Sunday, August 24, 2014

World War I

Isaiah 49.13-19, Matthew 5.1-11
When I was born the First World War had been over for a little over 40 years. It seemed a long time ago when I was a child, but really it was recent history - more recent then than the moon landings or the assassination of President Kennedy are now. I knew people who had taken part in the War, most notably my grandfather, who had never talked about his experiences until I questioned him about them as a small boy.
My grandfather's reticence didn't mean that the War was not important to him. Later, when he got Alzheimer's Disease, he formed the impression that my mother and father were military policemen and spent ages fumbling for his leave papers in an imaginary tunic pocket while repeating his service number over and over again. Throughout his adult life he also had terribly vivid dreams, during the worst of which he would kick my grandmother out of bed. They certainly weren't all about the War, but it's difficult to believe that some of them were not about it.
He was not a volunteer. By the time he was called up from a reserved occupation in the middle of 1917 he could have been in no doubt how dangerous it was to serve on the front line. His sole aim was to survive and come home in one piece. Beating the Germans did not seem to have interested him at all.
As early as January 1915 Lloyd George had wondered how long people would put up with the slaughter of so many young men for so little gain. He anticipated the same sort of revolution that eventually took place in Russia. But my grandfather's family were phlegmatic about his call up. He had the usual photograph taken, in his dress uniform posed beside a little picket fence. He looks very dashing.
Once of his most annoying experiences, he told me much later, was when he had been on sentry duty all night and was then given a field punishment, by the officer inspecting his company, for being on parade the following morning without shaving. 'Why hasn't this man shaved?' The officer asked. The accompanying NCOs offered no explanation and my grandfather was set to work immediately peeling potatoes for the whole company even though he had gone without sleep.
He saw action just twice - once in the Battle of the Menin Road near Ypres and then in the Battle of the Piave River to the north of Venice in Italy. Crossing No Man's Land in the first battle was, he said, his baptism of fire. He found that he was stepping on the bodies of the fallen and it was impossible to avoid them. Then he looked down and found that his trouser leg was soaked with blood. He felt no pain but knew that he had been hit. Soldiers falling out of the line without good reason risked being shot, but a thigh wound was a good enough reason. I don't know how he got back to his own lines - he talked vaguely of turning back. Perhaps he crawled, perhaps he did simply turn and walk back without thinking.
He recuperated by the seaside in Northern France, making the acquaintance of a pretty-looking young nurse whose postcards to 'Johnny', (my grandmother always knew him as John), he kept to the end of his life. In the summer of 1918 he followed his unit to Northern Italy and recalled marching up a very steep hill to the front line, toiling through crippling heat with a 90lb pack on his back and carrying a very heavy Lee Enfield rifle. When the Austrians saw that a fresh battalion of men had deployed opposite them they welcomed the new arrivals with a few shells. One man was wounded and my grandfather, who was a countryman, was immensely amused when the medical orderly fainted at the sight of blood.
I asked my grandfather if he ever fired his gun in anger, but he said that he never got close enough to the enemy, even though he was  marksman. His last experience of battle was when his unit advanced across open ground only to find that the Austrian or Hungarian soldiers ranged against them had already abandoned their trench and retreated to the second line of defence.
He and his comrades had a smoke and waited for further orders. Eventually they were told to withdraw back to their own lines. On his way back my grandfather must have been walking just in front and to the side of three other men, two of whom were carrying the third who had been wounded. A shell exploded in between them, killing the other three instantly.
My grandfather's back was peppered with shrapnel and a small piece lodged in the joint of his middle finger and had to be removed during an operation using laughing gas. The surgeon fused the joint, making it impossible for my grandfather to release the safety catch on his rifle in the prescribed manner, so he was repatriated via Marseilles. I still have his postcard telling his mother that he had got a Blighty One and was coming home at last. He had played his own, totally indecisive part, in a great victory which all but destroyed the Austrian army as an effective fighting force on the Italian front, but I don't think he ever knew that or cared about it.
Many people came back from the War with their faith shaken or destroyed. My grandfather seemed to come back with his faith strengthened, and he became a local preacher and Sunday School Superintendent. Perhaps it helped that, apart from the girl he met in hospital, he never felt close to any of the people he served beside. As a Methodist he was a bit of a fish out of water, because he prefered not to spend his money on drinking and gambling.
However, he did surprise my grandmother by revealing, many years later, that he still had a taste for rum - acquired from the daily ration doled at the front, with a double ration just before battle. And, like my wife's grandfather, he also took up smoking in the army. Her grandfather died from cancer aged 50, but my grandfather mostly smoked a pipe and survived into his 80s.
He probably came as close to death in the Second World War as he did in the first. Harvesting corn a long way from the farmhouse, he and his crew had to run for the nearest ditch when a returning fighter plane interrupted its flight home to try to machine-gun them. But my grandfather seemed to take both world wars in his stride and thought this barely worthy of comment.
The military historian John Keegan said in one of his Reith Lectures that he was concerned to make sure that never again did families accept the inevitability of War, and the tragedy it causes, in the way that both my grandfather's generation and his parents' generation had done. At least now every single death on active service is accompanied by an inquest into what went wrong.
The days when British generals unthinkingly consigned thousands of young men to death and injury just to relieve the pressure on another part of the Front, and with no other obvious tactical objective, would seem to be a thing of the past. However, costly wars continue to be fought by combatants from other countries and in some ways the world now seems just as dangerous as it was in the summer of 1914. The risk of another large scale conflict can never be said to have gone away entirely.
How can we as Christians play our part in making sure that something like the First World War doesn't happen again? After all, no one really wanted that war to happen. The Germans and Austrians probably started it, in the erroneous belief that they could win a quick and clear-cut victory, but they had been sorely provoked by the French, who in turn were anxious to avoid a rerun of their previous, catastrophic defeat in 1870, and it was the Russians - not the Germans - who mobilised their army first in support of their own allies in the conflict between Austria and Serbia. Only the British seemed to have no real interest in fighting, but it was always unthinkable really that we should allow a powerful, hostile enemy to deploy on the French and Belgian coastline, as Hitler was later to do and as Napoleon had done before him.
Isn't the European Union, for all its faults, one of the guarantees that we will never have to rerun that kind of desperate conflict? Even if you believe, as some people do, that the EU is simply a bloodless way of allowing the Germans to achieve the kind of European domination that evaded them in the two world wars, at least no one has had to die this time around. Should Christians vote 'Yes' in the coming referendum, if only to try to secure the future peace of Europe? I don't know. It's something for us all to ponder, though, as we weigh the other arguments for and against.
One of the problems for many returning soldiers after the 1914-18 war was that they could no longer believe in a God who has inscribed all our names on the palms of his hands, and who can no more forget any of us than a nursing mother can forget the cries of her hungry baby. They now felt that either God does not exist or else he does not really have compassion for us.
Sometimes too they had encountered chaplains who were happy to say prayers for them before a battle but not to accompany them into danger, and the hymns they had sung at parade services no longer seemed relevant. They could no longer sing for joy when they heard the promise that God would comfort his people.
If they had previously been church-goers, they might also have been familiar with the many stories - often taught in loving detail in Sunday School - of Old Testament heroes such as Joshua, Gideon and Samson who had slain Israel’s enemies without mercy and occupied their lands in the name of the very same God who was supposed to have compassion on us today. This suggested a double standard at work in the Bible, where enemies of God could be shown no mercy whereas friends of God would be spared. But both camps in the First World War had claimed that God was on their side, so this argument made no sense at all unless, like some Christians, you argued that the more bloodthirsty stories in the Bible belonged to an earlier, primitive time, where a true understanding of God’s nature was still emerging, or - like others - you argued that stories like these are in the Bible as a test of our faith. We simply have to believe them if we wish to be saved and go to heaven.
There were also Christians, like the German army chaplain, Rudolf Bultmann, who tried to respond to the pervading sense of disillusionment by coming up with a radically different picture of what God is like. They stressed that God really does share our sufferings and know our names, but that he has no miraculous power to save us from harm or prevent wars and disasters from happening. This meant rethinking the miracle stories in the Bible and turning them into allegories, which had long been a way in which Christians interpreted obscure or difficult passages of scripture.
Another argument was that human free-will means we have the freedom to make disastrous mistakes and inflict terrible suffering. God is as appalled as we are when these things happen, but cannot intervene to stop them without removing that freewill. However, the soldiers who were condemned to die in mass attacks had no freedom either and might have welcomed God’s intervention, just as suffering civilians in Palestine, Syria or Iraq would probably welcome it today. So this argument did not really work when faced by the bitter cynicism of so many veterans of the Great War.
The repercussions of these arguments are with us still, like the ripples which radiate across a pond after a large stone is dropped into it. The years before the First World War were the high point for church attendance in Britain and the hundred years since have - with the peculiar exception of the years during and immediately after World War Two - seen a steady decline in organised Christianity, which has turned Britain into a more or less secular country.
It’s not surprising, therefore, that a very popular direction of travel for Christians has been towards pacifism. The relatively peaceful years between Waterloo and World War One had seen the emergence of a complacent sort of Christian nationalism spelled out in the hymn, ‘I vow to thee, my country’. Conscientious objectors were roundly condemned as unpatriotic, unless they volunteered as stretcher bearers. But gradually in the years since the First World War Christians have become more and more uncertain that war can ever be justified.
I still think, however, that there is room for the older concept of the Just War, a doctrine invented during the late Middle Ages in an attempt to limit the destructiveness and cruelty of war. The First World War could never be called a just war because all other ways of resolving the arguments between the combatants had not been exhausted first, the means used to try to prosecute the War - such as massive explosives, machine guns and poison gas - were not proportionate, many innocent non-combatants were harmed - especially in occupied territories, and there was no reasonable chance of success except at the price of a hugely disproportionate slaughter on both sides.
But there are wars that can be more easily justified. The intervention by British soldiers in the civil war in Sierre Leone comes to mind. A war which had lasted for eleven years causing the deaths of 50,000 people, as well as the maiming of thousands of civilians - including children, by cutting off their hands - was finally ended by a few British soldiers with local air support. It’s hard to see that this was anything other than a good thing - except that it helped to inspire Tony Blair to believe other just wars could also be waged in places like Afghanistan and Iraq.
All told, the legacy of the First World War has had a massive impact on Christians. We need to continue to think about it, and to seek to draw out the right lessons for building a better, safer and more caring world for our children and grandchildren.

The Big Questions in Science


Matthew 13,13-17, Psalm 65.9-13

Last summer a book was published called The Big Questions in Science. I took a look at some of them - the ones I could understand - and I found that with many of the questions there was an intriguing connection with religion.

Scientists often argue that science and religion are incompatible, or at least that they're radically disconnected, and many theologians and spiritual thinkers would agree. After all, science is evidence based, religion is faith based. Yet the questions which fascinate science are often strikingly similar to the things which make up the spiritual quest of humankind. 

Admittedly that's not true of all the preoccupations of scientists and technologists.  The quest to find a robot which can look after granny while the rest of the family get on with their lives doesn't sit comfortably with the Old Testament injunction to honour older people. 

And I don't think there's much overlap between spirituality and the obsession of modern mathematicians with the strange magic of prime numbers, even though without them a lot of the ways in which we use the Internet today simply wouldn't work. We mightn't see so many spiritual blogs and prayer diaries on-line because without prime numbers it would be impossible to stop outsiders from hacking into them and posting uninvited comments. But that hardly adds up to a connection between mathematics and prayer.

For thousands of years pagan religions have worshipped the sun as the source of all life and everything else that exists on earth, and modern science has come to the very same conclusion. So there’s a connection between science and nature religion, even though the Bible and the other major world faiths view the sun as just one among all the many created things that exist - a light to mark the difference between day and night. 

When it comes to the importance of the sun, therefore, the major world religions and modern science would seem to diverge, although many Christians would now accept that our traditional hostility to Paganism blinded Christianity to the obvious reality that the sun does after all play a critical role in nurturing life on earth. And because we also believe that human beings are tasked with being stewards of creation, we might now find ourselves sharing the enthusiasm of modern environmental scientists for finding cleaner ways of harnessing the sun's energy, such as using sunlight and water to create a clean energy source. Only this week the World Council of Churches decided to stop investing in firms that extract carbon for fuel and to invest its resources in renewable energy instead.

But although I’m sure we all want to know what happened to the missing Malaysian airliner that disappeared in the Indian Ocean, and although it's certainly one of the wonders of creation, I'm fairly sure the seabed - the last great unexplored frontier on earth - is of far more interest to oceanographers than it is to even the most wonder-struck person of faith. That said, it was one of the psalmists who wrote these words, '├Łonder is the sea, great and wide, creeping things innumerable are there, ...and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it.' Some people think Leviathan means a whale but elsewhere he's described as having many heads, so he's more likely to be a high octane version of the Loch Ness monster, a fiercesome creature lurking in the ocean depths Searching for strange and as yet undiscovered creatures is just the sort of thing that modern scientists want to do, so the hunt for Leviathan goes on and makes at least a tenuous connection between science and faith.

However, the sort of scientific questions which have real religious significance today are ones like these: 

What is the universe made of, and how come it seems to have a lot more stuff in it than we can see? And, getting closer to the nub of things from a spiritual point of view, are we alone in the universe or are there any other beings out there with the same level of intelligence, or a higher level of intelligence than us? Might there be spiritual beings in the universe, beings without a physical body but nonetheless capable of communicating with us by transmitting their thoughts, and perhaps even of travelling forwards and backwards in time?

And where does all this speculation leave God, who - of course - is in a different category from any other living being, in that Christians believe he transcends the universe, meaning that he's above and beyond it, but he’s also at the same time immanent in it, meaning that he is present in everything which exists, or maybe it is more correct to say - with St Paul - that everything lives and moves in him?

Then there's the ultimate question, of course, 'Why are we here at all?' Why doesn't anti-matter cancel out all the matter in the universe leaving only energy in its wake? And, given how unlikely our universe is - what a miraculous or incredible combination of circumstances was required to make it the way it is now - scientists are wondering whether we actually inhabit a multiverse. Just as there are billions of stars in our galaxy, and and billions of galaxies in our universe, perhaps could there have been billions of universes in our multiverse?

Perhaps some of these universes were viable and some were not. Perhaps some lasted for a split second and others have endured for aeons. Some, like our own, might have expanded to a vast size, and some of these might then have contracted again. Countless billions might still be in existence now, and of these some might be capable of supporting life but most would probably not. 

If this all sounds highly improbable, it's the subject of genuine scientific debate. But if a great many scientists are sure that we don't need God to explain our universe, can they be so sure that God isn't behind the multiverse? If we're going to believe in the existence of billions of universes which we can never see, then it's no less reasonable to speculate about a God who has perhaps been patiently constructing universes - or enabling them to exist - for all eternity.

We could go on speculating about time and space, but there are other equally profound questions which interest both science and religion. What, for example, makes us different from a banana plant? You can go to Nostell Priory and see some banana plants growing in the kitchen garden there. On the surface they look very different from us. They can't walk, or talk, or think, or feel. But, like us, they're living things and they share 50% of our genetic make-up. So we're quite close relatives, really, second cousins twice removed, and we're virtually brothers and sisters with a chimpanzee, with whom we share 99% of our make-up. 

So very tiny differences can account for huge variation. What is it that really sets us apart from the rest of the animal kingdom, except for all that fur? Ethics professors used to think that human beings know the difference between right and wrong, whereas chimpanzees don't. But the behaviour of both parties doesn't quite bear that out. Perhaps the real difference lies in our ability to reimagine the world - to think of alternative ways to shape the world and then try to bring them about. Is that gift of imagination what connects us to God in a unique way compared to other living things?

And why do we dream? Religious people have never been in any doubt, at least until the modern era. Traditionally, they believed that dreams teach us something. Either they are the voice of our conscience or else, if they are inspired, they can be messages from God. Scientists pooh-poohed that idea, supposing that dreams were where we play out our fantasies or where the brain simply unwinds after a long hard day. But now they're connecting dreams to learning after all.

Finally, there's the vexed question of how long we can go on living. Scientists wonder now whether it might be possible to make someone live for ever. It's not going to be an option for most of us but maybe the rich could pay to inherit eternal life. Would it, though, be life in all its fullness or an increasingly brittle sort of life, a bit like the increasingly desperate attempts of celebrities to fend off old age by having their skin stretched ever more tightly over their shrinking frame?

We often think that we're out of touch with the rest of society, that they're no longer interested in the things that inspire us. But I think we're all asking very similar questions. It's just that we're coming up with very different answers. Perhaps we should be bolder when these big questions come up in conversation. Perhaps we should be prepared to challenge other people's assumptions, to come at the same question from a bit of a tangent, to offer a faith solution - not as a complete answer but as part of the answer.

In our Gospel reading Jesus describes a situation in which ordinary people listen to what religious people are saying, but never understand; look at the surface but never perceive what lies beneath. He suggests, following Isaiah's prompting, that the fault lies with the people themselves. Their hearts have grown dull, and their ears are hard of hearing, and they have shut their eyes; a bit like the annoying habit of small children when they cover their ears and shouting lalalalala because someone is telling them an inconvenient truth. But, whether or not they share the responsibility for their blinkered world view, God longs to heal them. And if we are blessed with eyes that see and ears that hear that gives us a challenge, an imperative, to share what we know.
 
We often worry that the rest of society is out of touch with our concerns and preoccupations, that religion and spirituality are no longer part of other people’s agenda. But the real challenge facing us is to help people see that the big questions which concern them do in fact have a religious dimension. And that means not being afraid to tackle some of these questions head on when family, or friends, or colleagues start talking about them, so that we can help them to see that there may be more to the answers than first appearances might suggest and that faith might have something to contribute. And it's our task to show people that the whole universe, perhaps even the whole multiverse, shouts for joy and overflows with richness because it belongs to God longs to God.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

I don't believe in an interventionist God

Matthew 28.1-10, 1 Corinthians 15.1-11
I like Nick Cave’s song because of its audacious first line: ‘I don’t believe in an interventionist God’. What an unlikely way to begin a love song!
He once explained that he wrote the song while sitting at the back of an Anglican church where he had gone with his wife Susie, who presumably does believe in an interventionist God - at least that’s what the song says.
Actually Cave has always been very interested in religion. Sometimes he calls himself a Christian, sometimes he doesn’t, depending on how the mood takes him. He once said, ‘I believe in God in spite of religion, not because of it.’ But his lyrics often include religious themes and he has also said that any true love song is a song for God.
So maybe it’s no coincidence that he began this song in such an unlikely way, although he says the inspiration came to him during the sermon. The vicar was droning on about something when the first line of the song just popped into his head.
I suspect the vicar was talking about whether or not we can believe in an interventionist God and I must confess that my sympathies are with Nick Cave. Like him, I believe in God but sometimes I struggle to believe in an interventionist God.
Cave’s father died in a car accident when he was only 19. I guess he asks himself, ‘If there really is an interventionist God, why didn’t he intervene to prevent the car accident from happening?’
But some people have no trouble at all believing in an interventionist God, like my colleague at work in Darnall. We set off for home from a conference in Newcastle at 4pm one Friday afternoon and I had to drive her down the A1 and put her on the 6.15pm train from the railway  station close to where I live.
We knew when we set out that it was going to be a close run thing. Getting behind a slow moving lorry, which spent about 10 miles overtaking a convoy of even slower moving lorries, didn’t help. When we got to the centre of Pontefract we were still ten minutes’ drive from my local station and we knew, by checking on the internet, that the train was running only one minute late. That minute was going to be crucial.
‘There are two sets of traffic lights between here and the station,’ I said when we got to Purston Jaglin. ‘If they’re green we might make it!’ Sure enough, the first set of lights turned green as we approached them. So far, so good. But when we reached the second set there were eight cars in front of us.
‘I have to warn you,’ I said to my colleague, ‘That I’ve never seen this many cars go through those lights in one phase.’
‘You’ll have to jump them!’ she said. ‘That’s not going to happen,’ I thought. But anyway, we did get through the lights. When we pulled up outside the station she opened her car door and said, ‘I can hear the training coming!’ We jumped out, collected her bags and ran down the steps to the station. As we got onto the platform the train came to a halt, she got on and away it went.
Afterwards, she sent me a text: ‘I think God had his hand in the timing on that journey!’ she wrote/ Now how does that work? Did God stop the traffic lights from changing? And if so, why didn’t He prevent the lorry driver from pulling out in front of us on the A1 and slowing us down for 10 long miles?
I struggle to believe in an interventionist God, a God who just waves a magic wand and puts things right for us. My colleague was asking me to believe that God influenced the timings on our journey from Newcastle, like the time God intervened in the Battle of Gibeon, when first He threw down huge hailstones from heaven and then made the sun stand still, and the moon stop, until the nation of Israel had taken vengeance on their enemies. Even the writer of the story in Joshua acknowledges how exceptional it was that God apparently fought for Israel. ‘There has been no day like it, before or since,’ he says.
Nevertheless, I think Nick Cave’s song is rather sweet. He asks, if God does intervene in people’s lives, please would He not intervene in Susy’s life. ‘I would kneel down and ask Him not to intervene when it came to you, not to touch a hair on your head; to leave you as you are.’
Well, like Nick Cave, I struggle to believe in an interventionist God, a God who answers some prayers and not others, a God who rescues some people and allows others to perish. But, of course, in the end I can’t agree with the Nick Cave. I’m on Susy’s side. Although it maybe a struggle, I do believe in an interventionist God. And that’s because Easter is about God intervening. If we believe in the risen Jesus, we do believe that God intervenes.
Of course, that still leaves the question, ‘How much does God intervene?’ Paul, for example, is absolutely convinced that God intervened to raise Jesus from death. He says that he has met the risen Jesus himself, and that the risen Jesus turned his life upside down. He also says that the risen Jesus appeared to more than five hundred people at one time, so this wasn’t a dream or simply a personal experience, it was a real, tangible, shared experience. And yet he never mentions the empty tomb. Nor, for that matter, does he mention Jesus’ virgin birth. Instead, he says that Jesus was ‘descended from David according to the flesh’.
Paul was the first Christian theologian, yet it’s not entirely clear what sort of an interventionist God Paul believes in. But he does believe in an interventionist God, a God who gives us the promise of new life in Jesus.
Some early Christians believed, and modern Muslims also believe, that God intervened on the cross, to save Jesus from dying and take him straight to heaven’ leaving someone else - or the mere shell of Jesus’ human body - to die on the cross for him. But Paul doesn’t believe that.
Do you remember the passers-by who taunted Jesus on the cross, saying things like, ‘He saved others; he cannot save himself. He is the King of Israel; let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he wants to; for he said, “I am God’s Son.” ’ It’s axiomatic for Paul that God could not intervene to save Jesus from dying, he could only intervene to raise Jesus from death.
So like Paul, I do believe in an interventionist God, but I don’t believe in a God who can always intervene. I believe in a God who cannot necessarily prevent suffering and injustice but who can work in spite of them.
Nick Cave goes on to say, ‘And I don't believe in the existence of angels,’ but then he adds - very romantically - ‘But looking at you I wonder if that's true.’ I can go further than Nick Cave on this one. I can say a little more emphatically than he does that I don’t believe in angels - with not so many ‘buts’ this time, at least if we mean people clothed in dazzling white, perhaps with wings, or if we mean guardian angels assigned to take care of us. So I have trouble with the angel who rolled the stone away in Matthew’s account of Easter Day, whose appearance was like lightning, and whose clothing was white as snow.
But I do believe in messengers from God, which is what the word ‘angel’ actually means. I’m not sure what form those messengers actually take, though. The young man sitting in a white robe inside Jesus’ tomb in Mark’s version of the same story could be a less dramatic version of the sort of angel Matthew is thinking about, or he could be a fellow believer, someone inspired by God to come to the tomb and tell Mary Magdalene and the other women that Jesus has been raised and is going ahead of them; someone sent to make ‘bright and clear’ their path. And I do believe in angels if we mean people who are sent by God ‘to walk, like Christ, in grace and love’, and guide us into his arms.
And like Nick Cave, I do believe in love, and I know that you do, too. And I believe in a path that we can walk down, me and you, the path of love and self- offering that Jesus set out for us in his own life, death and resurrection. For those are the ultimate messages from the Easter story. First, that the love of God triumphs over everything, even sin and death. And second, that the living Lord Jesus still goes ahead of us - as he went before the first witnesses of his resurrection - making our journey bright and pure. And he will keep returning, always and ever more, just as the first Christians implored him to do in one of their communion prayers, ‘Marana-tha’ - ‘Come, Lord Jesus’.
Now you’ll say I’m messing with the words and sentiments of Nick Cave’s song. He was talking about his love for his wife whereas I‘m talking about the love of God revealed in Jesus. But then it was Nick Cave himself who said that any true love song is really a song for God.
So I do believe in an interventionist God. Not one who changes the traffic lights so someone can catch a train home for the weekend, but a God who raises the dead, who breathes new life into lost causes, who triumphs over suffering and loss, whose love can never be defeated, whose messengers still guide us into his arms, whose risen Son goes ahead of us on our path through life and even beyond death.