Dimensions Beyond

Ultimate Questions: What Can Science Tell Us?

Matters of Life and Death

 

Dark Matter/Dark Energy Pie (source Edelweiss II presentation)

 

The fundamental question for a human being is this: do I die when I die? If yes, then it might be fair to assume everything is physical, that matter is all.

 

If the answer is no, then we have a far bigger implication. Matter is not everything. Other stuff exists – call it spirit, mind, non-material reality, whatever. The point is, we suddenly have a massive unexplored meta-universe.

 

This is what people have generally believed, everywhere, always – heaven, hell, the afterlife, the beyond, bardo, tir na nog, spiritual realms, and so on. But not now. The prevailing western attitude can be summarised in a conversation between Ralph and Piggy in Lord of the Flies. Here’s the how it goes:

 

            Ralph raised the conch to his lips and then lowered it. “The trouble is: Are there ghosts, Piggy?..”

            “Course there aren’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “Cos things wouldn’t make sense. Houses an’ streets, an’ – TV – they wouldn’t work.”

 

And that’s it, more or less. We live in a manufactured world of houses, streets, TVs, footwear, cars, computers – all the material objects that insulate us from other realities. None of them survive death, so why should we?

 

Technology has persuaded us. Science has persuaded us. Nothing exists except matter. Which is odd, because science says no such thing.

 

Here’s what science really says. Our sort of matter (baryonic matter) makes up about 4% of the universe. That’s right: 96% of the universe is other stuff. We can’t emphasise this enough. All the resonant certainties of St Dawkins and his fellow prophets are based on one basic assumption: that matter is all.

 

And they are wrong.

 

The rest of the universe is made up of dark energy (73%) and dark matter (23%). And the point of the word ‘dark’ is that we scarcely know anything about these things. Nonetheless, putting a label on them can fool us into thinking we have some understanding, so it is good to shuffle the synonyms around, just to jog ourselves out of complacency. And when we do that, we find some very interesting synonyms for the ‘dark’ component of dark matter: hidden, undetected, unseen, occult.

 

That’s right: 73% of the universe is occult energy and 23% occult matter.

 

Now, we mustn’t get carried away and immediately conclude that all the mystics, shamans, yogis and spiritualists have been right all along. It may or may not be the case that all this occult matter and energy corresponds to heaven, hell, the afterlife, the beyond, bardo, tir na nog, spiritual realms, and so on. We are in no position to know.

 

But it is interesting to note the congruence:

• Religion says there are vast other realities we cannot detect by physical means
• Science says there are vast other realities we cannot detect by physical means

It is a fascinating parallel, although in our present state of knowledge we can say no more than that.

 

A while ago I was experimenting with twitter. What sort of items did I like reading? Offbeat thoughts, wit’n’wisdom, snippets of this’n’that. Maybe I should try a few such things myself. So I came up with a series of dark matter tweets.

 

• Gosh, there's a lot of dark matter in the kitchen today. Can hardly push past it to the fridge... 

• Sod it – fridge full of dark matter too. Now is that a bottle of milk or...? 

• Some fascinating galaxies floating through this lounge... 

• Really kicking off in Dark Matter right now. Good and bad angels having a right set-to. Woops, nearly knocked over a saucepan there 

• Oh come on now, this is silly – good angels lobbing lifetron bombs at bad angel patrol – yikes, what about our stair carpet! 

• Think I'm back with proper matter now (baryonic). Mind you, I do appear to be tweeting. (Remind me, is that normal?)

 

And so on. The basic idea is that every room, every house, every street, car, bus and train is likely to contain vastly more dark matter and dark energy than anything else. If computer screens exist in dark matter (uncertain, I grant you) then there could be six dark matter screens in each room for every one of ours. (Have a look: can you see them?) And if dark energy could configure itself into the likeness of computer screens (even more uncertain) then there would be eighteen such screens for each of ours. (Eek: hardly space to breathe!)

 

‘Dark’ computer screens are, of course, unlikely. Far more likely to have angels and demons battling it out over the kitchen stove. Or bleeding ichor (the blood of angels) onto the stair carpet.

 

Or, well, we can’t really guess. And that’s the point of calling it ‘dark’.

 

We just don’t know. But when someone trots out the weary old ‘wenyer dedyer ded’ they don’t know either.

 

So let’s be cheerful and relaxed about science. It’s good stuff, it’s great stuff, but it does have its limits. And real science is honest about this. So if anyone tries beating us over the head with it – saying we’re nincompoops for wondering about this or that – well, they’re just not being scientific.

 

*****

 

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone (by my most excellent and trusty pal, Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

Encountering Mount Kenya

Diary of an Occasional Awakening 1.

 

 Mount Kenya in somewhat clearer weather

 

This is a piece dating from 1989 when I was living in Kenya with my family, working at an International School and grabbing our chances to travel an amazing country. I wrote up the events at the time and have scarcely changed the wording since, because I want to preserve the sense of being there, wondering there, experiencing there…

 

*****

 When you work for your living, days and weeks can pass with nothing but business and hurry. You can seem a nobody – a cluster of action, rushing from deed to deed.

 

But then it happens…

 

At Hell's Gate Park the weather was lowering, so that an atmosphere of tension wrapped about us.  And the cliffs were ranged with vertical scars, like waterfalls turned to stone so long ago their legends had been forgotten.

 

And in that held place, that air-held place, I first began to feel it.

 

It is a stillness, an alertness. Breezes are noticed not as air but as messages, things that touch you with a meaning.  It is an expectation of miracle.  Things have changed and now the world is in another way of being.

 

That was only the preliminary, though...

 

The key experience came a few days later at Naro Moru, near Mount Kenya.  As we studied the mountain, portions of snow peak emerged from cloud, white against white, so we speculated which was which and eventually pinpointed snow because it did not move.

 

And as we drove away it was late afternoon – just as it had been at Hell's Gate.  And yes, I remember now, the weather was lowering too, gripping down at the mountain.

 

These things come back to me.  And I recall heavy cloud, dark with droves of oncoming rain, tense with expectation, wrapped and pressed, while silent inside were the secret peaks of the mountain – Lenana, Nelion, Batian – held in the swarm of weather funnelling out of the north.

 

I caught all this in a moment – the swirl of clouds on Mount Kenya – that swirl, like a long scarf, but draped so slow it was more than a scarf, the cloak of a Being who broods in silence – a Being who can only be found when hidden, a Being whose essence is to be concealed.

 

And so I encountered the spirit of Mount Kenya – not by anything revealed but by what was concealed. And although I say this happened in a moment, it didn’t, not really. I was the one existing in a moment, not the mountain. But my moment could catch, briefly, the mountain’s timelessness.

 

Next day I pondered it all.  Next day I put an armchair on the veranda and sat.  Next day the family slept late and I had chance to think of it again, Mount Kenya with its three peaks – that life, that presence.  And it came again, the hushed mood, the alert mood.  Hurry was gone, business was gone: now was only living expectation.

 

It was here again, the sense of endless possibility. This is where miracles could happen, where angels could step from the air, where the universe could open its secrets and the planet lay bare its beginnings. It could all happen. This is where ancestors could emerge, or fire spirits.

 

None of us are employees.  None of us are nobodies pushed helpless between happenings and demands. We too are hiddenness. And within us is the stillness of giant possibility, brooding secretly – just as the mountain's essence is that it is known only through its hiddenness.

 

*****

 

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone (by my most excellent and trusty pal, Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

Matters of Life and Death

Let’s see if we can find a route-map

 

A prospect of Death Valley from 'Dante's View'

 

Last year (2011) we took a trip to America for the first time, hiring a Ford Mustang and driving through California, Arizona and Nevada. It was glorious discovering new places, new environments, new ways of doing things, but we didn’t leave all the discovery till we arrived. We brought a couple of guidebooks beforehand, googled a few places on the Net, pored over some maps and studied details in the brochure.

 

All this is quite natural.

 

How about the Bigger Trip at the end of earthly life? Where are the guidebooks? Which web pages should I google? Where are the maps and tourist brochures? Once again it is natural to want some information. Where should I try?

 

This is the first of a series of posts, called Matters of Life and Death, in which I shall be examining and evaluating various sources of information:

 

• Science: how much, if anything, can it tell us about non-material reality?
• Religion: how much can the familiar Christian variety tell us?
• Poetry and music: can these reveal any ‘Truths of the Imagination’ for us?
• Inner Resonance: how much weight can I place on something that ‘rings true’?

 

And there is one more source I shall consult, Spiritualism. For a writer, it is a brilliant resource. Spiritualism had a considerable vogue before and after the First World War, but nowadays it is deeply unfashionable. As a result, there is a cornucopia of wonderful but neglected materials for me to plunder.

 

At my bedside I have volumes with such evocative titles as Life Beyond the Veil, Gone West and The Living Dead Man. They all date from the time around the First World War and have a sense of the drama and intensity involved in the time. But wait a moment, you might say, aren’t they too spooky for the bedside? Not at all. They make splendid bedtime reading, often cheering, frequently astonishing, always fascinating. I have dog-eared many a must-revisit page, made vertical lines in the margins of read-again extracts, and added double – or even treble – lines for especially mind-boggling material.

 

But how much can I trust such things, I hear you ask. Well, there are basically four answers to this:

 

• Firstly, I can check the materials for consistency. How do they match up against each other – and also against more recent material coming from Near Death Experiences and Hypnotic Regression? Do they support or contradict each other?
• Secondly, I can ask how far the stories match up with common sense. That is, do the humans behave as humans (albeit in different circumstances)?
• Thirdly, I can employ the Inner Resonance guide (as mentioned above) – do the stories and descriptions ring true?
• Fourthly, as a novelist I can ask whether they would make darn good tales.

 

That last one is a good criterion for me. I am engaged on writing an updated Divine Comedy trilogy in which the scope and vision of Dante are compounded with the buddy-style interplay of, say, Butch and Sundance. A mismatched pair of cousins are sent to quarrel their way through Earth, Hell and even Heaven (which is not where you’d expect to see a lot of quarrelling, but they’ll find a way).

 

Recently I have been busy with Book Two, A Short, Selective Journey Through Hell, and have happily drawn on Life Beyond the Veil, Gone West and The Living Dead Man, as well as plenty of other resources.

 

Well yes, you might say. Rattling good tale, you might say. But is it all true? Do you really believe all that stuff?

 

Well, my friends, believe is a funny word. It implies loyalty to one set of propositions and not to another. This can be very limiting, and, if you are a scientist, it can be disastrous. There you go building your career on – what? – certainties about dinosaur bones, about continental drift or perhaps even the speed of light, and then along comes evidence to prove your whole life is one big mistake.

 

No, belief is a very limiting word. Let’s go with something rather more open. It has been suggested that science fiction writers do a lot better in the Next World than saintly believers, and this seems credible to me because science fiction writers are in the business of imagining the unimaginable. They’re not held down by the diving boots of belief.

 

So let’s say I value Life Beyond the Veil, Gone West, The Living Dead Man and suchlike for their Wow factor. They may or may not hold vast amounts of truth, but I can try to check them for consistency, common sense and resonance. And, having done so, I’m inclined to say yup, they make the better story. 

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone (by my most excellent and trusty pal, Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

Walking the Way of Twitter

C'mon folks, let's Walk the latest Way of Enlightenment...

 

Walking along with a trusty pal...

 

Twitter has many uses but one that I particularly relish is taking it for a walk. You see, the body needs daily exercise and it seems only sociable to invite Twitter along. So I step out of the door, get that nice rush of fresh-air feeling, and wonder what the topic is for the day. What indeed shall I tweet about?

 

I open myself to whatever comes along, inside me or outside, and the results tend to be half poetic, half humorous, half philosophical (which makes three halves – so probably not half mathematical). To give an example, some friends were kind enough to express appreciation of a shadow sequence. So let’s start by giving it a re-run:

 

• Taking my shadow for a walk – midday he just wants to point north. Doesn’t matter what I do – run, jump, stroll – he only wants north
• Sociable chap my shadow. Mixes it with whoever we pass – tree shadow, wall shadow, fence shadow – he just loves to get in there and mingle
• Started heading south – shadow sulked behind me like it’s the last direction he wants. I turned north, and he loved it, stretching way ahead
• I’ll say this for my shadow, he’s not choosy. He’ll slide over any sort of ground – potholes, dog stuff, mud – he’ll crawl over the lot

 

Another one I quite enjoyed was about some rather amorous air:

 

• Woohoo, air getting a bit fresh with me as I walk. Stroking my cheek, tousling my hair. Gerroff, you cheeky thing...
• Air says it didn’t do nuffin. It was me walking through it what caused the impression of being stroked. Accuses me of getting fresh with it.
• Oh yeah, oh yeah, says I, so how come you’re stroking my cheekbones while I stand here, eh? That’s definitely your breeze getting fresh...
• Air says if I’m going to pick a fight, will I kindly stop breathing it in and out. Doesn’t like unfriendly lungs and nasal passages (cheek!)

 

Now, I could get all theoretical and say this sort of thing is about Being In The Moment (The Power Of Now, that sort of thing). Or I could say it’s about Personification: infusing the environment with the Life of the Imagination. Or I could say it’s about being Entangled (quantumly or otherwise) with the Universe about us. Or I could say it’s Playing (cos that’s how humans learn – through play). But all this is theory and it takes us away from the real thing, so let’s go back to the tweets. Here’s another set, this time about birdies:

 

• I know what the birds are doing – they’re knitting a soundscape. You need special eyes to see it with. Mine are on the side of my head.
• What do the birds do with their soundscape? Slide along it, of course. You might think they’re flying but their wings are only for balance.
• You see, the birds stretch their soundscape from tree to tree – strands of it, webs of it – and then they can abseil along – whee!
• Yes, I know some birds fly high, but there are invisible anchor points up there. They drape their song between them and skim along on sound

 

All of these sequences have been a bit rural, but urban experiences can sometimes do just as well:

 

• Lunch at Wetherspoons, Harrogate. Close the eyes and listen. Murmur and burble of conversation, near and far, surging in waves...
• Play at sound-recordists in Wetherspoons food bar. Shut your eyes and hear the wildlife, the grunts and rumbles of a wildebeest herd...
• Human voices at wildebeest pitch, surging and murmuring. The herd is at lunch, grazing off plates, clustering round glasses...
• Lunch in the cafe-bar and the game is Wildebeests. Close your eyes, hear the Serengeti herd – braying and grazing, rumbling and grunting...

 

Sometimes, of course, I just walk along and there’s nothing special to say. So that’s the topic:

 

• I tilt my head as I walk, swing my shoulders. It’s that sort of day – nothing special, just swinging lazily along the road...
• Stretching the spine, ease back between the shoulders. It’s that sort of day – nothing special, just stretching and easing along...
• I feel the impacts of feet on ground, the echoes in knees and hips. It’s that sort of day – nothing special, just easy impacts as you go...
• Loose in the joints – let them swagger, let them sway. It’s that sort of day – nothing special, just swaying and swaggering along...

 

So there you are. Walking the Way of twitter can be taken as seriously or flippantly as you like. And what’s coming up next? I don’t know, of course, except for one thing: guess what happened yesterday?

 

• Hello, there’s a silverfish on a kitchen surface. Trapped it under a glass. Mm, shall we keep it as a pet? Call it Sid perhaps..?

 

I’m considering whether to give daily updates on Sid’s progress. For instance:

 

• Want the silverfish to feel at home. We’ve put a mat on its glass to mute the light. How about a feeding bowl with ‘silverfish’ written on?

 

And so, folks, it’s goodbye from me – and goodbye from Sid. (C’mon Sid, wave to the people...)

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

The Salamander Stone, Chapter One

The Opening chapter of C J Fenge's teenage fantasy/thriller 

 

1. Second Time

_____________________________

What is mind? – no matter

What is matter? – never mind

Whately Carrington: ‘Matter Mind and Meaning’

_____________________________

Amber was crawling, her nose inches from the musty carpet, when she sensed something ahead. She stopped, willing her eyes to slice through the darkness. Nothing: just a chasm of black. With one hand she reached out, then smashed into something hard. Stifling a yell, she explored with her fingers. It was a wall. Her breath came out in a long, relieved sigh and she shifted position to cram against the wall, drawing knees up to chin to make herself as small as possible. Good; she had made it this far without being caught.

She checked her watch which glowed a ghostly 2.35 am; still plenty of time before the guards did their next round. Then she peered into the gloom, waiting for her eyes to adjust and make sense of things. She had never been here before – yet she knew every inch of this place. The stolen map, with all of today’s codes, was deep in her jeans pocket. From it she knew this was the laboratory on the fourth floor – the only place with access to Pitt’s Playpen.

The blackness was lifting: vague shapes emerged, taking on familiar forms. Computer tables, chairs, and yes, if she strained her eyes, she could just make out a door on the opposite wall, with its faintly glowing code box. That must be it. Not far now. She stretched each leg in turn, then started crawling again, carefully avoiding tangles of cables behind each desk.

She was almost there. The door was closer.

Then something hit her, an electric kick to her whole body. She stopped moving, stopped breathing.

She must have brushed a bare wire – but it wasn’t like that. It was more like her body sensing something – something hard and dangerous. 

Her eyes flicked to left and right, boring into dark corners, under tables, behind chairs. Nothing.

She moved again, but again the shock hit, like an invisible barrier directly in front.

She sat back on her heels, confused. There was nothing.... but maybe...  there was something. Faint and small, a hint of rainbow colour, suspended in the air and swirling like oil on water.

It was then that she knew who it must be and what he was doing. She tried a timid whisper: “Khiza...?”

The rainbow colours burst briefly into life, spinning like a miniature Catherine wheel. For an instant she glimpsed his face behind the rainbow, tiny, as if down a long tunnel, his jaw set and determined as he fought to reach her. But the colours were already fading, like a distant receding galaxy, coiling him away beyond reach into a pinpoint of white light. The light blinked and was gone. He was gone.

As the light vanished her body was released and she could move again. She crawled to the patch of empty air where the rainbow had swirled. There was nothing to show that Khiza had ever been. 

She was shaking so much she needed to sit. But as she carefully manoeuvred her legs into position, her left hand brushed something grainy and rough. It was a tiny spill of sand strewn over the carpet, right in front of the door. She bent low over it, breathing in the sun-seared smell of Africa, of Khiza, and her heart faltered; it was too much. He had nearly made it through. After all these months of loneliness and loss, he had come so close to reaching her.

But why had he tried to get through here, right inside the labs? And why had she felt his presence like a barrier?

Amber’s back prickled, an instinctive animal reaction, and she swivelled to face the door to Pitt’s Playpen. For an instant she knew the answer: evil lay behind that door and Khiza was trying to warn her.

Then common sense kicked in. That was stupid. There could be no evil in an English boarding school, only secrets.

She glanced around the lab at tiny red lights blinking rhythmically, giving away the positions of concealed cameras. And there were hidden microphones and motion sensors as well, an intricate security system supported by guards. Whatever this school was hiding, they were pretty big secrets to need all this.

Her fists clenched. This whole set up stank. She had to find out what was going on. No-one else had the guts; not even James who’d stolen the maps and codes. James was shit-scared, like the others, waiting in the dorm till she returned. But she wasn’t scared, and Khiza wouldn’t be either. If he’d got through he’d have been the first into that lab.

She gazed up at the door looming above her and guarding its secrets. This was the really tough bit. James hadn’t been able to steal these codes. All he’d said was: You’ll get in. Just use the ability you have – I know you’ll get in.

 Did he know? Did this clever kid really know about her ‘ability’? How could he? No one but Khiza knew. Not her mum, not even her dad when he was alive... but James was right, she didn’t need codes. With her ‘ability’ breaking in should be a pushover.

Shuffling to face the door, she sat cross-legged like at assembly, then swept her hair behind her ears in one quick, decisive movement. She put her hands together on her lap, closed her eyes, and relaxed with deep, slow breaths.

And as she breathed a vision splashed into her mind of the first time this had happened. How old was she then? About five, maybe, and playing alone in the alley behind her house, making patterns in the dust with her new necklace. An African boy, a kid about her own age, had suddenly appeared – from nowhere. It didn’t matter: she was young enough to expect the world to be surprising, and they had played together quite happily – until something made them both look up. A dog was bounding towards them, a monstrous black thing with slavering jaws and yellow eyes. The dog made a great leap and launched itself at Amber’s throat.

But it never reached her.

Because time slowed down.

The dog was suddenly floating in mid air, like in a dream; even its growls were lengthened into low suspended moans. Amber remembered staring into its open jaws, only inches from her eyes, and watching as a globule of spit expanded in increments. The spit tipped over, ever so slowly, out of the dog’s mouth, dangling like a greasy bubble on a string.

It was then that terror took over and she’d leapt to her feet. The strange boy disappeared back to his own world as Amber ran round the motionless, suspended dog, and charged for her house. Only as she slammed the back door, screaming for her mum, did time catch up with her again.  

After that, everything changed. Her mum and dad hadn’t believed her, not even about the boy. But this strange slowing down, this ‘Second Time’, occurred again, and then again. And these were the times when the boy she came to know as Khiza, appeared. And when Second Time happened, Amber knew their bodies really changed, their cells separating and sliding around the atoms of the world. Even solid objects became like liquid which she and Khiza could move through and beyond.

These memories vanished as Amber breathed in again, deeply. Khiza had tried to use Second Time just now. He had failed, but maybe she could do it, if only she could get into the right frame of mind. 

She relaxed again and held her breath... concentrating... waiting...

At last her breath released and her body slumped. It was no use; it wouldn’t come. She felt a rising scream of anger and frustration. This poxy school had stripped away everything to do with her previous life. Second Time had gone; she had lost contact with Khiza. She had no home anymore, no dad, and her mum was....

Amber stopped herself consciously and with a violent effort from going down that road. It led nowhere. Just frustration. Then she glanced at the door again. It was impossible to break in now: her only hope was to get back undetected. And yet, she thought as she sat there pondering, this defeat could still appear like a victory. She smirked as a complicated and exciting story began to form in her mind. It could sound brilliant. It would be a cinch. She could tell James and the others about the guards she’d dodged, about their weapons and traps. And she could take something from this lab, to prove she’d got this far.

She turned, scanning the room for something to pinch, seeing on the edge of a table what looked like a code book, top secret. That would do. She started to move towards it – and then stopped. A faint sound was wafting through the door behind her, the sound of voices.

Amber shuffled back to the door and pressed an ear to it, hearing the voices getting louder as if the speakers were coming towards her. She recognised one; it was the Headmaster. What the hell was he doing in the labs at – she checked her watch – at 3.05 in the morning? She pressed closer, listening intently.

“I had expected better of you, Dr Cheung. This subject is a failure. You will have to change subjects.”

Change subjects? What did the Head mean? She knew Dr Cheung was an important scientist, but was that how you spoke to such a man, telling him to change subjects, like a pupil changing from History to French?

There was an indistinct mumbling from Dr Cheung, and then, louder still, the Headmaster continued: “I will hear no more of this.” He was clearly getting angry. “These results are poor. You will choose another subject.”

There was a fumbling at the door and a gentle hiss as an electronic bolt slid out of place. The door to Pitt’s Playpen was about to open. With a start, Amber realised she must hide, and quickly.

She had just started moving when she heard, louder still, something totally unexpected: “No, Dr Cheung, you cannot have Amber Brigantia, not yet.”

Amber froze.

The door opened and she looked up, full into the face of the Headmaster, Dr Lawrence Pitt.

The lights came on and from all around alarms blared.

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

The Rescue of Abdul Baha

 A Tale of Life, Death and Armageddon 

 

Wellesley Tudor Pole in officer's uniform, 1917

 

Having recently exchanged pleasant tweets with a follower of Baha’i, I thought I might share some material from my biography of Wellesley Tudor Pole (TP), a friend and helper of Abdul Baha.

Let me set the scene. It is 1918, the last year of World War One, and TP has been appointed to military intelligence - having been wounded the previous December in the fighting outside Jerusalem. It is a job carrying vast responsibilities, some official, some unofficial - and one of his unofficial responsibilities, a self-chosen one, is to keep Abdul Baha alive...

 

*****

 

By February TP was D.O.E.T.A. (Director of Occupied Enemy Territory Administration) based in Cairo. ‘You have no conception of what that phrase means and what gigantic issues it involves,’ he wrote to David Russell. (7.2.18) Nowadays we would expect such issues to involve Moslems and Jews, but back in 1918, TP hoped another faith, Bahai, might be the key. This, however, could depend on keeping Abdul Baha alive, as TP wrote to Sir Mark Sykes (M.P. and negotiator of the famous Sykes-Picot agreement):

 

On returning from Cairo and the hills round Jerusalem, having received the close attention of a Sniper in a fig tree; I ran across my friend Mohi-el-Dine Sabri. He was anxious to send you his greeting and friendly remembrances and I promised to oblige. The Turkish Line will probably run through Haifa shortly. The Bahai leader and his family are in imminent danger and at the moment, of course, we are powerless. His position and prestige is not understood among the Authorities here. It is not even realised that he controls a remarkable religious movement, wholly devoid of political and military associations; which can number many millions of adherents throughout the Near and Middle East. Jews, Moslems of various sects, Christians, Parsis, Hindoos, Kurds unite under the Bahai banner of Spiritual Fellowship. May not these people contribute much, later, to the harmonising of Sectarian and Oriental Religious feuds? Is it too much to ask the Authorities at home to request the Authorities here to afford Abdul Baha every protection and consideration?

(Letter from TP to Sir Mark Sykes M.P., 24.12.17, in File 23353/W/44: Foreign Office 371 3396)

 

TP, of course, did not rely on just one line of communication. He alerted other contacts who duly spread the word, but when he got into his new job as D.O.E.T.A. he found the danger acute. Part of his work involved intelligence gathering – from reconnaissance flights, captured enemy soldiers, intercepted wireless broadcasts and the like – and he did not relish the intelligence he gathered:

 

Early in March 1918 information reached me from our own espionage service that the Turkish Commander-in-Chief, whose headquarters was then between Haifa and Beirut, had stated his definite intention to take the lives of Abdul Baha and those around him should the Turkish Army be compelled to evacuate Haifa and retreat north.

(Writing On The Ground, 1968, p.152)

 

This gave TP a problem. How could he prevent murders taking place in a city 70 or so miles north of the British lines? His answer was to use an unconventional weapon:

 

General Allenby is always referred to in the Arabic Press as ‘Al Naby’ (Prophet) this being the nearest possible Arabic translation of ‘Allenby’. Among the Moslem population in Egypt, Syria and elsewhere [such] coincidences have aroused considerable comment, for the Eastern mind is always on the alert to unravel any signs and symbols that seem to possess either religious or historic significance.

(Letter from TP to Hannen Swaffer, 31.12.17)

 

Could one prophet, then, be used to rescue another? Could ‘Al Naby’ be prompted to make the appropriate threats on behalf of Abdul Baha? Such threats might have the right effect, but TP would need to achieve some better string-pulling than last time. He conveyed some blunt appeals to such titled ladies back home as Lady Paget and Lady Blomfield, and they in turn got to work on titled men (that’s how it was in 1918). The titled men, Lords Plymouth, Balfour and Lamington, made sure the problem was presented to Cabinet (Lloyd George, Milner, Lord Curzon and Balfour himself) and as a result instructions were cabled direct to Allenby, who thereupon issued orders for the protection of Abdul Baha.

 

Direct protection had to wait several months, though, because General Ludendorff mounted a huge offensive on the Western Front, and many of Allenby’s soldiers were diverted to France. Fresh forces arrived from India (including, usefully for that terrain, cavalry) but Allenby wanted his experienced soldiers back. He didn’t get them.

 

What he did get were planes – Bristol Fighters, Martinsydes, a few Nieuports and a single Handley Page bomber – and these were the machines which carried out the most alarming part of Allenby’s Blitzkrieg.

 

From the 19th to the 21st of September, two Turkish armies, the 8th (under Mustapha Kemal) and the 7th (under Djevad Pasha) were virtually destroyed by very low bombing and machine gun attacks – their trucks, limbers, wagons and guns ending up as tangled masses of metal.

 

And thus began the dominance of air power in warfare.

 

The most evocative aspect of this new type of warfare is the place where it occurred: Megiddo, or, to give it the more famous variant, Armageddon. Armageddon is some way north of Jerusalem, roughly between Nazareth and Caesarea, and if there is anything in prophecies linked to its name, perhaps that something is a warning about getting blasted from the sky.

 

An upshot of this particular Armageddon was that two days later British and Indian forces took Haifa, and outriders from the Mysore Lancers were immediately despatched to guard Abdul Baha’s house. And thus TP’s protection efforts were fulfilled.

 

The whole episode was summed up by the Secretary of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of the British Isles writing many years later in 1969:

 

The place of Major Tudor Pole in the annals of the Baha’i faith will rest chiefly on the part he played during 1918 as an integral part of the circumstances whereby Abdul Baha’s life was spared.

            At the time he was almost certainly the only British Army officer who knew the place that Abdul Baha occupied in the hearts of the Baha’is. When, therefore, he learned as an intelligence officer from reliable sources that Jamal Pasha, Commander of the Turkish Army then undergoing severe defeat in the Western Desert, had threatened to crucify Abdul Baha and his family on Mt. Carmel if the Turks were forced to withdraw from Haifa, he promptly did all in his power to bring the danger to the knowledge of influential friends in London and through them to the Foreign Office and the Cabinet. General Allenby was expressly instructed by cable to extend every protection and consideration to Abdul Baha, his family and friends when the British marched on Haifa.

(The Messenger of Chalice Well, number 10, 1969)

 

*****

 

There are other tales concerning Abdul Baha in The Two Worlds of Wellesley Tudor Pole, but stories of life, death and Armageddon are of obvious interest, so this is the one I selected. If you wish to know more about the book a link can be found in the left column of this blog.

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone by C J Fenge (Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

The Soul of Britain

 

 

Dancers on the Mall, 4th June 2002

 

Let's ask what Britain is – or should be – about. What is its identity? What is the soul of Britain? As soon as I ask, I have a vision. It comes from ten years ago, Tuesday 4^th June 2002 to be precise, the final day of the Golden Jubilee celebrations.

 

The day was a day of two processions along the Mall, one away from Buckingham Palace, the other towards it. The first occurred in the morning, the other in the afternoon. And both were televised. 

 

I didn’t pay much attention at first. I left the picture on but turned the sound down, and I was in and out of the room, doing various jobs. So I was only vaguely aware of the morning procession. I knew it involved uniforms on horseback, arrival at St Paul’s Cathedral, and lots of red white and blue flags. 

 

Later on, though, something caught my eye. It was the start of the afternoon procession, the one that headed the other way, towards the Palace. And it had nothing to do with horses, uniforms or tradition. It was – of all things – the Notting Hill Carnival, transplanted from its usual route and shimmering past hundreds of thousands of cheering spectators on the Mall, whilst simultaneously entering the living rooms of the watching nation. 

 

My jaw dropped. I know that because there was an unaccustomed lengthening to my mouth, a hint of chin touching collar, an open-lipped audibility of breath. It stayed dropped. Chiffon foliage rose out of people’s heads, multicoloured wings spread from their shoulders, rainbow sails sprouted from backs, boat-like bustles from hips. As I watched the procession sweep the high air, I felt I was witnessing more than human bodies – some, admittedly, in sinuous bikinis – but auras too, spiritual emanations, the souls of the participants. 

 

But was it just my imagination? I turned up the sound and listened in as studio experts made similar comments – about expanding souls, about displaying spirit. Wow, I thought, this was a new Britain. The morning Britain had been good – splendid even, in its pageantry – but the afternoon Britain was something more. Here were new arrivals of British people, bringing new types of wonders, and how were they received? Enthusiastically, I observed. Rapturously, even. 

 

Shortly afterwards came more glory – massed Gospel choirs, 5,000 strong, and fronted improbably by a row of shirt-sleeved, lustily-singing, streamer-waving policemen. And leading them all was Patti Boulaye, the British Nigerian singer. She had arranged the song, ‘Celebration’, and trained the choirs. Now she now came strutting and sashaying along the Mall, garbed in flowing gold, and looking as close to a goddess condensing from the air as might ever be imagined. 

 

There were other treats – five decades of food, fashion and music on floats, a contingent of bike-revving Hells Angels, Chelsea Pensioners, the British Legion – but the idea that encapsulated it all for me came in the parade of Commonwealth nations. I squinted, stared – what was I seeing? – yes, it was Namibia’s float, and what was that flag on it? – a different Union Jack – same shape but different colours, washed by the sun so the reds and blues converged into oranges and greens. 

 

To my perception that summarised the day. The morning had been red white and blue, full of mounted pageantry, military bands and church-based spirituality. Then the procession changed direction, and the afternoon colours were sun-washed, and the pageantry became carnival, the music became gospel, and spirituality was released into the open air. 

 

Afterwards, this idea of two flags played about my mind for a long time. I wanted to write a blog about it, but blogs hadn’t been invented yet – not in my world anyway – so the ideas were stowed in the attic of my head. But what I wanted to discuss was the Union Jack. I wanted to discuss its peculiarly radiant shape, as if its many lines – vertical, diagonal, horizontal – wished to burst their bounds and spread to all corners of the globe – as indeed they did in the time of Empire, as indeed they did in that era of mixed motives and contrasting achievements. 

 

But Empire is no more, and I felt the Union Jack should now be joined by another flag – not replaced, of course, but supplemented. I envisaged a combination of two Jacks arranged diagonally at right angles, with flagpoles crossing. And the new one, the Sun-Washed Jack would show what happened when all corners of the globe flowed back along those radiating lines, painting the flag with sun, enriching it with other cultures. 

 

Then I focused more carefully on the colours. Red and blue are military colours, opposed, glaring at each other from opposite ends of the spectrum, mediated only by a pure and chilly white. But in the Sun-Washed version the colours would converge, red softening to orange, blue merging to green, white warming its way into gold. 

 

And that led me to consider two types of Britain: the red white and blue version reaching back in time, embodying roots, stability, and the potential – at least – of Wisdom. As a counter-balance, the Sun-Washed version would reach not in time but geography, embodying welcome, generosity and the potential – not always fulfilled – of Love. Not a bad pair of qualities for the Soul of Britain – Wisdom and Love – even if, for the time being, they are somewhat rudimentary in development. 

 

Those are the sorts of thoughts I was having back in June 2002. But what do I think to the vision now? Well, visions are necessarily idealised. They are glimpses of essence, intuitions of potential, little more. But they have this merit, they help in orientation. If you know what you are aiming for you don’t head off in other directions. Specifically, if you are aiming towards the love/wisdom end of things, you don’t bother hankering after traits from the past, like imperial power or splendid isolation. 

 

So there you are: I know, as a Briton, which way to set my moral compass. Others, of course, must make their own decisions – as is only wise (and loving).

______________________________

 

Footnote: this year is 2012, the year of alleged cosmic wonders, the year of London Olympics, and the year of another Jubilee – Diamond this time. Wonder how it will go? What should we do about it?

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone by C J Fenge (Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

Nkosi Sikeleli Africa - God Bless Africa!

 

Opening Ceremony: 2010

 

Watching the opening ceremony for the South Africa World Cup back in June 2010, I was startled to see faces I recognised. The camera kept selecting (as cameras will) sweet and smiling girls in the crowd. And I knew them! Yes I did – yet I’d never met them.

 

How? Because I had taught so many sweet and smiling girls in Zimbabwe back in the late 1980s. The same openness. The same innocence. Zimbabwe then was an earthly paradise, so far as my family and I were concerned. We arrived in 1986 and soon got to know a few of the schools.

 

Here’s an example of their innocence. As an end of term treat, Chris would take in a video of Indiana Jones for her girls (at Evelyn High School) which they watched through their cardigans, peeping through gaps in the material and shrieking in terror at Indy’s latest fix.

 

An example of their openness. Some boys from a neighbouring school were visiting my school (Montrose Girls High School) – so Portia Maseko and her pals came up to me. “Mr Fenge, we know you love us, so will you please introduce us to those boys?”

 

I wrote a song once: ‘Love Is Just Another Name For Africa’. I’d play it for you now if I had the right equipment. No, hang on, I’d play something else. I’d play my choirs singing ‘Nkosi Sikeleli Africa’ (God Bless Africa).

 

I had 120 highs, standing one side of the hall, singing above the melody – and 120 lows, standing the other side, singing below it. The rest of the school, about 600, stood in the middle and sang the tune itself, so we ended up with three-part harmony – and it was real hairs-on-the-back-of-your-neck stuff. That’s what I’d play for you, but, as I say, I need to get the right equipment.

 

Anyway, the point of the post is this: the earthly paradise of Zimbabwe is no more. I thought that I – we – were training up the future of a beautiful country. But that was twenty or more years ago and, given the life expectancy in Zimbabwe (especially Matabeleland where we taught) many of our girls will probably be dead.

 

So, as I looked at the earthly paradise of South Africa in June 2010, with all those sweet and smiling faces – whom I so nearly recognised – I just hoped they wouldn’t get another Mugabe. They’ve had a Mandela and that’s got them off to a fantastic start (fantastic, because such people are the stuff of fantasy). But there are a lot of Mugabes in the world, and only mature democracies can hope to shift them.

 

So Nkosi Sikeleli Africa. God bless them. They might need a bit of help from above.

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone by C J Fenge (Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

Thoughts on Mother’s Day: A Moment of Contact

 

In her prime, c.1944

It was Mother’s Day on Sunday and as we sped along the M1 to visit Chris’s mum, I remembered visiting my own mother a couple of weeks earlier...

 

On that occasion we’d been driving into Harrogate, and from our direction the road passes Stonefall Cemetery, which is Mum’s last earthly residence. “Do you want to pay a visit?” asked Chris as we went by Rudding Lane and began the uphill section that would take us past the cemetery.

 

Two thoughts wafted into mind, one after the other. The first was: Duty Visit (don’t fancy it). The second: Spontaneous Visit (might be fun). I let them fight it out till a whim of freedom gave Spontaneous Visit the victory. So we pulled into Sainsbury’s car park, crossed Wetherby Road, and strode into the cemetery (noticing, by the way, the swarms of pushed-over headstones – victims of health-and-safety silliness – and which looked, if anything, worse than the desecrated war graves in Benghazi).

 

My decision to visit was a good one because something unexpected happened. We stood at the foot of the grave, commenting on the cleaned-up marble headstone and the arrangement of (mostly) plastic flowers. “We did a decent job last year, lot whiter now... Flowers look faded; plant another rose bush maybe...”

 

After a while Chris wandered off to read some other headstones and imagine some other lives, while I stayed where I was, conducting the sort of internal conversation where you imagine the answers even if you can’t exactly hear them.

 

“Hope you like the headstone now.”

 

“Well done, thou good and faithful...” (Mum did love her cheery quotes.)

 

“Weather improving now.”

 

“Ruddle ob Sprig...” (Blocked nose + “Rustle of Spring” – a favourite joke.)

 

And so on.

 

Except that isn’t how it went. I didn’t feel or imagine any words of reply. Nothing cheery, nothing jokey. Instead I felt something else, a sense of contact. Let me tell you how such a contact feels. It’s like a shining across the upper back – the shoulder blade region, the upper spine region – where angels’ wings would grow if I had any. Such sensations always come to me with a sense of authenticity. You might, of course, wonder if I imagine the authenticity. Fair enough, but I don’t share the wonder. To me the contact feels entirely real – with a capital ‘r’ – Real. And that, for me, is that.

 

Naturally, there’s not much substance to such a contact. It’s an inner thing, not outer. Words, meanings, messages are all unlikely, because its savour is beyond limitation. It feels further. Freer.

 

I’d not expected this because it wasn’t Mum’s style, or at least didn’t use to be. Imaginary chats would be more in line with her persona, and always feasible enough because so many of her catch phrases have become part of family lore. (“We’re in MacGregor, we’re in... I’ve got to be up at Sparrow-fart [= dawn]... Home James, and don’t spare the horses...”) So it was natural to imagine her as staying close to the Earth plane, within chatting range, available, accessible.

 

Not any more, though. That contact I sensed did not seem limited to the Earth plane. It seemed subtler, softer, a glimpse of opening vistas. So what had happened? She is, of course, fully entitled to move on in the twelve years since her departure. Is that what has happened? Has she evolved deeper, further into the great magnificent Beyond?

 

Or is it just me? Have I become more susceptible to such touches? Either way, it feels like contact with her is more a matter of essence now.

 

Less of the everyday; more of the essential; less of the Earth-moulded persona; more of the Being who inhabits infinity.

 

So there I was, standing by the grave as Chris went off wandering and wondering. And what I did was remain there. I did try moving away but it seemed preferable to stay. I tried again, but once more it seemed a better idea to stay. After all, that sense of contact – that shine along the upper back, that glow in the shoulder blades, that subtle light along the spine, that hint of quasi-angelic wings – it was all worth sticking around for. You don’t get a lot of such things in everyday life, so you may as well linger when they happen.

 

Eventually I went, of course. Said hello to Chris. Walked back. Passed the officially vandalised headstones. Returned to the car. Drove on to Harrogate. Had a nice day. Visited places Mum used to work and walk, especially the Valley Gardens. (Everyone who knows Harrogate knows the magical amazing Valley Gardens.)

 

And that’s it. In one sense, nothing much happened – just a sensation along the upper back.

 

In another sense, though, a huge amount happened. A door opened, one that rarely swings open so easily, a door onto the great magnificent Beyond, a vista where I can now begin to envisage my mum. Gosh, what a great holiday for her.

 

As for me, good job I chose the Spontaneous Visit option.

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone by C J Fenge (Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

*****

There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

*****

The Lost Gospels: What Really Happened 2000 Years Ago?

 

Fragment of the Gospel of Judas

 

Back in September 2010 I watched a ninety minute TV documentary by (Rev) Peter Owen Jones where he looked at the things he was never taught in Theological College. He arranged these under various headings, beginning with an overview of what was lost.

 

Apparently, it was Bishop Athanasius of Alexandria who compiled the ‘canonical’ list of 27 New Testament ‘books’ in the fourth century. As a result of this over fifteen Gospels, about fifty other texts referring to Jesus, and fifty or so Apocalypses became disapproved and, hence, banned. And so they disappeared – until recent times.

 

Gnostic Texts

In December 1945 a cache of papyrus texts was discovered (and nearly destroyed) by goat herds at Nag Hammadi in Egypt. Amongst these was the Gospel of Thomas, not a biographical text like the canonical gospels but a collection of the sayings of Jesus. These have a Zen-like elusiveness which demands insight (or ‘gnosis’) from the reader and hence makes them inaccessible to some outlooks. For example: ‘If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.’ This elusiveness did not fit with the salvation-for-all message of the early church fathers, so the Gospel of Thomas became lost. (Indeed in A.D. 447 Pope Leo ordered all gnostic texts to be ‘burnt with fire’.)

 

Mary Magdalene

Another Nag Hammadi text is the Gospel of Philip which gives prominence to Mary Magdalene. For instance; ‘The Saviour loved her more than the other disciples’ – and – ‘He kissed her many times on the...’ The missing word, alas, was eaten by ants during the centuries when the gospel lay hidden in its cave, but the best guess based on analysis of Coptic grammar would be ‘mouth’. Whatever the word, though, we have something pretty explosive here. It would appear that Mary Magdalene was more important to Jesus than was Peter, on whom the whole edifice of male-dominated Christianity became built. This impression is strengthened by looking at another missing gospel. After 1897 British archaeologists, excavating ancient rubbish dumps around the Egyptian town of Oxyrinthus, found portions of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene. In this Mary conveys her understanding of Jesus’s teachings – before and after his death – to the other disciples, which once again emphasises her greater importance. These two gospels suggest a strong role for women in the early church, an impression that Peter Owen Jones bolstered by taking us into the Catacomb of Priscilla beneath Rome, where frescoes in the ‘Greek Chapel’ show women taking prominent parts in Christian rituals.

 

The Nature of Jesus

Owen Jones then moved on to other Lost Gospels, for instance the Gospel of Peter, found in Egypt in 1886 by French archaeologists. In this Jesus does not actually die on the cross because he is entirely divine and therefore incapable of death – or even of suffering. Hence his passion is an illusion. This outlook contrasts with that found in the Gospel of the Ebionites where Jesus is entirely human and plays host to the divine Christ spirit only after his baptism in the Jordan. This gospel is completely lost and we only know about it because of the vigorous written opposition it aroused.

 

The Nature of God

The Ebionites emphasised the Jewishness of their faith, whereas Marcion entirely rejected it. In The Antitheses Marcion of Sinope contrasts Old Testament texts with Jesus texts and decides they are so radically different they must involve different gods. For instance, where Leviticus forbids the touching of lepers, Jesus touches a leper to heal him. Because of examples like this, Marcion decides the god of Jesus was previously unknown to us – ‘a Stranger God’ – who gives love and forgiveness and saves us from the vengeful god of the Old Testament. Following the line of his logic, Marcion drew up a list of texts, entirely excluding the Old Testament and including only the Gospel of Luke and ten letters by Paul. However, the response from his fellow churchmen was to excommunicate him.

 

Choosing the Canon

Nonetheless, Marcion’s list set a precedent, and eventually we ended up with the canonical list of 27 approved texts. How were they decided upon? Largely in response to Roman policy, is the answer. First of all, the Romans martyred so many Christians that it became logical for Christians to favour those gospels which emphasised Christ’s passion and death. (After all, Gnostic riddles would not give much consolation to the bereaved and the persecuted – which may be why the less persecuted Egyptian Christians retained more loyalty to those texts, burying them when ordered to burn them). Secondly, when Constantine converted in 312 A.D. he wanted a unified Christianity to help unify his fragmented empire. Therefore he and his successors supported those leaders who, like Athanasius, wanted to exclude such controversial texts as the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.

 

Final thoughts

Early Christianity sounds to me very much like a New Age religion – lots of interesting and exciting ideas, some weird, some fascinating, some challenging, some uplifting. In this respect it sounds a little bit like the present New Age buffet. We don’t have the disadvantage of Romans messing things up nowadays, but give us time. Soon we’ll have some power hungry dictators telling us which ideas we are allowed to accept and practise. And if we go for anything different, well, get ready to be burnt!

 

*****

You might like to purchase the Salamander Stone by C J Fenge (Mrs Me) from one of these outlets:

Amazon UK (£3.85 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449520&sr=1-1

 

Amazon.com (US – for $6.16 on Kindle) http://www.amazon.com/The-Salamander-Stone-ebook/dp/B007QXWDIQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333449621&sr=1-2

 

Direct from the publisher, Burst Books (at $5.99 for e-book version)

http://burstbooks.ca/product.php?id_product=60

 

(It will be become available in paperback in a few weeks time...)

 

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There again you might wish to visit the website:

http://thesalamanderstone.com/

or the Pinterest board:

 http://pinterest.com/chrisfenge/the-salamander-stone/

 

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