Tomorrow being Bloomsday...

Whilst strolling by Larry O'Rourke's pub on the corner of Eccles Street and Dorset Street on the morning of 16 June 1904, as detailed in the fourth chapter of Joyce's Ulysses, Leopold Bloom pondered how poor barmen could become wealthy proprietors in a city so festooned with pubs as Dublin.

'Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.'

It's would be a good puzzle, and if you think of crossing Dublin as taking you north-south over the Liffey and west-east across the city too, then it's not easy to do.

Anyway, this fella thinks he's got it all figured out.

It's not a bad attempt, and his thinking's pretty good, not least in his decision to use the canals as the city perimeters and to exclude hotel bars and restaurants that serve drinks. They're not pubs, and that should be the end of it.

Other than the fact that I think he should probably start his amble on Eccles Street, as Bloom would have had to do, the only concern I have is that Dublin now isn't the Dublin of 1904. Joyce, of course, famously boasted that if Dublin were ever destroyed, it'd be possible to rebuild the whole of it from his works -- his attention to topgraphic detail is astonishing, so surely to do this properly we'd want to be crossing Joyce's Dublin, not our own. We'd need a map of Dublin with only the pubs of 107 years ago on it. And, for that matter, you'd probably need to be crossing the river on one of the nine city bridges that existed 107 years ago, rather than one of the eight that've been built since.

Especially not on one built just eight years ago. Even if it is named after James Joyce.

A whistling sentinel...

When I heard Patrick Leigh Fermor had died, one of the first thoughts that struck me was to wonder who takes his place. If Paddy had been the greatest living Englishman, as I've long maintained, sometimes drunkenly, who now can lay claim to that title?

Seventy-five years ago tomorrow, T.H. White, yet to become the author of the twentieth century's supreme reworking of the tale of Arthur, clearly had a similar thought, and addressed his pupils to tell them his conclusion.

Boys, he said, 'G.K. Chesterton died yesterday. P.G. Wodehouse is now the greatest living master of the English language.'

I like that.

It's been three quarters of a century since Gilbert died, and he keeps delighting people and changing lives. Terry Pratchett was surely right to say that small doses of Chesterton, taken regularly, are good for the soul -- and how I wish he could take his own advice now -- but great gulps of the Wild Knight of Battersea can transform us.

Just speaking for myself, I think I'd like semi-colons a lot less were it not for Gilbert, and I'd almost certainly not be a practicing Catholic -- or even the most lukewarm of theists -- were it not for him. Even now, whenever I revisit him, I return refreshed and thinking anew, always remembering that when you get down to it where faith is involved,

'It is not a question of Theology,
It is a question of whether, placed as a sentinel of an unknown watch, you will whistle or not.'

It's worth reading what Mark Shea has to say about him, as well as Sean Dailey, who points out that were GKC to be added to the canon of the saints amongst whom is surely already rejoicing, today would almost certainly be his feast day.

Breaking Bread or Sharing Sandwiches?

I resisted the urge, weak as it was, to go along to my friends' Evangelical church yesterday; I'm busy, after all, and I really think that no matter how ecumenical I may be feeling, I just don't have the time to be attending another service after Mass on Sundays at the minute.

It was for the best, I think, as having listened to the sermon online, I'd have gotten very exasperated. The first half of it was excellent, all about the idea of the Spirit as a purifying fire, existing both in a corporate and an individual way in the Church. Unfortunately, things fell apart in the second part of the sermon, commenting on Acts 2:42-47... 

'Secondly, 'devoted to the fellowship'... koinonia. 'Fellowship' is a weak word. It really means a 'partnership', a 'bonding together'. And in Acts 2 it has the effect in a practical way of our homes, our familes, and our money. It's very concrete. It spreads its umbrella down to 47. Verse 47. These are the things that it means to be devoted to the fellowship. You see they're together daily, and when they break bread it doesn't mean Communion; it means that they ate together in their homes. [...] They devoted themselves to one another and they met together.'

At which point the minister began recommending that the congregation should eat with each other, or even just meet up for coffee. Well, if you've read my post from the other day you'll see why I'm frustrated with this analysis of the passage. It's not just that it's banal; it's that it's wrong, and it seems to be wrong because the NIV translation is inaccurate.

Here's the NIV again, to remind you:

'They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favour of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.'

Now, the first thing is that yes, it's true that 'fellowship' is perhaps a weak word to render koinonia with, but 'partnership' seems even more so; curiously, if one wanted a technical term to translate koinonia, there'd be a very serious case for using 'communion'; I doubt this would have confused anybody, as in an Anglican context the term is often used to describe all Anglican churches in union together.

I'll get back to that later, but for now I want to focus on the perplexing question of why on earth the minister claimed that when the first Christians broke bread they weren't participating in Communion, by which he meant the Eucharist. The passage twice refers to the breaking of bread, the first time saying that the early Christians devoted themselves to the breaking of the bread, and the second that they broke bread every single day. Based on how the NIV renders this passage, one might well be tempted to assume that when it says 'they broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts,' it's simply describing the same activity in two ways, but again, the Greek doesn't say that. Rather, it clearly distinguishes between them.

Let's take a look at the Greek again, remembering what we know about 'te... kai...' constructions, which is that they're used to indicate a series of distinct points which are connected together. All told, then, this passage tells us that the daily activity of the early Church entailed four discrete things:

• kat hēmeran te proskarteroūntes homothumadon en tōi hierōi,
• klōntes te kat' oikon arton,
• metelambanon trophēs en agalliasei kai aphelotēti kardias,
• ainountes to Theon kai ekhontes kharin pros holon ton laon.

So, there are four separate elements here, each one clearly marked by its own 'te' or 'kai', and all four collectively governed by that opening 'kat hēmeran' which means 'every day'. Daily Christian activity for the Jerusalem Church consisted of:

• Continuing in their devotion at the Temple.
• Breaking bread in their homes.
• Partaking of food with glad and sincere hearts.
• Praising God and having goodwill towards the whole people.

Curiously, if you go back to the start of this section, you'll see that Acts 2:42 clearly states that these first Christians continued in their devotion -- yes, it's exactly the same verb later used for their continued Temple activity -- to the teaching of the apostles and to the fellowship, to the breaking of the bread and to the prayers. I'm inclined to believe that this sentence refers to the same four points later detailed, in that the the breaking of bread and the prayers are clearly present in both sentences, the apostles evidently taught in the Temple, and fellowship certainly entailed eating together.

It's worth noting that there are a few definite articles in Acts 2:42, which shouldn't be ditched in the way the NIV ditches them: it doesn't just say 'to the breaking of bread and to prayer'; it specifically says 'to the breaking of the bread and to the prayers'. This matters, because such formal language points to formal activity; it's describing liturgy, not lunch.

That's not to say that the Jerusalem Christians didn't eat together too, in association with their Eucharistic celebration. They evidently did just this, and it'd be surprising if they did otherwise, given that the passage and Acts 4:32 onwards make clear that they did everything in common. 1 Corinthians 11:17-33 shows that twenty years later the Christians of Corinth continued to associate a common meal -- albeit one where social divisions were problematic -- with their Eucharistic feast. However, the fact that Acts and 1 Corinthians reveal that the early Christians broke bread together and ate meals together should never cause us to assume that 'breaking of bread' in early Christianity was just another way of saying 'having dinner'.

Look at Luke 24:35, which records how the two disciples who met the risen Jesus on the road to Emmaus told the Apostles that Jesus 'was known to them in the breaking of the bread', the exact same words being used as at Acts 2:42. Look at 1 Corinthians 10:16-17, where Paul asked his Corinthian brethren,'the bread which we break -- is it not a participation in the body of Christ? Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all partake of the one bread.'

For what it's worth, the word we usually translate as 'participation' there is koinonia again, so we could well render it as 'fellowship' or even 'communion'. I'm inclined to go for the latter, myself. Anyway, it seems that however we slice this -- and I think with we'd need to look carefully at John 6:32-66 and the various Last Supper narratives even to begin to understand it -- the breaking of bread is absolutely essential to koinonia, and it's not simply a matter of meeting up for coffee or inviting people around for tea.

No, for Paul the breaking of bread was by definition a ritual activity, and we have no reason whatsoever to think that it was otherwise for the Jerusalem Church and the author of Acts.

The Life and Death of a Modern Hero

As I said earlier, I think the world was a richer place yesterday than it is today, as it seems we've been doubly impoverished. Patrick Leigh Fermor has died.

Whenever I've told people about Fermor they've tended to stop me, usually about halfway through, and ask whether I was talking about a real person. How could one person, they'd ask, have done so much?

I don't blame them. Walking from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople when he was eighteen back in 1933, staying in castles and barns along the way, drinking and dining with gypsies and aristocrats... fighting in a cavalry battle between Republicans and Royalists in northern Greece... falling in love with a Romanian princess and living with her in a watermill, her painting and him writing... joining the Irish Guards in the Second World War but being reassigned to SOE, stationed in Crete where we worked with the Cretan resistance and headed the mission to kidnap, hide, and bustle away the German commander of East Crete to Egypt... travelling in the Caribbean and writing a book about what he saw there that's cited in Live and Let Die as James Bond's perfect introduction to Haiti... his only novel, a slight yet beautiful work that's been turned into an opera... embracing the quiet rhythms of French monasteries and later beautifully evoking these rhythms in A Time to Keep Silence, published the same year that Dirk Bogarde played him in Ill Met by Moonlight... two marvellous books on travelling in northern and southern Greece, with his descriptions of the monasteries of the air in Meteora being second to none... and then, in 1977, perhaps the finest travel book of the last century, A Time of Gifts, beginning to tell the tale of his great teenage peregrination to Istanbul, this retelling only becoming possible after his teenage notebooks had been returned to him after being found in a Romanian castle... swimming the Hellespont when he was 69, with his wife Joan following behind him by boat... a second volume of his great epic, From the Woods to the Water, in 1986... another travel book, Three Letters from the Andes, in 1991... a translation and a lengthy introduction his friend and old comrade George Psychoundakis' The Cretan Runner in 1998... being knighted in 2004... being honoured by the Greek state as Commander of the Order of the Phoenix in 2007... a delightful and weighty collection of his letters to and from his old friend Deborah Devonshire, In Tearing Haste, in 2008...

He died today, 96 years old, after a long illness. I'd been a fan of his for years, quoting him at length once here and giving copies of A Time of Gifts to a friend as a birthday present only last month. I'd long wanted to meet him; indeed, I've envied a friend who was once in the same room as him. I got within a few miles of his home in Kardamyli last summer. Soon, I hope, his publishers will edit and publish the massive pile of pages that makes up the third and final volume of his great walk across Europe, the third volume that'll take us from the Iron Gates to the Golden Horn.

Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor, DSO, OBE, Commander of the Order of the Phoenix -- may he rest in peace. We'll probably not see his like again, but maybe we should just rejoice that he graced us with his presence as long as he did. This blog, doubtless, will be the place to go for all manner of obituaries and articles celebrating his brilliance. It's been a fine site for a long time, but I think it'll come into its own now.

Brian Lenihan, Jr.

The world today is, I fear, a poorer place than it was yesterday.

I learned this morning that Brian Lenihan, until recently Ireland's Minister for Finance, had died. He'd not long turned 52, and had had pancreatic cancer since late 2009. Our Opposition has been weakened, and not just in numbers, but in quality too. We need good people on the Opposition benches as much as the Government ones, and today we've lost one of our very best.

I'll never forget the first time I met him. I was a new barman at the time, working in the local pub, and he was running as a candidate in the by-election to fill his father's seat. I'd read quite a bit about him, and had fairly high hopes, so it was interesting to see him. I know: I was young -- scarcely out of my teens -- and easily impressed. This was also going to be my first time voting too, and I was pretty sure I'd be voting for him. An odd choice, perhaps, given my normal Fine Gael leanings, but I wasn't impressed by the Fine Gael candidate at all, and Lenihan seemed to have serious ability, the kind the Dáil could surely do with.

He was surrounded by groupies, the typical tribal sorts who gather round political figures, and one of them, hastening to buy a drink -- 'For the candidate,' she said -- looked at my bemused expression and turned giggling to the others: 'He doesn't know who he is!'

Lenihan looked at me, noticed my querulous eyebrow, and grinned at me. I nodded, and finished the order. And I voted for him. It was my first time to vote to send anyone to the Dáil, and it was my first time to vote in an AV election, and my guy had got in. Joe Higgins, the other candidate to make it to the last round, got in later, and though I often disagree with him, I think he's a good man to have in the Dáil too. He asks good questions.

Despite being possible the most able TD Fianna Fáil had in their ranks -- or perhaps because of it -- Bertie kept him out of the cabinet for years, only seriously promoting him when he was on the way out himself. Once Bertie was gone he was appointed as Minister for Finance, there immediately to be handed the mess created by his predecessors and the global economic collapse. His guarantee of the Irish banks was seen by almost everyone at the time as the best possible response to the crisis of the day, though in hindsight it looks disastrous, as has his maintenance of the guarantee and the acceptance of the hugely expensive EU-IMF loans that we've all taken to calling a 'bailout'.

There seems something terribly ironic and deeply tragic in a politician of such ability and integrity, possibly the most gifted member of the last Dáil or two, having led the country into such a dire situation. I strongly suspect, though, that history shall judge him kindly, once the documents are all out in the open and we can see what really went on when the guarantee was decided, when its maintenance was agreed on, and when the bailout was accepted.

All who knew him seem to have loved him. I've no doubt he'll not be long for Purgatory.

One Liturgy, Two Locations

One of the things I discovered recently, in the aftermath of being lectured on a not-particularly tricky point of ancient Greek grammar, is that I did more Greek in the course of my master's degree than most undergraduates do in three years' work on the subject. Over coffee some weeks back a new student of the language, apparently unaware that I do this stuff for a living, began lecturing me at some length on a fairly straightforward bit of grammar, and feeling a bit patronised -- not to mention bemused -- I started to look at course outlines, realised just how much Greek I've done, and began to wonder that my semi-formal study might well be worth adding to my CV.

Anyway, I occasionally keep the rust off my language skills by looking at Classical writers and also at the far simpler New Testament authors. I gave an example of this the other day, talking of how I've just in the last week or so realised how ambiguous 2 Timothy 3:16 is, in that it can be rendered into English in two diverse ways with surprisingly different meanings.

Well, as I've mentioned, I often listen to sermons from the local Evangelical church when I can't make it along to attend services there; I think sincere listening is necessary if we're to reach any kind of understanding, and that that's the least we can do. I also think we should do together what we can do together, but right now time presses so joining my friends at their services isn't all that easy to do, especially given that Mass comes first.

However, I'm not looking forward to listening to this Sunday's sermons. There've been a series of talks on the meaning of 'church' as a concept, and this Sunday's sermon is to be based upon Acts 2:1-13  and 42-47. That's fine, of course, as the first passage is about Pentecost, that being the day that'll be in it, and the latter passage in particular is very important for this general topic, but I'm uneasy about the fact that the translation they'll use is the New International Version, as I think the NIV translation distorts the text of this passage.

Acts 2:46-47 contains a sentence with several clauses, which the NIV renders as two distinct sentences, as follows:

'Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favour of all the people.'

What does this suggest to you? Doesn't it seem to say that the early Christians used to meet up at the temple on a daily basis, and that they broke bread and ate together in their own homes? Because that's how I'd read it. It's not, however, what the Greek says, and this is the kind of thing that makes me understand why one Evangelical friend of mine -- an Anglican curate now, as it happens -- has said that he's heard the NIV referred to as the New Inaccurate Version.

In the Greek original, this is one sentence, not two. What's more, it's a sentence which uses an extended 'te... kai...' construction, such constructions carrying the sense of 'not only... but also...'. It's a sentence with a series of distinct but related points, which are intended to be understood in conjunction with each other, not in isolation. There's no justification whatsoever for splitting this into two separate sentences, especially when the sentence can be eloquently rendered as a unity in English. The Revised Standard Version manages it admirably:

'And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they partook of food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favour with all the people. '

Obviously this flows well, but there's also quite a difference there, isn't there? In the RSV translation, the early Christians don't just rendezvous at the Temple, using it as a social venue, a convenient meeting point; on the contrary, they participate in worship there, before breaking bread in their homes. That's quite a shift, isn't it? Is that actually what it says, though?

Well, look at the Greek. The phrase the NIV renders as 'every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts' and which the RSV translates as 'and day by day, attending the temple together' is 'kat hēmeran te proskarteroūntes homothumadon en tōi hierōi'.

• If we break this down, we'll see that the sentence's opening phrase, 'kat hēmeran', means 'daily'.
• This is followed by our opening enclitic particle, 'te', which invites a 'kai' or another 'te' later on. The important thing is that it's setting up the idea of a series of related points. It's because of this that we know that the opening phrase governs the whole sentence, rather than just the clause immediate to it.
• This is followed by the phrase 'proskarteroūntes homothumadon', where 'homothumadon' means 'same passion' or 'of one accord', and where 'proskarteroūntes' means something along the lines of 'to persevere' or 'to remain constant'; together the two words convey the idea of a shared and continued devotion. 
• The final part of this clause, 'en tōi hierōi'' literally means 'in the holy', but given that it's referring to a location, and a singular rather than a plural location at that, it seems the best translation for this would be 'in the holy place', or, as it was in Jerusalem, 'in the Temple'.

Now, I happen to think the RSV translation for this is perhaps a little weak, but it's not wrong, which the NIV one certainly is. The NIV conjures up an image of the early Christians meeting up in the courts of the Temple, as though they're just using the Temple as a handy spot to get together, but the Greek text makes it clear that the Temple remained a place of worship for the early Church, something that's otherwise attested to at Luke 24:53 and Acts 3:1. How can this have been so, though? Hebrews, after all, makes clear that the Temple sacrifices are redundant, and the first Christians must have at least had some understanding of this! 

Well, that's where the next part of the sentence comes in -- and that's why it's important to pay attention when that little word 'te' appears in Greek, as it means there's going to be some kind of correlation between points. The earliest Christians regarded the Eucharistic breaking of bread as a sacrifice, following the pattern laid down by Melchizidek and given meaning by Jesus, and so it seems clear that they divided their daily worship into two acts, in two locations. They continued to regard the Temple as a divinely ordained place of prayer and proclamation, and so persevered in their worship there, but as they regarded the Temple's cultic activities as having been superseded by the Eucharist, they assembled for Communion in their own homes.

Broken into two distinct parts, contrary to the original text, and translated misleadingly, this passage tells us very little, other than that the early Christians used to meet up at the Temple, and that they broke bread in their homes, whatever that might mean! On the other hand, though, when viewed as one sentence this passage gives us a clear depiction of the pattern of daily worship in the Jerusalem Christian community in the earliest days of the Church.

In short: translations matter.

Texts without Contexts

I mentioned yesterday how I have huge difficulty understanding Evangelical thinking, but how I've been given a few pointers that I think will help me in the long run.

Well, I want to get one of these pointers down here now, while it's fresh and relevant to something I've been reading.

In Essentials, John Stott comments on Lumen Gentium, the Second Vatican Council's Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, noting how nuanced and ambiguous it is in terms of what it says about how those who do not know or for whatever reason cannot hear the Gospel may yet be saved. However, he observes, there's no such ambiguity to be seen in Redemptor Hominis, John Paul II's first Papal encyclical, in which he said:

'Man -- every man without any exception whatever -- has been redeemed by Christ, and ... with man -- with each man without any exception whatever -- Christ is in a way united, even when man is unaware of it'

That kind of unconditional universalism, says Stott, must, however, be firmly rejected by those who look to Scripture for authoritative guidance.

I blinked a bit when I read that. JPII a universalist? Really? This was news to me, so I went and had a read of Redemptor Hominis, and rather quickly came to the conclusion that John Paul had been talking about our redemption as distinct from our salvation. That is, he was saying we've all been redeemed; he was not saying we'll all be saved. Insofar as as he said we're all united in Christ he didn't say anything that was in any sense outside the Christian mainstream. We need only look to Dietrich Bonhoeffer's The Cost of Discipleship, for instance, where the Lutheran martyr said:

'The death of Jesus is the manifestation of God's righteousness, it is the place where God has given gracious proof of his own righteousness, the place where alone the righteousness of God will dwell. By sharing in this death we too become partakers of that righteousness. For it was our flesh Christ took upon him, and our sins which he bore in his body on the tree (1 Peter 2:24). What happened there to him happened to us all.'

How could so eminent a Christian teacher as John Stott, someone famed for his erudition and charitable spirit, have so misrepresented John Paul II? He may not see any difference between redemption and salvation, but surely he must realise that Catholic teaching carefully distinguishes between the two. He couldn't just be prooftexting, could he? Mining Catholic writings to take passages out of context and misinterpreing them in line with his own preconceptions?

The thing is, I've seen this happen before, and again in the case of someone who's admired as an Evangelical academic and pastor, that being Don Carson, he who's so famous for declaring that 'a text without a context becomes a pretext for a proof text'. I went to a talk he gave some months ago, and was far from impressed by it, for a few reasons, and a couple of Protestant friends of mine who were there too were even less taken with what he said than I'd been -- they've hardly been back to that church since -- and this left me wondering why people think so much of him. I glanced about online to try to find out more about him, and I came across an article he'd written about marriage, in which he said the following:

'But it is important to see that, strictly speaking, marriage (despite the Roman Catholic Church), is not a sacrament to be reserved for Christians. It is a creation ordinance — that is, it is part of the plan of creation itself, something that God has ordained for man/woman pairs everywhere, not something that flows out of the life of the church and that belongs only to Christians.'

This astounded me. Carson is quite highly regarded, and apparently very well-read, supposedly reading 500 books a year, although he admits many of them he barely skims. And despite all his learning, he thinks that the Church says that marriage is a sacrament and is reserved for Christians. The Church says nothing of the sort. Sure, it says Christian marriage is a sacrament, and that Christian marriage is reserved for Christians, but it doesn't dispute for a moment the reality, the validity, or the legitimacy of other marriages. It's not as if this is an obscure point, either. It's openly explained in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and indeed is pretty clear even in the first paragraph of the section on marriage.

This isn't his only mention of the Church in the article, though, as he later says that there's no need for a marriage to take place in a religious context or in the presence of a religious minister:

'There does not have to be a minister in order to be “done” properly. We have no interest in preserving the vestiges of medieval Catholic theology of marriage.'

Again, this is utter nonsense. I did an essay on medieval marriage when I was an undergraduate history student, and -- for what it's worth -- an atheist, and one thing I learned was that to be deemed sacramental or even valid, medieval marriages didn't need to be public affairs, conducted in the presence of a priest or any other religious minister. No, despite numerous attempts to regularise the situation -- attempts dating right back to Ignatius of Antioch around 107 AD -- so-called 'clandestine' marriages without what we might describe as priestly supervision were very common, as medieval annulment and divorce records make clear; indeed, they were only definitively abolished under the 1563 Tametsi decree of the Council of Trent. They were abolished for pragmatic and pastoral reasons, not theological ones. To this day the Church retains its ancient theology of marriage, remaining utterly adamant that in Christian marriage, it is the spouses who are the ministers of Christ's grace, mutually conferring upon each other the sacrament of matrimony. Again, it's in the Catechism, and it's not all that obscure a point either, as when I was talking about this over coffee after Mass the other week, several of the ladies there pointed out that this had been clearly explained to them decades ago by the nuns who had taught them at school.

So what's going on? How can people as highly regarded and apparently as decent and as competent as Don Carson and John Stott get the Catholic Church so egregiously wrong? I don't believe they're stupid, dishonest, or lazy, and I don't believe they don't care about truth, so what's behind this?

Time and time again over recent years I've been astounded to be told things about the Catholic Church by Protestant friends, things which I either knew to be false, or subsequently looked into and discovered to be false. That's not to say that there weren't elements of truth in what they'd said, but what truth there was in them was invariably misunderstood and distorted, mingled with outright falsehood and magnified to a point where I occasionally am tempted to wonder whether there's a Giant Bumper Book of Protestant Myths about the Catholic Church out there. I could reel off examples, but I'd be here all day, and, well, my lunch break is only so long.

Still, I think I was given a clue to this some weeks ago. I'd had a few chats, and exhanged a few emails, with one of my newer Evangelical friends, with us talking about the Reformation period in sixteenth-century England, and I'd contested some  myths about the period. In replying he admitted that he had a predisposition to prefer the reformers because of what he knew of them, and the Protestant narrative as a whole, because of what he knew of the Catholic Church -- apparently oblivious to the fact that what he's heard of the reformers and the Church he's heard within the Protestant tradition. He conceded that this wasn't an academically rigorous approach, but said that this could hardly be helped as he didn't have the time to study history to a high level.

I can understand that approach up to a point at my friend's level, though even then it leaves me uneasy -- my instinct is always to find out why the other guy thinks what he does, and to do so by asking him and listening to him, rather than by listening to his opponents -- but I wonder if this mindset is in play at higher levels too. 

Is it simply that the likes of Carson have long made up their minds about what the Catholic Church teaches, having been taught a simplistic and largely false version of it long ago by people they trust, so that nowadays they think it has nothing of value to say, nothing worth engaging with? Is it that they've read books written by people who believe these myths, and that they simply trust them, without going to the sources? Is it that they'll read the odd passage from Church documents of one sort or another, and -- without understanding their context in the document and in the broader Church tradition -- will reach conclusions about them that they simply couldn't reach if they actually engaged with them in a meaningful way?

I don't know if that is the case, but I'm having trouble coming up with a more charitable explanation for their spreading falsehoods about the Church. And if it is true, I rather wish they'd try reading some proper grown-up Catholic books, and reading them slowly, not to find fault, just to understand.  We live in a world full of caricatures, and sometimes we should stop and listen to people on their own terms.

And Also...

One thing I've been trying to do over the last year or so is to understand Evangelican Protestantism, which I've wanted to do for a range of reasons, not the least of which being that many friends of mine are Evangelicals of one sort or another. I've read a lot, and attended a lot of Evangelical Anglican services, and listened to numerous sermons, and prayed with Evangelicals, and I've made lots of Evangelical friends, and I've talked openly and honestly and sometimes constructively about where we agree and where we differ. 

To be honest, though, while I know more than a did a year ago, I'm not sure I understand more. In ways I'm far more confused than I was.

That's not entirely true, I suppose; I've realised a few things that I think are probably quite important, but it'll take me time to internalise them so they'll bear fruit.

Anyway, recently I've been reading a book called Essentials: A Liberal-Evangelical Dialogue, which consists of a number of essays by an English liberal Anglican, David Edwards, with responses by the prominent Evangelical Anglican, John Stott. It's clearly a flawed book, in that I'd like Edwards to be able to reply to Stott's responses, and in that Stott's obviously suffering from the limited space he has in which to reply to Edwards: a typical Edwards chapter is about forty pages long, whereas Stott's responses usually clock in at about half that length. The brevity of Stott's responses may reflect the fact that Stott's heart clearly wasn't in the project, something he points out more than once.

There's much that Stott says that I agree with, as it happens -- I think Edwards has a tendency to make doctrine say what he would like it to, whereas Stott insists on its subordination to Scripture, or at least its harmony with Scripture. For all that, though, I have serious issues with Stott's basic approach to Scripture, and indeed was quite surprised to realise how problematic his approach is.

The classic Reformation cry of Sola Scriptura is, of course, little more than a banner slogan. Luther, Calvin, and Zwingli didn't really agree on what it meant, and yet their understandings of it differed in no small ways from those of their successors of even a generation or two later. If we're truly honest about this it's difficult to see, as Roger Olson points out, how it can be a viable concept: all else aside, we bring our preconceptions to the text when we read, and read through eyes that are trained to see some things, to gloss over others, and to interpret all in accord with our own traditions and assumption.

Predictably enough, given the nature of debate, Edwards weighs into the whole question of inerrancy and infallibility of Scripture, and homes in on what is surely the proof text for advocates of Sola Scriptura, that being 2 Timothy 3:14-17, which I tend to think of in its Revised Standard Version translation:

'But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings which are able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All scripture is inspired by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work'

Now, Edwards doesn't get into the fact that this passage doesn't list the Scriptures -- the Bible doesn't include a divinely inspired contents page -- or into how, as a half-Greek Hellenistic Jew, Timothy would have been acquainted from childhood with a rather larger canon of Scripture than either Edwards or Stott would recognise as part of what we'd call the Old Testament. Neither does he focus on the fact that the passage merely says that Scripture is useful for the purposes Paul lists, not that it is in itself sufficient for those purposes. Edwards does, however, flag up a problem that had never struck me before, pointing out that this passage can be translated in a less exalted way, so that the part the RSV renders as 'All scripture is inspired by God and profitable...' could just as easily be rendered, as in the New English Bible, as 'every inspired scripture is useful...'

It should be obvious that this translation, if accurate, raises the possibility that not all Scriptures are inspired; the language of this translation may only be subtly different from that of the Revised Standard Version and the New International Version, the Evangelical translation of choice, but its meaning is radically different.

Well, Stott responds to this particular point, saying:

'Alternatively, I could underline the elaborate internal cross-attestation of Scripture and take you to task for accepting the NEB interpretation of 2 Timothy 3:16, that the word theopneustos ("God-breathed") applies only to some Scriptures. It is true, of course, that the Greek sentence has no main verb, but (according to the best reading) it includes the word kai ("and"), indicating that two assertions are being made, not one, namely that 'all Scripture is God-breathed and useful...'

I gawped when I read that, as Stott must surely realise that kai doesn't just mean 'and'. Kai can be an intensifier, like 'indeed', so that the relevant sentence could read 'all God-breathed scripture is indeed profitable for teaching...' What's more, it often simply means 'also', and could as such therefore be harking back to a previous point. Given that it can fairly be translated as 'also', then, it's as valid to render pasa graphē theopneustos kai ōphelismos as 'all God-breathed Scripture is also useful...', something which makes perfect sense when following on from the previous line, so that the passage could quite validly read:

'But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings which are able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All God-breathed scripture is also profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work' 

In other words, in either of these alternative readings, both of which make sense in the context of Paul commissioning and advising Timothy on how to be a Christian teacher, Paul is reminding Timothy of how he has known the Scriptures all his life, these being able to instruct him for salvation, and being useful for the education of others. If either of these is the right reading, then Paul isn't saying that all Scripture is inspired by God, just that insofar as Scripture is inspired, so is it useful.

I'm not sure about this, of course. Until this week this interpretation had never occured to me. Still, it's got me thinking, not least about the wisdom of basing any doctrinal claims about the authority of Scripture upon a passage that can validly be translated in two such different ways.

Spiritual Autobiographies: A Newly Catholic Phenomenon?

Daniel Silliman has a very interesting post up on his blog about the phenomenon of Catholic conversion stories, which he sees as being -- in the most part -- something new in the Catholic world, whereas it's a staple of Evangelical self-identification.

There's a lot going on in his post, all of it very interesting, and I think his central point is absolutely right: this is, at least as a popular form, a new phenomenon among Catholics. I wonder how much of it is a result of Vatican II's reminder that ignorance of Scripture is ignorance of Christ, and its exhortation that we should read the Bible more. Certainly, there's a level at which this must simply be a response to 1 Peter 3:15's mandate that we should always be willing to say why we believe what we do.

Telling how we became Catholics is something obviously has an ancient pedigree, perhaps most famously in the example of Augustine, and over the last couple of centuries has been echoed in the well-known spiritual autobiographies of such individuals as John Henry Newman, Josephine Bakhita, and Thomas Merton; indeed, it's striking that when Newman was recently beatified it was decided that his feastday would be, not the day of his birth, his baptism, or his death, but the day he entered into full communion with the Catholic Church. There's clearly a place in Catholicism for personal narratives and spiritual journeys, and perhaps even more so in this post-Vatican II world where we think of ourselves just as much as the people of God as we do the Body of Christ. Bearing this in mind, I'd still say that Daniel's right, that as a popular phenomenon it's quite a new thing.

Evangelical Catholics and Catholic Evangelicals
I think he puts his finger on a key issue when he says that Catholic conversion stories are so evangelical, because as far as I can see they tend to be formed in large part by American Evangelical culture: I'd be very curious to know the extent to which this new trend towards Catholic spiritual autobiography is a specifically Anglospheric phenomenon, rather than a universal one.

Certainly, when I think of such prominent contemporary apologists as Scott and Kimberly Hahn, Jimmy Akin, Mark Shea, Peter Kreeft, Dwight Longenecker, Thomas Howard, and Francis Beckwith, all of whose spiritual autobiographies are well-known, it's striking that the common factor in their stories is that they all were Evangelical Protestants who, after years of reading, thinking, and praying, eventually became full members of the Catholic Church -- or, in the case of Francis Beckwith, returned to full communion with the Church. Their stories, in essence, are Evangelical conversion stories, albeit ones that go one step further further.

Their influence in terms of apologetics and their personal examples surely play no small part in the striking growth in this sub-genre, so that nowadays we'll hear of former atheists such as Dawn Eden explaining in quasi-Evangelical terms why they became Catholic, and also of Catholics who'd strayed writing accounts of their reversion to Catholicism.

I have grown somewhat used in recent years to recounting my own reversion to the faith, as I'd been raised Catholic but become ardently atheist in my teens, after much thought and research grudgingly accepting the truth of Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular in my early twenties, and only fully returning to communion in my late twenties. I've often over the last year or so also accompanied friends to their Evangelical Anglican church, and chatted with people there afterwards, and when my story's been told it's often been met with the thrilled response: 'That's like C.S. Lewis!'

I think Lewis, with his reluctant conversion and submission, may well be a kind of mentor for this kind of storytelling. Certainly, he's an influence on so many Christians of so many stripes that I don't think we should discount the possibility that Surprised By Joy may influence Catholic self-identification at least as much as any specifically Catholic writer.

I happen to think this is a good thing. One thing lots of those apologists I mention tend to come back to quite often is that denominationalism is perhaps the greatest scandal of the universal Church, and that we must work towards the unity for which Christ prayed. In light of this, they often talk of how, just as they'd believe Evangelicals should become Catholic, so Catholics should become Evangelical. This entails, among other things, a deep familiarity with the Bible as the word of God and the ability to explain to the best of our abilities why we personally hold the hope we do.

What is a Christian?
I would distinguish between what should happen when a Catholic is asked 'why are you a Christian?' and 'why are you a Catholic?'

Catholics don't necessarily see being a Christian as based on what you believe; rather, it's about what you are. Baptism, we believe, is the new circumcision, something that ontologically changes us so that we are adopted into God's family and belong to Christ. In that sense, it's baptism that makes us Christians. In the case of adults we must make a personal confession of faith, but even so, it's not our personal confession that makes us Christians, so much as it is our being baptised. Obviously, Catholics believe in infant baptism, where parents guarantee that they will raise the child in Christ, and on the basis of their faith the child is baptised.

(This, I suppose, is how we can justify baptising those with severe learning disabilities, people who might never be able to confess a faith in Jesus. It's a bit like the paralytic man who's brought to Jesus by his friends, and who Jesus addresses in response to their faith, not his own.)

The point being, that there's a sense that even when I was an atheist I was still a Christian: I had ceased to believe, but I had been sacramentally adopted into God's family, and belonged to Christ regardless of what I did. I suppose it's like the idea of the prodigal son: he may well have scarpered off to a farway land and basically forsaken his family, but that didn't change the fact that he was still part of his family.

As such, if someone asks me why I'm a Christian, I sometimes feel the need to point out that that question has two answers, depending on whether the question is meant sacramentally or intellectually. They usually want an intellectual answer, but I think the sacramental one is more important.

As for why I'm a Catholic, this is easier, in a sense. I left the faith, after all, and I returned; these were acts of will, in accord with reason, all doubtless powered by God's grace. Even so, though, I don't always respond to this question with a personal apologia. Sometimes I answer after the fashion of a friend of mine who used to be Anglican and is now Catholic, saying, in a drily Newmanesque way, that I'm Catholic because I believe in Christ and I believe that the fullness of Christian truth subsists in the Catholic Church. This, of course, invites the question of why I believe that, and depending on the day I can answer with my own story or with an argument rooted in philosophy, history, and Scripture.

Now, I feel Daniel's absolutely right to pick up on the corporate nature of Catholic identity, but I think he misses the mark somewhat when saying that it's not essentially individualistic too. It is. As ever, in the Catholic worldview, there's a both/and mentality at work. We may not talk about our faith as individuals, but we see our faith as both corporate and personal; this is rather neatly expressed in how the Creed, which we recite every Sunday at Mass, summarising our beliefs, while usually beginning in English with 'we believe' in fact begins in Latin with 'I believe'. I'm glad that the new translation shall be restoring the singular pronoun!

Anyway, for most of us who are 'Cradle Catholics' rather than converts, there's still a story there, albeit one that's not dramatic: the question of 'why are you a Catholic?' isn't about why we became Catholic, as why we remain Catholic. Many of us are plagued by doubts and temptations, and yet we remain faithful and hold fast to Christ.

For most of us, being Catholic isn't about one big Pauline choice; it's about thousands of little ones, a constant war of attrition in the battleground of our souls. Even if we have converted to Catholicism, many of us would be uneasy of talking of our conversion, as we never know if we shall eventually fall: we don't know who among us will fail to finish the race.

I think that may be at the heart of the matter. For us, the question isn't about how or why we became Catholic; it's about how and why we remain Catholic, and that, ultimately, is a question about faith: about faith in things unseen, about personal faith in Christ, and about keeping faith with him who keeps faith with us.

Mancunian Myths and the Futility of Fidelity

Lots of the sporting talk in Britain lately has been of the retirement of the football legend that is Paul Scholes, the revelation that Scholes' fellow legend Giggs has feet of clay, and Manchester United's having decisively dethroned Liverpool as the most consistently successful football club in English history.

There's no denying the fact that United's achievement is impressive, and that Giggs and Scholes have been among the most successful players the English game has ever seen, but the praise heaped upon Ferguson's United is sheer hyperbole; they may be legends, but we should be careful how we build our mythologies.


The Myth of the Perch
To take one example, a few weeks back I kept hearing talk on how United had knocked Liverpool off their perch, and how Ferguson had announced back in 1986 on his taking the job of managing United that his ambition was to knock Liverpool off their perch.

Nonsense. Ferguson said nothing of the sort back in '86. Indeed, he has admitted as much, saying just a few weeks ago in the Telegraph that:

'That thing about knocking Liverpool off their perch, I don’t think I actually said that but it’s more important that United are the best team in the country in terms of winning titles.'

What actually happened is that when interviewed by the Guardian back in September 2002, on the day of his 400th game, years after United had supplanted Liverpool as England's preeminent team, Ferguson said that his toughest task as United manager up to that point had been taking Liverpool's place at the pinnacle of the domestic game:

'Ferguson does not seem like a man in a corner. "I don't get paid to panic," Ferguson said. "We have had plenty of stuttering starts." Neither the topics of Juan Sebastian Veron nor Diego Forlan could stir Ferguson into a crimson caricature of his legendary wrath. But Hansen's analysis did. "My greatest challenge is not what's happening at the moment," Ferguson countered, "my greatest challenge was knocking Liverpool right off their fucking perch. And you can print that."'

This, of course, should make perfect sense to anyone who thinks for a minute instead of unthinkingly repeating lazy journalistic claptrap. After all, when Ferguson became manager in 1986, United had just seven League titles to their name, and hadn't won the League since 1967. They were widely regarded as a cup team, unlike Liverpool, which by that point had won the League sixteen times, seven of those victories being in the previous ten seasons. If Ferguson had said that he planned on overtaking Liverpool's record he'd have been locked away.


The Myth of Honest Home-Grown Success
Nobody in 1986 could have predicted what would happen over the next few years, with the development of the Premier League and the Champions' League -- oiled and fed by Sky money -- transforming English football from being a broad competition where a host of teams could plausibly compete for the title, into, in practice, an oligarchic system where a handful of rich teams were guaranteed to hold the top four slots year after year, so that each season began with most clubs knowing that the best they could hope for would be the glorious position of also-rans.

One of the great ironies of modern British sporting analysis is that people too often and too lazily repeat cliches about Blackburn having bought short-lived success, about Chelsea having bought more sustainable success, and about Manchester city trying to buy success; United, it is generally held, did it properly, training up youngsters and earning success the hard way. The conceit, basically, is that United are an honest team, and that the others have merely tried to lie and buy their way to the title.

Obviously, it's blatantly clear that the current United team isn't a home-grown one. We can all see that. Indeed, if we look at the teams that faced off in the Champions' League final on Saturday, we can see that of the thirteen players in the defeated United side, only two came through their youth system, both of them progressing to the senior team almost twenty years ago; even with the club's most expensive ever signing not making the bench, the eleven imported players that took the field cost the club about £130 million. Against that, it's interesting that the Barcelona team that beat United fielded fourteen players, half of whom had come through their own system...

Still, I don't think it's ever been true that United's success in the Ferguson era has been home-grown. There's a figment of truth in this, but when you get down to it it's as nonsensical as the Myth of the Perch. Back in the early nineties United did indeed have a clutch of gifted young players they'd reared from scratch -- the Nevilles, Giggs, Scholes, Butt, and Beckham, but this shouldn't blind us to the fact that United's success was largely bought, and it was bought at exactly the right time.

Ferguson's first years with United were bleak ones, but in the summer of 1989, armed with a uniquely wealthy war-chest, and desperate to turn things around after having come eleventh in the League, without a trophy of any sort in four years and without having won the League since 1967, Alex Ferguson embarked on what was then an unprecedentedly spectacular spending spree. He spent £8 million on five players, the £2.3 million spent on Gary Pallister in August 1989 breaking the national transfer fee, and a further £2.4 million being spent on Paul Ince. The money proved well-spent: United won the FA Cup in 1990, their first trophy since 1985, and Ince and Pallister formed the backbone of the team for the next few years.

With the addition of Denis Irwin to the squad, bought for £625,000 in June 1990, United won the European Cup Winners' Cup in 1991, thereby becoming the first English team to win a European trophy since Everton's victory in the same competition in 1985, just before the Heysel Stadium disaster had led to Mrs Thatcher pressuring the FA to withdraw English clubs  from European competition.

June 1991 saw Manchester United being the first football club floated on the Stock Exchange, raising £6.7 million. The following year, with the squad bolstered by Andrei Kancheskis who had been bought for £650,000 in March 1991 and by Peter Schmeichel who had been bought for £500,000 in August 1991, Manchester United won its first ever League Cup. In August 1992 the club bought Dion Dublin for £1 million and in November 1992, when they were lagging behind Aston Villa and Blackburn, the club also bought Eric Cantona for £1.2 million from League champions Leeds; United went on to win the inaugural Premier League.

Hardly had the Premier League been won that United broke the national transfer record again, buying Roy Keane for £3.75 million from Nottingham Forest, and with him in the team they again won the Premier League and also won the FA Cup, thus earning their first ever Double. Indeed, in the first seven years of the newly lucrative Premier League, Manchester United won the title five times along with three FA Cups and the European Cup, in the popular mindset having done so with the kids Alan Hansen so famously disparaged.

It's true that the likes of  Giggs, Scholes, Beckham, Butt, and the Nevilles all became stars during the 1990s, but the thing is, it's not as if United weren't continuing to buy at the same time. With the money they had from being a PLC, and with the Sky money flowing into them from the Premier League, they bought David May for £1.2 million in 1994, and broke the national transfer record for the second time in less than two years when they bought Andy Cole for £7 million in January 1995. Solskjaer was bought for £1.5 million in July 1996 and in summer 1997, United added Teddy Sheringham to the squad for £3.5 million and broke the national transfer record for a defender by spending £5 million on Henning Berg. The following summer saw even more being spent, with £4.4 million being spent on Jesper Blomqvist, the national transfer record for a defender again being broken when £10.6 million was spent on Jaap Stam, and a further £12.6 million being spent on Dwight Yorke.

And thus the Treble was won. Nine of the thirteen players who played in the UEFA Champions' League final -- including both injury-time goalscorers -- had been bought by United. They hadn't been bought cheaply either: the team that won the FA Cup that year included two players whose transfer fees had broken the national record, and other players who were even more costly but who'd been bought in more expensive seasons.

Since then, of course, the Champions' League has become an absolute goldmine and with the money United made from that they were able to break the national transfer record three times running, spending £19 million on Van Nistelrooy, £28.1 million on Veron, and £29 million on Ferdinand, since going on to spend £25.6 million on Rooney, £14 million on Carrick, £17 million on Hargreaves, £14.7 million on Nani, £17.3 million on Anderson, and £30.75m spent on Berbatov.

Those figures are difficult to substantiate, unfortunately -- this very interesting site gives different figures though reveals the same trend -- but it seems clear that even under the Glazers, despite their fans' refusal to believe otherwise, they've bought six of their ten most expensive ever players. Granted, City and Chelsea have bought, respectively, 14 and 19 players in the price range of United's top ten, but that's largely because they've bought them in the last ten minutes or so, with prices being higher nowadays than even three or four years back. To put this into context, Liverpool have bought seven players in this price range, Spurs have bought five, Arsenal have bought only two, and Everton and Villa have bought just one apiece.

Anyway, it's with such a pricey brigade of players that United have won the the League a further seven times since winning the Treble, along with an FA Cup, three League Cups, and another European trophy.

And none of this gets into the issue of wages, with almost a third of the total Premier League wage bill being accounted for by just three clubs, one of which is United, the others -- predictably -- being Chelsea and City, who are really just spending to try to catch up, just as with their ultra-expensive squads. It's like watching people turning up late at a party when everybody else is already tipsy, and then hammering back the drink to try to match them.

I'm not criticising, as United have been very fortunate in coming good just as football became big business; any other team would envy their luck, their brand name, and how well Ferguson et al have built well on the success they've had. All I'm saying is that the notion that United haven't bought their success is claptrap. They have. They've bought in spades, and they keep buying, and they're going to keep buying, and though some of their purchases haven't paid off, many have.

What does all of this mean?


The Myth of a Competitive League
Well, I said the other day, prior to the Barcelona match, that I hoped United would lose. Not because I take pleasure in my friends' disappointment, as I don't and I would have liked them to be happy, but because I didn't believe it'd do the English game any good for any member of English football's dominant cartel to receive a cash injection of £109 million in order further to enhance its dominance in the English game.

The Premier League, quite simply, isn't as good, as interesting, or as meaningful a competition as the old First Division was. I don't dispute for a moment that the football is better -- I think it probably is, especially given the sheer quality of foreign players that now play in England, albeit at a clear cost to the quality of the English national side. However, if you look back at the last fifty years or so of English football, it's quite clear that over the past fifteen years the English top flight has become a stitch-up.

Don't believe me?

Well, think of what I'm saying, that back in the day pretty much any team could rise to win or at least challenge for the title, but that in recent years the competition has been predictable and stale, with the same teams forming the same hierachy year-in year-out. This is easy to test. All we have to do is look at the top four teams in any given year, and see how many of them had been in the top four the previous year, tracking this back over the decades. I'd pick the top four as I think the Champions' League formalises a top four elite nowadays, and since the difference between fourth and fifth place nowadays can effectively be twenty million pounds or so, which buys you a top-notch player.

Look at the chart.

Interesting, eh? Before 1997 it was typical for two teams from the previous year's top four to make it into the top four; the odd year three teams would make it, and sometimes only one made it, but on balance two would typically retain top-tier positions. Since 1997, though, there hasn't been a year when fewer than three top-four teams from one year made it into the top four spots the following year, and there've been four years when the same four teams had retained their collective position at the pinnacle of English football.

It's worse, though. Only nine teams have won places in the 60 top-four spots that have been available over the past fifteen years, with just four teams having held 52 of those places. To put that into context, eighteen teams -- twice as many -- won places in the previous fifteen years' 60 top-four spots, with the top four teams overall having held just 35 of those places.

What's my point?

English football's top flight has become a rigged game, where victory is pretty much guaranteed to one of a handful of foreign-owned superwealthy clubs, those clubs that feed at the Golden Trough of the Champions' League. Victory in the Football League had long been dependent on cash, but even so that cash was more evenly spread about than it's been since the rise of the Premier League. The prize money -- especially from the Champions' League -- is such as to enable teams that do well to guarantee that they'll do well henceforth, so that success is rewarded with cash and cash buys further success.

United have won their nineteenth title. They'll win their twentieth in a year or two. It won't mean much, though. It'll be a victory in an unofficial mini-league, informally nestling at the top of a bigger and messier one. I hate to say it, but Liverpool's eighteen titles all mattered more. The League was a real competition then. Winning was more romantic, and being beaten didn't mean being vanquished: teams could lose, and regroup, and come back in the real hope of triumph. That doesn't happen anymore.


On Love and Loyalty
I still support Everton, of course, even though I do not believe she will ever win the League again, unless she's bought as a rich man's toy, as Chelsea and Manchester City have been.

That's the nature of love and of loyalty: we may admire things and people for what they can do, but we love them for who and what they are, for that royal blue strip, that church in the corner of the ground and pillars we've to crane around, that statue of Bill Dean, that fleeting moment when I was a little boy and Everton might have been the best team in Europe, my brother being at the other semi-final and a city mourning together, a battered schoolbag bearing the badge and the teasing it brought, a sense of secret fellowship with those few Dubliners I'd meet who supported a team that didn't wear red, years of squandered promise and too frequent a survival by the skin of our teeth, the occasional magnificent performance, too much mediocre dross to mention, going to my first match on the day I was persuaded to move to England, bitterness boiling over when playing our offshoot and oldest rival, quiet calm appraisal from the stands in match after match, wry head-shaking with family and friends and people who could be either in the pub afterwards, a friend trying to hide her pleasure at her first top-flight game as her team demolished mine, a cousin grabbing and shaking my shoulders in a frenzy of delight as Everton turned the tables with rare style, the smug pleasure in establishing that Everton are my local team with their ground being the closest Premier League ground to my home in Dublin, and decade after decade of family fidelity.

I don't support Everton because she's good. I support her because she's Everton. My blood's blue.

Chesterton nailed this idea of attachment, talking once of Kipling's lack of true patriotism:

'The great gap in his mind is what may be roughly called the lack of patriotism -- that is to say, he lacks altogether the faculty of attaching himself to any cause or community finally and tragically; for all finality must be tragic. He admires England, but he does not love her; for we admire things with reasons, but love them without reasons. He admires England because she is strong, not because she is English.'

I like Arsenal because they play more creative football than any other team in England and because even when their rivals at the top splash money around like there's no bubble waiting to burst tomorrow they spend sensibly; but while I admire their elegance and their prudence, I don't love them. I freely recognise that United are the best team in England, though I'm suspicious of their fans, as there are too many of them who have never known anything but success; I often wonder how deep their loyalty runs, and whether they'd fly to another team if United's sun were to set. Certainly, I suspect the future may belong to Manchester City, who are only too frank in admitting that they'll soon be acquiring their own legions of gloryhunters, all too keen to contribute to City's coffers, and I'll doubt their new fans too. I'm highly dubious about Chelsea ones too, not least because so many of them are recent converts, lured by cash-fuelled success.

While I wouldn't go so far as to embrace claims that the followers of the most successful English football teams are more likely to be unfaithful to their partners and spouses than those who follow less successful teams, I do wonder whether if a person's loyal in one aspect of his or her life, he or she's likely to be loyal in other areas. Terry Leahy, Tesco's erstwhile CEO, had a mantra that said he believed in 'one religion, one football team, one wife, one firm'. Taken at face value, that's obviously facile and trite, but I suspect he had a point. Certainly, people who support teams that look destined never to succeed must be the sort of people who stick by those they love through thick and thin.

If there's a moral to this story, it's that United's success is real but not as glorious as it might look, and that you should never marry a Chelsea fan.  Against that, a friend of mine married a Blackburn fan a couple of years back. I tend to think that'll prove a wise move in the long run, as a man who's supported Blackburn over the last decade is  clearly a man of unshakeable faith. I think theirs shall prove a long and happy marriage.