unscalable wall, for all the world echoing the security towers that were a common feature of the city scape during our darker past.

It all makes for a forbidding entrance from St Anne’s Square. It suggests we’re watching you, we’re not sure you’re one of us, and rather than us inviting you in for a cup of tea and a chat you need to establish your credentials before you cross our doors.

Even the sign over the door suggests something restricted. The name of the building appears partially submerged, as if unwilling to fully reveal itself to the onlooker or perhaps camouflaging itself in case it is found out by undesirables.

The unwelcoming impression is strengthened on the alternative entrance from Exchange Street West which takes the inquisitive, brave and persistent art lover to a blind wall, then sharp left before entering a lacuna at an oblique angle.

Maybe I’m being unfair and perhaps it was the day itself, a wet and cold January day, with the promise of snow in the forecast. The black facade, the black oak, the dark leather-covered hand rails, the matt covered steel bars in the stairwells like a prison cage, all combined to create an impression at once oppressive but also secretive.

Do they really want me here? This does not suggest to me a building that goes out of its way to welcome me. It requires deliberate intent, and not a little courage, to enter unbidden.

Once inside, round the sharply edged corners of exposed concrete there are cubby holes and rendezvous points which cry out for discreet meetings. The great internal void, one whole wall of which is solid red brick and whose glazing opens to the Cathedral, enhances the ecclesiastical feel of the area. Booths and covered seating, like dark confessionals,  lend a solemnity to the whole scene and encourage the visitor to hide away and nurse a coffee or a bottle of wine from the bar area. This area I actually liked and could enjoy whiling the time away there – if I could find my way in.

Perhaps I’m being unfair. Perhaps I could view the strange black tower with it’s opaque light box at the top as a lighthouse, a beacon of creativity that shines it’s welcoming light over the city, drawing art lovers to its sanctuary. That’s fairer perhaps, and a legitimate narrative. Given Belfast’s recent history though it is not a narrative that readily suggests itself unless one’s life experience of the city has been relatively untouched by the Troubles.

And therein lies the problem for me. I’ve spent much of my working life in communities where so-called high cultural art is almost non-existent. Where the pursuit of beauty is a luxury that few can afford since most of the rest of life is dedicated to mere survival or just getting by. Where people have developed an instinct to know where they are welcome and where they’re not. And they have often learned that they are not welcome in places owned by ‘the other lot’ and in places owned by those who understand the language of the arts.

Without a doubt the MAC is a dramatic building, and there’s many elements of it I like, the large exhibition spaces, the invitation to explore, the retro display cabinets, but I find that tower so out of place in Belfast with our history. And maybe at the end, bizarrely in 21st Century Belfast, the language of the Mac architecture is classist.

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Perhaps a bit late, but here are some personal comments on the current flag protests here in NI.
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At the press conference I stood behind those who had put the effort in to drafting a statement and securing agreement calling for the end of the violence. The community solidarity was empowering, comforting and allowed us a moment of hope that this violent period could be brought to an end.

But I was also painfully aware of some other things. All those at the table, and most standing behind were middle aged men. We’ve been around a long time. And this current period of unrest is unlike any we have endured before. It’s facile to say it, but this may be  Belfast’s version of the Arab Spring, not necessarily in terms of what is demanded perhaps, nor in the scale of support or the threat, but in how it is organised.

This is Northern Ireland’s first social network protest. And it matters.

It matters because what may be emerging is a new generation of leaders for Unionism and Loyalism. Watching the Nolan Show on TV the other week I couldn’t help but notice that Jeffrey Donaldson’s offering looked old and tired. For want of very little competition on the night, Jamie Bryson looked composed, confident, articulate and unafraid to press Gerry Kelly of Sinn Fein. And he spoke, and speaks, making frequent reference to young Loyalists and Unionists. The various facebook pages and twitter feeds supporting the protests proclaim that ‘We will not be the generation of Loyalists to fail Ulster’. A not so subtle rebuke to the current leadership, and no doubt to those who issued the call for an end to violence.

So we issue leaflets. Hold press conferences. Visit TV and radio studios. The old reliable ways. And meanwhile social networks hum with the activity of spontaneous organisation and encouragement.

Not only that, even as we could proclaim the support of the three Loyalist groupings, facebook and twitter were not slow to criticise these same organisations for selling out – the worst insult possible for Unionists and Loyalists. And many of these criticisms were made accompanied by the photos and real names of the complainer. These were not anonymous.

Foolishly and arrogantly, I felt that Conall McDevitt of the SDLP criticised Bryson on that same Nolan Show. Telling him that if he thought he would create a political career out of these protests he was wrong. The meaning was the old one – leave the politics to us professionals. Now I have no idea whether Jamie Bryson will have a future in politics, but I tell you what, neither does McDevitt. And Irish history is full of those who found a political vocation out of protest. And maybe one of the reasons why the DUP have been slow to criticise is because they know that street protest is exactly how they got their start.

This is a difficult time. It has the feel of a changing of the guard and what emerges will be different in its form and leadership. It’s not just a generational thing though, the contrast between those who grasp the power of social media as an instinct, and those who are trying to catch up. But it is also about the shifting of ground, between those who lived through the Troubles and shaped the following peace, but then failed to explain effectively how it all worked, because to do so meant sacrificing their powerbase. That base is now being taken from them. Politicians and community workers both.

Maybe the theorists can describe this in terms of phases and stages but for those engaged it is all a bit disconcerting. Yesterday, we knew what to do, who to talk to, and who the bad guys were. In this new dispensation the old certainties are not so certain any more. It does seem that, this time, our efforts have yielded some positive results. The violence appears to have ended, which will be a relief to communities but also to us. We’ve had another hurrah, occupied column inches and seen our names and faces in the international media. But look how long this took! Something like this was never so extended before.

The times they are a-changing, and we’re getting old.

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OK, so many will never have heard of her, and those that have may struggle with her voice and her accent, but in ‘Sing the Delta’ Iris DeMent has produced a glorious album that well repays the time to get familiar with it. The songs are a mix of gospel, folk and country. Her self-taught piano playing is straight from church, her extraordinary voice, sounding sometimes like that of an innocent child and then all tired and bluesy, soars and swoops and then rests alongside the melodies and draws from you the time required to get familiar with the album.

It’s an album for grown-ups, full of beautiful songs of family, and place and wistful longing. Songs of memory and faith and bereavement. And it’s her first album of new material in 16 years. The incredible thing about all her albums is that at first her accent is almost incomprehensible, but if you stick with it and repeat the listening, snatches of lyrics make their way through and are all the more beautiful for having taken their time to unfold.

Her family features strongly and the faith they all grew up in. Indeed if you ever attended a Mission Hall you will recognise the piano rolls and runs of the type that accompanied the hymn-singing of my teenage years. I can see Mrs Boles, playing by ear, and the Dillon brothers, faces red with effort, and arms counting time for the congregation until they point to the heavens as they and we strain to reach the heavenly conclusion of something from Sankey.

There is so much to recommend on this album. In ‘If That Ain’t Love’ she juxtaposes beautifully a memory of her dad praying for her in a shed with hearing Aretha Franklin singing Precious Lord on her car radio and being overcome with the beauty. On ‘Mama Was Always Tellin’ Her Truth’ she writes of how when it came to her mother and her emotions there ‘wasn’t no backburner on the stove’

Faith lost and maybe found is a consistent theme. In ‘The Kingdom Has Already Come’ she sings

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Stopped in the church to pray
It was the middle of the day
And I don’t even know if I believe in God.
But I laid my soul on the table
And I left that place believing I was able
To open the curtains
My fears had drawn

This is followed by ‘The Night I Learned How Not to Pray’ narrating a family story told her by a friend in which the youngest boy in the family dies in an accident. And when God doesn’t answer prayers the narrator loses faith and can’t speak of the event for 41 years. The melody and instrumentation of the song belie the heavy content of the song.

But for me the most wonderful thing about this collection of songs is its affirmation of life and relationship and place and this world, in contrast to a faith and religious tradition which encourages escape. The most uplifting song on the album is ‘There’s A Whole Lotta Heaven’ where DeMent sings,

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I’ve been saved by the love of people living right here,
And there’s a whole of heaven shining in this river of tears…
You can take the streets of gold if you really want them
and the mansions so dear
but I’ll take the whole lot of heaven that’s shining in this river of tears.

Brilliant.

As a friend said, ‘the best worship album of the year’. I think it may very well be the best. Full stop.

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What I had prepared to say on Sunday morning in Skainos, if time hadn’t been so pressing.
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Welcome home.

When the children of Israel crossed over the Jordan, each tribe was instructed to take from the middle of the river bed, a stone. I like to imagine some choose enormous rocks, with which they struggled across the river. Some chose playfully because the stone reminded them of something. Some carelessly, heedlessly, slipping the stone into their pocket more intent on getting across than heeding the instruction. Some choose a stone for prominence, some choose to be hidden away. Some choose for shape, some for colour, some for function. And when they made it to the other side some craftworkers took the stones, shaped them a little perhaps and built something of those rough rocks.

When the people asked why this was done, they were told by Joshua that these stones were for the future, as an encouragement to their children who would later ask ‘What do these stones mean?’ (Jos 4:6,7).  The stones were chosen therefore and placed deliberately so that when they were asked what do these stones mean, there was a compelling story to tell. Which was a story of rescue.

In this way their architecture and the things they built, played a role in the spiritual formation of each succeeding generation.

Since 2005 when the Skainos team started full time on the development of this project it was an aspiration to build something which was more than just functional but which would serve a similar role to Joshua’s pile of stones.

Since 2005 I have had the immense pleasure and privilege of working with some very talented people, architects, artists, craft workers, contractors to put flesh on a dream, to incarnate something special here on the Newtownards Road that would serve this and future generations in a meaningful fashion. In a small way I hope that we have been faithful to the wisdom of Joshua all those years ago who knew instinctively that just as we invest significance in our buildings through our use of them so too do our buildings shape and form us in meaningful ways.

And just as those stones from the Jordan were invested with important memories and stories, so too there are there stories in this beautiful sanctuary. And I asked Gary to allow me this morning just to hint at some of the stories built into this room so that in the future when people ask ‘what do these stones mean?’ or ‘why did you build it like this?’ we have a story to tell.

One of Farrans employees said on Thursday evening that he would love to come to this church, and when asked why he said, because in the boring parts of the service there are plenty of things to count!

And he’s right.

The Skainos metaphor of the tent, reflected in our logo has continued to be the guiding story for the development. From our tent poles in the gathering space, to the beauty of our glass installation ‘Shelter Within’, we want to remember the story of incarnation. As John’s Gospel says, the word was made flesh and pitched a tent in our midst.

This beautiful sweep of timber in our ceiling remembers the inside of a tent canvas and marks this place as a tent of meeting where we come to meet under the hovering presence of God. Some of you will already have noticed over the last few days that this feature is replicated in the cafe. I like to think of this as a reminder to us of the presence of God in the place of worship and in the place of mission.

This sheltering curve is repeated in our prayer space, in our reception area, in the Prayer Chapel upstairs, and outside each of the meeting rooms in the building and even in the EBM office area. Everywhere, the sheltering presence of God.

Some of you in this room know the story of our doors created for us by Stephen Mackey and recalling the history of this congregation since 1826. I know they do because I told them. Ask someone, what do they mean, and then tell the story on.

Or maybe the story of these oak beams, why they are made the way they are? Ask, tell.

As those who lead the service stand here at the front of the congregation, they can look out through the glass of the Gathering Space and see the great cranes of Harland & Wolfe shipyard, so iconic for all of Belfast. They are a solid reminder of the industrial heritage of East Belfast. And throughout this room are hints and reminders of that history and tradition.

And so the art glass installation of Andrea Spencer and Scott Benefield on the eastern elevation of the auditorium, reminds us of the twisted fibres of the mighty rope works in this part of the city. The glass is deliberately only partially obscuring Hosford, our hostel for people who are homeless.

Even in this communion table and lectern, conceived and designed by John McLaughlin. At the beginning as we talked, John began to describe a communion table like a carpenter’s work bench. Big honest joints and simple design, the angles of whose legs recall the entrance doors of the church and the angles of the great yellow cranes. An exact scale replica of this table can be found in the Prayer Chapel. And now, God willing, year after year, communion will be served from the carpenter’s table, reminding us of his hands and his careful eye for detail.

And likewise this lectern, again angles which echo the cranes. Resting on three legs, reminding us of the trinity, and so wonderfully, and fortuitously producing for us a cross. Can you see it?

And behind me Chuck and Peg Hoffman’s paintings, inspired by readings in Genesis and Revelation. Originally conceived for the prayer chapel, but when they were laid out to view for the first time we agreed instantly these were for the sanctuary not the Chapel and here they are, telling us the story of the scriptures from beginning to end with the story of the cross so prominent

Everywhere you look there are things to count. Stories to tell.

There is so much more to this room and the rest of the development which we’ll fill you in on as we make our home here. We owe a great debt of gratitude to Nial O’Neill and Barbara Baird our architects who have worked with us for so long. And to all our engineers and designers, and to Farrans, represented this morning by Robert McAllister and their subcontractors who have built such a beautiful building.  But it’s important to stress that each story that can be told by artists and craftspeople and architects and contractors is just a beginning.

We are now letting go of this piece of work and handing it over to you. It is now your opportunity, and your responsibility to start filling out these stories, and tell more and new ones to bring life and vitality to this building. So that just as you fill this room with worship and prayer and make it sacred space, so too will this space begin to shape your faith and your walk with Jesus.

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“Once again men and women of ripe old age will sit in the streets of Jerusalem, each with a cane in hand because of his age. The city streets will be filled with boys and girls playing there” (Zech 8:4,5)

The second time I did this exercise was with a group of Presbyterian people who were concerned about mission in the business district of Belfast. It was a long and interesting night. But towards the end one older minister raised an intensely practical issue that at first, before we saw where he was heading, made for some momentary embarrassment.

He talked about getting old and how he finds it difficult at his age now to walk for any distance without planning his route. The reason, he confessed, is because his bladder is not what it once was, so he needs to have ready access to public toilets, or at least to know which cafes will allow non-customers use the facilities. Since, he observed, Belfast city centre is now devoid of public toilets, it effectively means he is excluded from the city, as indeed is anyone who suffers the same affliction.

An aspect of shared space that we have ignored obviously.

Once the group saw the seriousness of what this brave man was saying it opened all sorts of possibilities, not the least of which was the intriguing idea that in some cases it would be a valid kingdom act for the Church to open public toilets in the city. This would serve to open the city to its older residents and integrate them into the diversity of its life.

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“say you are my sister, so that I will be treated well for your sake and my life will be spared because of you.”
Gen 12:13

Some more reflections on events in Genesis 12, remember the story? The great Patriarch flees down to Egypt because of famine and effectively gives his wife to the Pharoah in order to save his own life. After Pharoah’s household is struck down with some mystery disease (one midrash claims it was some form of disease, perhaps an std, which made sex difficult, but maybe this stems more from a desire to absolve Abraham and spare Sarai any more humiliation) he finds out about Abraham’s deception and sends him and his wife on his way. Incidentally, Abraham leaves even richer than he arrived – profiting from his deception.

There’s a couple more very uncomfortable things in this passage. Firstly the latter comment above. Abraham profits from his deception, leaving Egypt with far more than he arrived with. In fact, he displays an uncanny ability to accumulate stuff, even though he never did actually possess any of the land he was promised. After having gone down into Egypt (12:10), he now comes up out of Egypt with a fortune (12:20-13:2). Of course this is pointing forward to the experience of his descendents who do precisely the same, and leave the presence of the Pharoah effectively being paid to go (Exo 12:33-36). Should we not feel a little uncomfortable though?

Even more so when we consider the fact that notwithstanding Pharoah’s arrogant acquisitiveness in taking Abraham’s wife (regardless of the fact that he thought she was his sister) that the text says that the Lord afflicted Pharoah and his household with serious diseases (12:17). Isn’t this just a little unfair? It was Abraham’s deceit after all.

I think we should acknowledge the fact that the text says it and doesn’t hide the complexity of it. The fact is that the consequences of the selfish, sinful acts of an individual can rarely be confined to that individual alone. I mention elsewhere in a discussion about Noah that the text points out that because the earth was filled with the violence of human beings God was going to destroy ‘both them and the earth with them’ (6:13). It wasn’t possible to limit the consequences just to the perpetrators, and so the earth suffered too – and boy do we know all about that in our day.

Likewise here, Abraham acts violently towards his wife, and she suffers, and the Pharoah and his household suffers. Our discomfort is only heightened by the fact that Abraham prospers. But such is the way of the world and it doesn’t do to pretend it is otherwise. It is at this point that Christians are pointed to the eschatological truth of an ultimate judgment, otherwise the universe is fundamentally unjust.

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Thanks to my breakfast conversation partners

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In a week when we remembered the anniversary of Katrina with another hurricane slamming into New Orleans, and we were reminded of the paucity of leadership among our politicians, and children are returning to school, I came across this reflection. It was broadcast on BBC Radio Ulster’s Good Morning Ulster programme as a thought for the day.
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Many years ago I remember a bunch of student accountants of my acquaintance doing a skit at a concert which involved miming to a then current song by the band Talking Heads. The song in question was ‘we’re on the road to nowhere’ which involved a degree of self-mockery that, in my experience, is not common among accountants. The fact that some of them have since gone on to manage multi-national companies and are owning yachts and vineyards and I am where I am prompts the question about who had the last laugh.

The other thing I remember about Talking Heads is the enormous suit David Byrne the lead singer used to wear. It was several sizes too big for him and designed to mess about with your perception, making his head look really small in the enormous clothing.

I think the idea of a little man in a big suit is what has stuck with me all these years.

What exactly brought it to mind this week, I’m not sure. But being too small for the coat you are forced to wear is surely a deeply uncomfortable thing. Think of the poor child going to big school on the first day, drowning in apprehension and an oversized blazer.

The world is full of little men in big suits. Little women too. Some of them have been forced into that position. I think of Michael D Brown, who worked for the International Arabian Horse Association and was promoted by his friend George Bush to be the Head of the US Federal Emergency Management Agency. It was all fine until hurricane katrina struck and he was revealed as a little man in big suit, with the famous plea to President Bush – can I quit now? It’s hard not to have sympathy.

Others, however, greedily reach beyond themselves to pull on clothes that were never designed for their frame. Still others sleepily stumble into the wrong outfit entirely and wake to find that the clothes on their back are not theirs at all.

Dr Laurence J Peter wrote about what became known as the Peter Principle, which states that in a hierarchical structure, people tend to be promoted to the level of their incompetence. Or, in his more colourful phrase, the cream rises until it sours.

Another expert observer of humanity once asked whether there was any profit in gaining the whole world but losing one’s soul.

Essential to fighting the Peter Principle is a realistic assessment of one’s own strengths and weaknesses, and where such awareness is absent, the availability of good counsel from wise friends prepared to speak the truth.

To be in possession of both, is better than any number of bespoke suits from saville row.

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Dear Mr Gregory Campbell re: the Republican parades in Dungiven.

I heard you interviewed today and I kind of understand. You complained that the Parades Commission had not acted on alleged disrespect shown by a Republican band to a Protestant Church in Dungiven. I even saw the YouTube video of the incident.

You may very well be right and the Commission got that wrong, but here’s the thing, can you also complain if the Parades Commission do take action against a Loyalist band for disrespecting a Catholic church? So which decision do you really think they got wrong? Or if the failure to be consistent is your problem, where would you draw the standard against which consistency could be measured? The Dungiven model? or the St Patrick’s model?

Or are you saying that both cultures should be free to disrespect the other? That living in a society of mutual disrespect and intolerance is preferable to the alternative?

And since the Orders profess to be a Christian faith based organisation. My son wore one of those WWJD bracelets for a while. It’s a cliche I know, but think about it, are you seriously suggesting Jesus would have behaved the way the Parade did on Saturday?

Some things that occur to me.

Respect, for an individual or a culture, cannot be legislated or demanded. Not by any politician, not by any St Andrew’s Agreement, or any Commission. St Paul said that the Law kills but the Spirit gives life.

Respect has to be earned.

But something which I think is even more profound comes from the mouth of Jesus himself, and again, since the Orders profess to be a Christian movement, I would love to hear how they understand his words here in the context of the events last weekend.

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Jesus said, ‘Do to others as you would have them do to you’. You can check it yourself in Luke 6:31.

Notice the verb at the beginning of the sentence. It suggests that the onus rests with you and me, and anyone who professes to follow Jesus. NOT the ‘others’. Do I want to be treated with respect by you? Then I must begin by acting towards you in the way I want you to act towards me. Do you want respect from an opposing community? Respect them first? Set the standard. If that’s not what that verse means, then enlighten me.

The bizarre thing is, I think Jesus words are both a command to us, and they are also a description of reality. When Loyalism disrespects Catholic culture the way they did on Saturday, and remember one of your colleagues described the behaviour as ‘inevitable’, then no one should be surprised if the exact same disrespect is reciprocated.

Treating others the way you want to be treated is an act of faith, particularly so in a conflicted society like ours. It is faith to believe profound change is possible. It is faith to believe that acting in the grace-full way transforms situations, either by wooing change from our adversary, or shaming them into change. Either way, the responsibility rests with you, or me, to model the new behaviours, rather than waiting for others to change first.

Dare to believe in the possibility of resurrection. Otherwise you’ll be burying your culture. Possibly alongside your enemy’s. Or maybe you’d prefer that.

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“say you are my sister, so that I will be treated well for your sake and my life will be spared because of you.”
Gen 12:13

Some more on the shadow stories of Abraham (http://www.crookedshore.com/the-shadow-stories-of-abraham/)

This is quite an extraordinary event. The great Patriarch flees down to Egypt because of famine and effectively gives his wife to the Pharoah in order to save his own life. After Pharoah’s household is struck down with some mystery disease (one midrash claims it was some form of disease, perhaps an std, which made sex difficult, but maybe this stems more from a desire to absolve Abraham and spare Sarai any more humiliation) he finds out about Abraham’s deception and sends him and his wife on his way. Incidentally, Abraham leaves even richer than he arrived – profiting from his deception.

First thing worth noting. If Abraham is accurate in v12, and it seems that he is, Pharoah had an international reputation for tyranny. He had the power to simply take anything he desired, not just things, but people as well. And so when he learns of Sarai’s beauty, he simply takes her. No questions asked. Not even by Abraham, he simply acquiesces with the voice of tyranny. I wonder how was Abraham’s conscience when he laid his head on the pillow at night, knowing what he had done to his wife, and what was happening to her in Pharaoh’s harem.

What makes this matter worse is that when Pharoah discovers the deception, even the world-renowned tyrant is appalled by Abraham’s actions, and it takes a tyrant to recognise a tyrant.

There is no suggestion Abraham had noticed Sarai’s beauty before. There is no conversation with her about the best strategy of staying safe in Egypt

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It’s childish I know, but my initial reaction to the trial of Pussy Riot last week was stifled laughter. I giggled at the sound of the band’s name in the mouths of sombre, poker-faced news journalists. The trial though, was a serious one. They were jailed for two years for performing a protest song in a Russian Orthodox Church.

These artists, if you want to call them that, stormed the Church of Christ the Saviour and offended many believers with so-called lyrics which I’ll not report here, but which insulted the One for whom the church is named, and also the President of the country, Vladimir Putin.

It was some words from the judgment, which took three hours to deliver apparently, that made me stop and think a bit more. Judge Marina Syrova said, ‘What they did was offensive to believers and a crude violation of the social order’. It was the connection between offense to believers and the maintenance of social order that caused me to pause.

The Old Testament prophets were always suspicious when the State was in too cosy a relationship with the faith community.

The prophet Jeremiah made and wore a wooden yolk around his neck, and told a nation settled and sure of itself that they were about to go into exile. Not only that, but he told them their religious leaders were also a burden around their necks, who by their false preaching supported the delusion that everything was fine. Grossly offensive to believers and subversive of public order? Absolutely. So guess what happened to the man who performed this symbolic act of rebellion? You got it, Prison.

Even Jesus, when confronted by a man who was blind, and who social and religious convention dictated was thus afflicted because of sin in his life or that or his parents. Made some mud from dust and spittle, smeared it on the man’s eyes and sent him to wash in a pool that had special religious significance. And all of this done on the Sabbath. The man was healed and the leaders were offended. Judge Marina Syrova might well have said if she had been there “What he did was offensive to believers and a crude violation of the social order”. And his sentence? Imprisonment, torture and death. Funny that, isn’t it?

So, am I right to be at least suspicious when faith and state come into cosy proximity? Could it be that our churches, chapels, and cathedrals, far from being the sanitised, respectable and inoffensive places we often struggle to make them, are instead the most appropriate places for punk rock protests against the social order? I’m just asking.

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BBC NI Good Morning Ulster Thought for the Day
Broadcast Monday 20 Aug 12

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