Sorted Magazine

Tag: Val Fraser

  • From the archive: A ‘mischief maker’ tells all

    From the archive: A ‘mischief maker’ tells all

    Navigating my way through the maze of Manchester’s streets, my mind was filled with intrigue. I was on my way to meet Andrew Graystone, a man who accidentally became something of an urban legend.

    Back in 2019, a gunman walked into two mosques in Christchurch (New Zealand) during Friday prayers and shot 51 people dead – and wounded 49 others.

    Graystone wanted to be near his Muslim neighbours for their own Friday prayers and made a last-minute decision to go and stand outside his local mosque holding a simple handwritten message. It read: “You are my friends. I will keep watch while you pray.”

    Someone photographed him and shared the image on social media asking “Who is this guy?” The photo was shared again. And again. Within hours Graystone had gone viral. He was inundated with over 50,000 messages, millions of likes and retweets, much media attention and a message of thanks from the Prime Minister of New Zealand, Jacinda Ardern. Perhaps, like me, you saw his photo online?

    Graystone was asked to recount the events of that day to a group of people, and eventually, he wrote the story down.

    Bemused

    A friend prompted him to capture the other times in his life when he’d done something a little bit unusual. The gathering up of these seemingly random stories made Graystone aware that he was in the habit of doing things with unpredictable results. He realised these patterns had run deeply throughout his whole life. The stories are told in his playful book Faith Hope and Mischief, which was published in August 2020 and identifies these tiny acts of rebellion with the overarching term ‘everyday activism’.

    “My family will confirm that I was bemused by the whole experience,” he writes in the book. “The whole thing was unplanned, unexpected and completely disproportionate. The simple message I had tried to pass on is that friendship overcomes fear. Hatred doesn’t generate itself. It is a by-product of fear; fear of someone who is just slightly different from me.”

    Intrigued by the title of the book I asked him what does mischief mean to a Christian?

    “Faith, Hope and Mischief comes from the phrase which Paul uses in 1 Corinthians 13, where he talks about faith, hope and love,” explains Graystone. “I’m saying that mischief is an expression of love. Mischief, like love is doing things that you don’t have to do that are unexpected and unpredictable and with positive intent, but without necessarily knowing what the outcome’s going to be. That’s true of mischief and that’s true of love. You do things that you don’t have to do that have positive intent, that are unexpected and you don’t know what the outcome’s going to be.

    “Loving someone is risky, it’s making yourself vulnerable. Mischief is having a go, trying it, taking the risk. And what’s the risk? Very often the risk that I’m afraid of is that I’m going to look stupid.”

    Encouraged

    Graystone seems to be a deep-thinking man of faith, clearly saying what he means, with no duplicity of intent about him. Rather shy, but courteous and friendly, occasionally pausing before answering my next question. Rubbing his whiskered chin his eyes would briefly search the red brick wall behind me as if looking for the very truest answer. Twice, with some degree of boyish delight, he glanced skyward and simply answered: “I don’t know,” appearing to relish the opportunity of thinking about something which he hadn’t previously thought about.

    Media attention has mostly settled down since that time when tens of thousands of people got in touch to say that they were encouraged, reassured or given a little bit of hope. But Graystone isn’t concerned about the results, he continued: “I think we can be a little bit obsessive about wanting to know what the outcomes are going to be. I know some people have to measure what they’re doing but outcomes are not our business necessarily.” He added: “I think God sometimes uses the spaces where we sit and ask ‘how does this feel for someone else?’, which is a really good question to be asking.”

    Graystone has lived in a vibrant multicultural area of Manchester for over two decades. Though not a native northerner he describes himself as having become a true ‘manc’ who embraces the city and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. We drink tea and talk some more about mischief and everyday activism.

    He tells me with heartfelt warmth: “My family, my community and my church community are really important to me. I’m very committed to doing things together. The one person who could stop me from doing something daft would be my wife, unfortunately, she’s more likely to encourage me!”

    To find out more about Andrew Graystone’s book, please click here.

    Main Photo Credit: Guilherme-Stecanella via Unsplash

  • From the archive: Fogle’s inspiring quest…

    From the archive: Fogle’s inspiring quest…

    The BBC series Scotland’s Sacred Islands is so much more than a travel programme. It’s an adventure; a mighty quest!

    Like all the best heroes in all the best stories, Ben Fogle undertakes a challenging physical journey only to discover he’s really taking an inner journey of the heart.

    During his 1,000-mile trek, adventurer Fogle is closely followed across land and sea by a BBC camera crew who record his every move. In the first of four one-hour episodes, he visits the Inner Hebrides, exploring the landscape, meeting the people and investigating the spiritual aspects of this part of the world. Fogle tells us: “I follow the ancient sea roads and explore Scotland’s cradle of Christianity.”

    With his trademark narrative style and boyish curiosity, Fogle questions the locals about their connections to the land. He gently probes for answers about their spirituality and tries to understand what influence these islands have had upon them. In episodes two and three, Fogle travels across the Southern Outer Hebrides and the Northern Outer Hebrides, pausing to engage with the island dwellers and take in the stunning views. He’s done his homework, too, as he shows an understanding of the kind of human spirituality which is set against the panorama of human existence and within a broader historical context.

    STIRRING STUFF: Fogle’s latest TV offering focuses on the remoteness and beauty of Scotland.

    A seasoned broadcaster and explorer best known for his New Lives in the Wild programmes, Fogle gives the impression that he has unwittingly developed a growing awareness of something, or someone, that is ‘other’.

    Clearly, he is stirred on some deep level by the natural beauty of creation. Unashamedly searching for answers to his own spirituality Fogle follows the trail for answers. Treading lightly on both the land and the hearts of those he meets, it’s no wonder folks of all faiths and none are happy to welcome him into their private remote worlds. Scotland’s Sacred Islands is so much more than a travel programme, it’s an adventure, a mighty quest. Like all the best heroes in all the best stories, Ben Fogle undertakes a challenging physical journey only to discover he’s really taking an inner journey of the heart.

    The series culminates in a journey around the Shetland Isles, where, Fogle has a very open conversation with a nun living alone on the northernmost point of Britain. But as so often happens in life, just as we sense Fogle is getting closer to finding some answers, yet more questions arise. I’m left with the feeling that this is the beginning of his journey, not the end.

    The documentary features high production values and stunning aerial footage of some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. The cinematography is exceptional and each episode is paced to include ‘space’ for the viewer to simply drink in the magnificent scenery. These stunning montages are greatly enhanced by a selection of quality instrumentals that create an immersive feel to the viewing experience. However, as far as I can tell, no musicians are named in the closing credits. This disappointment aside, Scotland’s Sacred Islands is a wonderful tonic for the armchair traveller and spiritual seeker alike.

  • Comment: Failing and falling

    Comment: Failing and falling

    Crunching across the pebbled shore line, kayak instructor Gary, gathers up four paddles and shares them out among our group of nervous newbies. Clueless, we form a loose semi-circle around him and attempt to mimic his arms-outstretched, water-less, air-paddling techniques. In the event we fall out of the kayak and into the chilly water, Gary tells us we should simply grab the side of the boat and: “do our best impression of a seal going from sea to land”. This mental image fails to reassure me, however, his insistence that the life jackets will keep us afloat until help arrives is empowering.

    Scattered across the broad body of water, little blobs of blue, white, orange, and red bob along in a seemingly random fashion. The colourful distant blobs are occupied by one, sometimes two, tiny paddling passengers. Suddenly one of the white blobs takes off and flies majestically across the flash, Gary tells us that “up to seventy” white swans frequent this spot. They cluster together along the most sheltered water which is close to a long stone embankment. Mature woodland occupies about two thirds of the shore line, the remainder has a gradual sloping pebbled beach where the brightly coloured kayaks and paddle boards are moored. This is where we will launch from.

    Sit-on kayaks are shallow, flimsy bits of banana shaped plastic not much bigger than a baby’s bath tub. Uncoordinated paddling in tandem creates an alarming rocking motion which laps the water into the boat. The majority of it drains out of the kayak through little holes but some forms a worrying wet puddle in the seat. As the shore line gets farther and farther away the deep water grows rough and menacing and a sense of vulnerability grows with it.

    Suddenly two members of our party accidentally capsize their boat and plunge into the inky black water. Lifeless, the upside down kayak drifts aimlessly. We gasp and hold our breath for an age until two familiar heads pop up to the surface. We raise the alarm and soon a rescue craft zooms to help them upturn the boat and clamber back aboard. Their peels of laughter bounce over the water, the relief is palpable. They paddle towards the shore, but take a second tumble in the shallows. Scrambling up to the water’s edge, back on to dry land, and still giggling, they declare that: “falling in was the best part, the water is lovely!”

    Main Photo Credit: Filip Mroz via Unsplash

  • Comment: Remembering my water-gypsy ancestors

    Comment: Remembering my water-gypsy ancestors

    Beneath the trailing branches of a weeping willow tree, boat-master Mark stands, clip board in hand, calling out the names of his passengers for the day. Queuing politely, one by one, little groups step forward and board the narrow boat. Mark pauses to welcome each guest with a smile, and his assistant Gayle, warns us to mind our heads as we descend the five wooden steps down into the body of the barge.

    As the midday sun heats the air, a luminous light creates a hot fuzzy haze over the surrounding countryside. England’s distinctive greens gleam pleasantly against a turquoise sky. It is this striking colour combination, enhanced by a watery Turner-esque sort of light and shadow, which pulls phone cameras out of pockets. It’s enthralling. Everyone is taking photos. Like we’re seeing things for the first time.

    Under Mark’s careful hand, the old coal barge glides along the canal, moving just a smidge slower than some walkers on the tow path. An abundance of vegetation lines the embankment, water lilies are momentarily submerged and tall green blades bow down gracefully in the rolling wake of the boat. Every now and then the hypnotic scrolling scene is interrupted by a gaggle of baby ducklings paddling quickly atop the water as they try to catch up with Mummy.

    Up on deck Mark points to a pile of chunky, sliced tree trunk on the bank: “Last week that tree fell right across the canal and blocked our path completely, we had to get the passengers off the boat and have them picked up by coach.” He tugs his cap and chuckles: “I towed the boat back up the canal, all the way to the marina!” He seems quietly pleased that his normally uneventful journey was interrupted by a victorious mini-drama.

    Thin sandwich triangles and volcanic jam scones are served on a ceramic cake stand adorned with painted pink roses. In an unhurried fashion two smiling ladies serve us tea, coffee and fizz. Everything is mesmerizingly slow; the boat; the water; the service; the pace; the chatter; my thoughts. A tinny radio plays familiar northern soul tracks, playful children wander up and down. The underside of a low stone bridge draws a small crowd of passengers onto the small front and rear decks. They comment on the quality of the bridge’s workmanship, but the sight sends a shiver down my spine.

    I’m reminded that my great uncle was crushed when he accidentally slipped between his boat and the side of a bridge such as this. Several days passed before he died. I try to imagine what life must have been like for him and my great-grandparents who lived and worked on a canal boat similar to this one. On a warm summer’s day, in capable hands, on a well cared for boat, it feels oh so safe and civilised. In this comfortable re-imagined construct I can’t begin to understand the level of treachery and risk my ancestors endured. And perhaps I don’t have to. Perhaps they wouldn’t want me to. Perhaps they would just want me to raise a glass to them and experience the magic of a safe, slow, sail, drenched in vibrant colour and sunshine.

    Main Photo Credit: James Homans via Unsplash

  • Opinion: Is Annika all at sea?

    Opinion: Is Annika all at sea?

    Annika is either a TV crime drama, a crime drama spoof, or a comedy. I’m not sure exactly which. However you look at it, the BBC hit series is a contemporary take on the archetypal loner who tirelessly pursues justice, outwits the bad guys, no matter what the personal price. Nicola Walker plays the role of Detective Inspector Annika Strandhed, newly promoted and desperately trying to fit in and lead her team at the Marine Homicide Unit (MHU) based on the bonny, bonny banks of Scotland. Each episode conveniently races from corpse to conclusion in the space of 45 minutes. This is handy on a school night when you can’t afford to be awake at 3am trying to work out whodunnit.

    The creator, Nick Walker (no relation to Nicola Walker), and the screenwriters have carefully woven together several multi-layered story threads into each self-contained episode. The complex characters gradually unfold their individual back stories, and we get to know them bit by tiny bit. The cultural sub-plot is very much of the moment, though the dialogue is sometimes choppy and the script does seem to follow a formula. The crime drama scenario centres around a marine-based murder, usually committed by the least nasty person on screen, which is then cleverly solved. Red herrings notwithstanding, DI Annika, has her final show down with the culprit and the cuffs are on. But, as with so many police procedurals, this insightful competence is starkly contrasted by the flawed protagonist’s messy personal life and a crippling inability to solve very much of anything at all in that regard.

    Annika personifies that fashionable modern trend of always being switched ‘on’. Her head is all over the shop. She’s stressy, awkward, and never fully present in the moment. When she’s working, she over shares her personal troubles with her subordinates at every opportunity, they have no choice but to listen. When she’s with her 15-year-old daughter Morgan, who inevitably gets drawn into the saga, she seems mentally absent and still puzzling over the latest crime to be solved. When she’s enveloped by what has to be some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, Annika is stuck in her own head, mumbling musings from her mental archives.

    For good or ill, the screenwriters have employed a gimmick known as breaking the fourth wall, in which a character talks directly to camera. Remember Shirley Valentine talking to the wall, and the viewer? In that movie, another male writer, Willy Russell, took a stab at unpacking the inner workings of the female mind. I’m still working out how I feel about the integrity of that arrangement. These ‘asides’ certainly hold the viewer’s attention. Between dealing with brutally murdered corpses, Annika casually unpacks stories about her Nordic ancestors and encrypted snippets of her personal history. The viewer becomes a kind of imaginary friend or therapist. Though we’re not actually physically present in Annika’s fictional world, we’re recruited to be involved in helping to process her issues. The audience is asked not so much whodunnit, but rather, who is she?

    While the scenery, atmospheric music and production values are truly spectacular, the complex writing is thoroughly crafted and the characters are well developed, I was left feeling quite sad for Annika. She seems friendless, forlorn, desperately casting around to be liked and validated. And for all her career success she’s battling with that most modern ailment, a deep down loneliness and disconnection. I can’t figure out if Walker plays the socially awkward loner brilliantly, or if she’s just playing a parody of herself. Episode four suddenly shifts up into will-they-won’t-they gear, but before that there’s no evidence that Annika has any significant connections in her life. No Mum, sister, best friend, neighbour, romantic partner or community group. The effects of social isolation have been sort of normalised, perhaps even glamorised, on screen. Is this a brilliant work of art imitating life? Or an unhealthy invitation for life to imitate art?

    In a troubling reflection of the digital age in which we live, Annika simply sends her inner most thoughts out into the ether, reaching out to everyone, and ultimately no one. It’s a dysfunctional one-way relationship in which she controls the narrative while attempting to befriend the viewer. She’s wrestling with some big stuff, trying to figure out the way forward alone, without any wise counsel from friends. She’s married to the job so there’s just work, a saintly round-the-clock devotion to it, and not very much else. A lifestyle choice of self-medicating with alcohol, and drinking alone, is hinted at. In spite of all her cleverness, corny quips and crime case closures, Annika’s life is out of balance. She does not seem to be a happy bunny, and if I were her friend in real life, I would be really quite worried about her.

    Main Photo Credit: Val Fraser

  • Film: Sir Cliff Richard says “don’t miss” Jesus Revolution movie

    A British PR company run by Christians has bought the rights to the hit film Jesus Revolution. It is being released into UK and Irish cinemas from June 23rd and is highly anticipated. This film tells the story of revival in California in the 1970s and the key message is that church is for everyone. A spokesperson for Kova PR explained to Sorted Magazine: “We would love to see people far and wide hearing about the film’s powerful message and how the real story impacted our faith and worship music to this day.”

    “The UK church (in all its denominations and expressions) needs to get behind this message. When released in America, Jesus Revolution doubled box office estimates. We need to show cinemas here that there is demand for faith films in mainstream cinema. Getting faith films into UK cinemas is an uphill battle. We need your prayers that God would open doors by His power and for His glory. There are loads of options, from showing the trailer in your churches, to attending a key leader screening, to ticket giveaways and discount bookings and sharing on your social media. We can help, get in touch!” The UK website jesusrevolutionmovie.co.uk will be taking group bookings very soon.

    Sir Cliff Richard has thrilled his fans with a special facebook video announcement about Jesus Revolution. He said: “Don’t miss it!” Since posting there have been thousands of likes from his 300K strong Facebook following. Watch Sir Cliff’s video here

  • Comment: Creating home inside ourselves

    Comment: Creating home inside ourselves

    Dr Glenn Doyle is a licensed psychologist based in Illinois and the District of Columbia, and Director of The Doyle Practice, a private psychotherapy practice with offices in Chicago and DC. I’ve benefited from following Dr Doyle’s regular snippets of insight and wisdom which he regularly shares on his social media platforms. Dr Doyle speaks in easy to understand, sometimes colourful, language and seems utterly grounded in the reality of human existence.

    Doyle writes with far greater authority than I ever could about the internal world of the mind and the heart. With astonishing honesty he addresses the realities of living with anxiety and depression. He is particularly astute when it comes to tackling external stimuli which can trigger unwanted, overwhelming responses. His writings, and the work he does around Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) are so helpful. While researching for a book about home I was delighted to discover that he has shared some of his thoughts about the concept of home on his personal website – useyourdammskills.com.

    In his inimitable style Dr Doyle writes: Home is a complicated subject for a lot of people. I wish it was simple, straightforward. I wish that nobody had mixed feelings or associations with the word “home.”

    But we do. In the best of all possible worlds, home speaks to a place that is safe.

    A place where we feel wanted. Where we ARE wanted.

    In the best of all possible worlds, home speaks to a place where we established a safe base from which to explore and experience the world, and to which we can return to rest, recharge, and remember.

    But for many people, it’s more complicated than that.

    For some people, as they were growing up, home was a place that was unpredictable.

    We WANT home to be a place where we’re able to kind of lower the mask that we wear out in public, and be ourselves, let our hair down, let our defences down.

    But a lot of people weren’t able to do that growing up.

    For them, home was a place where they had to engage different kinds of defences and wear different kinds of masks, than they did out in the world.

    A lot of people don’t know what it’s like to feel truly safe.

    There are different kinds of safety, and different kinds of danger, both out there in the world, and even back at home, for a lot of people.

    When we grow up feeling fundamentally unsafe, we tend to blame ourselves.

    What’s wrong with us, we wonder, that we can’t or don’t feel truly safe?

    After all, we hear other people speak affectionately or nostalgically about home.

    What’s wrong with us that we don’t feel that way, we wonder?

    If you grew up feeling that home wasn’t a safe place, a place where you felt safe, wanted, understood, supported, it wasn’t your fault.

    It wasn’t on you to make home a safe place. You were a kid.

    There are people reading this who really, really want to go home but not to the house or the place where they grew up.

    We want to FIND home.

    We want to FIND that place where we DO feel safe, wanted, understood, and supported.

    Even if we kind of doubt it exists, part of us STILL wants to find, and go, home.

    As it turns out, a big part of recovery from depression, anxiety, trauma, and/or addiction is creating that sense of home inside us.

    We will try, again and again, to find or create that sense in other people, or places, or institutions, and we may even experience bits and pieces of it here and there … but the truth is, it’s on us to make the inside of our own head and heart that fundamental place of safety for us.

    We need to know, without a doubt, that we are safe inside our own head.

    We need to know, without a doubt, that we are safe with ourselves.

    We need to know, without a doubt, that we can retreat inside our head and heart, and find a landscape that is familiar and non-toxic.

    For some of us, that may be completely unfamiliar territory and we may have doubts about our ability to create that safety, that home inside of us.

    But that’s the work of recovery. That’s what’s in front of us. Nothing we do in therapy or recovery is going to matter all that much if we don’t make the inside of our own head a safe place.

    I wish so many of us didn’t have to work so hard to create a whole new meaning for the word home.

    I wish home was a default place of safety for all of us.

    But this is the hand we’ve been dealt, and all we can do, is what we can do.

    So let’s do that.

    Read more in depth articles from Dr Glenn Doyle here. Find his books here and professional services here.

    Main photo credit: Julian Hochgesang via Unsplash

  • TV: The last ever Endeavour

    TV: The last ever Endeavour

    The writers of Endeavour had earned my trust, but dare I trust them one last time? As the ninth and final season of the hit ITV crime drama broadcast the final episode I had one burning question: Could I be certain that the writers would tidy up all the loose ends to my complete and total satisfaction?

    I enjoy a nice solid ending, thank you very much. No cliff hangers, fatal accidents (Unforgotten writers; I’m looking at you), unresolved issues, sudden cut-offs, bizarre plot twists or waking from a dream two minutes before the closing credits roll. No, those options simply wouldn’t do. After all, I had let their characters into my living room, I’d invested emotionally into every single one of them, but would they stitch me up for the last episode?

    Would the charming and witty Dr DeBryn ever find love? Could Chief Superintendent Bright carry on? Would the fabulous Miss Frazil finally meet someone? What would become of young Joan, our lovely Joan? And Detective Sergeant Endeavour Morse (Shaun Evans) himself, what of the lad upon whom the main plot line rests? And oh yeah … I suppose all those pesky crimes still needed solving too. But my very worst worry was – would they kill off my beloved Fred? How could they convincingly write Detective Inspector Fred Thursday (Roger Allam), the man who had mentored Morse, out of Morse’s future?

    For dysfunctional reasons of my own I confess there’s a part of me which needs to believe in the Freds of this world. For a couple of hours Endeavour provides me with a brief respite in which to do exactly that. I desperately want to believe that the important big things are being run properly, by proper grown-ups who properly know what they’re doing. They’ve lived a life. They know people. They may be deeply flawed and human, but they are also fearless, fair and fatherly.

    Fred Thursday has seen, and been, both the very worst and the very best of people. And while he’s no stranger to rough justice, on the whole, he aims to play by the book and uphold the law. He navigates his way around the edges of turmoil, inner conflict and human suffering with equal measures of tenderness and toughness. Roger Allam commands an incredibly powerful screen presence. Without uttering a single swear word his steely glare oozes don’t-mess-with-me old school justice. He plays Thursday with such gripping force, I can barely stand to watch him play another part, and face up to the reality that he’s actually an actor.

    Another part of me needs familiar things not to end. Not to change. Not ever. Because there can be a dreadful sadness in endings. There’s a part of me which longs for familiar things, and people, to go on forever. It seems I am not alone in this longing. In the final episode of the final series the writers of Endeavour grab this issue by the horns. They face up to it, well, like grown-ups. They somehow shine a light on these longings, which are an essential part of our shared humanity, thus allowing the viewer to feel less alone. And isn’t that one of the things which good writers of fiction do? They somehow help the reader, or the viewer, to feel less alone. As the final credits rolled and the familiar Morse theme played, I knew I had been right to trust them. They did ok.

    Episodes of Endeavour are available to stream on ITVX.

    Main photo credit: Fair Usage

  • Long read: “A filthy, ugly game”

    Long read: “A filthy, ugly game”

    Strains of Sweet Chariot grow ever louder. The rain hammers down without mercy. The Guinness flows. A beautiful kick by Farrell. The crowd bounces with gleeful cheer. Tensions rise. Excitement mounts. We’re close to the end. The seconds are ticking. I watch, unaware that within a few days the Covid Pandemic will shut down the whole shooting match. Rewind three years; the Six Nations Rugby Championship is well underway and the Scottish team are going head to head with the English team. But to which players have I pledged my allegiance? Exactly where does my loyalty and commitment lie? Who am I cheering for?

    Turns out I’m cheering for anyone who’s doing their level best. I’m even cheering for the referee because he seems like a decent bloke. The camera and production crews are doing a sterling job. The commentators are on top form. So whose side am I actually on? I can claim genuine Scottish, English and Irish ancestry, so broadly speaking, I just can’t lose. My somewhat fickle allegiance will, for the remainder of the weekend at least, rest firmly with the winning side, whoever they are. By the end of today I will be victorious. It’s a certainty. I will happily identify with whichever team wins the match. “A filthy, ugly game” the commentator spits out with bright resounding Celtic force. In this battle only one team will be the conquerors. And it will be my team. My boys will win. And after downing a couple of Guinness, that seems like a perfectly fair and reasonable outcome to me.

    And isn’t that the way? Honestly? Don’t we naturally prefer to identify with the winning team? And, depending on how poorly they’ve played, we might want to distance ourselves from the losing team. Unpacking this, in terms of any kind of allegiance we may have towards a faith organisation, is a complex matter. If a particular denomination or church leader is on the receiving end of bad press the shock waves reach far beyond their immediate circle. The whole organisation can quickly fall into disrepute. Faithful supporters may feel badly let down and may voice their disillusionment. They may withdraw their giving. Those in positions of power or influence are often quick to make public statements about their take on the matter. Sometimes these statements are supportive, at other times they denounce any connection to the leader in question. The public pile in; adding fuel to the fire. It’s a different kind of “filthy, ugly game” but the “managers” are still the ones in the firing line. In faith organisations the winners and losers aren’t nearly as clear cut as they are in sporting events. And some players may be so desperately wounded and damaged that they never find the strength to return to the arena. Not even as a spectator.

    Dare I make reference to political parties at this juncture? The never ending game of politics, both at home and abroad seems to have grown especially “filthy and ugly” to me of late. I’m currently disinclined to pledge my allegiance to anyone at national level. Perhaps I’m being naïve. I’m definitely shirking my civic duty. I feel pretty lousy about that actually, especially in view of all those women who campaigned and sacrificed so that I could vote. For two months I stopped watching the news on television. The first couple of weeks were so liberating that it took a while for me to resume the habit. I’ve been less inclined to engage with political stories than I’ve ever been. In some respects I stand in awe of working politicians because of their tenacity to stay in such a brutal game. They face such cruel public scrutiny. It’s a marvel that they manage to win the allegiance of a single constituent, let alone turn up for work and do their actual job. Before the pandemic filled the news I noticed myself dodging stories about politics whenever they popped up on social media too. My mood improved but the guilt nearly crushed me.

    Perhaps to some extent this need we feel to be counted with the winning team is rooted in how we perceive the perception others have of us. I’ll say that again. Our allegiance may be influenced by how we perceive others are perceiving us because of the team, tribe or group to which we belong. Figuratively speaking each of us loosely belongs to a poorly defined tribe, by birth or by choice. Human beings are tribal by nature. This makes it all too easy to be judged as guilty, or not guilty, by association. Such perceptions can and do affect our acceptance and inclusion by others in broader society.

    Our perceived tribal membership can, for instance, affect whether or not our children get a place in the local primary school, whether we’re offered a job, whether we’re invited to the networking party. The Oxford Graduate is more likely to secure the high level job than the ex-con. The ex-con is more likely to be invited to join the local mafia than the Oxford Grad. The well connected London-based journalist with a Fleet Street pedigree is more likely to secure the lucrative publishing deal than the unknown working class northerner beavering away out in the back of beyond (not that I’m bitter). These perceptions about which tribe we are notionally part of, ill-defined and illusive as they are, matter quite a lot.

    Being a person of faith is a rewarding path which many folks choose, but it also opens up a whole world of competing loyalties, commitments and potential embarrassments.

    To whom have you pledged your allegiance? The trendy burgeoning mega-church may seem like the cool place to be, but does the celebritisation of its leaders make you feel uncomfortable? The concert type worship may be exhilarating but does the hyped up sermon exhorting you to be a totally awesome dude leave you feeling exhausted? The traditional church may seem stable and accountable, but does the glacial pace of change paralyse your hopes for improvement? The richness of ancient liturgy may stir your soul but does the stand-up-sit-down routine jangle your nerves? The warmth of maternal fellowship may be deeply comforting but does belonging to an old dears’ club undermine your hard earned street cred?

    The very act of choosing to pledge allegiance and self-identify yourself with any group of humans, anywhere on the planet, has the inherent potential to cause you irritation, embarrassment, and even shame, as sure as day follows night. It’s an inescapable part of our flawed humanity. No sports team, no political party, no faith group, no church community, no educational institution, no geographical area, no wider family, no profession, no collection of living, breathing human beings are exempt from making mistakes and getting it wrong, sometimes terribly wrong. Fellow members of your chosen tribe may even offend you. They may go off in a different direction than originally promised or expected. Leaders in particular, and their associated agendas, may come and then quite unexpectedly, go.

    We may crave stability but to expect it all the time is certain folly. Expectations of non-stop perfect conditions for personal comfort and fulfilment may seem hopeful but they aren’t rooted in reality. If we pledge our allegiance, that is to say our loyalty and commitment, to a group of fellow humans we must keep our expectations at a realistic level, or face up to the eventual disappointment. There is no ideal tribe. People can, and most likely will, let us down. But we in turn can certainly, by design or default, let others down. When we have learned to live, and indeed thrive, under the almost unbearable weight of this truth, we can feel more relaxed and enjoy a certain sort of freedom about the fickle allegiances of tribe. The value of this freedom can’t be understated.

    I say fickle because it’s all too easy, in our flawed humanity, to transfer our favour to the winning team. For all the world it appeared as though I was switching sides during the Six Nations Rugby Championship. But in my heart, in the very deepest part of me, I was delighting in the human endeavour on display. I was proud of the skill, the effort, the split second decisions, the honour, the fairness, the justice. When my children were little they sometimes protested: “You’re always on his side!” My response? “I’m the Mum, I’m on everyone’s side.”

    It can be a little disarming when we consider that God may be on everyone’s side. Perhaps He too sits on the side-lines, simply delighting in the effort of our human endeavour. Perhaps God doesn’t even see sides in the way we do. Perhaps now, in the face of much social and economic turbulence, fairness and kindness and love are the things which register with Him.

    Main photo courtesy of Six Nations Rugby Championship

  • Long read: How I felt watching someone break into a local church

    Long read: How I felt watching someone break into a local church

    It’s early morning. I’m emerging from a deep sleep, drinking instant coffee and aimlessly scrolling through my Facebook feed. A post pops up which catches my eye. Someone is filming themselves breaking into a church. And it’s a church I know. Suddenly I’m wide awake. On red alert. Violated. Panicking. Should I phone someone? The police? The vicar?

    This particular church is where my beloved Dad, and many years later, my son were confirmed. On that happy day, the enormous building was full to bursting with young people and their families. The clergy processed in all their finery and the church looked magnificent.

    The 35-minute film begins with a dark street scene outside the derelict church. I watch aghast as the walking narrator calmly makes his announcement from behind the moving camera. In gravelly Salford tones, he tells me, without a hint of shame, that he is about to “infiltrate this old gaff”. For a moment I seriously consider jumping in my car and driving down there in my PJs. To do what exactly? Give him a piece of my mind? Clip him round the earhole? This video isn’t live, it was shot a few days ago, so all I can do is watch helplessly as the break-in unfolds.

    The camera pans across the busy street to the church before zooming up to the top of the imposing church tower. The narrator continues: “You can see the windows up at the top man, it’s so cool. You can see the original gate there. And just look up top at the gargoyles looming over us in the night sky! So foreboding and so cool.” Cue spooky 1970s horror film music and a grainy red filter.

    Once inside the building the narrator reduces the volume of his voice to a theatrical whisper. The piped background music takes on a more sinister tone and the light of the camera flashes randomly around in the pitch black of the cavernous basement. “I assumed there would have been a crypt down here,” he says with some disappointment.

    Poor lighting, dark shadowy shots and a shaky handheld camera style are reminiscent of Ghost Hunters and the Blair Witch Project. At one point the narrator asks: “doesn’t it feel sinister?” The “infiltration” is punctuated by a series of unscripted mini-dramas which generate tension and “eerie vibes”. Unexplained voices. Footsteps. A blocked doorway. Holes in the floor.

    Another man, “Mike”, is also filming the church. Ten minutes into the video Mike’s face comes clearly into view as he steps in front of a huge door to demonstrate its scale. He is a slim white man, perhaps in his early twenties, sporting a dark moustache and wearing a Cambridge University sweatshirt with the hood up.

    Although they are clearly trespassing on private property, they don’t steal anything and take care not to cause any damage. At the end, Mike is filmed climbing out of the building and the location of the entry point is clearly visible. Upon leaving the premises they make a big show of thanking the homeless man who had earlier pointed them towards the gap in a boarded-up ground floor window.

    Consecrated in 1839 and then rebuilt in the early twentieth century this church has been unused for the best part of a decade. Five years ago there was a closing ceremony and the local priest removed a few items for safe keeping. It had lain empty for two years and before that it was judged to be structurally unsound and requiring repairs estimated to cost £1.5 million. The Church Commissioners, the Diocese and the Parochial Church Council agreed that it should close.

    With what seems like genuine awe, the narrator pauses at intervals to film and describe the architecture. His reaction is raw and filled with emotion; at times he seems overwhelmed by the scale and beauty of the building. There are gasps and “Wow guys” at the leaded windows, brick arches, stonework, craftsmanship, an abandoned rusting safe, the old clock mechanism.

    Even the creeping decay, the mould and a dead pigeon are given some appreciation. Like the character in a novel, he is conflicted, drawn by both light and dark. At twenty minutes into the film they both ascend a narrow stone staircase and gasp audibly when they are rewarded by the sight of the magnificent old church bell, still in its place. Their wonder becomes euphoria when they climb out onto the roof of the tower and see the city of Manchester illuminating the night sky.

    Their enthusiasm and sense of discovery are infectious. They seem gripped by the absolute wonder of it all. I am morally conflicted about what I’m seeing but feel drawn in and feel compelled to watch until the end. The producers of this film have attracted over 3,000 subscribers to their YouTube Channel and over 7,000 Facebook followers, describing themselves as historical documentarians, filmmakers and photographers. Their stated aim is to “record history on film”.

    Over one hundred of these “spooky” style videos have been produced and broadcast by these young men over the last two years. It’s an increasingly popular genre of video on YouTube and Facebook where people film themselves stalking through derelict stations or abandoned factories, places of worship, mills, pubs and farmhouses. On their social media accounts it’s implied that they aren’t technically “breaking and entering” but are in fact performing an important service for the public good.

    The “reading” of the old building, though ill-informed and sometimes colourful, is confident and unflinching. The narrator is no Kevin McCloud, that’s for sure. There is some confusion about when the building was built but he confidently reassures his fans that “this is quite literally ancient history down here.” At another point, he says it is “gothic and creepy”. Clearly, he’s a creative and curious soul who is thoroughly fascinated by the structures and their functions.

    Under the video on Facebook, the comments show peoples’ connection to the church. One man says he was a choirboy there in the 1970s. “My dad used to organise concerts in that cellar in the 60s,” says another. A woman who went to school next door remembers the church being used for school dinners. Someone remembers watching a Christian rock group there. A woman who says she was christened there in 1968 thanks the video makers for showing her around she writes: “I walk past here often and always wondered what the inside is like.”

    The comments show how central churches used to be in community life. In many areas, they were a hub of social activity and had close links to the schools. Families who weren’t very religious might still feel they were part of the local church; attending its dances and sending their children off to play sports in its grounds. The comments under the video might prompt us to think about what has replaced these spaces in our increasingly atomised communities. How feasible would it be to put some of these beautiful buildings back into use?

    As the pair slowly descend the narrow spiral staircase to make their escape, only the narrator’s legs and feet are in shot. Carefully placing one foot on each of the shallow stone steps, with great emotional intensity, he reflects on the experience of discovering the bell. “When you’re stood in front of it, in all its decaying glory, you realise the craftsmanship and the hardship that went into making such a thing, and putting such a thing into place, especially back in 1902,” he says. “Absolute gold dust.”

    Main photo credit: Val Fraser

    A longer version of this story was originally published by independent newspaper, The Manchester Mill.