Book Notes: God Collar by Marcus Brigstocke

Marcus is very confused. I'm not being rude in saying that - he's recently written this very long book about his levels of confusion, especially when it comes to matters of God, faith, and religion. The premise of the book is that while he has a crisis of unbelief, and can no longer subscribe to the staunch atheism he once proclaimed; he is highly suspicious, offended and scandalised by the tenets and practices of all the major world faiths which come under the scrutiny of his mocking wit.

Radio 4 listeners familiar with Brigstocke's material, and the patronising but barbed persona he adopts to deliver it - will instantly recognise his voice in God Collar. What might surprise his radio audience is the extent to which his act is obviously 'cleaned-up' for the BBC; the easily offended should beware!

The essence of God Collar is a series of diatribes, which are savage, funny, witty, silly, hilarious, weird, and very, very angry. Brigstocke turns his attention across the spectrum of religious phenomena from Atheists who are too smug, to pedophile priests, to suicide bombers and burkas, and Biblical stories of judgement against which he rails. While he speaks warmly of friends for whom faith or unfaith are important, he describes both the reasons he cannot accept their claims; but yet considers his own deeply-entrenched agnosticism to be empty and unsatisfying. This element of the book is fascinating, because not only does Brigstocke come across as quite likeable, he is also disarmingly honest about his own struggles.

There are some serious problems with this book however. The main one is that Brigstocke makes forays into some deep philosophical and theological territory in order to make his points, but then wants to retreat from actually discussing them with the catch-all excuse, 'I'm just a comedian, just having a laugh here'.. The problem is that while some of his observations are really astute, and he does (with all the controversy-fuelling vitriol he can muster) put his finger right on some of the most profound difficulties with belief and sacred texts; he too often simply ventures into areas he hasn't really researched, armed with little more than an array of 21stC western predjudices, in order to lob a joke or two, grenade-like into the congregation.

Take one example, as perhaps indicative. Brigstocke frequently mentions the biblical story of Abraham's apparent willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac on God's orders (God cancels the command at the last minute and Isaac lives). In Brigstocke's view this is a monstrous story of a twisted, capricious deity toying with his creations and egging them on to an act of crazed religious terrorism. It is one of the texts he returns to repeatedly to explain why he rejects any of the Abrahamic faiths. But this just isn't good enough! What he fails to learn, fails to discover or show any interest in, is the fact that this very story is the narrative which explains why ancient Israel came reject the kind of child-sacrifices which were typical in the Ancient near East! The story is designed to demonstrate that Israel's rejection of child sacrifice wasn't because they had a lesser God too weak to demand it. Israel's rejection of the practice is encoded in the story, not in terms of God's weakness - but His goodness. The problem is, so much talking and so little listening! At times Brigstocke seems to have only read just enough to get really cross, produce his brilliant satirical parody, get a laugh and move on. The problem for me, is that so much of it is so genuinely funny, and warmly human, that I was amused - even as I was outraged! While at times I found myself cheering Brigstocke as he witheringly, and brilliantly dismembered a lot of religious stupidity and woeful mishandling of sacred texts; I was irritated by his constant mishandling of the biblical text - which on one occasion he completely misquotes!

The other problem with Marcus Brigstocke's search for truth and life and meaning is the extent to which it is pursued along two contradictory axes. On one hand he examines beliefs systems and seems to want them to present him with a uniformly systematic set of propositional truths. He wants a truly 'modern' faith that conforms to the demands of rationality and is true for everyone, everywhere. Yet on the other hand he wants a faith that ultimately "works" for him in a subjective sense. He identifies the sense of the proverbial "God shaped hole" at the centre of his existence and mocks Richard Dawkins attempts to simply dismiss it out of hand. What he never grapples with is that the two things he determines as the criteria for an acceptable religion for him - might in fact be cancelling each other out. What if the thing which was modern, systematic and all-encompassing didn't "fit" all the self-orientated goals, desires, and prejudices which he demands of a faith? And vice-versa; what if a tailor-made faith designed to match all of his personal demands couldn't possibly make universal truth claims? In short, he is strung between his rather modern mind and post-modern heart! It's also the reason he never seems to have realised that the Bible is a story; an evolving developing story in which the early plot lines are complex and full of tangled loose ends. The only thing he is positive about in the Bible is Jesus. I think his mistake is to see Jesus as tainted by the things he hates so much in the Old Testament, rather than seeing them as the back-story, full of bewildering things which only make sense when Jesus shows us what God is truly like. His method is a bit like watching Midsomer Murders, but refusing to accept the valiant actions of the hero at the finale, on the grounds that his behaviour before the first advert break would still look suspicious if we didn't subsequently know that he had to be in the vicarage on the night of the murder because it was his turn to man the soup kitchen for the homeless.. (you, er see my point)

This is a book that will no doubt provoke extreme reactions. It has been lauded by both believers who loved his digs at atheism and humanism, and by those secularists who love his anti-religious diatribes. Take for instance his gag, "Religion and violence always seem to go together. They don't have to: but like Ant and Dec, what would be the point of one without the other?". On one hand, it is a very funny line, jumping absurdly between the philosophical and banal to make his point. It's a joke, it's a funny one - but it is also based on an unthinking acceptance of Hitchins' claim about a direct causal link between faith and violence; which as well as being open to "serious historical doubt", is also complete crap. (Sorry - I've spent too long with Marcus Brigstocke over the last few days).

Despite the fact that the book is ill-informed, vulgar, offensive, and in places crass, it is still a valuable read, which is insightful for people of faith to dig into - and not just because it will make them laugh even when they think they probably shouldn't be. Along with the entertainment value it offers, it is also a tremendously eloquent rehearsal of all of the prejudices and mis-information upon which so many of our contemporaries have formed their religious opinions. It is a neat little study in the 'credibility-structure' of our times. Perhaps those of us in the church would do well to read this, (cope with the offence) in order to then reflect on our texts, beliefs and practices. Preachers, might imagine he was in the congregation, and ask themselves, "How would I explain this to Marcus". That would be a valuable lesson in relevance, sensitivity and more apologetically-informed communication.

Some critics have expressed their disappointment that this book seems to "go no-where", come to no answers and stop in a vacuum. However that seems to be the very point of the agnosticism that Brigstocke is embracing, so that wasn't really a surprise. As I closed the book, what I really wanted to tell Marcus was that perhaps, if God is real, and personal, and capable of all that judging; then perhaps the way to find God might start by avoiding insulting Him, swearing at Him and calling him vile and filthy names; because if that kind of arrogance was to seriously alienate Him; then your search for Him will be made all the harder.

Marcus is very confused.

Helicopter over the Canyon!

Flying in and around the Grand Canyon is highly restricted, confined mostly to one route across a section of it and back. The result is that the air-space in that section is very busy, with a fleet of helicopters shuttling empty-walleted tourists to and from Grand Canyon Airport via the designated corridor. As we flew towards the Canyon, this helicopter flew closely alongside us.

The first few minutes of the flight were enjoyable, simply because the sensation of helicopter flight was new and interesting. The Canyon itself looked amazing from the air, appearing suddenly below the aircraft, while sending up billowing thermals to buffet it around.

Although the flight lasted 40 minutes, the Canyon is so absorbing that the experience seemed to last about five!

I was glad when we landed however, the strange motion of the helicopter was starting to make me feel very queasy. Once it had dropped us off the helicopter was immediately filled with the next crowd of people anxious to be relieved of the burden of carrying dollars around - and took off over our heads. It was quite an experience.

Helicopter Canyon Bound!

Just another dead tree: Grand Canyon

Canyon Flora: South Rim

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Maswick Lodge to Pima Point

Unlike the North Rim, which has to cope with far fewer visitors - the roads along much of the cliff-edge on the South Rim are closed to public vehicles. Thankfully the bus-service that plies the route along the edge of precipice is free, fast and regular. The drivers give out plenty of information about where to stop and what to see as well. Happily the buses run late into the night too. We set out to walk a few miles back to our cabin and soon discovered that anti-light pollution measures in force around the Canyon meant that there were no street-lights - and we had no torch with us. We soon abandoned our attempt to rediscover Maswick Lodge simply using the sense of touch - and reverted to the free bus!

The Grand Canyon Express

Arizona's heritage diesel railway, The Grand Canyon Express

South Rim Cabin

These little cabins, littered all around Maswick Lodge on the South Rim are basic, clean, cheap, and tiny. Most importantly of all though, they are a stone's throw from the very edge of the Grand Canyon. Five of us in the little room provided was definitely a squeeze, and there was no air-con to help us poor wilting Northern Europeans cope with the blazing-Arizona sun; but all these inconveniences were worthwhile to gain easy access to the rim, on foot at all times of the day and night!

Arizona Sunset

Grand Canyon South Rim Viewpoints

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At Navajo Bridge

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Through the Desert: Arizona Highway 89

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After the Fire

Canyon Morning

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Young 'Norris' and I got up at 5am (leaving the rest of the family gently snoring!) and crept away from our room to catch the sunrise in the Grand Canyon, from the North Rim Visitor Centre. It's a fine sight, and one of the few times of day when smoke from the adjacent forest fires doesn't make the view impenetrably hazy. The sunrise wasn't anything like as 'magical'as the one we experienced at Bryce Canyon a few days before, but yet it would have just seemed wrong to lie dozing in our cabin - not 500 yards from the rim as the first fingers of light felt their way through the tangles of clefts and ridges.

Sunrise, sunrise..

The sun makes its first approaches towards the Grand Canyon

House Gig

On Saturday night, Perthshire singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Lins Honeyman held a 'Living Room Gig' round at our house, in conjunction with Morna Young (Vocals, Autoharp), Bruce Cameron (Guitars, Vocals) and Andy McCully (Guitars and Percussion).

Twenty five or so friends and neighbours piled into our house for food drink and music - and seemed to have a good night. It was certainly a squeeze in the living room, but the music was good and that atmosphere was warm both literally and metaphorically.

The musicians were in good form on Saturday - I have heard these guys play in various places before, and their repertoire has evolved over time. This was by far the least blues-orientated set I have heard them play, perhaps because of the evolving line-up of Honeyman's collaborators at these various events. Bruce Cameron's stunning folky finger-picking guitar, Andy McCully's more 'rocky' approach, and Morna Youngs soulful vocals have lured Lins a little further from the straightforward acoustic blues which used to dominate his performances. However, what we got was an eclectic mix of Blues, Soul, Ballads, and the surprise addition of some old Negro spirituals- one of which "I want Jesus to walk with me" was for me the highlight of the evening's entertainment.

We've never held a living-room gig before, but we really enjoyed it. There was a real buzz in the house, and it was great to meet some new folks as well as get to know some of neighbours better. We'd love to do one again sometime!

Fire on the Horizon

Forest fires burning around Grand Canyon look as menacing as anything Dante described. In fact, sparked by lighting strikes into the dessicated woodland, they are natural and essential for the regeneration of this unusual environment.

People Watching at the North Rim

The Visitor Centre at Grand Canyon's North Rim is a charming place. Perched on the very edge of the Canyon - its vast windows gaze out across the geological immensity of the scar which the Colorado River has scoured through the landscape. The North Rim is not as busy, commercialized or developed as its Southern counterpart, but it is large enough to have a good restaurant, and to attract people from all over the States - and indeed from all over the world. Above the shimmering canyon, the air is full of the sound of clanking cutlery, chinking glasses and voices animated in countless languages and dialects. Each voice raised, with accompanying gestures (arms wide, palms facing the hearer with fingers bent to face them) searches through the bank of adjectives with which their mother-tongue has provided them, for words that mean simply "big", but convey that with the force that the moment demands. Because the Grand Canyon is big, I mean really, really big. It's so big in fact that as you emerge through the trees and glimpse it for the first time, it seems to open up in front you with the desire to suck the whole world into its vast emptiness. The Canyon is the opposite of a mountain. To stand awestruck by a mountain is to be amazed by the beauty of a solid object. The Canyon is a hole in the ground, shaped like an inverted mountain, but is essentially a gap, a space where the earth once was, but now majestically ..isn't.

The waiting staff at the restaurant must get used to what happens every time they show people to their tables. The charming, friendly, androgynous and outrageously ebullient front-desk person shrilly confirms the reservation "Thank you so much - you guys are Aawwwesoome", and hands the guests over to a waiter who shows them to their table. Half way between the welcome desk and their table, the family glimpse the Canyon to their left (did I mention, -it's quite big) and just stop: dead in their tracks. The waiter continues, weaving his way towards the designated table, maybe even still talking to the family he assumes are still in his wake. Then after on average about seven seconds, recognition strikes both guests and waiter; the family starts peering around all corners of the restaurant wondering which waiter was 'theirs'. "No, that's not ours, don't follow him - ours had a moustache.." The waiter will then wander back over and 'collect' his guests, who then keep a close eye on him until they get to their table. If they are lucky, they will have a grand Canyon window seat, from which to place food into their open-mouthed gazes.

No window seat was required for the passionate Scandanavians on the table next to us. Young lovers, maybe honeymooners, whose eyes never unlocked from each other for the whole course of the meal - they pawed, lusted, scratched, and longed for each other, through three courses of foreplay. For them the great Canyon was not a destination, but merely a venue.

Further round, Grandad and grand-daughter are in animated conversation. He's been here before, he knows all the sites, knows the geology, the wildlife and has the brochure. She's ten, eager-eyed and delighted to be on a trip with Grandad. They are as thoroughly absorbed in enjoying each other as the lovers on the other table, yet in such different ways. My guess, is that all his grandchildren have been brought to see the Canyon on their tenth birthdays, and that each of them has waited for this day for a long time - and heard stories from older siblings and cousins about the North Rim, and the great big hole in the ground.

Orange juice and the children's menu gives way to the pop of Champagne corks on the next table. Two large circular tables have been pushed together, the whole wider family have gathered together for a big celebration. I watch to see who this show will be starring, and see that the eyes are not focused on the children or their parents, nor focussed on the very elderly great-grand-parent at the end - as even her matriarchal eyes are focussed on the pair at the centre of the table. A round of applause, a short speech from the Man with his champagne flute raised and then a kiss for his wife. A wedding anniversary at the edge of the Canyon; looking at their ages, I am guessing a thirtieth, maybe? Soon the little ones begin to tire, one gets cross, another one can no longer cope and starts to try and lie down across his chair. He's been dressed up in his very-smartest attire for the special event, but that clearly matters to his mother more than to him. She has cleaned that shirt, and ironed it, wanting to re-assure her celebrating in-laws that their son's wife is a competent mother. But the little toddler is delightfully insensitive to the niceties of family politics and sets about un-cleaning, and then un-ironing his clothes. A lovely moment, a re-assuring hand on the arm of the mother from the mother-in-law. I can't hear the words but I assume they say something like, "Don't worry - he's tired. He's just like ____ (fill in name of son/husband) was when he was two!" The party soon ends, little ones need baths and beds, and the anniversary couple wander outside to stare out across the Canyon; their whole life together but a blink in the geology of time laid out before them.

Our anniversary couple look 'right' together. They clearly 'work' and demonstrate what one writer calls, 'old shoe love' in that while they may not exhibit the new passion of our Scandinavian canoodlers; decades together have shaped them around each other like a long-loved pair of shoes around the feet. An altogether different atmosphere lingers above table sixteen however. The middle-aged couple are separated by a steak, a chicken paella, two glasses of wine and a towering wall of resentment, bitterness, and mistrust. I watch them, and notice their wedding rings. Is this the last chance, the holiday that could save the marriage? The body language is awkward, rigid, the conversation must be descending from the emotional to the functional. Her distance, his mid-life crisis, the pretty-young temptation, the inevitable affair, the recrimination, the regret, the re-think, the attempt to mend the wound. They sit by one of the Seven Natural Wonders of The World, and search for the inspiration to love again. If this can be re-kindled, it will be the Eight wonder of the world.

On my right: cancer. Although, it is not the cancer I can see, but the ravages of chemotherapy on a thin-pallid hairless body. His pink chubby hand holds her white wasted hand tightly. She looks so fragile that his grip makes her hand look like a small collection of fish-bones under exquisitely laid tissue-paper. They eat together, they are together. Who can tell for how long, but here, now, they are, completely together. The Grand Canyon at sunset, "A Hundred and One Things to Do Before You Die"; a moment at once as sublimely beautiful and devastatingly brutal; as the great Canyon itself, towering beneath us all.

Sunset above the Canyon

Sunset a the Grand Canyon (N)

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While during the day the Canyon is very hazy, it seems to come alive in the low evening light. The low angle of the sun seems to illuminate the vertical sides of the Canyon, casting intriguing shadows in and out of all the rocky gullies. The evening light also seemed able to penetrate the smoke hanging all around the Canyon, from several major forest fires which had been burning for some weeks.

A North Rim Afternoon: Grand Canyon

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Book Notes: This Republic of Suffering: Death and The American Civil War

There is a whole industry devoted the production and distribution of books about the American Civil War; indeed many bookshops in the USA contain a whole section devoted only to those four bloody years a century and a half ago. Too many of these books add little to our understanding of that dreadful conflict. Some simply relate the chronology of the war, or over-emphasise the role of certain glamorous generals, while others limit the scope of their enquiry to disputing the minutiae of the progress of certain battles.

Drew Gilpin Faust's "This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War" is a unique, surprising, scholarly, and rather moving contribution to Civil War studies, which marks it out as something special in a densely crowded market. It is perhaps surprising that there has been so little researched and so much assumed about death in this period - given the appalling casualty rates, and percentage of the American population who died in that war. Yet death (including battlefield death) in the 1860s was understood in a particular way, experienced in specific ways, ritualised, expressed, grieved and remembered in sometimes new ways. It is these human responses to the killing of 1861-5 that Gilpin Faust turns her attention in this book. Drawing on letters, government papers, recorded anecdotes, literature, and a whole battery of contemporary sources, she unearths a complex, and heart-rending culture of dying; about which she is able to write with great elegance and pathos.

The book is not chronological, but thematic in its structure, and it draws equally on the experiences of both the Union and Confederate dying and grieving. 'Victorians' had a particular culture of death, part of which idealised the concept of a 'good death'. Typically, the 'good' 19thC death would take place at home, amongst friends and family and feature some departing words of faith with which to reassure the living. Amongst an extraordinary array of letters sent home from the front, Gilpin-Faust discovered the remarkable extent to which the soldiers sought to present and report on 'good deaths'.

In her chapter on 'killing' Gilpin-Faust explores what it meant for soldiers to become killers. For many of them in that profoundly Christian era, "the first challenge for Civil War soldiers to surmount was the Sixth Commandment". She details the way in which churches on both sides were harnessed by the state to promote 'just war' theories to overcome the soldiers' religious reluctance to kill. Some never came to terms with what they were called upon to do, they held onto their humanity, but were broken by the horror of their experiences. More worrying are the accounts of those for whom killing became a pleasure, to read their words is a profoundly chilling experience.

The initial enthusiasm of many of the troops in 1862 wore off as it soon became apparent that the war would be long and bloody. The technology of slaughter had advanced beyond the tactical understanding of the Generals, leading to scenes of previously unheard of fatality rates - two observations that would be repeated again on The Western Front fifty years later. Never before had advancing victorious armies, or retreating defeated ones been faced with such a huge number of corpses to bury. The chapter on burying describes the ways in which (sometimes in appalling circumstances) soldiers sought to honour fallen comrades with the rituals of burial. This was a desperate clinging to humanity, virtue and dignity in the context of mud, blood, decomposition, stench and disease.

Many of these bodies, in rough trenches, mass graves, or under rough crosses were not formally marked. High explosive shells, used for the first time in battle could render a body unrecognisable, unidentifiable even. The chapter on 'naming' describes the way in which both during and after the war, the desire to name and bury the dead in marked burial plots in their home towns consumed the nation. The unquenchable thirst for dignifying the memory of the lost led to extraordinary efforts in this regard.

When James Palmer was killed at the second battle of Bull Run, his sister Sarah wrote, "I can't realise that I am never to see that dear boy again, ..it is too hard to realise" (p145). The chapter on grief, mourning and bereavement is called 'realising'. One of the melancholy things that Gilpin Faust discovered was the extent to which the bereaved sought material proof of their loved one's demise. The chaos of modern warfare being conducted by armies with pre-modern systems of command, control, planning and communication meant that official records were often extremely poor. The families of the fallen were prevented from grieving by the presence of a cruel spark of hope, until material evidence was sent to allow them to 'realise'. Gilpin Faust both draws wide conclusions about these patterns, and brings her text painfully alive with stories of individual grief, like that of the young widow searching through the corpses of Antietam in a frantic search for confirmation of her worst fears before she "sank beneath the stern reality of this crushing sorrow."

The detailed chapter on believing and doubting is equally illuminating. While for many of the combatants as well as their families, faith was a place of retreat, for others belief in a benign deity was shaken in the hail of Minié balls piercing the bodies of their colleagues. Letters, poems, songs and poems are woven together in this chapter, which is a fascinating story of the interaction of faith, doubt and suffering. One song of the era begins, "Oh great God! What means this carnage/ What this fratricidal strife,/ Brethren made in your own image / Seeking for each other's life?"

The chapters entitled 'accounting' and 'numbering' hardly lighten the mood, but are equally deeply researched and wonderfully written. Accounting refers to the obligations the living felt towards the dead, which meant everything from repatriation of bodies, to the establishment of official war graves. The Union dead were catered for by the victorious Federal government, while voluntary societies performed this task for the shattered Confederacy. 'Numbering' is a chapter about the post-war efforts to try and quantify the suffering. Human knowledge and control so often begins with classification of subjects, and so it seems that inordinate efforts were made to seek some human control over the disaster of civil war, in order to tame it and bring it under the purview of human analysis. Gilpin Faust writes: But as the numbers solved some problems of understanding, so they presented others. William Fox worried that the sheer magnitude of the war's death toll rendered it incomprehensible. "As the numbers become great," he wrote, "they convey no different idea, whether they be doubled or trebled". Yet the painstaking counting continued for many years.

Gilpin Faust's final chapter is entitled 'surviving'. She writes (referring to many of the characters she has introduced us to in her remarkable book): John Palmer carried the bullet that killed his son with him to the grave; Henry Bowditch habitually wore a watch fob fashioned from his fallen son's uniform button; Mary Todd Lincoln dressed in mourning till she died; Walt Whitman felt that the war had represented the "very centre, circumference, umbilicus" of his life; Ambrose Bierce felt haunted by visions of the dead and dying; Jane Mitchell continued to hope for years after Appomattox that her missing son would finally come home; J.M. Taylor was still searching for details of his son's death three decades after the end of the war; Henry Struble annually laid flowers on the grave that mistakenly bore his name. (p266)

This Republic of Suffering is a tremendous work of historical research, poignant prose and astute observation. It manages to be both informative and profoundly moving, in that that the facts and voices of the time are allowed to speak, without sentimental commentary at the expense of profound analysis. The tragedy of the war is not hidden behind technical details so beloved of the military historian, but yet such details are present. The lives and deaths of the ordinary private are not hidden behind the glamorous stories of military heroes, and the scale of the suffering not lost behind individual biographies - though again, all these feature. This is quite brilliant writing, the kind of history that informs the mind, arrests the imagination, and could only leave the hardest heart unmoved, if not somewhat shaken.

At the Angel's Window: Grand Canyon (North)

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The wisdom of Theodore Roosevelt: Grand Canyon

"Leave it as it is. You cannot improve on it. The ages have been at work on it, and man can only mar it. What you can do is to keep it for your children, and for all who come after you, as the one great sight which every American... should see."