Friday, 25 September 2020

What is Qanon? Poison

Talented teacher Victor Morris has given a superb lecture on Qanon. He looks at the history of conspiracy theories, explains exactly what Qanon is and why - sadly - it appeals to some Christians. He likens the appeal to rat poison which has some something tasty in it. On the outside there is a thin veneer of Christianity - spiritual warfare, the denunciation of the rich exploiting the poor, certain victory - but there is poison inside.

For the Christian Qanon is false teaching with a focus on a political salvation and a political saviour. That's not Christianity. We have only one focus.  'If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.' (Colossians 3: 1-2)

Victor has kindly sent me his power-point which I encourage you to look at. It is both depressing, and amusing. Did you know that people think that the Queen is in fact a reptile? And Charles. I didn't know that.

If you come across Christians wobbling over this rabbit hole, please send it to them with the advice of Jesus' brother: the wisdom from above is open to reason. 

The only way for me to upload this was to make it into a video and put it on youtube. There is no sound. It is just a power-point - but a very good one.

If you have more time, you can listen to the whole lecture's about an hour and a half. The link is here: 
The password is: h0p%Qy*y

Monday, 21 September 2020

That peculiar passage about scarves and angels in 1 Corinthians 11: it’s about stopping cross-dressing in church, not subduing the wives.

The other day my wife asked me to listen to a class she was preparing about I Corinthians 11: 2 – 16, that passage which is all about the importance of women wearing head-scarves. To do this she had been sitting at the feet of some of Christendom's finest teachers: Tom Wright, Gordon Fee, Craig Keener. With me, she had a fascinated listener and when she had finished I thought, this is so good, I must write this up for myself.  

When it comes to finding something in the Bible a husband can use to prove to his wife he’s the boss, then that odd passage about head-scarves and angels in 1 Corinthians 11: 1- 16 seems to fit the bill.

 The head of a wife is her husband (v. 3) …woman is the glory of man (7). Neither was man created from woman, but woman from man. Neither was man created for woman, but woman for man (8-9). That is why a woman ought to have a symbol of authority on her head… (10).

That’s it in black and white. Wives, you are under your husbands. Let’s move on.

 That would be a mistake.

It is wiser to follow the advice of Jesus’ brother, James. He said that the wisdom from above is open to reason. And when you bring careful thinking to the passage the idea of the husband as the big boss over a junior wife does not hold up.

Firstly the passage is not about family relations, it’s about public worship. In fact from the start of chapter 10 right through to the end of chapter 14 this is Paul’s subject. The specific issue at the start of chapter 11 is praying and prophesying in public. It is something that men and women are to engage in, but Paul is keen to insist that the men pray with their heads uncovered, and the women with their heads covered. For Paul it was important that all things during the worship service were ‘done decently and in order’ (14:40), and this for him was very much a part of decency and order.


Some say it is all about a wife showing her submission to her husband’s authority by wearing a scarf. If she does not wear that scarf, she is declaring that she is a rebel, or possibly worse, that she is a prostitute or an adulteress. That is not decency and order. The women must wear their head scarves

It sounds convincing. But there are problems.

First of all there is absolutely not a whisper about wives submitting to their husbands in this passage. There is nothing along the lines – 'Now wives, you are the junior partners here, so you must submit to your husband, and you must let everyone know that, even in church.' In fact we have the opposite. In two verses Paul spells out that men and women are inter-dependent (11,12). There are no seniors and juniors.

And what about the unmarried and the widows? It is clear Paul wants all women to wear a scarf (11:13). But who are the unmarried and the widows submitting to by wearing a scarf? Should a widow wear a scarf to respect a dead husband? That seems unlikely. Does it mean that all unmarried women should show their submission to all the men in a Christian worship service? That also seems unlikely, if not dangerous.

The context and meaning of the passage do not point to this being a manifesto for a bossy husband to wave in the face of his wife.

Some might say, 'Ah, but the text says the man is the ‘head’ and that means authority. We must respect the Scripture.' However the Greek word for head, kaphale does not have to have a hierarchical and authoritarian sense, it can also mean source, as in the head of the river.

The Anglican London priest David Prior explains this well:

The word for head is kaphale, which on rare occasions means the ruler of a community, but normally carries the sense of source or origin…. So God is the source of Christ, Christ (as creator) is the source of man, and man (‘out of his side – Genesis 2:21ff) is the source of woman.

The crucial truth is not that a husband is to rule over his wife, but that God has chosen to create mankind from two different sources.

That is His choice, and in worship this truth must not be trampled on. So though Paul is happy that the Corinthians are respecting the ‘traditions’ about worship he taught them (11:2), he has heard – as with Holy Communion – some reports that disturbed him. Either men or women or both were praying and prophesying and ignoring the distinction between the sexes.

All cultures have clothing distinctions between the sexes. In the Greek culture – in which the Corinthian church operated – the women in public wore a head covering, not a veil and their hair long; the men did not wear a head covering in public and their hair was short. We know from the rest of the letter that church meetings at Corinth were lively. What was probably happening was in the excitement of the worship women were taking off their head covering and prophesying and praying, perhaps because that was what pagan prophetesses did. Perhaps men were wearing some sort of head-covering. This was cross-dressing during Christian worship and Paul was outraged. The issue had to be addressed.

His argument is primarily theological. To engage in cross dressing while claiming to worship God is to deny God’s order of creation as outlined in verse 3. Both the men and women who do this – dishonour his or her head (4, 5). They reject the source they have been created from: man from dust in the image of God and for the glory of God, woman from man, for the glory of man (7,8).

The word used for angels in v. 10 in Greek literally means messengers. Paul could be referring to heavenly messengers or human ones. The point remains the same. Cross dressing in worship would be deeply offensive to them.

In v. 13 – 15 Paul argues that nature teaches that a man should have short hair, a woman long hair. The point is the same. Cross dressing for Christians is not allowed. It is unnatural.

Once the red-herring of a woman having to cow tow to men by wearing a sign of their junior status is taken out of the passage, then its meaning comes into focus fairly clearly. From v. 3 – 15 Paul is saying one thing: in worship Christians must honour the absolute difference that exists in the origin of men and women.

That principle is relevant today. The LGBT movement is shrilly demanding that the general public accept practices censured in the Bible. As back in Paul’s day, so too today, it is not for the church to dictate to millions of non-Christians how to live their lives. The church believes, and history attests, that the usual outcome of ignoring Christian teaching is misery, but if the non-Christian wants to believe the unscientific story line about sexual fluidity and people being able to claim whatever identity they want regardless of biological reality, that’s up to them. We will all reap what we sow.

However it is very much for the church to hold the line when it comes to her internal affairs, especially her worship. This passage, easily seen as being a little opaque, in fact speaks clearly to the church today: don’t tolerate cross-dressing during worship, men must be seen to be men, women, women.

Friday, 11 September 2020

‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’ Memoirs of Bible Translator David Bendor-Samuel

When I finished ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’ I thought – ‘This is a life well-lived. There are lessons here for us all.’ The book is not thin. It is a portly 589 pages; however it is a smooth, easy read. Before you know you are at the end of one chapter and wondering if you have time to read the next. 

There are reasons for this. The story line is clear: this is the life of the author, from child-hood to retirement. There are endless by-ways he could have gone down, but he keeps us on the main path: his life, and especially his life as a missionary with Wycliffe Bible Translators[1]. Moreover the story fascinates, taking the reader both to a primitive tribe in the Amazon basin, and to the senior offices of one of the world’s largest mission organisations with cameo portraits of some of its pioneers such as Cameron Townsend, Kenneth Pike, and George Cowan.

 Another reason is the prose. It is steady, clear and dignified; the words precise, but also pleasing and apt. There is no gushing or gratuitous emotionalism. There is of course emotion, but the author lets the story do its own work as when he tells of his courtship with his child-hood sweet heart, Margaret, now his wife of sixty-four years. Romance was flourishing - until they attended a Keswick convention. She stood for the missionary call; he didn’t. And so separation was inevitable. She never thought of another man; he never thought of another woman. But they were apart; God’s will must come first. However his understanding of how God calls someone changed, and he began attending night classes at London Bible College. This is where Margaret was a residential student. There was a break in his New Testament Greek class and he went to make his hot drink; and, yes, Margaret appeared. Maybe it’s not quite Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan on the top of the Empire State Building, but it is still quite a scene even in the humbler setting of a Bible College dining room. There is plenty of feeling, but it is all in the story, not in horrible loud exclamation marks.

 It would be understandable to see this autobiography as important for shedding light on the growth of the Wycliffe Bible Translators, for this is the organisation the author served till he retired when he was nearly 80. Wherever you turn, there is Wycliffe, or its cousin, the Summer Institute of Linguistics[2]. However that would be a mistake. The book is not about an organisation, it is about a man’s life and, as said, there are important lessons to learn from the life of Dr David Bendor-Samuel.

 One would be that the important decisions in his life are marked by careful thinking. This is what happened when there was that change in his understanding about what a calling meant. David had thought there had to be a clear divine invitation for the missionary, which he had not received. However he saw that Paul’s movements in Acts were controlled by a ‘logical thought process’. So he concluded the Christian should look for a principle in the Bible, and carefully apply this to their own situation. Again and again the author brought this understanding to bear when he faced important decisions. And he faced several. As anyone in Christian work knows, emotional decision making can leave a lot of damage in its wake. This emphasis on calm logical thinking is an important lesson for us all.

 Another lesson, closely connected to the above, is the way David handled sudden changes and set-backs. He took them on the chin, they hurt, but he again applied logical thinking which led him to submit to his circumstances. You could call it submissive thinking.

 After four years in the Amazon basin the family returned to home in 1963 to England just for a break (missionaries call it a furlough); but while there, out of the blue, he was asked to become the Acting Head of Wycliffe in the UK. After two years the family returned to Brazil and were making excellent progress with the translation of the Scriptures into the Guajajara language. And then again, just after one year, the call came to lead the work in the UK.

 ‘This was a complete surprise to us, and initially it brought us a good deal of dismay’.

 The dismay was because everything was in place for the translation of the Scriptures into Guajajara. But they had to hand it over. Then settling back into the UK, after three years another surprise request: to become the international coordinator for literacy which would mean moving with all his family to Dallas.

 As well as these unexpected changes, there were outright disappointments. In the jungle their house was burnt down. David was at a conference at the time: ‘A telegram arrived with the message ‘house in Pindare destroyed by fire’. When he was head of the Wycliffe UK a boiler was left on and burnt down the kitchen and the dining room at the mission’s main centre. Also when he was responsible for the work in the UK, the government decided to build a motorway through the Wycliffe property.

 After moving to the USA there are no reports of fires, but the set-backs seem harsher. In the 1990’s each national Wycliffe organisation was given autonomy, and David was appointed the Vice President for Wycliffe organisations. This involved a lot of travel, diplomacy, and administration. It was a job he did well, so much so that the CEO gave most of his attention to SIL affairs (the translation work), leaving the Wycliffe side of things to David. Indeed at one point he decided to formally delegate this responsibility to David. Then, without warning, the CEO changed his mind, and appointed another man to take this role on. When David asked what he was meant to do, the CEO replied that he did not know. David allows himself one short paragraph to express his disappointment over this:

 ‘For the past six years, I had worked very hard indeed, virtually single handed, to re-organise the Wycliffe side of things, and I knew that I had done a good job…..It just didn’t seem right or sensible.’

 Just over ten years later came another set-back, probably the most bitter. David’s last senior role with Wycliffe was as the International Coordinator for Pastoral Care. His major contribution here – as mentioned – was to introduce reconciliation training. It was called ‘Dealing With Conflict Biblically’ (DCB). The course had been warmly received and David was developing the material so his successor could ensure the DCB course continued. In 2008 the news came that there would be no successor.

 ‘This came as a stunning blow. It had been decided that nobody was going to be appointed as my successor in leading the DCB programme since this was to be closed down as an International Function at Dallas.’

 In all of these sudden changes and set backs there is a common theme: submissive thinking. This does not mean there is not a raw reaction. The set backs are ‘blows’, there is ‘dismay’, there is ‘spiritual struggle’, but soon there is a bounce back.

 With those requests to dramatically change his plans David’s attitude had almost a soldier’s feel to it. His view was that he was being asked to do this by someone senior in the organisation that God had led him to join. Hence without strong reasons, he should obey.

 With the fires, and the motorway plan, David looked to and believed Romans 8:28, that it would work out for good. This was submitting to God’s providence, and so in each case it turned out to be.

 And so too for those harsher disappointments towards the end of his career. Regarding the abrupt decision of the CEO not to confirm the role supervising the Wycliffe organisations, David writes this:

 ‘Gradually, the Lord helped me to accept the situation. The CEO had the responsibility to make these decisions and had no doubt tried to decide wisely...Eventually I was able to trust that God was truly in control of his world.’

 The same goes for the closure of the DCB programme at an international level:

 ‘After a time of spiritual struggle, I was able to accept it as the Lord’s will for me at that time.’

 This is not blind submission, it is thoughtful. As with his initial decision to join Wycliffe, he brings the principles of the Bible to bear on his particular situation, and so submits, choosing to trust the good intentions of his seniors, and ultimately the goodness of God in directing the affairs of the world.

 Careful thinking, submissive thinking, and a third would be forward thinking. This was David’s determination, in whatever role he was in, to push things ahead. One of David’s first attempts to do this earned him a firm reprimand. In 1960 David and Margaret were assigned as translators to the Guajajara tribe in the Amazon basin. One of the more laborious tasks of translating was to copy out for analysis sentences with words that appeared regularly, but with no clear purpose. To avoid all the copying David suggested using a new ‘edge punched card’ method[i]. Looking back he believed such innovations ‘culminated in the development of personal computers.’ When he told Dr Gudschinsky, his linguistic supervisor, that he would be using these cards:

 ‘Her response was immediate and sharp. It consisted initially of just the three words ‘You will not!’.

 She then ordered David to use the copying method. While he lost that particular battle, there was eventually some poetic justice. For when over twenty years later David was Wycliffe’s Vice President for Academic Affairs he saw beyond the horizon and ensured the entire organisation benefitted from all that computer programming could bring to Bible translation. He set up the ‘Language Data Processing’ department. As anyone who has had any contact with Bible translation will know the Wycliffe computer programmes are renowned in this field.

 There are many other examples of David looking to make things better: for the Guajajara tribe he made gospel recordings and composed hymns; in the UK he set up what today would be called a development department for Wycliffe UK when he was the acting head; later he set up a personnel department and also led the campaign to wean British members away from depending on the US emergency funds and bring in their own support; when David and the family moved to Dallas he set about expanding the role of literacy for the whole Wycliffe organisation; he also spear headed a push for the organisation to find out more about how many languages in need of Bible translation there were; and much more. As seen one of his last innovations was bringing a course on conflict resolution for all Wycliffe’s members.

 Two other examples of thinking and acting beyond tradition certainly deserve a mention. One is that during his national service he proved to the British army that it is perfectly possible to induct new recruits to the rigours of military life using a constant stream of foul and abusive language. David himself had to endure this from a brutal and blasphemous training corporal. However when he was assigned the same job:

 ‘I concentrated on showing that it was possible to produce a series of well-trained squads without the use of foul language or any other kind of unreasonable pressure.

 The other wonderful innovation that must be mentioned is that all over the world, to the delight of hundreds of missionary audiences in need of light entertainment, this distinguished scholar and senior leader would take to the stage for a reading of - ‘Winnie The Pooh’. David would imitate the voices of the actors he had heard as a young boy.

 This is a significant book with important lessons for us all. There is the wisdom of carefully applying the principle of the Bible to one’s own particular situation; the prudence of thinking through the good reasons for submitting either to ones’ seniors or providence; and finally the courage being ready to look beyond the horizon to make things better.

 Things have certainly got better for the Guajajara tribe. In the book there is a delightful description of the dedication of the New Testament in their own language. It was a day full of joy and rejoicing. This is not in the memoirs, but it would seem from a little googling that when David and Margaret first arrived among this tribe there were hardly any Guajajara Christians. Now, according to the Joshua Project, 60% of the tribe, that is about 14,000 people, are Christians. There is little doubt that the translation of the New Testament into their own tongue is a major reason for this dramatic growth.

 No doubt the Guajajara tribe are thankful that David and Margaret came to them; and I am sure many Christians will be grateful that they can now read about this and much more in ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness.’

[1] Bible translator for the Guajajaras, Amazon basin: 1960 – 1969; Head of Wycliffe UK, 1964-1966 (Acting); 1969 – 1976; International Literacy Coordinator: 1976 – 1982; Vice President for Academic Affairs: 1982 – 1990; Vice President for Wycliffe Organisations: 1991 – 1997; Coordinator for Pastoral Care: 2001 – 2008.

[2] Wycliffe Bible Translators and the Summer Institute of Linguistics has always been two separate organisations. The former related to the churches for support; the latter focused on translating the Bible into tribal languages.

[i] If you are interested in what this method entails it is detailed on pages 252 – 253 on the book.

Saturday, 18 July 2020

Martin Luther (1483 – 1546) – a man to hate?

I once heard a gentleman say, with some vehemence, ‘I hate Luther’.

There is plenty to hate about Luther’s Reformation – the ripping apart of Christendom, the religious wars, and, worst of all, the vicious Antisemitism. But there is also plenty about Luther that makes it almost impossible to hate him – his vulnerability, his genius, the herculean output.

A man to hate or not? It is not an easy question. We will start with why it is difficult to hate him; and then move to the dark shadows that might mean, especially in today's climate, that we should campaign for his forty plus statues to be torn down. 


Reading about Luther it is difficult not to feel sympathy. His early days as a monk were difficult; he was plagued by depression; he was the underdog who challenged an establishment that burnt its enemies; and he was a father who buried two of his own children.

Difficult start

Luther believed in hell and did not want to go there. So, when nearly struck by lightning in July 1505, his fragile mortality laid bare, Luther vowed to become a monk. This was the surest way to save your soul from the eternal fires. He abandoned his legal studies and entered the Augustinian monastery in July 1505.

His father, Hans Luther, a miner from peasant stock, was enraged, leaving Luther very disturbed. The day a monk celebrated his first Mass was a joyous occasion: not for Luther. It started well. His father arrived with twenty horsemen, and Hans made a generous gift to the monastery. Luther was hopeful for a reconciliation, so at the celebratory meal after the Mass he turned to his father and asked about his father’s opposition to his monastic call. One biographer, Roland Bainton, writes: ‘This was too much for old Hans…He flared up before all the doctors and the masters and the guests, ‘You learned scholar, have you never read in the Bible that you should honour your father and mother? And here you have left me and your dear mother to look after ourselves in our old age’. Stunned Luther reminded his father of his heavenly calling. Hans said this could have been the apparition of the devil.

It is hard surely not to feel some sympathy here for the young Luther – his fear of hell, facing the opposition of his parents, the hope for a kind word from his father.


Before that first Mass Luther had a terrible attack of nerves. He was petrified he might make a mistake. Later he wrote, ‘Who am I, that I should lift up my hands to the divine Majesty? At his nod the earth trembles. And shall I, a miserable little pygmy, say I want this, I ask for that?’

This emotional intensity often turned into what we call depression, but what Luther called, anfechtung. This comes from the German word fechten which means to 'fence with'. It is battling with your own thoughts, the devil and his demons. This was hell for Luther, or, as another biographer Eric Metaxas says, 'a widening hole of sheer hopelessness, an increasing cacophony of devils voices accusing him of a thousand things.' 

Luther's inner unrest soon showed itself in the monastery. He was a conscientious monk. As he put it colourfully – ‘If ever a monk got to heaven through monasticism, I should have been that man’. But he was never sure if he had done enough. ‘My conscience could never give me certainty: I always doubted and said ‘You did not do that correctly’. This meant he spent a lot of time in the confession box, so much so that his confessor, the kindly Johann von Staupitz, eventually became frustrated. He told Luther, ‘‘If you expect Christ to forgive you, come in with something to forgive – parricide, blasphemy, adultery – instead of all these peccadilloes.’

At times Luther’s depression became so severe he would wake up in a cold sweat – feeling wholly abandoned, facing only the wrath of God. It was despair. In 1518 he wrote, ‘God appears horrifyingly angry and with him the whole creation. There can be no flight, nor consolation either from within or from without, but all is accusation…the soul cannot believe that it can ever be redeemed.’

It is likely that it was Luther’s inner battles that led him – now as a Professor of Theology at the new university of Wittenberg – to study the Bible obsessively and to re-discover the doctrine of justification of faith where the believer in Christ can be sure of God’s favour.

One would then perhaps expect Luther’s battle with depression to end. It didn’t. During his time in hiding in the fortress of Wartburg (1521-22) he endured insomnia and nightmares. According to another biographer, Vivian Green, Luther felt the devil everywhere: ‘He heard him rattling the hazel nuts in a sack; he listened to him scuttling down the stairs, making a great racket of it as his cloven hoofs hit the stone.’

In 1527 his anfechtung was ferocious. On the morning of July 6th he woke with overwhelming feelings of sadness and his own unworthiness. He stumbled through that day, and in the evening, tormented in his spirit, was convinced he was going to die. He did not die, but for the next two weeks he could neither read or write. The depression lingered on into the autumn. In August he wrote to his friend and colleague, Philip Melanchthon. ‘I have lost Christ completely and have been shaken by the floods and storms of despair and blasphemy.’

It is normal to feel sympathy for those who endure this grim malady. Even more so when a man prone to depression is ready stand up against an all-powerful establishment.

The underdog on trial at Worms

There is nothing in Luther’s background that speaks of wealth or power. So, watching him appear before the assembled might of the state and church at Worms in April 1521 has all the drama of all the David and Goliath stories ever told.

If Luther had been the clever poor man out to make a mark on the world, a Thomas Wolsey (the son of an Ipswich butcher) or a Thomas Cromwell (the son of brewer in Putney) perhaps we might feel less sympathy. But Luther had no ambition to become a heroic leader. It was only when many of his Wittenberg parishioners travelled just twenty-five miles to Juterborg in the spring of 1517 to buy indulgences from Johan Tetzel that he felt bound to act. Today many are disgusted with indulgences – a piece of paper promising forgiveness of sins – because it was a vulgar money-making scam; however for Luther the issue was pastoral and theological. He was appalled that his parishioners would be deceived into thinking they had booked themselves a place in heaven for mere money, without any repentance or faith in Christ.

Luther’s response was the normal one for a priest and academic. As a priest he preached against indulgences and wrote to the Archbishop of Mainz; as an academic he posted an invitation to discuss 95 theses about indulgences on the Wittenberg university notice board – the door of the cathedral. The theses were in Latin, they were for his colleagues, not the ordinary man. Luther was not wanting to start the Reformation; he wanted to iron out the theological issue of indulgences.

So if the church had ignored Luther there might well have been no Reformation, for Luther was not at all interested in a confrontation with Rome when he posted his theses. But the church did respond. When Tetzel heard about the theses the former inquisitor said he would soon be throwing Luther to the fire. He meant it literally. Tetzel went onto frame the debate solely as Luther standing against the Pope’s authority, and so when eventually the matter reached Rome, even the ‘polished dilletante’ Leo X felt obliged to act. This eventually led to Luther being summoned to appear before the Emperor, the young and orthodox Charles V, at the Diet of Worms to defend his teaching.

It is hard not to like Luther travelling the long road from Wittenberg to Worms in early spring 1521. On the way he taught his companions from the Book of Joshua; or he played the lute for them. And when he received a message to turn back because he faced certain arrest and execution, Luther’s resolve was not shaken: He wrote to his friend Spalatin, the secretary to the Elector of Saxony, who had sent the warning: ‘Christ lives and we shall enter Worms in spite of all the gates of hell and the powers in the air’.

And it is hard not to like him as he enters what for him was a criminal court room full of some of the most powerful people in the world. Metaxas paints the scene well:

‘The seven electors themselves were there, plus innumerable archbishops and princes and dukes and other nobles, all decked out in their sumptuous and bejewelled best, replete with gaudy golden chains and befeathered hats, and all of them stood agape at the curious spectacle of this humble monk waking into their midst.’

Luther messed up as soon as came into the Emperor’s presence. He saw a friend and greeted him cheerfully. For this he earned a rebuke from the marshal. He was only to speak when spoken to. An eye witness at the Diet wrote this about Luther:

He was ‘about forty years old, somewhat more or less, robust in physique and face, with not especially good eyes and lively features which he frivolously changed’

This seeming frivolity also irked the Pope’s nuncio who wrote in a letter: 

‘The fool entered with a smile on his face and kept moving his head back and forth, up and down, in the presence of the emperor’.

There is a simple reason for Luther’s demeanour. He was nervous. This is confirmed when he is shown the books he has written and asked whether he is the author. An observer noted this about Luther’s reply.

‘He spoke with a subdued, soft voice, as if frightened and shocked, with little calm in his visage and gestures, also with little deference in his attitude and countenance.’

We now know how this part of story ends. Luther was condemned by Charles, but managed to leave Worms and shortly after was kidnapped by friends and taken to hide in a castle in Wartburg.

But Luther did not know this.

When he entered his court-room he was the heretical underdog standing before an all-powerful master and ecclesiastical establishment. The choice he was facing was to either recant, or be burnt at the stake.

The natural human emotion to such a situation is sympathy, not hate. Indeed to hate Luther in this scene, whatever your religious beliefs, would be akin to hating David before Goliath, or Paul before Agrippa – or Jesus before Pontius Pilate.

Burying his children

Most of us feel not just sympathy but acute pain when we meet someone who has had to bury one of their own children. It is true that until recently this was common, but that does not take away the agony of the experience.

Luther had to bury two of his children.

The ex-monk Luther married the ex-nun Katherina von Bora in June 1525. They had six children, and also brought up four orphans. Their first son Hans was born a year later, and in December 1527 Luther had his first daughter, Elizabeth.

Luther was apprehensive about the delivery because in August the plague had come to Wittenberg. Other university staff had moved with their families to Jena, Luther felt duty bound to stay and care for the sick in their home. During this time the wife of Luther’s secretary, Hanna Rorer, had given birth to a still born child, and she herself then died of the plague. Luther writes, ‘I am concerned about the delivery of my wife, so greatly has the example of the Deacon’s wife affected me.’ Worse his first son was struck down and for several days was unable to eat.

Hans survived, Katherine had a normal delivery and Elizabeth came into the world – for a little while. She died eight months later. Katherine thought it was because of the plague, so implying that if the family had moved with others out of Wittenberg their daughter might still have lived.

She wrote: The good Lord gave me a little girl, the sweet little Elisabeth. Here, the plague is dead and buried. However, it seemed as if the terrible scourge had marked the child, even before she was born. After eight months, the sweet little Elisabeth said goodbye to her father and her mother to go to Christ.’

Luther was overwhelmed by grief:

‘It is amazing what a grieving, almost womanly heart she has bequeathed me. Never would I have believed that a father’s heart could feel so tenderly for his child.’

Some light filtered into this sadness the next year when Katherine gave birth to a baby girl, Magdalena. The little girl was known as, Lenchen, which means the shining or torch. All was healthy and well in her childhood but when she was thirteen, in the autumn of 1542, she suddenly fell ill with a high fever. Her brother Hans, away at a boarding school, was fetched back, and the family gathered for Magdalena’s last days. She died in Luther’s arms at 9.00 a.m. on September 20th. When she was placed in the coffin Luther said, ‘Go ahead and close it’. As the coffin was carried out of the home he said, ‘Do not be sorrowful. I have sent a saint to heaven’. Then he paused, remembering Elizabeth, ‘In fact I have now sent two’.

Luther’s words were brave, but grief knifed his heart. ‘How strange it is to know that she is at peace and all is well, and yet to be so sorrowful.’ And while he knew the sovereignty of God to be true, his heart struggled. He wrote, ‘I am angry with myself that I am unable to rejoice from my heart and be thankful to God’. We have no words from Katherine, but it is reported that she wept uncontrollably for days.

To hate this very vulnerable man in this scene stripped bare by the reaper is barely possible.

There is no doubt more in Luther’s story which points to his vulnerability, but in these scenes of him as a young man longing for the approval of his father, as a victim of depression, as a heretic on trial before the emperor, as a father burying his children I find it hard to understand how we can hate him.

Luther was a vulnerable man; he was also exceptionally talented.


Unless a gifted man is a complete monster – a Pol Pot, a Himmler – then the normal emotion most people feel for talented people is admiration. We will come to whether Luther was a monster, but first it is worth reminding ourselves that he was a genius.

There is Luther’s genius as a theologian. He joined the monastery in Erfurt in 1505 and by 1508 he had been awarded his doctorate. As the Professor of Theology at Wittenberg Luther’s classes were very popular with students, the output impressive. In total he lectured on twenty-five books of the Bible, still at work just a few months before his death. He is still read today, his achievement of making the Bible (not Aristotle or any other philosopher) the major text for the church still felt around the world.

There is his genius as a translator. The intensity of his work is astounding, as any one with any experience of Bible translation will happily acknowledge. Metaxas here has a colourful comment about his translation of the New Testament: ‘That Luther managed to pull off the entirety of this project in eleven weeks has boggled the mind of scholars for half a millennium’ The New Testament was published in 1522; the Old Testament in 1534. Luther translated directly from the Hebrew, but to get the right German phrase he made secret visits into towns, listening to the language of the street. Of course there are now many German versions of the Bible; but the German Bible is Luther’s.

Luther was also a brilliant communicator. Printers made a lot of money out of his writings for he never took any payment and he was a sensational best seller. The printer Melchio Lotter printed 4,000 copies of Luther’s ‘To The Christian Nobility of the German Nation’. In two weeks it had sold out. Lotter went on to sell ten more editions.

Luther’s genius impacted church life radically. He devised a complete liturgy in German, and encouraged music and hymn singing. The only singing heard by most Christians in the Middle Ages was the chanting of the Psalms in Latin by the clergy or monks. The congregation never sang.  Luther changed all that for he was an ardent enthusiast for music:

He wrote, in his usual robust style:

‘I have no use for cranks who despise music, because it is a gift of God. Music drives away the devil and makes people gay (happy); they forget thereby all wrath, unchastity, arrogance, and the like. Next after theology I give to music the highest place and the greatest honour.’

And so it stands that Luther is the father of congregational singing.

It is probably Roland Bainton who best sums up Luther as a man to admire:

‘If no Englishman occupies a similar place in the religious life of his people, it is because no Englishman had anything like Luther’s range. The Bible translation was the work of Tyndale, the prayer book of Cranmer, the catechism of the Westminster divines. The sermonic style stemmed from Latimer; the hymnbook from Watts. And not all of these lived in one century. Luther did the work of more than five men. And for sheer richness and exuberance of vocabulary and mastery of style he is to be compared only with Shakespeare.’

Bainton has another telling comment: ‘In the course of three hundred years only one German ever really understood Luther, and that one was Johann Sebastian Bach.’

There is of course much more that could be said about Luther’s genius and his achievements. The question here is whether in the midst of all these formidable achievements, the word hate for Luther makes any sense.

As said, only if he were a monster; otherwise the normal emotion must be admiration.

Monster Shadows

But there are serious, even monster like shadows. There is Luther’s connivance at bigamy; the invective of some of his writing; the violence of his tract against the peasants, and, worst of all, his vicious stance against the Jews.

The Reformation became a reality because Luther and his colleagues were protected by two German princes – Frederick of Saxony and Philip of Hesse. The latter had an unhappy arranged marriage and had developed a tendency to commit adultery. This disturbed his conscience and kept him from the sacrament. Philip’s answer was that he should be allowed to marry a second wife, following the example of the patriarchs in the Old Testament. When he first approached Luther with this idea in 1526 it was politely rejected. Philip’s adultery continued, but in the late 1530s, possibly fearing death, he was determined to square the circle and demanded permission from the religious leaders to be allowed to marry the lady in waiting to his sister. Martin Luther, Philip Melanchthon, and Martin Bucer, the revered stars of Reformation, gave their reluctant permission as long as the second marriage was kept secret.

Keeping such a business secret was wishful thinking. The whole of Europe soon knew and the cause of the Reformation rightly sullied. For this was a cowardly surrender to a powerful man who wanted to both sin and have the church’s blessing. In a letter to his own prince, the Elector of Saxony, Luther said his ‘concession was on account of the great need of his conscience’. This is a weak and devious argument. The concession was not granted because of the need of conscience, for if that was the case, then Luther would have to allow any Protestant tired of his first wife to marry a second wife. Protestantism and bigamy would have become synonymous. The concession was made because Philip was a Protestant prince but was threatening to ally himself with the Catholics if his wishes were not accommodated.

Like John the Baptist who denounced Herod for marrying his brother’s wife, so Luther and his colleagues should have stood up to Philip of Hesse and demanded he respect the sanctity of marriage. No man, not even a prince, is above the law in this matter.

It is understandable to feel aversion for such connivance; but should we hate Luther for taking part in this unpleasant business? That seems too strong a stance. With hindsight one wishes Luther would have had the faith to have acted with courage in regard to Philip’s adultery, leaving the consequences with God. He did not. Instead he took part in an unsuccessful cover up. It is a very human story. If though one was to hate every leader who has failed when confronted with a determined and powerful political patron, there would be a lot of hating to do.

Another shadow is that some of Luther’s vast literary output was vitriolic and crude, usually illustrated with wood-carvings to match the tone. For example in one tract he calls the pope’s officials ‘a crawling mass of reptiles.’ In another he castigates the pope for letting Rome become ‘the most lawless den of thieves, the most shameless of brothels, the very kingdom of sin, death and hell so that not even Antichrist, if he were to come, could devise any addition to its wickedness.’ Nor was Luther shy of using vulgar language, a particularly bad example was in one of his later tracts where he told the pope that indulgences were ‘an utter shitting’, that Pope Paul was an ‘ass pope’ who not only worshipped Satan, but ‘licked his behind’.

There is much more. Luther was a polemicist. Once he picked up his pen, perhaps like a Tertullian or an Augustine, he was not content until his opponent was bruised and bloodied in the corner.

Unpleasant, but given the thousands of words Luther wrote and spoke that edified, it would seem extreme to hate him for this vulgarity. Not least, because as Roland Bainton explains, vulgarity and rudeness were a part of the culture in the 16th C. After a detailed description of the debate at Leipzig between Luther and Johan Eck, a German Catholic theologian, Bainton records a minor incident. The duke hosting the proceedings had a one-eyed court fool and to provide some comic relief the two theologians were asked to debate whether the man should have a wife or not. Eck was against and ‘was so opprobrious that the fool took offense; and whenever subsequently Eck entered the hall the fool made grimaces. Eck retaliated by mimicking the blind eye, at which the fool ripped out a volley of bitter profanity. The audience roared.’ Bainton tells this story to illustrate ‘the coarseness and insensitivity of that whole generation.’

The tone then can perhaps be overlooked, but there should be a pause over some of the content of Luther’s writings. In 1525 the German peasants erupted and after a year were brutally put down. Initially Luther tried to steer a middle course, but as the rebellion spread his position hardened and he wrote a tract, ‘Against he murdering and thieving hordes of peasants’. Luther believed in the divine authority of the state. So in this tract he urged for the princes to crush the peasants without mercy. It is not difficult to quote sections of this tract that give the impression that Luther is a blood thirsty authoritarian, for example: ‘Their ears must be unbuttoned with musket balls till their heads jump off their shoulders’. However if you read the whole tract Luther has a serious argument. Anarchy has broken loose in Germany, plundering and murder is marching over the land, and – crucial to Luther’s shift in position – the peasants had refused to negotiate. The first duty of any government is to provide law and order, indeed, as Luther wrote, this is commanded in Romans 13, hence the peasants must be dealt with.

When the street erupts Christians take different positions, and sometimes change their views. From peasant stock, Luther knew what his class chafed under, hence his initial refusal to condemn them, but when anarchy spread he gave the authorities his full support, using his usual robust style. It is possible to disagree with Luther here, but it is hard to see this as a reason for hating him.

There are other aspects of Luther that cast shadows rather than light. One would be his coldness towards Ulrich Zwingl, the Swiss Reformer, who admired Luther and sought his friendship. In 1529 Philip of Hesse  convened the Marburg conference, to bring agreement among the Reformers over Christ’s presence in the bread and the wine. Luther believed in the literal presence, Zwingli the symbolic. It is said that Luther was so antagonistic and cold to Zwingli that the latter was reduced to tears.

Another issue is Luther’s subdued support for the repression of the Anabaptists. However given the calamitous outcome when some of their number took over Muntzer in Westphalia (polygamy and endless executions), it is not surprising Luther moved against them, albeit with a plea that severity be tempered with mercy.

None of the above pushes Luther into the monster category. They do not make pleasant reading, but most great leaders also make terrible mistakes.

In all of these shadows there is one that brings death-like darkness. It stands like a high prison wall, covered in barbed wall, daubed with large letters that spell, ‘I hate Luther’. On this wall the graffiti makes sense; and rightly forbids any easy exit.

Sadly some have tried to side-step or, worse, ignore Luther’s virulent anti-Semitism. Roland Bainton spares just a few pages to the topic, asserting strangely that Luther’s position was ‘entirely religious and in no respect racial’. Eric Metaxas oddly calls Luther’s book against the Jews an ‘outlier’, when there are in fact three books about the Jews who are also denounced in Luther’s sermons. Vivian Green ignores the whole issue. A.G Dickens, former Emeritus Professor at the University of London, edited a book of documents on Luther, and chose to exclude all the material against the Jews.

This approach is regrettable. It neither does justice to the amount of time Luther gave to the subject; and, much worse, it does no justice to the millions who have suffered because of the policy Luther was advocating.

The wall has to be faced. The hate question treated as valid.

Luther thought deeply about the Jews all through his life. He took a clear position on them in his first set of lectures on the Psalms given between 1513 – 15; and they are in his thoughts in a letter to his wife just three weeks before his death.

There is though sharp zig-zagging in Luther’s views. In those first lectures the Jews ‘were an exemplar of God’s wrath, guilty of Christ’s death, and thus dishonoured among all nations.’ This was typical negative Medieval fare. However in the early days of the Reformation, there is a radical departure from the church’s normal hostility to the Jews. In his commentary on the Magnificat in 1521 Luther says that Christians ‘should not treat the Jews unkindly.’

And then in 1523 came Luther’s call for toleration in his book, ‘That Jesus Christ Was Born A Jew’. This was the most supportive treatise in its attitude to the Jews that had ever been seen in Medieval Christendom. It went through ten German editions, and Luther’s friend Justus Jonas translated it into Latin for an international audience. While the book’s main emphasis was an appeal to Jews to see that Jesus of Nazareth fulfilled the prophesies of their Old Testament, Luther also castigated the Roman Catholic church.

‘For our fool the popes, bishops, sophists and monks, all stupid donkeys, have treated the Jews in such a way that anyone who was a good Christian would have been apt to want to become a Jew.’

There is more in this vein and for a while Luther’s name was connected to a kindly attitude towards the Jews. Indeed Luther’s Catholic enemies used this against him. When the Reformer, Andreas Osiander, spoke out against the execution of thirty Jews for the murder of a nine-year-old boy in Pressburg, the cry from Johannes Eck, an arch Catholic opponent of the Reformation, was that Osiander was a ‘protector of the Jews’ and a ‘Lutheran scoundrel’.

This radical season did not last long. As early as 1526 in a sermon on Psalm 109 Luther said that Jews ‘Simply think that Christ was a wicked scoundrel who was crucified with other scoundrels because of his wickedness.’ Then he says that ‘Satan has blinded their eyes because, despite the proof of Scripture, they remain obdurate. They are simply impossible to convert’.

Luther’s anger at the Jews rejection of Christ continued to rise. In 1537 he was told that Jews in Bavaria were circumcising Christians. They called themselves Sabbatarians. Luther was enraged and wrote ‘Against the Sabbatarians’ where the words ‘flew across the page’. The book was not about legal minded Christians determined to keep the law, it was an attack on the Jews for not turning to their Messiah, and a warning to Christians to keep away from them.

This tract did not sell well, but Luther was not through with the matter. In the autumn of 1542 he picked up his pen again to write about the Jews. The result was a 288 page book, entitled, ‘On The Jews And Their Lies’. Here he claimed that the Jews twisted the Old Testament; mocked Christ and Mary in private; and wanted to convert Christians. Luther believed the Jews threatened Christian society and must be dealt with. The actions he proposes are shocking: their synagogues and homes should be burned; their wealth taken; the Jews should be made to live in barns to work the land; and all religious worship banned on pain of death. This was harsh segregation. By the end of his life Luther wanted the Jews to be expelled from Christian lands. This is clearly seen in that letter to his wife just three weeks before he died. On the 28th January 1546 a journey to Eisleben Luther became dizzy and broke out into a cold sweat. It was likely he was having a minor heart attack. His immediate diagnosis though was less medical.

‘I felt my strength leave me just outside Eisleben…if you’d been there you would have said it was the fault of the Jews or their God. For just outside Eisleben we had to go through a village where a lot of Jews live and perhaps it was they who blew on me so hard.’

Then later in this same letter he writes: ‘I have to get on with expelling the Jews’.

There is nothing of the ‘outlier’ here. This is a man with a hateful mind-set which is there for all to see on his final journey before he died.

What though had turned the man famous in Europe for befriending the Jews into the man whose name is now synonymous with anti-Semitism?

Thomas Kaufmann in his book ‘Luther’s Jews’ draws attention to the fact that in Luther’s famous plea for tolerance in 1523 there is a qualification: ‘until I can see what effect I have had.’ Kaufmann argues with some persuasion that Luther and his colleagues, especially Justas Jonas, believed they were living in the last days which meant there would be a turning of the Jews to Christ. So Luther’s work was written for that expected harvest. This was an invitation from God’s prophet in Wittenberg for the Jews to believe what was irrefutable, that Jesus was their Messiah, and so become Christian. However the invitation was temporary, the prophet was concerned about the effect. The implication being that if the invitation was spurned, so Luther’s approach would darken. There was no response, and Luther’s approach certainly darkened. It reverted back to his former hostility - with a vengeance.

Given that the Nazis constantly used Luther’s writings to lay the foundation for the Holocaust it is difficult not to accept Luther the man should be hated. He is responsible for the words he has written. He could have stepped back, re-read the Sermon on the Mount, realised his words were deeply offensive to Christ’s Gospel of love, thrown his last book away, and written an apology to the Jews for his ‘Against The Sabbatarians’ and any other hateful words he had directed at them.

But he did not. Indeed just three weeks before his death he was writing about ‘expelling the Jews.’ To hate Luther is understandable.

Wiser to hesitate

However perhaps it is wiser to hesitate when one considers two fixed pillars in the world Luther grew up in. One was anti-Antisemitism, the other that Medieval society was what the historian Paul Johnson calls a ‘total society’.

Everyone in Luther’s Europe was anti-Semitic. The Jews were Christ’s murderers, visibly enduring God’s wrath for this heinous crime. We associate the name of Erasmus with the New Learning and the man who wanted the ploughman to be singing the Psalms. But he, like Luther, was deeply anti-Semitic. While defending Reuchlin, the Hebrew expert, against charges of heresy, Erasmus wrote to Hochstraten, Reuchlin’s opponent, and said he was not at all interested in the Kabballah and agreed that the Jews had seductive powers – and, he then asks this question and gives his own answer, an answer which scorns Roland Bainton’s assertion that there was nothing racial in the church’s attitude to the Jews.

Who is there among us that does not sufficiently detest that race of men? If it is Christian to hate the Jews, we are all Christian enough in this regard.’

This racism raged among the erudite in the universities, in Europe’s palaces and markets, in her villages and towns. It was garnished with venomous rumours: the Jews desecrated the host, poisoned wells, murdered children.

Luther grew up soaked in this thinking. Moreover as a young teenager he would have heard of how in the 1490s Spain, Portugal, Sicily, and nearby Nuremberg had expelled all their Jews. England had done so much earlier.

Once the Jews did not respond to the proof set out in the Old Testament regarding Christ, Luther’s position returned to what was normal for Erasmus and everyone else in Medieval Europe, except now his hostility had the tone of a rejected suitor. It was sharper, more personal, especially as Luther believed his Catholic enemies were sending Jewish spies to poison him.

In the 1530s Luther read a book by an insider that darkly confirmed all his suspicions about the Jews. This was ‘The Entire Jewish Faith’ by the Jewish convert Antonius Margritha. It went through six editions. While there was immense detail about all the Jewish rituals and ceremonies, the dominant empahsis was that the Jews were the virulent enemies of Christians. Everything in their prayers were directed against the church; on Passover Day they cursed Christ; they were longing for their Messiah who would annihilate all Christians. Meanwhile they were doing secret deals with the Turks to bring about the overthrow of Christendom. Margritha sounds similar to Muslim converts to Christianity today who make a living out of frightening Christians with how Islam is planning on wold domination. Then as now it is the fact that they are converts that persuades usually sensible people of what is no more than a vacuous conspiracy theory. Sadly it is clear that Luther was persuaded.

And as a church leader Luther had a responsibility to give guidance about the Jews. This brings us to the second pillar that was fixed in Luther’s world: the total society. All was under the power of the state and the church, who ruled a society which was homogeneous.

In this system a leading church-man such as Luther had a duty to work with the state to ensure that society remained intact. Hence, he could not ignore the issue of the Jews. Their presence challenged the total society, both racially and religiously, and books like Margritha’s turned them into a dangerous fifth column. The total society had just three options for the Jews: conversion; segregation; or expulsion. Since the Jews had rejected conversion, Luther first advocated segregation, and then, just before his death, he was calling for the Jews to be expelled. It is worth noting though that Luther never advocated murder.

These two fixed pillars in the Medieval world – anti-Semitism and demand for total homogeneity – were so firmly rooted that Luther was unable to escape their shadow when it came to thinking about the Jews. Interestingly Luther himself was aware of how difficult it was to shake off one’s background. This is what he told his students in 1531 about Catholicism:

‘We old men soaked in the pestilent doctrine of the papists which we have taken into our very bones and marrow…cannot even today cast that opinion out of minds. For habits acquired in tender years cling with the utmost persistence.’

If this was true for residual Roman Catholicism in Luther’s mind, it was equally true for anti-Antisemitism. It was in his bones and marrow, and once the Jews rejected his 1523 invitation, that pestilent prejudice broke out. He should have seen that the very Scriptures he was translating forbade persecuting the weak, that the Christ Luther loved was a friend to the outcast and alien. But those ‘habits acquired in tender years clung with utmost persistence.’

None of this alters that fact that what Luther wrote was dreadful; but it makes me hesitate to hate him as a man. Rather I have to accept that Luther, like most of us, was unable to see beyond the paradigms of his own times, but that does not mean rendering honour where honour is due and leaving his statues in peace. 

I hesitate, but I can understand why some, without hesitation, are ready to say ‘I hate Luther’.

I though prefer the conclusion of G.R Elton, another great historian of this period, who underlines the fallibility of the human condition. 

‘Being a man, he (Luther) had both served and harmed mankind; and since he was a great man, both the service and possibly the harm were beyond the ordinary.’


Thursday, 9 July 2020

Elton John coin, LGBT crossings, gender assigned at birth. It feels cultish so beware the backlash

Some great songs, but a man who wears silly glasses and is well known for past addictions to cocaine, alcohol, promiscuity and temper tantrums isn’t perhaps the role-model you would expect to find on a British coin.

Moreover Cliff Richards has sold more records than Elton John (21 million to 13 million), and after a brief youthful phase of indulgence has been celibate and sober and Christian for as long as most of us can remember. 

But there’s no talk of a Cliff Richards coin.

Why Elton and not Cliff? Maybe Elton John is the greater artist; or maybe it is also because he is a gay icon and that means a lot in the corridors of power these days. 

Whatever the reasons, and however valid, it still means that whenever we use one of these coins we will have to look at someone who had done more than most to overturn what marriage has meant. 

The Royal Mint wants us to look at Elton John; and the Surrey County Council wants its hard working tax payers to have rainbow crossings with the subtle, Look Both Ways' at either end. It feels like the powers that be want to give out a message. 

The decision of the Surrey County Council is worrying. The council's job is to give us decent roads and pavements, and they are in a disgraceful state. Most of the important painted signs on our roads are totally faded. Some of our pavements are a miserable mosaic of cracks and fissures. Ask your councillor why our roads and pavements are not being maintained and they will tell you there is no money. And yet, out of the hat, suddenly the Surrey Country Council have the money to promise us a many coloured crossing with the oh so subtle instructions, 'Look Both Ways' on either side. More colours, more money, and yet there is no money to even keep the white signs looking good. This means there is some sort of evangelical fervour at work in the council that shrilly demands that the good people of Surrey must have the views of a minority rammed down their eyes, even though that is not their job. 

And worse - there are millions of people who have not signed up to the LGBT creed, have no plans to do so, and do not buy into the wholly unproven idea that human sexuality is fluid. Why should they be screamed at by the public servants to believe something they don't want to. When people start insisting on scratching their symbols on everything, that's when you feel something cult-like is at work. 

The Royal Mint, Surrey Country Council - and the NHS. Last week I was sent an NHS notice about the level of vulnerability of different groups to Covid 19. I was grieved when it came to the usually ordinary question of gender. 

It should have read: ‘Male or female’.

It didn’t.

It read: ‘Gender assigned at birth’.

This was absolutely cultish. For a cult brazenly shoves its lies into your face, daring you to react. This is total deceit. Nobody is assigned a gender. Everyone is born with a gender. If you want to talk about who does the assigning, talk about God or nature, but don’t drag in the crass idea that the parents or the doctors did any assigning. Sunk sickly into this deceit is the idea that if something is assigned, it can be changed. It can’t. Yes superficial and damaging physical changes can happen, but you are either XX or XY. That’s it. Nobody assigns it, nobody can change it.

An Elton John coin; gay propaganda crossings; ‘Gender assigned at birth’. It feels like a cult is at work (of course there is no organised one), and one wonders if it will ever end. No doubt activists have another campaign waiting in the wings - polygamy, bringing down the age of consent. 

But one day it will have to end, because the idea of sexual fluidity, of there being no male or female, is vacuous. Like eugenics that was all the rage a hundred years ago, there is no serious scientific proof for any of the LGBT creed. 

So, either there will be an implosion, or there will be an angry backlash from people fed up of being told how to think about something that is very personal, and from those wounded by the LGBT morality, like the children who would have liked to have had a female mummy and a male daddy, but were denied them. They might well feel they were experiments. And they will be angry.  

Implosion or backlash, that's the fate of all cults. They can't last because they are not anchored in reality. 

Thursday, 18 June 2020

Our souls, our spirits, our hearts. They are not the same.

I was asked recently to give some Bible teaching to deal with the double lives that plague some Christians. Hands raised in the air in worship at church; hands on the keyboard at home to look at a porn site. Tongues full of praise for God in church; tongues full of curses at home. It’s an old but sad story.

I thought the best approach would be to give some teaching about the heart, for when things are well in the heart, usually the journey is gentler. So I had to define my terms. When the Bible talks about our hearts (which it does over 700 times) does it just mean all our inner life? Does that mean our souls, our spirits, and our hearts are all the same or are they different?

These are important questions. So I reached for my copy of Walther Eichrodt’s ‘Theology of the Old Testament’, a sure guide if ever there was one, and got to work. I also looked at some Tom Wright, always good value. And the faithful IVP’s New Bible Dictionary.

Here – very briefly – are my conclusions:

The Soul

The Hebrew word for soul is nephesh, and it literally means the throat, the place our breath passes through. The famous Leviticus 17:11 underlines the same point. It says: ‘The life of the flesh is in the blood’, the word for life here is nephesh. Interestingly Eichrodt tells us that the root word for blood in Arabic is nafs, and that has come into Persian where nafs can mean both breath and soul. So the word soul simply means our life. When our breath stops, so our soul dies. Later the word came to be a way of referring to our whole selves, so David’s ‘Bless the Lord, O my soul’. Both Eichrodt and Tom Wright robustly reject the idea that there is an invisible soul in each person that goes on living. Wright says there is not a hint of this in the Bible. This rejection of an invisible eternal soul is confirmed by the resurrection. Jesus was raised from the dead not as a soul or a spirt, but as a physical man. And with the eating of the piece of fish He went out of his way to prove this.

The Spirit

The Hebrew word for spirit is ruah and it literally means wind. There are two aspects to our spirits. One is that this is the deepest part of our being where our most powerful and profound senses lie. The other is that this is the part of our being that makes contact with outside spirits, or responds to outside events that have an overwhelming impact on us. When someone turns to God, it is this part of our being that meets the Holy Spirit. One writer put it like this:

Man’s spirit is his inward organ for him to contact God, receive God, contain God, and assimilate God into His entire being as his life and his everything.

The Heart

In the Bible the heart is the seat of government in a person’s life. It is the control centre. In the heart is our will, our thinking, our conscience, our feelings, which are all expressed through our body. So the body and the heart are wholly woven together. While today we associate thinking with the head, in the Old Testament it was seen to happen in the heart. Jesus had the same view, so he asks the frowning Pharisees why they are questioning – in their hearts.

The main difference: control and responsibility

My existence is not in my hand. I do not control when I was born, or when I will die. This is not my arena of responsibility.

Likewise we are not in control over the spirit world, certainly not of God’s spirit. Jesus underlines this in his famous conversation with Nicodemus – ‘the wind blows where it wills.’

When it comes to our hearts it is different. We have control. Our wills can choose to move towards God, and so connect with His Spirit; or to move away. We can think things through carefully. We can listen to the witness of our conscience. We can be sensitive to our feelings and bodies and govern our lives in a way which is best for them.

So, when it comes to moving away from the double life, it makes sense to get Christians to look carefully at their hearts, and to think through how they can work with the Holy Spirit for its renovation.

If this is of any interest to you probably the greatest modern writer on this subject is Dallas Willard. Anything by Willard is worth reading, but especially his, ‘Renovation of the Heart.’

Thursday, 7 May 2020

Vincent or Voltaire? The Puritan versus Secular Response To Suffering

If you read this essay you will find out about the response of a Puritan, Thomas Vincent, to the suffering unleashed by the plague and fire in London (1665/6); and the response of Voltaire to the suffering of the 18th C through his novella 'Candide'. Then there is a discussion as to which response makes more sense. Voltaire's initially pleases our sense of bewilderment; but there are issues: no meaning, no morality, and no hope. Vincent's stance is difficult, but he leaves us in a world that has meaning, morality, and - if we adjust - hope. 

Covid 19 brings centre stage the issue of suffering. The Puritans have one view; the secular sceptics a different one.

For the Puritans I read ‘God’s Terrible Voice In The City’ (1667) by Thomas Vincent and for the sceptics the obvious choice was Voltaire’s ‘Candide’ (1759)

Thomas Vincent (1634 – 1678) was an ordained Puritan minister serving in London. While most of the rich fled the capital when the plague deaths started rising in July 1665, Vincent stayed, preaching in pulpits to packed churches all over the city. As well as leaving us a detailed account of the plague – in which eight of his own household died, Vincent has also left us an eye witness account of the Great Fire which engulfed London in September 1666. His account of these grim events became his book ‘God’s Terrible Voice In The City’.

The man of letters, Voltaire (1694 – 1778) was one of the main architects of modern secularism. Throughout his long-life he mocked Christianity, indeed all religions. Voltaire would sign off his letters ‘Ecrasons l’infame’ (‘We must crush the vile thing’) and boasted that single handedly he had dismantled the church. ‘I am tired of hearing it declared’ he wrote, ‘that twelve men sufficed to establish Christianity, and I want to prove to them that it only needs one to destroy it.’ In that campaign to destroy Christianity, perhaps Voltaire’s sharpest weapon was his novella ‘Candide’ (1759), a satire that debunks the idea there is any meaning to suffering.

Vincent’s argument

From the Bible Vincent first sets out how God speaks to mankind. There is nothing controversial here. It is normal Christian doctrine. God has spoken through the law, his prophets, and above all through Jesus Christ. God continues to speak through Scripture, his ministers, by His Spirit, his creation, and providence. This brings Vincent nearer his subject: here is ‘merciful providence’, and ‘afflictive providence’,

Vincent has plenty of examples of ‘afflictive providence’ from the Bible. The plagues; the flood of Noah’s time; the fire that fell on Sodom and Gomorrah, and later Jerusalem. There is war - for God can order the sword to go through a land (Ezekiel 14:17). And famine: ‘I gave you empty stomachs in every city and lack of bread in every town.’  (Isaiah 34:11).

All are terrible, but most terrible of all is when these judgements come together. Not just the plague, but a plague followed by a fire.

And so we come to London.

Vincent is exact and vivid. He tells us that in August there was a steep rise of fatalities, from 2010 to 6101. Then his pen becomes more dramatic:

          ‘Now death rides triumphantly on his pale horse throughout streets; and   breaks into almost every house…. People fall as thick as leaves from the     trees in autumn, when they are shaken by a mighty wind. We would meet many coffins and see diseased people with sores limping in the streets.’

There was no let-up in September:

          ‘The church yards now are so stuffed with dead corpses that they are in many  places swelled two or three feet higher that they were before.’

In this sudden deluge of death Vincent was certain about the fate of sinners:

          ‘The door of mercy is shut…pardon and salvation (which before they slighted) is now unattainable: that the grave is opening its mouth to receive their souls…they must now take up their lodgings in the infernal regions of utter    darkness, with devils, and their fellow-damned sinners…’

As death approaches the unbeliever was:

          ‘Filled with inexpressible terror, through the roarings and tearings of a guilty   accusing conscience…now scaring dreams do terrify them and fearfulness of the bottomless pit…they are utterly consumed with terrors.’

While the plague made no distinction between the sinner and saint, Vincent saw the calmness of the believer when the reaper came.

          ‘It was generally observed among us that God’s people who died by the plague, died with such peace and comfort.’

Vincent’s description of the great fire is as equally exact and vivid. As the fire takes hold, so street by street he details the destruction. Here is his description when St Paul’s cathedral -

           ‘…yields to the violent assaults of the conquering flames, and strangely takes fire at the top; now the lead melts and runs down, as if it had been snow in the         sun; and the great beams and massive stones fall on the pavement with a great noise and great chunks of stone peel off strangely from the side of the walls’

Like an Old Testament prophet Vincent is appalled at the devastation:

          ‘Thus fell great London, that ancient city! That populous city! London which   was the queen city of the land… And yet, how London is departed like smoke, and her glory laid to the dust!’

The cause of these grim events is in the title of the book, ‘God’s terrible voice in the city’, which comes from Psalm 65:5. In the King James Version this reads:

By terrible things in righteousness wilt thou answer us, O God of our salvation[1]

The author of all the death and destruction is God. It is a dreadful punishment. Vincent’s language is not shy:

          ‘The Lord has come forth against us with armed vengeance. Frowns have   been in his brow; death and desolation in his looks; thunder in his voice; flames of fire in his hand!’

But why? What had London done to deserve such a scourging?

Vincent first lays down that all of God’s judgements are righteous, because God is righteous (Romans 3: 5- 6). And many of these judgements are ‘unsearchable’ (Romans 11:33). So, whether we understand or not, the creature’s duty is to remain silent before his creator.

Vincent believes there are good reasons why London has provoked the wrath of God. The over-arching one is that while London – more than any other city in the world – was full of churches preaching the true Gospel, the people refused to listen. And so God turned the volume up. When people do not ‘hearken to the voice of lesser afflictions…he speaks by the rod’[2].

Vincent also has an entire section where, at length and with dramatic imagery, he catalogues no less than twenty-five evils London is guilty of. These are: slighting the Gospel; unfruitfulness; hypocrisy; formality; division among the clergy; neglect of reformation; apostasy; refusing to listen to God; profaneness; pride; gluttony; idleness; unkindness; sexual immorality; drunkenness; perversion of justice; covetousness; extortion; lying; defrauding; prodigality; envying; backbiting; murmuring; and finally carnal security.

In this list, as said, the prime sin is the ‘slighting of the Gospel’, the refusal to listen to God’s ministers. There are two other sins in the list he underlines as especially provoking God’s wrath.

One is sexual immorality:

          ‘I would hope that this sin of homosexuality has been little known and    practised in London. But fornication and adultery have been all too     common…O the boiling, burning lusts that have been in London! O the         wanton eyes and looks! O the mental immorality and secret self-pollutions’.

The other is the defrauding that goes on in trade. ‘The falsifying of weights and measures’, the deceit about the true price.

After this long list here is Vincent’s conclusion:

‘God is righteous in that He has punished London no more than they have deserved for these sins.’

Vincent’s penultimate chapter is perhaps the most important for his argument. It is entitled, ‘Concerning the DESIGN of these judgments.’ It is Vincent who puts the word ‘design’ in capitals. And this takes us to the heart of the issue.

Whatever one makes of the plague and fire as punishments, whatever one makes of Vincent’s long list of sins, what he is insisting on is that behind events that happen in the world there is design, a plan, a purpose, meaning.

This begs the obvious question, what was the purpose of the plague and fire. Vincent has an answer: it is for sleepy sinners and saints to awake and be in awe of God and so be kept ‘from that fearless course of sin’.

This then is Vincent’s argument in one sentence: the plague and fire were sent by God to London to punish the city for her sins and bring people back to Him.

Voltaire’s argument

France’s most famous 18th writer found all of the above loathsome.

Voltaire would have reacted with scorn to the premise of Vincent’s argument that God had spoken through the Bible.

For Voltaire the Bible was absurd[3]. To believe that the creator of the heavens and the earth had chosen the Jews, a small desert tribe; to believe God had spoken through a collection of legends full of contradictions compiled by ‘barbarian tribes’; to respect people like David, ‘a scoundrel, murderer, and lecher.’ All absurd. And while Voltaire is a little gentler with the New Testament, according to one biographer he believed it to be full of ‘the gossipings of illiterate nobodies’.

Scorn – and revulsion. For at the root of religious fanaticism, the cause of untold terror and torture, was the belief that a fallible man could know – and so act – in the name of God.

Voltaire would have thrown away Vincent’s book, but he could not ignore Vincent’s argument – that there was a design in the events of the world.

This was of course the view of Christendom (Protestant and Catholic); and it was the view of many intellectuals, including the German polymath Gottfried Leibniz (1646 – 1716), an extremely influential mathematician, logician and natural philosopher in Enlightenment circles.

As a Christian and philosopher Leibniz had turned his mind to the problem of evil and God. His answer is in his 1710 publication, ‘Essays on Theodicy on the Goodness of God, the Freedom of Man, and the Origin of Evil’[4] The conclusion is that God has created, ‘the best of all possible worlds.’

Leibniz’s work has none of the Puritan rhetoric of Vincent. It is calm philosophy. However the premise behind his conclusion is the same as the premise behind Vincent’s response to the suffering of London. There is design.

Voltaire does not agree. And so we have ‘Candide’. The novella satirizes all religions; however it is clear Voltaire is specifically taking aim at Leibniz and his ‘best of all possible worlds’ theodicy.[5]

The novella is a fast-moving roller coaster ride full of shocking images that poke into your face as you hurtle round yet another unlikely corner. While the style might suit the end of Brighton pier, underneath there is painful seriousness. It is there in the outworking of the story (thin though it is) which connects to dreadful historical events; and it is there in the philosophical discussion Voltaire puts into the mouths of his three main characters: Candide our naive hero, Pangloss, Candide’s optimist mentor, and Martin, the pessimist travelling companion.

The tale begins with Candide living in the castle of Baron Thunder-ten-Tronckh in Westphalia. Here Leibniz rules supreme. Pangloss, the ‘professor of metaphhysico-theologico-cosmolonigology’ has proved to Candide ‘that there is no effect without a cause, and that, in this best of possible worlds, the Baron’s castle was the most magnificent of castles.

Through the professor Voltaire continues to set up his target in case the reader has missed it.

‘It is demonstrable that things cannot be otherwise than as they are; for all being created for an end, all is necessarily for the best end.’

Things swiftly fall apart.

Seen making advances towards Cunegonde, the Baron’s daughter, Candide is catapulted out of his Edenic bliss into a world of barbaric, and almost pornographic cruelty.

Suffering is relentless.

For war we have, ‘the earth strewed with brains, arms, and legs.’; Cunegonde ‘is ripped open by Bulgarian soldiers after being violated by many.’ Under siege there is cannibalism. And if defeated, why, you are executed by your own side - ‘to encourage others…’. That is what Candide saw happening to an English Admiral[6].

For natural disasters we have a sea storm where a kind Anabaptist is drowned; a plague, and most famously, the Lisbon earthquake: ‘Thirty thousand inhabitants of all ages and sexes were crushed under the ruins.’ The response of a sailor to this tragedy was to loot, get drunk and have sex with a prostitute in the ‘midst of the dead and the dying.’ If the response of the sinner is sickening, the response of the church is worse. Here we have Voltaire’s satire at its sharpest.

‘After the earthquake had destroyed three-fourths of Lisbon the sages of that country could think of no means more effectual to prevent utter ruin to give the people a beautiful auto-da-fe; for it had been decided by the University of Coinmbra, that the burning of a few people alive by a slow fire, and with great ceremony, is an infallible secret to hinder the earth from quaking’.

Sadly this actually happened on June 20th, 1756.

Sex is never far from Voltaire’s pen[7]. It is not described in the context of marital love, but rather – as with the sailor and the prostitute in Lisbon – it usually has a thuggish edge to it. Even animalistic for there is one scene of naked girls being chased by monkeys, who are in fact their sweet-hearts[8].

The references to illicit sex are directed against those who claim they can rise above the passions of the flesh. So priests are sexually active, seducing servants, spreading venereal disease; we have the daughter of a pope enslaved and ravished every day. As for our romantic Candide, he ends up betraying the love of his life for a Paris madame.

The only let up in the rolling imagery of suffering, cruelty and lust is in a place called El Dorado in South America where there is no organized religion. Candide though cannot stay there. He must find his Cunegonde, and so now the story takes us back to Europe and then Turkey.

After all that has happened, the reader is sympathetic to Candide’s new pessimistic travelling companion Martin who ‘had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son and abandoned by his daughter…’. Martin’s observation – very different to Vincent’s and Leibniz’s (Pangloss) – ‘is that God has abandoned it (the world) to a malignant being’. To this Candide says, ‘There are however some things good’. To which Martin replies, ‘I know them not.’

At the end Candide, married to an ugly Cunegonde, along with Pangloss, Martin, and an old lady (the daughter of the pope) all settle in a farm in Turkey. The old lady brings up the question of the whole book.

‘I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped, and hanged at an auto-da fe, to be dissected, to row in the galleys – in short to go through all the miseries we have undergone or to stay here and have nothing to do?

Martin says that man was ‘born to live either in a state of distracting inquietude or of lethargic disgust’; Pangloss, though he no longer believed it, said ‘everything went wonderfully well.’

The answer Voltaire wants us to go away with is given by a ‘a good old man taking the fresh air at his door under an orange bowler’. Asked about horrific events in Constantinople the old man replied he never worried about such things – ‘I content myself with sending for sale the fruits of the garden which I cultivate.’

Candide, Pangloss, and Martin are much taken with the old man’s wisdom and agree to cultivate their garden. ‘The whole little society entered into this laudable design, according to their abilities.’

In the last paragraph Pangloss tries to show how everything had eventually worked out for the best.

To which Candide famously replies, ‘All that is very well, but let us cultivate our garden.’

Voltaire’s argument is there is far too much cruelty and suffering to conclude that this is the best possible world. There is no discernible design, no cause and effect. Worse, those like the Inquisition who think they know about cause and effect end up inflicting terrible suffering on others. So, the best option is to retreat and cultivate your garden.

Who makes more sense: Vincent or Voltaire?

Two very different men, two very different arguments in response to suffering.

Who makes more sense?


At an emotional level the answer has to be Voltaire, especially if you replace the events he refers to with what we have seen since he died.

Who would want to stand in front of Auschwitz, or Stalin’s Gulags in Siberia, or Pol Pot’s killing fields and say this was the ‘best of possible worlds’? Who would want to visit the people of Bam[9] or Kashmir after their earthquakes and say, ‘This is God’s plan’, or, with Vincent, ‘This is God’s judgement’?

Our emotions recoil at any attempt to allocate meaning to such suffering, least of all to drag God into the story. And our mind says.  – remember the Lisbon auto de fe. People who think they know the meaning of suffering have been proved by history to be dangerous.

And so with Voltaire, it is best to say we do not understand, withdraw to our garden, and to give the dogmatic views of Vincent a wide berth.

This makes sense.

For a while.

Then the emotions quieten, and the paint on Voltaire’s argument thins.

It has issues.

Most obvious of all is the solution offered. At the end of his whirlwind tour of 18th century suffering, Voltaire’s ‘cultivate your own garden’, is rather an anti-climax. It seems a little trite.

In fact it does not take long to see the saying is useless, wholly unconnected to at least three obvious facts about human life.

First of all there is no hiding place from suffering. It finds us whether we are in the garden or the street. The minimum coming our way is bereavement, disease, and death. Most of us will face a lot more, some of it cruel and seemingly random. This suffering will push right into our souls, leaving us bewildered.

How can you say to someone who has just lost their child to cancer, ‘Go and cultivate your garden’? Refusing to acknowledge the depth of pain with this superficial quip is just as callous as saying this is God’s judgement.

Secondly, the demons are within. What good is retreating to the garden for the depressed, the addict, the shamed? There is no magic healing in the vegetable leaf. The demons are within and they come with us wherever we go. That is exactly what Jesus Christ said, ‘For from within, out of the heart of man, come evil thoughts, sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, coveting, wickedness…’. We might not like this focus on the evil within ourselves, it is much easier to see ourselves as harmless gardeners, but the fact (not idea) of what Jesus says is written on every page of history, in every generation, in every country.

And finally what about the reality of our own moral compass, our own sense of right and wrong? Do we stand in front of Auschwitz or the Gulags or the Killing Fields or a preventable natural disaster and say, ‘Too much for me, I am off to cultivate my garden?’ Most of us will see that as irresponsible cowardice, ‘Hakuna Matata’, teenage escapism. Moral action is needed. 

To his credit, Voltaire did not follow his own advice. He was a passionate campaigner for human rights. The names of Calas, Chevalier de la Barre, Comte de Lolly-Tollendal and no doubt others are all entwined with Voltaire’s. He was a man who set his face against rank injustice. Given the choice of staying in his garden or taking on the oppressor, Voltaire blanked Candide and acted.

And so the whole corny ‘cultivate your garden’ philosophy melts under the reality of human life. It has nothing to say to someone who is suffering; nothing to say to the struggle with the demons within; and nothing to say to our own keen sense of right and wrong.

With his piling up of image after image Voltaire has done a good job of reminding us of the reality of suffering. And he has done a good job in showing us the cruelty of others, especially the Roman Catholic church.

But that is all he has done. His ‘cultivate your garden’ platitude is really nothing more than what he used to do when playing a game of chess with a Jesuit friend. If losing, he would turn the board over. This seems more mature, but really it displays the same attitude. He does not understand, so he turns the board over and comes up with a platitude. I doubt if Leibniz would have been impressed.

For anyone caught up in a storm of suffering – as we all will be – his book is at best a little light relief. Otherwise it is useless.

Candide does not make any sense for life as we know it.

What about our Puritan?


Emotionally his book is a disaster. The strident certainty that the plague and fire were acts of God’s judgement is unnerving.

It is problematic.

The paradigm this dogmatism springs from though is not.

It is a paradigm that says the universe is ruled by a holy God. Everything that happens is ultimately according to His will (to by-pass the perfect versus permissive will discussion).

This means everything has a purpose and meaning. And because God is righteous, morality matters. 

Does that then mean that suffering could be God's judgement? The answer of Vincent, and the Bible, is yes it could be. However, contrary to Vincent, it is not necessary to be certain. Whether suffering is sent as a punishment for a particular sin is not for us to know. The point is not whether something is a punishment or not, and this is where Vincent makes sense, but there is significance in what happens to us. There is design, there is purpose. And this gives us significance.

And hope; because in Vincent's view the suffering will end. He believes in life after death. His certainty about hell for the unbeliever is unnerving, but he is not contradicting Jesus Christ. To die in rebellion against God is a terrible fate. However Vincent does not just talk about hell; he talks about heaven and that is a source of tremendous hope.

A part of that hope is that God will right all wrongs; there will be justice. This underlines what most people believe: that morality is important, that there should be accountability. And so the wise man or woman will order their lives to please God. If relating to God is important it is not wild eyed and maniacal to say – as Vincent does in his long chapter about London’s 25 sins – that morality matters and repentance is needed.

It can easily be shown that this paradigm has given dignity, strength and hope to many who have suffered. Consider the Negroes sweltering under the heat of injustice of America’s vicious system of slavery. No doubt some of them agreed with Voltaire: this is the way life is, there is no morality, there is no meaning, there is no justice, so keep your head down and cultivate the master’s cotton field. 

However we know that many agreed with Vincent. God was sovereign, there is a plan, their suffering has meaning – and crucially justice would have the last word. They had hope and this put a song in their hearts. And so we have over 6,000 Negro spirituals - – full of mourning, full of grief, full of pain, but under-girded by hope.

In Candide suffering has no meaning, no morality, and brings no hope

For Vincent suffering has meaning, morality, and points to hope.

Voltaire’s answer might briefly make sense as the emotions rage at the seeming pitiless indifference of life as many know it. But then – nothing.

Vincent’s answer – difficult for the emotions – brings the reassurance that most people yearn for: that their suffering has meaning; that right and wrong matter; and that for those who turn to God, ‘all will be well’ and one day every tear will be wiped away.

Vincent makes more sense[10].

[1] In modern translations the word for ‘terrible’, is awesome, even wondrous. Vincent, with only the King James version assumes God’s answer here is grim. This however is almost certainly incorrect. Old Testament scholar Dr Afshin Latifzadeh explained to me that the emphasis in Psalm 65 is on creation and a bountiful harvest, so he concludes, ‘I translate verse 5 positively as ‘awe-inspiring works’. It fits well with the flow and logic of the text.This barely dents Vincent’s book as virtually every page has supporting verses from the Bible where there is no misunderstanding, such as the Amos 3:6 with which he opens his first chapter: Shall there be evil in a city, and the Lord hath not done it?

[2] C.S Lewis many years later made the same point: ‘Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

[3] Voltaire though knew the Bible very well. His contributions to the ‘Philosophical Dictionary’ is full of Bibile references, and at the end of Candide we have a list of all the kings in the Bible who suffered a bloody end.
[4] The outline argument is:
1.    God has the idea of infinitely many universes.
2.    Only one of these universes can actually exist.
3.    God's choices are subject to the principle of sufficient reason, that is, God has reason to choose one thing or another.
4.    God is good.
5.    Therefore, the universe that God chose to exist is the best of all possible worlds

[5] This is probably because Leibniz was for Voltaire no village priest riddled with superstition but an intellectual of the highest order. On the enlightenment stage this was competition. And indeed, Leibniz’s achievements are impressive. He is considered to be a pioneer in computer science, applied science; psychology; medical education; and library cataloguing systems. He was a political theorist, advocating for something similar to today’s European Union. He was also a philologist, and a student of China. In contrast Voltaire seems rather light-weight, a Christopher Hitchens standing next to Sir Tim Berners-Lee.
[6] Admiral Byng was executed by firing squad on March 14th 1757. His crime was failing to do ‘his utmost’ at the Battle of Minorca.
[7] Given that Voltaire’s sexual morality was fairly fluid it is not surprising that he wants the reader to think that this is normal. He had affairs when he was young, then for about twenty years he was in a relationship with a married woman, Madame de Chatelet. She eventually left Voltaire for a younger man and died giving birth to his child. Voltaire then set up home with his niece.
[8] This is Voltaire’s shocking way of pointing out that Christian sexual morality is not universal, as his contemporary Diderot had done with his work on the Tahitians.
[9] The author did visit Bam in the aftermath of the earthquake that swept about 30,000 people into eternity in a few minutes. His group came across a young boy howling at a grave. Here lay his entire family. A Christian put his arms round him and hugged him. He did not say, ‘Now go and cultivate your garden’; instead he prayed for him, seeking to give the boy some hope.
[10] You could also ask which view has harmed civilisation more. Sadly for fans of Voltaire that is a no brainer. He was the patron saint of the French Revolution. And so terror. The first victims were the clergy who, before the guillotine got slicing, were dragged out of the prisons and bludgeoned to death. And then about 40,000 others. Wherever Voltaire’s attack on Christianity and religion has gone it has been the same. Actually much worse. In the Soviet Union; in China. The record of Puritanical Christianity is not unblemished. The Salem witch trials immediately spring to mind. It was a terrible event. However it is difficult to put this alongside the murderous havoc unleashed by Voltaire’s attack on Christianity. Moreover, the Puritans and those who rest on their shoulders have often led the charge against oppression (abolition of slavery; civil rights; fight against apartheid) and through education, medicine, and politics have greatly enriched human history.