I was reminded, this week, of a series of programmes produced by Radio Scotland, that I listened to  some years ago entitled “The people’s war”. It was a simple collection of interviews and voices of ordinary folk who had lived through and survived the Second World War. They were not soldiers, officers, politicians or important players but folk caught up in an event quite beyond their control. I was deeply moved by the simple ordinariness of the stories in the face of great horrors. I wrote to the BBC afterwards expressing my appreciation and asking if they would repeat the series. They said they had no plans to do so and I have tried several times to find the recordings on archives with no success. But I remember the stories very clearly.

They focused on the experience of nurses at Strathcathro hospital, the land girls in Angus and the Clydebank blitz. It was the later which I found quite riveting. Over the nights of 13 and 14 March 1941, Clydebank was largely destroyed by a series of air raids. It was the worst destruction and civilian loss of life in all of Scotland. The true death toll is thought to have risen above 1,200, with over 1,100 seriously injured and upwards of 35,000 people made homeless.

My mother was one of them and I remember listening to her speak about the experience. I was interested in the Anderson shelters, built half in the ground and covered with corrugated iron; a simple design to offer some form of protection against the worst effects of shrapnel and exploding buildings. I also remember asking why they didn’t make it more comfortable with seats a carpet, maybe table and lights. But I’d quite missed the point. It was a refuge a place to go to where you might be safe during an air raid. She spoke of the eerie sound of the sirens which still gave her a sense of dread when she heard them years later from a factory yard, the terror of the whistling bombs that went silent just before they struck, and the incendiaries. One hit the home of folks they knew near bye and the whole interior of the building was lit for a split second, as by a floodlight, displaying all the newlyweds’ furniture and decoration, before incineration. Her own home was destroyed in a similar fashion and it was some time before the family was reunited.

One man interviewed in the recordings told how he and his brother, as boys, instead of heading to the shelter with the others, skipped off to check that their doos (pet pigeons) were all right. When they returned, they learned that the shelter took a direct hit and the rest of the family were killed. One survivor told how her three brothers died in a raid. Her mother was bereft and would not speak about it during her life time. Chatting to her, in a retired home not long before she passed away, she summoned up the courage to broach the subject. ” Mum” she said, how did you… how did you manage… how did you cope when my brothers were killed…. how did you manage to go on?”  Her reply deeply moved me at the time and it chokes when I think about it still. ” I never understood” she said ” …I never understood why The Lord took my Bairns from me, but I always understood why he gave me you.”

Crawford Mackenzie

I was with an American friend after a walk along the north sands at St Andrews and casually mentioned that this was where the opening scenes from ”Chariots of Fire” were shot.  His eyes lit up, “Eric Liddle” he said “was my hero”.  After a pause he asked “and who is your’s, who is your hero?” It is of course one of these impossible questions to answer like “name your top ten films” “what was the highlight of the holiday?” “If your home is on fire and you could rescue three things, what would they be?” (I remember Ricky Gervais being asked that same question on a radio chat show . He parried it by saying he had no idea. But the interviewer pressed him so he said “well, maybe, my golf clubs.” Pressed again he said “my CD collection” he couldn’t think of a third but the interviewer pushed him hard so finally he said “well, one of the twins”.)  I just couldn’t think, at the time, but did later and this is my list. They are all flawed of course.  I don’t know most of them personally and principally through the medium of their work. I wouldn’t necessarily agree or stand with them on every issue but I regard them as heroes nevertheless.  I have left out family and close friends and my only true hero, Jesus Christ, but here is the list, in no particular order:

Like many people, I suspect, I have a love hate relationship with Christmas which shows a predictable pattern. It is a battle between Santa and Scrooge right up until the last minute. The hatred in the early weeks of December is intense; eclipsed only by the even greater hatred in November. I resent the imposition. I dislike the diary terrorism and the one-upmanship and the self-induced and foolish anxiety over cards and gifts, turkeys and trees. I fully understand the sentiments of those who want just to be left alone, away from it all.  To hibernate, blank it out and simply get on with their lives. But I also sympathise and understand those, for whom it is the highlight of the year. The event they plan and take delight in preparing for, often with great creatively, thinking of others and how they can enjoy the time together. It can only be a good thing and yet I don’t want to be dragged into it against my will. Not just yet, that is.  As in most things, I am a late developer. (which is a kind way of saying I am slow) and so I know that despite my latent protestations and as sure as night follows day, come the time my little heart will melt and I will be lost in the wonder and the awesomeness of it all. Just don’t tell me about it now. I am still on the way.

Crawford Mackenzie

The prison that I used to visit was just a few miles down the road.  With other volunteers we went there every Wednesday evening, to meet the men who had gathered, to share coffee and tea, to chat to study the bible and to pray together. It was the highlight of my week. There was something special and refreshing about these times. We were able to talk about real things, about things that mattered about families, sorrow and regret, loneliness and fear, life and death, heaven and hell.  There was no need to pretend. One of the officers was very supportive of us and on the way in one night he took me aside and said.  “You know what you folk do is really good. What these guys need is religion”  I didn’t have the wit to respond to him then but I thought about it afterwards. Religion was the last thing these guys needed. They needed a Saviour. We need a Saviour. One of the amazing truths that this week reminds us of is that there is that Saviour.

Crawford Mackenzie

A morning walk through Magdalen in the eye of the storm under a clear blue sky, with a twin prop glinting on its descent  to the west, the Edinburgh train slowly snaking over the river, a dog walker in the distance and a thrush in song just feet away in the hawthorn, is shouting to me  “Spring” . But It could be an Indian summer, that surprising, delightful experience when after the dark depressing days, of winter you are treated to an unseasonal and unpredicted period of unbounded joy and colour, freshness, stillness and the unrestrained chatter of life.

This has been my Indian summer, one that is hard to describe and maybe impossible to put into words so it has to be in part metaphor.

It is climbing up a steep and unrelenting slope with small shafts of light through the trees the short rests and diversions before once again getting the head down,  up and up  with no hint of a summit or even a false summit.  You are fixed on the task, persistent and persevering. Then suddenly and surprisingly you come into a clearing, a plateau where the trees divide and the full strength of the sun breaks through and showers the ground and you in warmth and colour.   The soft wind circles among the leaves and the undergrowth, with the smell and taste of the finest wine, the clearest water the unmistakable sense of life. You know it’s not the end of the journey, it’s not even the beginning of the end, there are dark places still to pass through, swamps to cross  and a host of struggles to overcome but for now…..for now it is a time for refreshment and a simple basking  in the wonder of it all.

It is liberation from the dead hand of all the isms the world can conjure and the lifting of a cloud that had silently and subtly distorted the vision, fudged the issues and hid the horizon.

It is being open in a new way to the Holy Spirit’s leading into better places.

It is a new interest and thirsting for God’s word. The Word that created all things came to us, to save, heal, restore and call us to be his children. The Word that we find within the pages of the Bible, that treasure trove of never-ending wisdom and delight.  That Word that I want to hear first thing every morning, before the BBC, the Guardian, Al Jazeera or anything that the clever people might say.  That Word, not fully grasped or yet fully understood, I want to meditate upon and align my thoughts and will with it, through the long hours and until the day ends.

It is a new passion for prayer, for conversation with a heavenly father and these special moments when it is shared with others.

It is a new delight and unfettered joy in the experience of being one small part of the family of believers, that crosses every continent, every culture and language, every strata of society.

It is a new spring in the step not dictated by outside change nor brought about by circumstance induced euphoria, but from the sheer relief of touching reality

It is a sense of being pulled gently but firmly back to where I should have been all along. It is a new desire to live a holy life.

So in the plethora of mixed metaphors, through the long dark winter, this has been the Indian summer of my life.

Crawford Mackenzie

Earlier this month I joined Ross McFarlane, a Trustee and Treasurer of Mission International (http://mission-international.org/) on a trip to Ounaminthe in Haiti. Ounaminthe is on the border with the Dominican Republic and we flew to San Domingo before taking the long bus journey across the country to Dajabon on the border. The Dominican Republic though itself a poor country is in stark contrast to Haiti. Everything changes when you cross the border. The lush vegetation with fields of rice, coffee plants and sugarcane give way dramatically to an arid landscape devastated by years of deforestation. It suddenly feels hotter, even in winter, and the atmosphere feels oppressive and tense. The whole business of crossing the border is a minefield of form filling waiting, passport checks, moving through gates, crossing the Massacre River, more forms more checks and all done with the aid of motorcycle taxis carrying any number of people and any load. The whole business was smoothed out, however, and eased through with the guidance of Pastor Rolex Poisson. He met us in San Domingo, saw us through and found us a room in a hotel just over the border.

This was my second visit but I still wasn’t used to the shock of it. The grinding poverty gets you somewhere beneath the stomach. Visiting people in their homes and hearing some of their stories draws you face to face with the reality of life for so many people, perhaps the majority of people in the world. There was one visit that will haunt me for a very long time. The lady lived in house built from rusting steel panels, odd pieces of plywood and some cardboard. It was no more than 2.0m square with a double bed and no other furniture other than a tiny dresser with a few personal items a small box and some photographs. The interior was lined in places with plastic posters incongruously advertising petrol and perfume. Washing, toileting and cooking happened outside and there was little sign of any food being stored or even utensils. She had children, I don’t recall how many, and a husband who worked long hours in the “ free trade zone” reportedly manufacturing garments for Levi Strauss, Timberland, Tyco and others, no doubt for a pittance. But she didn’t complain or ask for money. Her worry was a neighbour who wanted her house, was determined to have it and threatened to kill her for it. He put a voodou curse on her and she would wake in the morning to find the bodies of dismembered dogs and cats strung around her door. The sense of evil was tangible.  Before travelling I read an article in the Guardian newspaper extolling the virtues of voodou (the soul of the Haitian people), showing how it has had such a bad press and how the Christians had caused so much harm by demonising it. The trouble was, what this woman faced was real demons and raw evil. There was nothing nice about it. She wanted us to pray for her, that the one true God would protect her and her family. For me, it pointed up the great divide between the musings of a privileged liberal tourist, living in the comfort and security of the west, free to pontificate on his take on “indigenous” religion, over against and the gruesome reality on the ground. We did the one thing we could do. We prayed. My colleague led us in prayer, against the forces of evil, for protection of the home and the family and also, following Jesus’ command, for her enemies the ones who had set out to kill her. The prayer was that they too would have their eyes opened and find mercy and forgiveness through Jesus.

The church building is a large concrete box with a tin roof and arbitrary holes in the walls which let in air and light. It had been partially destroyed and the first team who came out from Scotland, six years ago (a video explain the story is at http://mission-international.org/projects/the-haiti-project/guild-information/), helped rebuild and enlarge it. It is on side street close to the courthouse and busy with stalls cooking and selling food, motorcycles, wheelbarrows, women with spectacular loads on the heads walking with incredible poise, children coming to and from school in smart uniforms and local folk just sitting in the shade chatting, checking mobile phones or simply watching the world go by. The church building is always open and a place to come to sit, and pray or simply lie out on the benches, in the relative cool and calm. There are services at midday and prayer praise services in the evening. On our second night we joined the 400 hundred, or so, people crammed into the building for the second half of a three hour service.  It was loud and riotous with hands in the air and heaving bodies swaying from side to side. It was led by the pastor’s assistant, an otherwise quiet and retiring young man, but here transformed into an astonishing firebrand preacher lifting the people to even greater heights of praise and at the same time bringing them down to almost complete quietness in sincere prayer. The cacophony of sound reminded me of Gaelic singing in the western Isles when it seems that voices come from all over the place rise, join together in remarkable harmonies and ebb as waves of the sea. Here the volume was of another order and pumped up by an energetic four piece band, the drummer with sweet pouring from his brow was crashing his cymbals like it was his last. Every volume was cranked up and the speakers could have come from a U2 concert. Now and again, but not often, it seemed the band were playing the same and sometimes in the same key. Well into the last hour, I was beginning to wilt, I crossed my legs and closed my eyes as if to pray but soon nodded off. I was woken by a young woman gripping my thigh and motioning me to uncross my legs. It was done very graciously and I took the lesson. The crossing of legs in front of an elder is extremely rude and especially disrespectful in God’s house.

The purpose of our visit was to meet with the pastor and elders to discuss plans for the school/church/community building and to finalise the deal for the purchase of the land. The project is the subject of a fundraising effort and you can read about it at http://mission-international.org/projects/the-haiti-project/ . The site itself is narrow and long and restricted on three sides. We were trying to design something that would accommodate a school and a church in an overlapping arrangement and at the centre create a small oasis of light and air and water as a gathering mingling space, linking all the accommodation together. It was good to be able to explain this in detail, with the elders, and talk over the plans in person. We also met a local engineer with experience in construction who would oversee the project. There are still many issues that will have to be resolved: How sure can we be that water sourced form a well on the site will not be contaminated? How much electricity could be generated form solar panels and by generation and the very obvious issue of designing a structure that would withstand an earthquake. We were able to revisit the site in town, to check measurements and another site on the edge of town which may be used as a retreat/health/sports facility. We also visited an America school in Ounaminthe,  set up by an American Missionary Society. It was on a completely different scale but it was comforting to note that the building had been designed with much the same principles. Being able to take a close look at the construction was immensely helpful. Apart from the size the project we are helping with is different in that it will be built by, and owned by, the local church for its work and witness within the community. It will mean that many children who would not otherwise receive an education will be able to participate in that most basic human right.

The most uplifting and most encouraging thing I took away from my visit was the children -the boys and girls walking to and from school carrying an air of promise of confidence and hope for a new future. It was not simply that they were smartly dressed, which they were, but that they walked with their heads held high and with a remarkable confidence that was striking; striking in comparison to the others- the half naked children playing and foraging among the garbage, who cannot share this privilege. The church’s plan then to build a school and, through a child sponsorship scheme, make it possible for children from the poorest of families to open a door into a world of learning and gain a foothold on a ladder of exploration through knowledge and understanding, cheered my little heart. That it would be a school inspired and run by local Christian believers, in the face of unbelievable difficulties, gave me special grounds for optimism.

On the journey back I picked up a copy of Malala Yousafzai’s story to read on the plane from Atlanta. It is a heart-warming tale and chimes so much with what I had been seeing, feeling and had experienced. Her story is shot through with faith, soaked in prayer and punctuated with acknowledgements of God’s hand on her life.  “We human beings don’t realise how great God is. He has given us an extraordinary brain and a sensitive loving heart. He has blessed us with two lips to talk and express our feelings, two eyes which see a world of colour of beauty, two feet which walk on the road of life, two hands to work for us, a nose which smells the beauty of fragrance and two ears to hear the words of love…. I thank Allah for the hardworking doctors, for my recovery and for sending us to this world where we may struggle for our survival… One person bullet hit me. It swelled my brain, stole my hearing and cut the nerve to my left face in the space of a second. And after that one second there were millions of people praying for my life and talented doctors who gave me my body back… I always prayed to God , ‘I want to help people and please help me to do that’” My prayer is that she and hundreds of children in Ounaminthe would one day know Jesus too.

Crawford Mackenzie

“Don’t Follow Your Heart: God’s Ways Are Not Our Ways”    A book review

I am not a fan of books that are collections of reflections, meditations or devotional aids, the sort of thing that is so packed with anecdotes it is hard to find that thread that supposedly holds the whole thing together. I picked up Jon Bloom’s book  a month ago on the strength of a recommendation. I knew nothing about the author other than that he is connected with the “Desiring God” website http://www.desiringgod.org/ . I flicked through it, but was disappointed and put it down. It felt just like the kind of devotional book I disliked. More recently, however, I took it up again and decided to give it a fair try. I am glad I did. It is superb.

Jon Bloom is not a Dietrich Bonhoeffer, nor a G K Chesterton nor a John Flavell nor a C S Lewis, but he is able to communicate distilled biblical wisdom in an intensely practical and contemporary way.

The theme from the title is the exposure of that hopeless philosophy that says all you have to do is to follow your heart. “It is the creed embraced by millions of people. It’s a statement of faith in one of the great pop-cultural myths of the Western world – a gospel proclaimed in many of our stories, movies and songs. Essentially it’s a believe that your heart is a compass inside you that will direct you to your own true north if you just have the courage to follow it.” But Bloom says that the reality is something else. “Our hearts have sociopathic tendencies” if we actually think about it.

The 31 meditations are simple and short and many people will find them helpful. They are punctuated with pithy quotable sentences:
“When I am grumbling, I have lost touch with reality”
“The heart is a gauge not a guide”
“Your heart only tells you what you want, not where you should go”
“Our hearts cannot save us because what is wrong with our hearts is the heart of the problem”
“We find ourselves fighting an enemy that constantly seeks to alter our perception of reality…it seeks to make the most destructive things look desirable and tantalising”
“Jesus wants us to embrace the true prosperity gospel. He wants us to have treasure in heaven”

I would recommend it to any Christian, any follower of Jesus, who is seriously considering what it means to be a disciple today.

Crawford Mackenzie