Saturday, 22 August 2015

Anthony Trollope's Palliser novels: I've read them, so you don't have to

Can You Forgive Her? (1865)
Phineas Finn (1869)
The Eustace Diamonds (1873)
Phineas Redux (1874)
The Prime Minister (1876)
The Duke's Children (1880)

When I was mad keen on all things Celtic, I remember being hugely amused by a scribe's marginal note which went something like this: "Here endeth the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas. The longest, most tedious work ever written. Thank God, thank God, and again thank God!"

This was pretty much my reaction to reaching the end of Anthony Trollope's Palliser Chronicles.

One of the good things about being ill all summer has been the opportunity to engage in some extended reading projects. I've always meant to read Palliser. Trollope's Barchester Chronicles were the first grown-up classic novels I read. Warm, gently insightful and frequently hilarious, the cathedral precincts and rural parishes of Barchester with that subtle and loveable characters remain amongst my favourite fictional escapes. The first one, The Warden, was the inspiration for my modern retelling, "Ursula". The Last Chronicle of Barset is on a short list of novels which have made me cry.

So I decided it was high time I read Trollope's other series. Written after Barchester, and dealing with the grander world of national politics, rather than the politics of an English diocese, I have heard them spoken of as the greater of the two. I found they were longwinded, humourless, snobbish, and shallowly sententious. That is (according to Kindle timings) 74 hours of my life I will never get back.

There are endless minor variations on the same handful of plot devices and character types. The narratives all hinge, not on any events or revelations, but on one character remaining unerringly and unreasonably stubborn until the denoument where they suddenly and inexplicably relent. Most depressingly, the only characters with a fragment of personality and pluck, Bergo Fitzgerald, Mrs Sexty Parker and Major Tifto, all fall victim to their own personality flaws and the grinding inevitability of the narratives, and all have their loose ends tied up by being made pensioned objects of aristocratic charity, with no hope of rising in the world again. The reader is supposed to be satisfied.

The final novel, The Duke's Children, has a little more spark than the rest. At last, the comedy that pervades Barchester makes an appearance as election candidates go canvassing in pouring rain. The relationship of the shy and geeky Duke of Omnium, whose career we have followed throughout the series, with his grown-up children, is sweetly and delicately portrayed.

Yet one cannot dismiss the suspicion that Trollope created the love-interests in The Duke's Children, the noble but low-born Frank Treagar and the angelic American Isabel Boncassen, to atone for his deeply snobbish treatment of the characters in the previous novel, The Prime Minister. The hero Arthur Fletcher, blonde, loyal, principled, with a landed pedigree going back to the Normans; and anti-hero Ferdinand Lopez, dark, charming, lying, obsessed with money, of obscure Portuguese parentage, are a shocking pair of feeble racist stereotypes.

If you get as far as The Duke's Children you are doing well. You have to wade through the first one, Can You Forgive Her? nicknamed at the time, Can You Finish It? Phineas Finn is innocuous enough, and if you survive the cast of unpleasant characters which populate The Eustace Diamonds, Phineas Redux feels like a breath of fresh air in comparison. After struggling through the unpleasantnesses of The Prime Minister, one hopes that genial and now mature statesman Finn might make play some part in The Duke's Children. He doesn't.

I realise I did not read these novels as Trollope intended. They were the soap operas of the day, published in instalments over fifteen years in magazines. They served a purpose at the time: they made money, and passed the time of bored Victorians. The commercial nature of the project is evident in the numerous hunting scenes, which are by far the most exciting episode in the books. Trollope does not conceal his moral qualms about hunting: the swathes of land designated to aristocratic pleasure, the harsh crackdowns on poaching, the worldly pretension, display and waste of the whole charade. But he can write a gripping gallop over the fences, so he cannot resist doing it again and again, with only the mildest of authorial censure.

Our descendants may well acknowledge that Eastenders, Neighbours or The Archers were great cultural institutions of our time. Someone might well read through the entire scripts and write an interesting PhD on them. But we would not expect these compositions to be widely read as literature.

Everyone should read Anthony Trollope's The Warden and Barchester Towers. But don't read his Palliser Chronicles. I did, so you don't have to.

 

 

Sunday, 16 August 2015

Flesh-and-blood Religion

Since I haven't heard a sermon for a couple of months, I thought I'd write one, for a lark.

16 August 2015. Readings: 1 Kings 2:10-12; 3:3-14, Psalm 111, Ephesians 5:15-20, John 6:58

Today's gospel reading presents special difficulties for those of us brought up in the intellectual tradition which has dominated Western thought certainly since the days of David Hume. It is the passage where Christ says, "my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed: whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood shall have eternal life".

Before being abruptly halted by illness last March, I was researching how nineteenth-century mainstream Christianity, which was evangelical, was enriched by narratives of the Gothic imagination - initially to explain why those evangelicals left us so many neo-Gothic churches. Those Victorian Christians loved bible passages like this one. It is rich in the Gothic emotion which had rescued their evangelical "economy of salvation" from a tendency to cold, dry rulebookiness. It adds drama into the Lord's Supper, enhanced with music, robes and images. Above all, it was exciting, titillating, with just a hint of vampires: vital tools for making an intellectual religious tradition popular with the masses.

This was all very well for the Victorians, and I believe was genuinely vital for infusing the Gradgrindish society of the 1830s and 40s with the twin ideals of middle-class social responsibility and working-class self-improvement, resulting in the public libraries, better housing, universal education and so forth of the later Victorian period.

But it is no use for us. We may enjoy vampire stories more than ever, but we cannot take them seriously. "Gothic Evangelicalism" has lost intellectual credibility. Our reaction is that of the Jews in the story, which was, more or less, "What the fuck is he wittering about?"

The Jews in the gospels, and especially the Pharisees, are always depicted as lacking imagination, stuck in a rut, their whole identity invested in an outdated worldview. The Jews of Jesus' time are clearly the equivalent of our "establishment" thinking today, whether religious or secular. I said at the start that we live in an intellectual tradition overshadowed by the scepticism of philosophers such as David Hume, although its roots go back to Socrates. It has stood us in excellent stead, providing us with the tools to access to seemingly unlimited riches, power, and scientific knowledge. It has been a good tradition to commit to. Evangelical Christianity was a product of this tradition, a historical fact which often surprises non-Christians today. Yet if you went back to the Christianity which evangelicalism slowly replaced – belief in the divine right of kings, doubts about the humanity of black Africans, unwillingness to promote popular education in case common people had ideas – you would easily see it was a religion of the enlightenment. Evangelicals built schools, abolished slavery, spread democracy. (There were also, of course, plenty of selfish, cruel or greedy people who hijacked the evangelical bandwagon to promote harsh capitalism, conquest or imperialism, but they were not the soul of the movement).

Modern secular humanism, often seen as the opposite of or alternative to evangelicalism, is really the same philosophy. It rubbed off its religious veneer to accommodate the loss of intellectual credibility; but in doing so weakened it, by losing the narratives and traditions which enrich and sustain any worldview over long periods. "Liberal" Christianity represents various shades of attempts at compromise between the two.

This is the worldview, apparently three but really one, in which I have been brought up. Yet I am convinced that, like the "evangelical" Pharisee and "humanist" Sadducee Jews in the gospel stories, it has become wrong, because the world has changed. In my lifetime, the environmental crisis has unfolded. This week we passed "world overshoot day", when human exploitation of the earth's resources exceeds what ecosystems can regenerate in a year, a date which in 2000 did not occur till October. Since I was born, 37 years ago, the amount of wildlife in the world has halved, and my nephew is unlikely to share our world with large mammals such as rhinos or tigers in his adulthood. Biologists now generally agree that life on earth is experiencing a mass extinction event, such as the last occurred when the dinosaurs were wiped out 65 million years ago, but this time caused by our activities. Jesus and the Pharisees, a mere 2000 years ago, suddenly seem like yesterday.

The scale of the out-of-the-box thinking required to face a situation which has never occurred during the existence of homo sapiens, which has unfolded within the lives of still young people, is hard to comprehend. This is why I believe those weird statements of Jesus, and the Jews' reaction, are still deeply insightful and instructive – perhaps more today than ever. I have said before when speaking of Christianity and the environment, that "Jesus" doesn't mean sustainability, social projects, or sensible solutions: "Jesus" means "salvation". Because that's what we need: salvation.

"My flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood shall have eternal life."

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"I mean, if you do not wish to destroy everything which gives you life, and gives your life meaning, you need to unhook yourselves from these enlightenment, rational, theoretical ways of thinking; from your blind faith in human intellect and problem-solving. The "wisdom" which the other Bible readings today keep insisting upon, will no longer be found in that. I don't mean you should believe in made-up nonsense, but rather that you should acknowledge two things:

First, what all great scientists and intellectuals discover eventually: how little we know. Watch a documentary about animal behaviour, or the deep oceans, or astronomy, and see how many transformative discoveries are made every week. Learn humility.

Second, that the establishment "religion" of our society (whether the Christian or humanist version) has diminished the physical world, the world of flesh and blood, bread and wine, into mere objects of study; while our own ideas, in books, on blackboards, on the internet, have become all the meaning, all the gods that we have. But "God" (or "meaning" if you prefer to be secular) is not floating about in ideas. God, or meaning, is here, in flesh, blood, the sporting dolphins, the poached rhino, the cleared rainforest, in bread, wine, the starving child, the obese cake-addict, fantastic sex, wild swimming, chronic illness. God, or meaning, is right here, in me, in my hands and feet, standing in front of you – and can be in you too, if you get the point of what I'm saying. Learn that God is down here."

"What the fuck does he mean? Crucify him."

"Eat, and drink. When you are complicit in perpetrating mass extinction, wisdom, salvation, is not just remembering the things I said, but remembering that I, like you, was flesh and blood."

 

 

Saturday, 15 August 2015

Prawn Wars

I was impressed by the BBC Scotland Landward special, "Prawn Wars", still available on iPlayer until Wednesday.

I thought I was well-informed about Scottish fishing issues, a subject I first encountered in long "Church and Nation" reports at the Church of Scotland General Assembly, agonising about the state of Scottish coastal parishes. Earlier this year I discovered the excellent visitor interpretation at FSC Millport, which highlights the impact of scallop dredging on the delicate ecosystems of the Firth of Clyde estuary, and lets you practice sustainable hand-diving of scuttling scallops in big Belfast sinks.

However, I felt much better briefed after the Landward special, which discusses the similar conflict between trawlers and creelers fishing prawns off the west coast of Scotland. It is in-depth and impartial, exploring the interrelations between sustainability, economics and human communities.

The most important thing I learned was that in the nineteenth century a three-mile limit on trawling in inshore waters was established to conserve fisheries, regulation removed by the Thatcher government in 1984.

It also made me look again at a picture on my wall, painted around 1980 by my grandmother Margaret Jackson who was inspired by the Scottish artist Lowry.

It depicts a Scottish fishing community, although it is not on the west coast, but North Berwick, on the east. It's based on a real scene, although there is not a little dash of fantasy. I believe that may be myself, being pushed in a buggy by my mum in red trousers.

Although the harbour is busy, the fishing industry seems to be struggling. One of the fishermen has retired to take tourist excursions to the Bass Rock. The boat in the foreground, which seems to be a trawler, has caught some rare bycatch. The little boats on the right, which look busy and businesslike, are perhaps creelers, enjoying the last few years of protected fishing.

Perhaps this fantasy scene of pipe-bands and mermaids does not add much to our understanding of the "prawn wars". But, painted at a crucial moment in the history of Scottish fishing, it captures the entanglement of economics, employment, environment, tourism, history, and romance which form the human ecosystem of the Scottish coast.

Thank you, Landward, for making the picture so much more interesting.

 

 

 

Friday, 26 June 2015

The Pope, the Poor and the Plankton: Reasons to Read Laudato Si



This article began as "ten reasons you should read Laudato Si, Pope Francis' encyclical on the environment", although it descends into a more rambling analysis. I hope nevertheless it contains some useful insights and pointers for my environmentalist and Christian friends alike, and encourages you to read the whole thing. I have deliberately written it before any of the other commentary on it (which I now look forward to doing with interest), so I don't know whether it will echo much which is already being said, or provide a fresh alternative angle. Like all my recent articles, I've written it with dictation software, which occasionally inserts howlers of mishearings, so if I have failed to fish all of these out they might provide amusement.

It is written to you. "I wish to address every person living on this planet" (3).

From the start, Francis makes it clear that nature has a value qualitatively equivalent to humanity, and emphasises that humanity is part of nature: "The earth herself, burdened and laid waste, is among the most abandoned and maltreated of our poor… We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth; our very bodies are made up of her elements" (2).

There is no sense of religion-science debate: rather, religious insights emerge from the scientific knowledge. "We have forgotten is that man is not only a freedom which he creates for himself. Man does not create himself. He is spirit and will, but also nature" (6). Francis explains the four-tier structure of the encyclical. First, "the best scientific research available today ... provide[s] a concrete foundation". His analysis of the problems, possibilities and myths surrounding GM crops struck me as particularly balanced and well-informed (133). Then, "principles drawn from the Judeo-Christian tradition ... can render our commitment to the environment more coherent". This ancient sociological wisdom provides a key to understanding the "deepest causes" of the scientific environmental crisis, and to developing a modern "approach to ecology which respect our unique place as human beings ... and our relationship to our surroundings". Finally, built on this, are the solutions, rooted in education, "Convinced as I am that change is impossible without motivation and a process of education". (15) Francis points out that divisions are often not between religion and science, but within them: it is necessary for "religions to dialogue among themselves for the sake of protecting nature", and "dialogue among the various sciences is likewise needed, since each can tend to become enclosed in its own language" (201).

It has moments of poetry. "It is our humble conviction that the divine and the human meet in the slightest detail in the seamless garment of God's creation" (9). "An authentic humanity … Seems to dwell in the midst of our technological culture, almost unnoticed, like a mist seeping gently beneath a closed door" (112). "There is a mystical meaning to be found in a leaf, in a mountain trail, in a dewdrop, in a poor persons face" (233).

Things you thought were modern ideas turn out to have been mediaeval catholic practices. For example, did you know St Francis was a wildlife gardener? "Francis asked that part of the friary garden always be left untouched, so that wild flowers and herbs could grow there, and those who saw them could raise their minds to God, the Creator of such beauty" (12).

A theme running throughout Laudato Si is the human injustice caused by the environmental crisis. For example, migrants fleeing "poverty caused by environmental degradation… are not recognised by international conventions as refugees" (25). "Our world has a grave social debt towards the poor who lack access to drinking water, because they are denied the right to a life consistent with their inalienable dignity" (30). "We have to realise that a true ecological approach always becomes a social approach; it must integrate questions of justice in debates on the environment, so as to hear both the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor" (49).

Yet Francis also emphasises throughout the intrinsic value of nature, and the sinfulness of our destruction of it, independent of any human involvement. "Because of us, thousands of species will no longer give glory to God by their very existence, no convey the message to us" (33). "We seem to think that we can substitute and irreplaceable and irretrievable beauty with something which we have created ourselves" (34). "Where profits alone count, there can be no thinking about the rhythms of nature, its phases of decay and regeneration, or the complexity of ecosystems… Biodiversity is considered at most a deposit of economic resources available for exploitation, with no serious thought for the real value of things" (190).

A third theme is the spiritual necessity of nature to humanity. "We were not meant to be inundated by cement, asphalt, glass and metal, and deprived of physical contact with nature" (44). "Jesus worked with his hands, in daily contact with that matter created by God, to which he gave form by his craftsmanship. It is striking that most of his life was dedicated to this task … which awakened no admiration at all" (98).

These religious insights reflect back on the need for science: "Greater investment needs to be made in research aimed at understanding more fully the functioning of ecosystems ... Because all creatures are connected, each must be cherished with love and respect … Each area is responsible for the care of this family. This will require undertaking a careful inventory of the species it hosts, With a view to developing programs and strategies of protection" (42). Good news for the IUCN red list; and is it coincidence that this paragraph number is the answer to life, the universe, and everything? In assessing environmental impacts of project "it is essential to give researchers are there do you roll, to facilitate their interaction, and to ensure broader academic freedom" (140). Francis has no time for a backward-looking, anti-technological approach: "it is right to rejoice in [technological] advances and to be excited by the immense possibilities which they continue to open up before us … How can we not feel gratitude and appreciation for this progress, especially in the fields of medicine, engineering and communications?" (102). The problem with technology is when it becomes an end in itself. "It has become countercultural to choose a lifestyle whose goals are even partly independent of technology" (108). I like this kind of insight, which liberates the reader to examine their own lifestyle and values. "A decrease in the pace of production and consumption can … give rise to another form of progress … It is a matter of openness to different possibilities which do not involve stifling human creativity and it ideals of progress, but rather directing that energy along new channels… To find every new ways of despoiling nature, purely for the sake of new consumer items… would be, in human terms, less worthy and creative, and more superficial" (191-2).

None of this requires believe in a Christian God, or indeed a God at all. When Francis writes about Christian theology, he deals with the question of its relevance head on: "why should this document, addressed to all people of goodwill, include a chapter dealing with the convictions of believers?" (62). His answer is certainly not, because Catholics are right and other people are wrong. Rather, it is that is it distinctive insights of catholicism form one piece of the patchwork of human wisdom: "solutions will not emerge from just one way of interpreting and transforming reality. Respect must also be shown for the various cultural riches of different peoples, their art and poetry, their interior life and spirituality" (63). "Is it reasonable and enlightened to dismiss certain writing is simply because they arose in the context of religious belief? It would be quite simplistic to think that ethical principles present themselves purely in the abstract, detached from any context … The ethical principles capable of being apprehended by reason can always reappear in different guise and find expression in a variety of languages, including religious language" (199).

I was struck by the thoughtfulness with which he treats potential secular readers: having explained why he prefers the word "creation" to "nature", he nevertheless speaks of "nature" throughout, aware that the word "creation" would jar on a secular reader every time. Francis is not hoping that by reading this you will be converted to Christianity, but that you will learn something interesting. He encourages readers to turn the light of sceptical thinking with which they might critique religion onto the assumptions of scientific rationalism: "Modern anthropocentrism has paradoxically ended up prizing technical thought over reality" (115). "The fragmentation of knowledge and the isolation of bits of information can actually become a form of ignorance, unless they are integrated into a broader vision of reality" (138). If you don't believe in God, you will disagree with Francis suggestion that "our relationship with the environment can never be isolated from our relationship with others and with God"; However, you might agree with the problematic attitude he identifies: "romantic individualism dressed up in ecological garb, locking us into a stifling immanence", and you might be prompted to ponder your own solutions (119).

When it comes to global politics, Francis does not mince words. "It is remarkable how weak international political responses have been" (54). "An outsider looking at our world would be amazed at such behaviour" (55). Yet the psychology of our irrational behaviour is explicable: "as often occurs in periods of deep crisis which require bold decisions, we are tempted to think that what is happening is not entirely clear" (59). He subtly explores the power dynamics of the local and global to identify levers for change, to explain how "all it takes is one good person to restore hope!" (71). His comment "there can be no ecology without an adequate anthropology" (118) comes from a Christian perspective, but states in different words the insight I heard from a practical ecologist describing how to achieve conservation ends: "Conservation is 20% biology and 80% public engagement". This chimes in with something I have been pondering for a while, that conservation organisations could benefit greatly by learning from the methods of the missionary church, and relying less on business models – not in doctrine, but in people organisation. The tiny, individual action might seem unlikely to "change the world", but "they call forth a goodness which, albeit unseen, inevitably tend to spread" (212). There is a dynamic of change which it sets up in ourselves and in those around us.

Francis is equally uncompromising when it comes to the Christian contribution to environmental destruction: "We Christians have at times incorrectly interpreted the Scriptures ... We must forcefully reject the notion that our being created in God's image and given dominion over the earth justifies absolute domination over other creatures" (67). He quotes texts from throughout the Bible to demonstrate that, "clearly, the Bible has no place for tyrannical anthropocentrism unconcerned for other creatures" (68). Religion is no use if it merely serves itself: "More than in ideas or concepts as such, I am interested in how such a spirituality can motivate us to have more passionate concern for the protection of our world. A commitment this lofty cannot be sustained by doctrine alone, without a spirituality capable of inspiring us" (216). Christians require "an ecological conversion, whereby the effects of their encounter with Jesus Christ become evident in their relationship with the world around them" (217). People who call themselves Christians yet fail to care for nature have not really encountered Jesus Christ? That's pretty radical stuff. I love it.

These virtues and right relationships are often contrasted with romanticism: "a sense of deep communion with the rest of nature cannot be real if our hearts lack tenderness, compassion and concern for our fellow human beings" (91). "We have only one heart, and the same wretchedness which leads us to mistreat an animal will not be long in showing itself in our relationships with other people" (92). St Francis' love for nature, which cannot love us back, was no more "romantic" than Jesus commandment to love your enemies: "fraternal love can only be gratuitous; it can never be a means of repaying others for what they have done or will do for us" (228), So we can and should "love" the natural world.

The crux of Laudato Si, it seems to me, is Francis' call for "an integral ecology, one which clearly respects its human and social dimensions" (137). He further explains separate elements of this "integral ecology". There is the need for a threefold balance of "environmental, economic and social ecology" (138) – a political trinity I have admired elsewhere. There is "cultural ecology", a section which puts into words why it makes sense for me to be a historian and an ecologist: "it is not a matter of tearing down and building new cities, supposedly more respectful of the environment yet not always more attractive to live in. Rather, there is a need to incorporate the history, culture and architecture of each place, thus preserving its original identity. Ecology, then, also involves protecting the cultural treasures of humanity in the broadest sense" (143). Integral ecology has a kind of fractal structure: at one end, "it is essential to devise stronger and more efficiently organised international institutions" (175); at the other, there is the "ecology of daily life", the tiny detail of human society: the "admirable creativity and generosity… shown by persons and groups who respond to environmental limitations by alleviating the adverse effects of their surroundings" (148). Francis loves the word "subsidiarity".

An "integral ecology" will take into account all these elements. Francis demonstrates the application of these principles in some down-to-earth examples: "environmental impact assessment should not come after the drawing up of a business proposition … It should be part of the process from the beginning" (183). "In any discussion about a proposed venture, a number of questions need to be asked in order to discern whether or not it will contribute to genuine integral development. What will it accomplish?… For whom? What are the risks? What are the costs? Who will pay these costs and how?" (185). All this requires and the emphasises the need for "a path of dialogue which requires patience, self-discipline and generosity, always keeping in mind that realities are greater than ideas" (201). The key leave it for a change is the one Francis mentioned in the introduction: education."If someone has not learned to stop and admire something beautiful, we should not be surprised if he or she treats everything as an object to be used and abused without scruple" (215).

A commentator I heard on the radio commended Francis for telling Catholics to turn to the heating down and stop driving. He doesn't. Francis, unlike the commentator, understands the difference between law and grace: "we are speaking of an attitude of the heart, one which approaches life with serene attentiveness" (226). He does not command changes in action, but in attitude, and predicts that different behaviour will flow from changed hearts: "a person who could afford to spend and consume more but regularly uses less heating or wears warm clothes, shows the kind of convictions and attitudes which help to protect the environment. There is a nobility in the duty to care for creation through little daily actions … Reusing something instead of immediately discarding it ... can be an act of love which expresses our own dignity" (211). At present, "a constant flood of new products can exists with a tedious monotony. Let us refuse to resign ourselves to this, and continue to wonder about the purpose and meaning of everything" (113). A consequentialist morality, says Francis, will be insufficient to motivate people to action: it leads too easily to a passive "gaia" approach. "What need does the earth have of us? It is no longer enough … simply to state that we should be concerned for future generations. We need to see that what is at stake is our own dignity" (160).

At the same time, there is no ambiguity about what needs to be done: "technology based on the use of highly polluting fossil fuel – especially coal, but also oil and, to a lesser degree, gas – need to be progressively replaced without delay" (165). There is no question that the Pope is knocking the heads of states' heads together: "international negotiations cannot make significant progress due to positions taken by countries which place their national interests above the global common good. Those who will have to suffer the consequences of what we are trying to hide will not forget this failure of conscience and responsibility" (169).

I don't like everything in Laudato Si. In particular, the patriarchal paradigm jars on me: "The best way to restore men and women to their rightful place, putting an end to their claim to absolute dominion over the earth, is to speak once more of the figure of a Father who creates and who alone owns the world" (75). But such passages, in awakening my indignant disagreement, do more to inspire my own creative thinking than the passages I agree with. If I don't like Francis' "figure of a Father", how would I solve the problem instead? I thought he was a bit romantic about "indigenous peoples", as if they were a better type of people than us – an unfortunate implication since Christianity affirms that every individual is equal in the sight of God. I would have preferred "indigenous cultures" (179). But these are minor points, and I mentioned them only to show that I was reading critically.

Francis' title for Laudato Si comes from St Francis' famous song of praise with all of nature. At the end of his encyclical, Francis restates this reference to end on a note of hope: "in union of all creatures, we journey through this land seeking God … Let us sing as we go" (244). Sounds a good plan to me.



Friday, 19 June 2015

St Johns Edinburgh and the Battle of Waterloo

The congregation of Bishop Sandford in Edinburgh, the subject of my PhD research, built their striking new chapel of St Johns in 1818. So it is not surprising that a few years earlier, when still meeting in their little classical Charlotte Chapel in Rose Street, they should have some Waterloo connections.

Charlotte Chapel, Rose Street, Edinburgh


Mary McLeod, daughter of the chief of clan McLeod, came from Skye to marry David Ramsay, a Royal Navy captain. Now in their sixties, they lived at 24 Dublin Street, a house with "an excellent dining room… an elegant drawing-room… a large room lighted from the street, well-suited for a writing-chamber",  and "a three-stalled stable and coach house". Between 1793 and 1808 David had commanded the Queen, the Agreeable, the Pomona, and the Euridice. Since then he had been responsible for overseeing the defence of the Port of Leith, and organising the press-gang. Trinity House presented him with a silver snuff box in recognition of his work in 1813.

Major Norman Ramsay Galloping his Troop Through the French Army
to Safety at the Battle of Fuentes d'Onoro, 1811

Yet, the following years were ones of tragedy. Their daughter Catherine died in October 1814, and was buried by Bishop Sandford. The following February they gave up the house in Dublin Street. In January 1815 their second son Alexander, a Lieutenant in the Royal Artillery, was killed at New Orleans, although news did not reach Edinburgh until March. On 19 June 1815, their eldest son William was killed at Waterloo. finally, on 31 July 1815, their youngest son David, a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, died in Jamaica. David himself died in November 1818. Mary, who still had three surviving daughters, outlived him by ten years. The pride they took in their gallant sons is demonstrated by the monumental tomb they commissioned for them in Inveresk churchyard.



Part of the family of Ramsay of Balnain, David was related to Bishop Sandford's successor, Edward Bannerman Ramsay, Dean of Edinburgh and St John's most eminent Rector. However, this was not just a church for those in high society, as its other Waterloo connection demonstrates.

Margaret Mitchell gave birth to a daughter in March 1813, a fortnight before her husband John joined as a Private in Captain Miller's Company in the Rifle Brigade. The daughter, Eleanor, was baptised by Bishop Sandford the following June. As fans of the Sharp novels know, the Rifle Brigade were an innovative part of the British Army, in which soldiers were highly trained, armed with the accurate Baker Rifle, dressed in close-fitting green uniforms, and expected to operate independently ahead of the main army, with officers and men working closely together. John was wounded at Waterloo, but was invalided home to Margaret and little Eleanor.

A Rifleman's uniform


Waterloo was, however, a long way from the west end of Edinburgh, where members of Charlotte Chapel were engaged in church wars and canal wars. Bishop Sandfords congregation had recently begun discussing the construction of the new chapel, and on 8 June proposed to the neighbouring episcopal congregation that they unite to build one splendid church. On 12 June, a week before Waterloo, the proposal was rejected by the Cowgate Chapel. The ostensible reason was that one large chapel might "create jealousy against us in the established [Presbyterian] church", but one suspects that the "very respectable number" of the congregation who were "decidedly of the opinion that the union… is inexpedient" were thinking more about the fact that Bishop Sandford's congregation contained a lot of riflemen and sea captains, not to mention shopkeepers, nabobs, and suchlike. The Cowgate Chapel congregation was, as its Rector Archibald Alison explained in 1820, "of a peculiar kind… composed almost entirely of persons in the higher ranks, or in the more respectable conditions of society". It seems likely that the Cowgate congregation, which built St Pauls in York Place, wished to retain its exclusivity. The two churches raced to complete their new chapels in 1818, a little ecclesiastical battle which St Paul's won, thanks to a huge storm which blew the newly-erected Gothic pinnacles of St Johns tower through its roof, just before it was due to open.

St John's Chapel, opened 1818


Meanwhile, on the day of Waterloo itself, one of those St John's nabobs and a future vestry member, Robert Downie, convened a meeting of the Subscribers to the Union Canal. The "Union Line" which Downie was promoting with the support of various members of the Whig party, was fiercely opposed by the Tory city council who preferred an alternative "Upper Line". Downie, whose immense wealth made his proposals difficult to argue with despite his humble social origins, so the Union Canal through to a successful completion, and gave his name to Downie Place, the section of Lothian Road which overlooked the canal's terminus, Port Hopetoun.

Downie Place and Port Hopetoun


For the west end of Edinburgh, Waterloo symbolised far more than military victory. After twenty-five years of war, it signified a moment of social, technological, institutional and cultural advance (an anonymous member of the community had just published Waverley and Guy Mannering). The following years witnessed social unrest, economic depression, and ultimately the eclipse of Edinburgh by Glasgow and other industrial cities. Yet, 200 years ago, in Bishop Sandford's congregation, it might have felt like the optimistic dawn of the modern world.

Sources
"Box, presented to Captain David Ramsay", National Museums of Scotland
George Caldwell and Robert Cooper, Rifle Green at Waterloo
Caledonian Mercury newspaper
Minutes of St John's vestry
Sermons of Archibald Allison
Letters of Walter Scott


Wednesday, 27 May 2015

Life with a capital L

Well, here's a thing. The cocky Eleanor, always bouncing off the walls and doing anything she wants to, has been felled by an autoimmune disease. You know when you bang your knee or sprain your wrist, and it goes red, hot and painfully swollen, and you lie awake at night groaning and demanding ibuprofen? My body has decided that any of my joints should inflame like that whenever I indulge in too much exertion – and the rest of the time should creak uncomfortably like a granny's. Over the past two months, the definition of "too much exertion" has descended from three-mile runs and all-day typing, to sending a tweet and going to the shop. It's also spread from my hands and feet to my knees, elbows, shoulders and jaw – and tongue, which seems an unfair classification of "joint". I'm off to see a specialist next week with blithe promises of diagnosis and treatment, hopefully before my immune system classifies my vital organs as joints. But right now, I feel as if I'm dying, and from my knowledge of autoimmune conditions, there's some chance that I am.

I've never been ill before, and it has afforded various interesting reflections.

One is, that for the first time in my life I'm quite impressed with myself. The autoimmune thing appears to have developed on top of a badly underactive thyroid. I've felt dead tired for years, but whenever I put it to anyone they said, look at all the things you do! You've done a PhD, bought Blair House, you sing three choral services on Sunday and go running and walking, and do all this environmental stuff. Last September I walked 20 miles over Lochnagar, and jogged the last four miles. There's clearly nothing is the matter with me: I'm just lazy. Well, it seems I wasn't lazy, I was achieving a considerable feat of mind over matter. I might have killed myself, but I'm quite impressed.

Secondly, I'm pleased at how quickly I've chilled out into the being ill thing. At first when I realised that this wasn't going away, I was hugely grumpy, frustrated, feeling that my only method of keeping demons at bay was a frenzied activity and exercise. I couldn't bear to let people know I was ill, and go through all the dreadful charade of people asking me how I am and screwing up their faces in socially-acceptable sorrow when I say I'm getting worse. As an alternative, I laid in angrily to my friends' political pronouncements on Facebook, but this was tiresome work. After about a month of this, I got bored of myself. The doctor had officially sanctioned laziness, and actually I quite enjoy staring out of windows, so I began to enjoy the luxury. I bought an iPad, which lets me write by dictation so I'm not silenced by my arthritic hands. It's only a small switch in attitude for the stupid things people say – whether politics on Facebook, or sympathy for illness – to seem comic rather than irritating. The weather is warm. My parents and friends are looking after me. The world has become a very chilled-out and funny place.

But the best thing – the best thing of all – is that after a week believing I'm dying, my attitudes to death are just the same. My integrity has passed the test. I still think it is a ridiculous waste of time to fundraise for cures for rare diseases when we are facing a once-for-all mass extinction of life on our planet. I am still far more frightened of ecocide than of my own death, which is why I can talk with what some people seem to find shocking glibness about the possibility of the latter. The ultimate horror all my life has been the growing expectation that I would die in an environmental catastrophe, aware that spring never would come again, future generations never would grow up, birds never would sing over my ashes, and worst of all, that I had been amongst the last generation which failed in its responsibility to restore life. The possibility that I might actually just quit the scene now, irresponsibly, while there is still ample opportunity for humanity to rescue nature, would be the ultimate skive.

When people get debilitating or life-threatening illnesses, people rally round. The religious people pray for their recovery, while the secular people, or the more practical religious, go for sponsored runs in aid of medical charities, and everyone proclaims how unfair it is that a talented young life should be cut off in its prime. From my perspective, any god who attempted to glorify himself by miraculously healing me would be a blinkered, pampered, western, middle-class idol. Anyone who throws themself into fundraising for autoimmune research need to sort their priorities out. And as for unfairness, I have lived one of the most privileged lives in the history of life on this planet. Any unfairness runs the other way.

This is why I have decided to take advantage of the interest and sympathy that attaches itself to illness, to ask you a favour: take a lead in making the restoration of nature society's first priority. At present, humanity is not life, but a rogue species. Focus all your prayers, practical effort, righteous indignation, ingenuity and energy on saving Life with a capital L. The destruction of nature and biodiversity is not an aspect of the environmental crisis (as, for example, climate change or overfishing is an aspect). The destruction of nature IS the environmental crisis, in all its aspects, and we are part of nature. It is time for us to stop being a rogue species, and become a restorative one. Raise money with sponsored events. Lobby Parliament: change the political agenda. Examine your lifestyle. Form societies. Plant trees, as if your life depended on it. Your life does depend on it. Don't weep and pray for me, I'm all right. Weep and pray for all endangered nature, and for yourselves, who are part of its endangering. There's still time for salvation. If you don't want to do it because you are convinced by my arguments, do it because I'm ill and I'm asking it as a favour in return for entertaining you on Twitter over the years.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about how the environmental movement could be more effective, and I had hoped to try out these ideas into practice before putting them in print. But I'm no more afraid of looking stupid in a good cause than I am of dying, so I hope to write some more on this subject soon and get the ideas out there. When I unexpectedly recover, try them out, and they all fail miserably, nothing will have been lost except my dignity. And that is a chance worth taking, on the offchance of saving Life. If you take them and improve them and make them work, I'll have done something worthwhile.

As my favourite philosopher John Ruskin said, "There is no wealth but life".

PS. Don't worry about Blair House. There may be some delay but it will be refurbished and reopened. I am simply the front of a large team who are all hoping to remain where they are in the background!

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

Treasuries for the Wind: Achieving Zero-Carbon Britain

He bringeth the wind out of his treasuries. Psalm 135 v.7

I have an innate suspicion of novel environmental technologies. Too often they seem to be an excuse for inaction: nuclear fusion or carbon capture and storage lurk just around the corner, their concepts inexplicable to the educated general reader (me), giving us the small excuse we need to fail to plant trees, to fail to insulate our loft.

So when in a Friends of the Earth debate yesterday Paul Allen, head of Zero Carbon Britain mentioned something called "syngas" as a key component of his proposal for a Zero Carbon Edinburgh, I was not going to take it on trust.

The Technology

The concept is simple: on a windy Scottish day when electricity from turbines threatens to overwhelm the grid (the mountainous blue 'surplus' in the graphic below), switch on a syngas plant; use the electricity to convert water and carbon dioxide into methane; and fill up the nation's gas holders. Even I understand the chemistry of that. A similar process can also make liquid vehicle fuel.

It sounded too simple. Why isn't it being done already? A couple of us in the audience pressed him, but the debate was heading in a different direction. So today, with the help of the Centre for Environmental Change and Human Resilience in Dundee, I did a bit of investigation.

It does work. It is not a perpetual motion machine. It's known as power-to-gas, and two years ago Audi opened a pioneering 6MW facility in Germany.

Perhaps it's too inefficient? Perhaps a whole windfarm in a gale would only heat one boiler in a draughty Victorian villa? But no, Wikipedia helpfully informs me, the conversion rate is 50-60% efficiency, far greater than the "efficient" gas turbine power stations, which achieve less than 40% making the conversion in the other direction.

That wasted electricity could create significant quantities of gas, from atmospheric CO2.

The Economics

So why does every big wind farm not have a power-to-gas facility, so that instead of seeing half their turbines switched off on a windy day so as not to overload the grid, we would see a gas holder filling up?

The brain-sprain for traditional energy economics is: electricity is inefficient and expensive, fossil gas is inexpensive and efficient, so who in their right mind would take hard-won electricity and turn it into gas? We use gas to make electricity! It's like spinning gold into straw! But this is the economics of the fossil economy.

In the climate change economy, the fossil gas must stay in the ground, at any cost. And in the renewables economy, heaps of electricity is free: that big blue surplus. It's wasted; is is not even created: the wind turbine stands idle.

But once this brain-sprain is overcome there is a more specific economic barrier. Feed-in tariffs have been vital in creating investment in renewables infrastructure. They have worked by guaranteeing a steady income to renewables generators even when the grid doesn't need it. This has been great for investment in renewables, but when power-to-gas came on the scene, there was no incentive for wind farmers to invest in such technology, because you were still paid for keeping your turbine switched off.

Make the feed-in tariff for large new wind-farms contingent on including a power-to-gas facility, and the economic problem is solved.

The Politics

But it takes more than technological and economic theory to get a new environmental technology working. There's the politics.

People object enough to wind farms. Think what they'll say if they become wind farms with gas holders!

People come to expect subsidies. What will investors do if they have new conditions attached?

Yet what are the alternatives? Will fracking fossil gas, to generate electricity when the wind is not blowing, be more politically popular? I am delighted to say it will not, and I will be as opposed as anyone. The fossil carbon must stay in the ground. Incentivising North Sea Oil? This has iconic Scottish status, but as an energy source it is just as finite, and more importantly just as environmentally disastrous.

On the contrary, doesn't the possibility of developing a power-to-gas and offshore wind offer a superb opportunity to transform the north of Scotland from an oil dinosaur into a world-leading renewables powerhouse? Aberdeen a granite rival to Dubai in embracing new, sustainable energy technologies? Much of the expertise and infrastructure used in the north sea oil industry -- such as platforms, and getting to them -- are transferable.

The political barriers are small. The political advantages of power-to-gas in a renewables economy -- for economic boost, for an iconic Scottish industry, for social justice for the oil workforce, for the environment -- are so enormous that I don't know whether the Conservatives, SNP, Labour or Greens should be most excited by it.

The Culture

By far the biggest barrier to environmental change is the cultural one. Nobody has yet found an ethical way to change a society's behaviour. Yet this is where power-to-gas is the biggest winner.

The big problem with many renewables scenarios is they involve transformation of our personal infrastructure: electric heating, electric cars, smart-grids that charge us a premium for doing our laundry on non-windy days. If our aim is a speedy transition to zero carbon Edinburgh, or Scotland, or Britain, what hope do we have of persuading everyone to replace their central heating, buy a different type of car, when we cannot even get the nation's lofts properly insulated?

But with power-to-gas this is not necessary. Our old friend, gas (ah, that nice blue flame), comes into our boilers and our cookers via a carbon-neutral cycle, synthesised by the power of wind. Our transport can still run, not on acres of valuable land intensively farmed for biofuel, but on fuel synthesised by wind. Our heritage streets can be lit with gaslight, if we like.

And for that matter -- it's easy to forget this sometimes occurs around here -- it also works with solar, on those days when we aren't using any electricity at all because we are all outside, basking.

Investigate it

I am no expert. I only heard of power-to-gas yesterday. There may well be important disadvantages or barriers to using surplus renewable electricity to synthesise methane from water and carbon dioxide, which I have not discovered. I would be grateful to hear if you know of them, so that I can update this article.

But there are also times when, in the cataclysm of lobbying, interests, campaigns, partial views, it is simply that no-one has yet put together the jigsaw of technology, economics, politics and culture together to see the workable policy.

I've tried to put that jigsaw together. This article gives some more detail on the technology and the economic issues. The zero-carbon Britain project would be the people to contact for further advice.

My aim is simply to inspire policymakers, investors, you noisy lot in our little Scottish public sphere, to investigate it further, and see where it might go.

Treasuries for the Wind? The old Granton gasworks, Edinburgh, drawn by Ian Lutton (http://www.grantonhistory.org/industry/gas_works.htm)