St George's Cross

Just a week after the celebration of Easter we come, this year, to St George's Day (OK, it's liturgically tomorrow because of Easter but hey . . .).  St George, of course, is legendary for winning his battle against the dragon.  He was not entirely successful as, just next door to England is Wales and it turns out that the dragon just went over the border and looks in fine shape.

Wales, given its Revival History might be expected to have a more Christian flag but it turns out that England has it.  Yet this is not necessarily something to gloat about.  Its origins likely lie in the Crusades when the European princes wielded their power, largely unsuccessfully, in military support of the Christian Mediterranean against the Mohammedans.  The main intention of it was to identify the wearers as being on the same military side.

This dodgy history of this cross continues into its contemporary favoured contexts such as nationalist groups and sports fans.  If you concentrate really hard when looking at the English flag you can almost smell the beer and almost hear a bloke shouting obscenities.  He probably doesn't give too much thought to the Graeco-Roman origin of St George (the real martyr behind the legend) or the Italian adoption of the red cross on white to mark his honour on several of its flags and emblems.

Though the cross of St George has become associated with, first, military, then political, then sporting victory it is deeply ironic that St George actually represents that most enigmatic of victories to the unbelieving nation - the victory of martyrdom when following a crucified, risen Saviour.  

On reflection it would have better suited the spirit in which this flag has been used militarily, politically and in sports teams to have had instead the dragon: a show of might which has no ultimate meaning or reality.

Death, the Olympics and Easter Day

About the time of the Olympics last year (2016) an alarming thought crossed some people's minds.  It was that the previous London 2012 Olympics had been cursed.

The trigger for this alarming thought was the death of Australian rower Sarah Tait from cervical cancer.  On its own Sarah's death was an ordinary (but genuine) sadness - but she was latest in the line of very many others.  British consciousness had been heightened by the deaths of sailor Andrew Simpson in a 2013 sailing accident and our tennis player Elena Baltacha who died of cancer the next year.  A French swimmer, boxer and triathlete had all died, but so had 12 others from around the world.  It seemed crazy that by the next Olympics 18 of the previous Olympians were dead and gone.

There turned out to be good news and bad news when it was researched.

The good news was that, in simple terms, over four years about 32 in a 1000 people die. There were over 10,000 participants at the 2012 Olympics so hundreds, statistically, should have died before the next Olympiad.  Except that Olympians are young and fit.

Some whizzy research yielded the expected death rate for the average age to be 25-30 over four years.  So if the 18 were the full number (though some athletes from obscure regions [e.g. North Korea] might not be known about)  it would a below-average death rate.

And this means what, exactly? Well that is the bad news.

I think it shows how unrealistic the living are about death.  Of course we know that death and taxes are the only certainties - but we live as though we will never die.  One reason why not enough people are excited enough about Easter morning is because they do not acknowledge the scale of the problem, the general curse, from which this day and its Lord potentially sets them free.

It is a mistake of Olympian proportions.

History or Testimony?

Ponty's Week

Few historical figures have been attributed as little to commend them as Pontius Pilate.  This seems unfair in the whole scheme of Roman Empirical life.  He was not a nice man, but you might choose him any day over Caligula, Nero or Domitian, let alone any number of unnamed lesser officials.

We approach the week which makes him famous though he could hardly have known so at the time or even on his final earthly day.  Even 2000 years later in lands unknown to his Empire people speak of 'washing their hands' of a person or a situation in a tribute of sorts to the week that secured Ponty's fame.

And that's not all.  Every day and all over the world people in their acts of divine worship repeat his name . . . .

he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;

he suffered, died, and was buried.

 

Ponty's inclusion in the Christian creeds, in the words of Robert Runcie, "binds the eternal realms to the stumbling, messy chronology of earthly time and place". Perhaps.  It also makes Ponty as well known as almost any Roman in the long history of that Empire.

 

He is also genuinely famous Biblically.  His name appears more times in the Bible than Matthew or Mark or Luke or John (the apostle).  We meet his wife (which we rarely do with Bible characters) and we know where and when he lived and what his job was.

 

Ponty rose to all this prominence by a simple decision that he made.  One day God stood in front of him.  It doesn't happen often, so you have to have a little sympathy for the poor chap.  But uniquely he got his moment in the spotlight as the judge of the Judge of all the Earth.  Wow!   

 

And Ponty's decision was?

 

His decision was not to make a decision. "It's your responsibility" he wailed as he wiped his hands on his empirical towellette. 

 

It is one thing to be pilloried for ever for making an evil or a ill-judged decision.  It is soooo regretable to get one's fame from not making any decision at all.  As I come to Passion Week I must remember the lesson of all this - either to get my hellish reputation by crucifying the Son of God afresh, or a heavenly one by taking up my cross and following Him.  But nothing could be more embarrassing or humiliating than to attract the angst of eternity for dithering and diplomacy while heaven and hell clash in front of me.