Frith's Blog - Page 8 of 11

Sep

2022

My marriage and politics

James and I first met as postgraduates in in the UK during late autumn 1976. Friendship slowly blossomed into something more, but that summer we were soon obliged to part. I was duty-bound to return to Iran to fulfil a condition of my academic grant, and he had to remain behind to complete his surgical training. With no mobile phones or internet, we kept in touch by exchanging letters. The imposition of martial law and the chaotic aftermath of a revolution which turned Iran from a centuries-old monarchy into a theocratic republic took everyone by surprise. In the ensuing civil unrest we lost touch with one another. Three long years passed, during which each of us assumed the other had married and moved on. But by sheer chance we did meet again. I returned to the UK and was enrolled as new student nurse in London. Neither of us had met any ‘significant other’ in the interim, and we soon realised that this was it. We married six months later.

Almost exactly at the same time Britain severed its diplomatic ties with Iran, and in the years that followed the political stand-off between our two countries worsened. Iran was lambasted in the press world-wide and became the target of international sanctions. It became increasingly difficult for me to re-connect with my family back home. I was a Christian but I had been born into a Muslim family, so returning to an Islamic state could result in dire consequences for all of us. The last thing anyone of us wanted was for me to be held as a prisoner in Iran, or my relatives to be dragged into a Muslim backlash from my conversion. Added to which, unlike the UK, Iran does not recognise dual citizenship (once I re-entered Iran I would have no legal recourse to British aid). Also, the British government was loath to grant Iranians leave to visit, and the situation became even more draconian after 9/11. Fearing reprisals, ordinary Iranians were fearful of sticking their necks out to engage with authorities, and my elderly parents could not understand why I was unable persuade anyone to grant them a British visitor’s visa. The unspoken criticism that I had not moved heaven and earth for them was personally unbearable. I was caught up in a conflict between loyalty to my home country, now the so-called ‘Axis of Evil’, and my pride at becoming British. It was an emotional tug-of-war between freedom to worship as a Christian and fear of castigation as a ‘betrayer of Islam’, between being happy as a cherished wife, and feeling guilty about relatives trapped in Iran. I never saw my father again.

I managed to avoid becoming a nervous wreck, but even after forty years the vestiges of that guilt remain. When my parents died I did not return to Iran to say goodbye. When my sister was imprisoned on a trumped-up charge I stayed home. Where were my filial duty and affections during those times? Was it right that I should have carried on living in comfort in the land of plenty while my family eked a hand-to-mouth existence under political and financial sanctions? It bothered me massively at the time – and it continues to bother me.

Diplomatic relations between our two nations still remain precarious, and there is no easy end in sight. I have now accepted that it is unlikely I will ever return to Iran during the remainder of my life, and James has had to bear the emotional implications of that burden on me. I am indeed fortunate that despite the intrusion of such divisive politics, our marriage has strengthened and survived.

Sep

2022

The Iolaire

There is an exceptionally simple memorial in the Outer Hebrides near Stornoway on the Isle on Lewis, commemorating the tragic loss of HMY Iolaire. It was erected to honour naval reservists returning home from serving in World War I lost at sea within yards of land in the early hours of New Year’s Day 1919. This now not-much-spoken-about disaster left the island bereft of its menfolk and wiped out almost an entire generation of young men in their prime.

HMY Iolaire was an Admiralty yacht requisitioned on the last day of December 1918 to help transport home hundreds of military and naval reservists from the Isles of Lewis and Harris who had survived the horrors of war. That particular evening the pier on the mainland at Kyle of Lochalsh was crowded with uniformed servicemen coming off the troop trains impatient to be reunited with their families. The Iolaire sailed from the port of Kyle loaded to capacity. By early morning, in spite of storms and heavy seas, she had reached the entrance to Stornoway harbour, so near to land that men on board could see lights twinkling in the distance. Most were getting ready to disembark when the yacht, which had veered just slightly off-course, struck jutting rocks, infamously known as the “Beasts of Holm”, and began to sink. Even though they were within reach of shore, most of the passengers drowned in the icy waters, trapped in the vessel or hampered in theirs attempt to swim in their thick uniforms and heavy boots. Only 82 of the approximate 300 on board survived.

This was a tragedy that struck a dagger deep into the hearts of the people of Lewis and Harris and its legacy is felt to this day. There was scarcely a home on Lewis that remained unaffected. Even before that fatal night the sparse communities of fishermen and crofters on both islands had already lost a thousand war dead. The Iolaire only added to that crippling toll. It was a terrible irony that men who had volunteered, fought , yet survived the horrors of a faraway war, should drown within sight of their own homes and in waters they knew so well. Its legacy would fuel the impetus of subsequent emigration from these islands, and the ever-present reminder that truly in the midst of life we are in death.

Sep

2022

Coffee break

Meeting a friend for that promised coffee, or using the spare time for private prayer? Given the choice on any given day I’m all too aware which I would naturally plump for. Any opportunity to enjoy a cup of hot frothy coffee laced with companionable conversation is so deliciously appealing that the time set aside for prayer gets pushed further down the queue. And if I’m really honest, it’s usually relegated to the end of the day—at best!

A practical solution for people like me whose spirit is willing (but, oh, the weakness of the flesh!) is to meet God often, along with that all-important coffee. It matters not how or where we meet Him, what matters, as in any loving relationship, is that we meet regularly. A solo coffee break with Our Father lends itself admirably to conversational prayer, and it can take place in our own homes, in our own time, and even as a breather in the midst of chores.

I close my eyes, sit quietly, coffee cup in hand, and ask God to join me. Soon I’ll feel Him right there beside me. Of course, I know that He’s always there, but this is our special time together, and He knows how much that coffee motivates me! At times I hear Him speak straight to my heart; at others there is nothing but silence. I’ll tell Him about my day with all its messiness, without worrying about being inarticulate or too focussed on myself. I know I am infinitely dear to Him, and that He really doesn’t mind. I always have to flick away the distractions, but our loving Saviour does the rest.

We can do a lot worse than enjoy a coffee break with our Father. He’s aware of the frailty of our nature and our need for inducements, and He’s always waiting for us. With prayer, it’s the practice that counts more than the theory. As St Teresa of Avila once said, prayer consists not in thinking much, but in loving much”.

Jul

2022

Viola jokes

Why do musicians poke fun at the viola? “Viola players are to violinists what Belgians are to the French: pleasant neighbours which we love to make fun of”, says French music critic Tristan Labouret, himself a viola player. Historically speaking it probably began in the 1700s. Having evolved from the baroque viol or viola da gamba which was played upright between the legs the modern viola is played da braccio (on the arm). Larger than the violin but smaller than its parent the viol, a viola projects less brightly than it would wish to, its main strength lying in rich darker tones. In 18th century baroque ensembles, viola parts often consisted of “fillers” rather than solo melodies and its players were mediocre musicians on lower pay. In the 19th century the viola came into its own as a solo instrument. Mozart, Beethoven, Dvorak, Schubert, and other great composers all played the viola and understood its potential, and some great concertos for viola have been written. Yet the viola joke endures.

Nowadays we amateur violists are often loyal members of a local orchestra, usually arriving early at the rehearsals to set out the seats. We may struggle with annoyances due to unwieldy desk-sharing, or by having to execute a flash of impossibly exposed music in the middle of an acre of wallpaper harmonies, but we’re generally a cheery and committed bunch, and there’s often a waiting list of players wanting to join.

I was once lucky enough to get a place as the fourteenth viola in a prestigious audition-free amateur symphony orchestra. The problem was that I was seated so far back in the section that I could hardly make out the conductor with my music specs on – his baton was just a blur in the distance over the many rows of heads in before me. Also, I was right in front of the noisy brass with their ear-piercing blasts. Even though they played behind baffles and I had invested in light earplugs to muffle their more strident passages, reading the music, fiddling with earplug volumes, and at the same time trying to turn pages for my (better) desk partner did not make for great playing. After a few months of this frustrating combo it all became too much, and regretfully I resigned. Needless to say, my place was immediately filled by another keen violist who was delighted to come off the waiting list. I wished him all the best – I was sure he’d do well, being young, tall, and the owner of a music case emblazoned with National Youth Orchestra stickers…

There is something refreshing about the ability to laugh at oneself. I love laughter and relish seeing the funny side of things – especially at my own expense- which is why I can’t resist viola jokes. Here are just a few:

How do you keep a violin from getting stolen? Put it in a viola case.

How can you tell a viola player’s age? Cut the top of his head and count the rings.

What’s another name for viola auditions? Scratch lottery.

What do you call a viola player with half a brain? Gifted.

How do you get viola player to play a passage tremolando? Mark it SOLO.

How can you make a violin sound like a viola? Sit in the back row and pretend to play.

Why are violas larger than violins? It’s an optical illusion – viola players have small heads.

What’s the only thing a violinist can do better than a violist? Play the viola.

Jul

2022

Fencing the Table

Holy Communion commemorates the Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples. It is a sacrament that is at the heart of all Christian worship. A vision of the Church universal, symbolically united as one body, becomes particularly meaningful when Christians gather together at the same table. Certain denominations practise ‘closed communion’, otherwise known as ‘fencing the table’, which restricts the administration of bread and wine just to believers deemed to be “spiritually worthy” (firm faith, repentant of sins, exemplary life). Congregants whose faith is ambivalent or lacking are welcome to attend the service but may not partake of the elements. Those who uphold this view say it it is justified in order to uphold the dignity and integrity of the sacrament.

However, many Christians object to its exclusivity. Is it right to exclude anyone for whose very sake the Lord instituted the Supper? Dividing a congregation up into ‘them’ and ‘us’ undermines Christ’s commandment to love our neighbours; and it’s not difficult to deduce that those whose consciences are super-charged may never feel they worthy enough. Jesus Himself was radically free in his table fellowship. He shared food with many people on the margins – outcasts, tax collectors, etc. Meals with him were not reserved for those who demonstrated particular holiness or sanctity.

With ‘open communion’ there is transformative potential, and John Wesley referred to it as a “converting sacrament” (Journal, 2:361). For many Christians admission to Holy Communion was often this early experience of the inclusiveness of God’s love, which transformed them from seekers to converts. Certainly, this was my own experience: the Methodist minister who generously welcomed me to the Lord’s Table many decades ago had no idea how momentous that particular occasion was for me, and how it became the cornerstone and turning point of my long-delayed conversion to the Christian faith. Keen evangelists afire with the zeal to garner souls for Christ would do well to be aware of this special reformative potential, and to be mindful that while he church has the honour of overseeing the Lord’s Table, ultimately it is Christ who is the Host. His role should not be usurped.

What then are we to make of Paul’s warning to the Corinthians (1 Cor.11:17-34) not to approach the Lord’s Table in an unworthy manner? I believe that the real issue lies not in measuring spiritual worth, but in gauging spiritual need. Except by God’s mercy no one is ever truly worthy, yet each one of us needs His grace, always freely given. So, if there is to be any fence, let it be one that shows we are all the sheep of His fold.

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