Romeos, cailleachan and spiritual undress

I went on an outing with Balaich an Trust last week, and, after a relatively brief car journey with one of them, discovered I was an item of clothing short. Searching high and low, I could not find it anywhere and was forced to confront the fact that I was out minus  that which no respectable Lewiswoman willingly divests – my cardigan. 

What rush of blood to the head, you ask, had overcome me, to the extent that the knitted reputation-saver had been lost . . . 

I remembered in my confusion, my father’s tale of a woman at whose door the vehicle of a well-known lothario was frequently parked. My father – driving for the dry-cleaners – went one day to deliver freshly laundered garments of which it turns out she was in dire need. She had been, he told us, many years later, up to no good with the visiting reprobate. ‘How do you know that?’ myself and my sister scoffed, believing our own generation had a monopoly on shenanigans. His answer was hard to argue against: ‘Because’, he said decisively, ‘when she answered the door to me, she had taken off her apron’.

The implication, of course, was that she had been carried away. Such had been the allure of the local romeo that she had lost her head – and her wrap-around floral pinny. If you are unfamiliar with the complexity of these garments, let me assure you that it’s unlikely one was ever removed by accident.

We set a lot of store by clothing, don’t we?  Apparel has a kind of cultural importance, beyond the merely practical one of preserving decency and keeping out the cold/midgies. I was reminded of this when visiting the fabrication yard at Arnish that cardiganless day. Aside from the hard hat and hi-vis jackets, we were told to don steel-toecapped footwear that will always be referred to here in Lewis by those of a certain age, as ‘Arnish boots’. They achieved currency during the heyday of the yard, and have come to be inextricably linked with its name. 

I can remember, too, when the windows of local clothing retailers, Murdo Maclean’s, and its rival, Nazir Bros, would be filled with ladies’ hats, deftly to coincide with communion season. For most who still attend church assiduously, headgear is not part of their wardrobe, and so the shop displays no longer reflect what was once very much a local event. Of course, we still celebrate communion but it is less of a community affair now.

My own personal dress code for public worship has relaxed somewhat over the years. I have come to the conclusion that the outward trappings don’t matter too much. God listens to me when I pray at home in my pyjamas; I can’t imagine for a second he’s going to turn his face from the earnest petitions of one of his own, just because they’ve gone to church in jeans. Truthfully, I would rather see our pews packed with folk in biker leathers than sparsely populated by ‘correctly’ attired ladies in hats and posh frocks.

I have found, anyway, that there is really only one outfit necessary to the Christian: armour.

Ephesians 6 tells us what ‘the whole armour of God’ consists of: the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, feet shod with the readiness that stems from the gospel of peace. All of this should be accessorised with the shield of faith, the sword of the Spirit, and the helmet of salvation.

Do I agonise over this outfit as much as I might over my outward apparel? Is it my habit to make an inventory, checking that all the pieces are in place?

Honestly? No, I don’t always. Sometimes I go far too long in neglecting to fasten and refasten the buckles that hold everything together.

In recent weeks, something happened to remind me about being a better soldier. I had not been in prayer so much, I had spent less time in the Word, and I had skipped the means of grace far more frequently than was wise or necessary.

And then I was brought up short by an incident. Petty, anonymous hatred of the most insidious and accusatory kind, intended to steal my peace. It reminded me of a very precious truth: the world is poles apart from God, and it is, therefore, not my home.

We will have troubles here. People might let us down, hurts will come – but we should receive these as they are intended by God: to persuade us that we really do belong to him. For me, the whole sorry debacle was an opportunity for the Lord to show me the truth of Joseph’s words to his brothers, ‘you intended to harm me, but God intended it for my good’

He brought me swiftly back to his side, where I am safest. And I have straightened out my armour, reattaching what had worked loose, and preparing both my sword and shield so I might follow him more closely.

But, even in that fray, when I was undoubtedly tussling with Satan, there was one element of my outfit that did not move.

As with any soldier, it will remain fixed until the battle is over.  That gives me comfort because I know I will fail again: my arm will flag in holding up my faith as a shield, and I will try to fend off the blows without it.

But the one item I will never – indeed, can never – lose, is the helmet of salvation. Christ puts it in place, and only he has the authority to remove it.

Which no soldier does until the battle is over.

The Long Island: A Moral Power Station?

This weekend, I have a guest blogger – Richard Lucas of the Scottish Family Party. Inspired by his recent visits to Lewis, and the ongoing attempts to secure an interconnector, he offers an intriguing vision of these islands as suppliers, not of electricity, but of social morality to the nation.

Over to Richard . . .

The Western Isles are not short of wind.  

In the 21st Century, wind means energy.  It’s a natural resource that can be harnessed to generate electrical power – much more than is needed locally.  

So, what’s to be done?  Leave much of the resource untapped, or make the most of it by exporting energy to the rest of Scotland?  When faced with the challenges of exporting electricity, it might be tempting to just keep the energy business local.  How can energy to passed to the main land?  Trucks with giant batteries on the back carried by the ferry?

Thankfully, there is a way of transmitting electricity across stretches of sea and that’s via an undersea cable – an interconnector.  Discussions and negotiations are ongoing on installing such an interconnector between Lewis and the mainland.  The opportunities are being explored.  Time will tell whether this comes to fruition and succeeds.

The Western Isles are not just rich in this natural resource, though.  They are rich in wisdom.  It’s no secret that the prevalent strong moral values are rooted in Christianity, but a degree of isolation hasalso insulated from the worst excesses of recent cultural shifts, and it’s not just Christians who appreciate the wisdom of the ages.  

There are people all over Scotland who understand that the social institution of marriage is a vital foundation for stable family life, for example, but they are not concentrated in they way they are here.  Equally, there are Outer Hebrideans who have been swept along by the “progressive” tide.  But not as many as elsewhere.

The wind blows in Edinburgh, but not as much.  Solid moral values are found throughout Scotland, but not as much.  The Western Isles represent a unique reservoir of traditional morality within Scotland.  There are many who see this as backwardness or worse – a bondage from which the poor benighted folk must be liberated.  But there are also those who would love to be able to bottle the culture and values embodied here and import it into their own communities.

So, should this resource just benefit the WesternIsles, or be shared more widely?  Can it even be exported?  There are articulate expositors and expositions of these positive values already, but they are largely marginalised or ignored.  Their influence is minimal.  Is there a way that this abundance can benefit the whole nation?

Is there such a thing as a values interconnector?  An undersea moral transmission cable?  A wisdom pipe line?

There is.  It’s the democratic system and it’s already in place waiting to be used.  The strong values that the Scottish nation is in such desperate need of can be injected into the heart of political debate, directly into the debating chamber of the Scottish Parliament.  

Sending a representative to the Scottish Parliament willing and able to argue boldly for a better vision for Scottish society would be nothing less than revolutionary.  The main parties would learn that they can’t contradict the core beliefs of substantial sections of the population with impunity.  The novelty and freshness of common sense would be attractive, drawing more people towards more conservative views on moral issues.  The histrionics of other MSPs as they fall over themselves to condemn the eminently reasonable and charitable newcomer would only draw attention to the truth.  Media debate would shift in Scotland.  Issues that barely break the surface now would become the talking points of the nation.

At future elections, those who’ve appreciated the radical new voice in Scottish politics would vote for a candidate of the same party in their constituency or region.  A new force would emerge onto the stage ofScottish politics. That’s the vision of the Scottish Family Party.

There are always important local issues to be addressed and interests to be defended, and any MSP must represent his or her constituency in all matters.  But the people of the Western Isles can also lift their eyes to a higher vision, a vision of steering the whole nation away from the rocks and onwards to flourish and prosper.  It’s hard to imagine a more inspiring and exiting project that can be advanced by casting votes at elections!

There would be hundreds of thousands of people across Scotland thanking the Western Isles for delivering one MSP who articulates their deepest convictions.  There could be tens of thousands appreciating the wisdom of traditional values for the first time.  There could be thousands emboldened to speak out themselves when the trail has been blazed.  Hundreds could be saved from persecution at work: it’s hard to fire someone for saying what an MSP has just said in parliament!   Dozens could be inspired to follow in their footsteps into politics.  

Western Islanders find themselves in a unique position, with a unique opportunity. What is the future to be?  Electing someone to represent the values of the Scottish Parliament in the localcommunity, or electing someone to represent the values of the local community in the Parliament and the nation?

Truth is power.  Let’s deliver it to where it’s so desperately needed, by putting a prophet into parliament.

Land, people & misleading language

The motto of the Highland Land League – ‘An Tìr, an Cànan ‘s na Daoine’ – laid out the pattern of priorities for the region in the second half of the nineteenth century: land, language and people. It also made famous the adage, ‘is treasa tuath na tighearna’; the tenantry is mightier than the landlord.

I would agree that the land, the language and the people (though not necessarily in that order) ought to enjoy the same precedence today. There is a triangular relationship between them, and to try removing any single one is to compromise the integrity of the whole. It is through that prism I understand my community, and wish to present it to the world. It was interesting, therefore, to read of the visit made by a group of Papuans to Lewis recently, under the spiritual guidance of Alastair McIntosh from the Centre for Human Ecology.

Alastair’s theology and mine may differ somewhat, but we can certainly concur on the revelation of God that is manifest in His creation. The maker’s thumbprint is upon everything we see. It was land, of course, and the question of whose it is to possess that drove much of the Old Testament narrative, and this, in turn, inspired some nineteenth century Highland ministers to preach rousingly to their congregations about the inherent right of an indigenous people to steward its own territory.

Those rights were codified first in the Crofting Act of 1886 – and ultimately in the Land Reform Acts of 2003 and 2010.

The 1886 Act was an effective full stop to the worst excesses of clearance – it prevented the eviction of crofting tenants without a very good reason. It also furnished the statute books with the first mention of the word, ‘croft’, and set in motion a whole category of legislation that baffles finer minds than my own right up to the present day. Those laws were once a necessary protection to subsistence crofters, who lived in a region which had been systematically abused and neglected by turns over several centuries.

In more recent times, however, and particularly since the passage of the 2003 Act, the role of crofting law seems to have changed. The nature of crofting communities certainly has, with fewer and fewer being the tenants of a private landlord from whom they may require protection. Indeed, the Point and Sandwick areas visited by the Papuans, are fortunate to have enjoyed the protection of a community landlord since 1923; long before any laws existed to facilitate such models of ownership.

Yet, a small number of people in those communities, persist in the belief that they are the natural successors of those men who raided Aiginish Farm in 1888. Perhaps some are related by blood – I don’t know – but that is where any coincidences begin and end.

The representatives of Point and Sandwick spoke to the Papuans of their aspirations to build turbines on ‘their land’, and I am sure the visitors had no reason to cast doubt upon this version of events. However, in all their travels around the peninsula, I wonder whether any of the delegation inquired as to where the fabled wind farm would be sited . . . because the answer would, truthfully, have to be ‘oh, not in Point – or Sandwick’. In fact, they would be built upon the grazing provided to the crofters of these areas as a supplement, a compensation for the lack of suitable pasturage within their own boundaries.

Crofting law made provision for their forebears to have adequate grazing for their sheep and cattle, when people depended on the land for their livelihood. Now, the story is told that this is an age-old struggle between an oppressed people and its heartless landlord. I wouldn’t mind, but this is such a misrepresentation as to be almost laughable.

I say ‘almost’, because I tend to think that history is too important to be manipulated like this. We can learn a valuable lesson from it, but only if we take events as they really happened. And even then, only up to (pardon the pun) a point.

What the few people in the four townships are engaged in is not, in fact, a fight against ‘officialdom’; it is a struggle against reality. They have painted themselves as latter-day Glendale martyrs and appear now to be taking the fantasy global.

There is no doubt in my mind that some of the people who claim to speak for the ‘four townships’ love the land that they were brought up on. Perhaps there is some mysterious and spiritual link there; I don’t know. But it is stretching credulity somewhat to suggest that their souls ache for a bit of grazing,  upon which – likely – few of them set foot before the photo opportunities made it expedient.

Living under community land ownership is something of which I’m sure many truly oppressed people dream. What Point and Sandwick Trust have apparently failed to convey to their visitors is that they are in that happy position already: they were born into that situation, indeed, both individually and corporately.

I would suggest that, if they want to pick a fight with officialdom, a good place to start might well be the UK government. They it was who signed up to all the UN legislation for the protection of indigenous peoples . . . secure in their mistaken belief that no such categories exist in the whole of the British Isles. Take up that fight if you really feel that the land, the language and the people are worthy of the effort.

That particular slogan may well have some mileage left in it, if the people stop fighting one another for the land that they already possess. And, as for ‘the tenantry is stronger than the landlord’ – I’d say that sentiment is obsolete in a world where these are one and the same.

 

 

 

A Full Moon Tale of Lewis

It was a dangerous mission, but having had the tip-off, I needed to see for myself whether it was true. Now that I HAVE seen, it’s my duty to share with you the darkness that I have witnessed at the heart of life here in Lewis.

Everything the dissenters say is true. I have been a dupe, but no more. Please, though, if anything happens to me – if you hear that I’ve ‘gone to open a craft shop in Tiree’ or to ‘join the foreign mission’, don’t believe it. The powers that be will say and do anything to prevent the truth emerging.

An operative contacted me via Twitter, and informed me that I am a member of a Calvinist cult, and that I need rescuing and rehabilitating into the real world. He was concerned that I was not only leading a restricted existence myself, but also imposing the same on others. At first, I laughed it off, but then a few things started me off wondering . . .

At the end of last summer, for example, the minister and his wife hosted a barbecue for those of us who indoctrinate young people into our cult via Sunday school and youth clubs. While we sat in the garden, I noticed one of the elders, peering over the wall from the church next door. It was a Saturday evening. What was he doing there, I wondered, and why was he spying on us? Was there something in the church we weren’t meant to see – and was the ‘barbecue’ just a distraction?

I put it to the back of my mind. Months passed, and I was busy stopping people from playing golf on Sundays. But, last week, I realised the true nature of what happens in the church on Saturday evenings.

There is a prayer meeting, but this just provides the brothers with a convenient excuse to gather in the session room afterwards. That is when the real business takes place. And that is where the story takes a sinister turn.

I disguised myself as a cleaner (apron, can of Pledge), and so slipped unnoticed into the building. The door to their meeting room was ajar, and so I hovered, dabbing with my chamois every so often.

They had divided into groups. Some seemed to be devising a strategy for removing washing from clothes lines unseen. An elite group near the window were filling brown envelopes, some marked ‘CnES’ and others with the label, ‘Stornoway Trust’. All perfectly standard and above board. Disappointed at the ordinariness of what I was seeing, I turned to go.

Suddenly, I heard one of the elders calling for quiet. ‘The minister is going to make the call’, he said. I froze, every particle of my being poised for flight, but wanting to hear this mysterious ‘call’. He punched a number into his phone. The room was utterly silent. Peeping through a crack, I could see the anxious faces of the elders, watching and listening. Then I heard the minister’s voice, and his words dropped like heavy, black stones into my heart:

‘Release the sharks’, he said, and hung up.

I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. Of course, his terrible purpose dawned on me and, sick with terror, I started to move towards the exit. My treacherous foot, however, landed on a creaky floorboard. All at once, the session room door was flung open, and the passage was flooded with light from within. For a brief moment, I thought what a great metaphor this was for the work of the Free Church . . . but something in me rebelled against this indoctrination.

‘What are you doing here?’ the elder asked suspiciously.

‘Just . . . cleaning. There was a bit of dust on the suidheachan mòr’.

Mollified, he nodded, taking in the polish in my right hand. It was as good a disguise as any Wee Free woman could deploy.

‘How much did you hear?’ he asked then. I feigned my best innocent look, the one I use whenever I’m in the presence of the elders.

‘Not much. You know I don’t understand men’s talk’, I giggled girlishly. He seemed satisfied with this, and turned to go back into the room.

My heart hammering, I started to walk towards the outside door, feigning nonchalance. Pursing my lips, I was about to start whistling, when I remembered God isn’t keen on women doing that. Dizzy with relief, I had my hand on the door handle, when I heard the elder’s voice behind me.

‘Wait’, he said, ‘you’re not the cleaner. You’re a different woman. Come here’.

My knees knocking, I did as I was told, and he led me into the session room. The others, still most awfully assembled, looked at him quizzically.

‘She was listening at the door. I nearly let her go, thinking she was the cleaner. But she lied to me; she said she doesn’t understand men’s talk’.

No one spoke. Then, the minister put aside the white cat he had been stroking and rose to his feet. I shrank back.

‘Well’, he said at last, smiling in a deadly,

Presbyterian way – like the glint off the metal plate on a coffin – ‘that was a daft mistake to make. After we put you into an organisation filled with men just like us, after training you to understand how middle-aged Lewismen tick . . . you try to pull that rookie nonsense. Tsk.’

It was true. Everyone knew I had been trained by the Free Church Covert Operations Unit to blend in with men in their fifties, sixties and even seventies. Indeed, it was no secret that my code name was ‘The Bodach Whisperer’. To try passing myself off as any other simple-minded Wee Free woman was just plain daft. Those scones would never rise.

There was only one thing I could say. My training had given me a faultless instinct for uttering exactly the words Lewismen of a certain age want to hear.

‘You’re right’.

He nodded. I could sense that I had regained a little ground, so bravely decided to push my luck.

‘What are the sharks for?’

His steely smile changed at my question. The room was still, except for the sound of sweets being unwrapped. I could see he was weighing up whether or not to trust me. It seemed the balance was about to tip away from me again . . . and then he told me.

I didn’t expect to get away from there after he’d revealed the awful truth. Now I’m on the run, not knowing who to trust, or where to go. There are some people in the Church of Scotland . . . not friends, exactly (well, I mean, they’re Church of Scotland), but they might help me move my lines, teach me some hymns, get a new identity. 

In case that doesn’t work out, though, in case they get to me first, I want to tell you the truth. It’s exactly as a few astute people suspected all along – worse, even. 

We knew about the election rigging, the indoctrination, the application of a six-day contract to every purchase of clothes pegs. But, the extent of the control was revealed to me by the minister that Saturday night.

‘The sharks’, he said, ‘are released now, and rounded up in twenty-six hours. We WILL eradicate Sunday swimming’. As I stared at him, the full horror of his words dawning on me, he laughed coldly, and added – chilling words that I cannot forget – ‘We’re sourcing moles next. They’ll enjoy digging up the golf course’.

It’s probably too late to save me. But you know the truth now. There are people on social media who have known all along, and were dismissed – yes, even by me – as wild conspiracy theorists. Find them. Only they know how things truly are.

Votes for women – as long as they’re ‘progressive’.

Our local council is all man . . . and not necessarily in the swoon-inducing, gosh, have you been working out way a girl might wish. Of the thirty-one elected members, a nice, round number (zero) are women.

This week, some of the more hysterical sections of our community – and well beyond it – have been getting all bent out of shape about the Stornoway Trust, co-opting three men to replace . . . erm, three men. I am having to get used to being referred to as, variously, ‘only one female’ or ‘the token woman’.

Gee, thanks, none taken – are any of you still wondering why women don’t stand for election here?

I recently invited a friendly local councillor in to the college where I work, to talk to my (mostly female) Democracy students about why local government needs the likes of them. It does. 

The last time I wrote about the council election results, I was fairly sanguine, feeling that men of sense ought to be able to represent women perfectly competently. And so they ought. However, I am no longer sure that the question is actually one of representation.

In fact, I’m a raging complementarian and simply believe that we reflect God best when men and women work together. The point of women on the Comhairle, or anywhere else, is the same as the point of men – to be themselves, and bring their own unique skills to bear on the situation. 

Speaking to my class, though, the golfing (but not on Sundays) councillor put his finger on one aspect of the problem, when he mentioned the ‘p’ word, and women’s lack thereof.

He was referring, of

course, to profile. But absence of profile is only half the issue. There are plenty women currently serving their communities in all kinds of ways, who would not require Saatchi or even his partner, Saatchi, to boost their well-kentness to election standard. I went from being a shy, retiring unknown to being electable enough for the Free Church to collude with me. In my weaker moments, I fool myself that it was my skills and character that stood me in good stead, but ‘everyone knows’ it was really the suidheachan mòr that swung it for me.

See, ‘profile’ can be a burden. That’s the other, thornier half of the problem. It is also the uglier part.

If the baying mob doesn’t like your profile, they will try to dismantle it as best they can.

For me, the onslaught began as soon as I put my hat in the electoral ring. ‘Does she have a chance?’ the small-minded secularists sneered. Then, when they began to fear what they are pleased to call ‘the tyranny of the majority’ (that’s ‘First Past the Post’ to the rest of us), the nay-saying became more vicious and predicated upon hatred of Christianity. It took them places that still make me shudder on their behalf. 

But it has not gone away. The same names pop up repeatedly on social media, desperately clinging to the handle, ‘progressive’. That is, to their way of thinking, everything that is unbiblical, and against what the majority supports. If you were to ask them to define what ‘progressive’ means to them, I feel their truthful answer would be ‘anything but this’.

Now, I don’t care that much what some stranger thinks of me, when that assessment is based on a caricature of my faith and nothing more. I do, however, despise the negativity, spite, and downright lies which some are prepared to tell. And I am angry that this negative, bitter faction is polluting the atmosphere for others.

My own feeling is that, if we are truly serious about overhauling democracy in the Western Isles, we have to remove the toxicity. What example do we set our young people when we behave like the closing chapters of ‘Lord of the Flies’? Is it not rank hypocrisy to talk about eradicating bullying in our schools, while gleefully embracing it everywhere else? You can talk about progress, you can set up feminist networks, you can even pretend that, because you’ve worn a rainbow badge, you’re all about the tolerance.

But if you are complicit in the defamation of innocent people because you disagree with their way of doing things . . . well, then, you are a bully, my friend. Verbal abuse and unfounded accusations of criminality should have no part in public life. If you’ve never met me and yet you hate me, ask yourself why that is.

And then, ask yourself why more women and younger people are reluctant to stand for election. 

I have lost count of the number of capable women who have said they couldn’t handle the hatred that comes my way. No, I’m not surprised – and I couldn’t handle it either, ironically, were it not for the very faith which attracts it like a magnet. But is that really a proud boast for us as a community? We’ve lowered the tone of public debate so far that good people are afraid for their reputations.

Shame on us if we let it continue.

Buns, Fences and Self-belief

An inferiority complex is hardly anything to boast of, but mine really comes effortlessly: brought up a Gael, a Wee Free, a female (the gender apparently assigned to me at birth), and a wearer of spectacles, I had somewhat of a head-start. Add being painfully shy and the youngest of four siblings into the mix and . . . well, what are you going to do? Early on, having accepted my lot in life as a timid, narrow-minded, myopic maw, I embraced under-achievement.

I was, nonetheless, interested in the people I came from as soon as I was taught about the reasons behind the 1886 Crofting Act. It appeared that I belonged to an endless line of truaghans, forever requiring to be helped up and helped out. The more I read of the Gael, the more this seemed to be the case. Famine. Grinding poverty. Emigration. Lack of ambition. Ill-advised allegiance to lost causes. An infinite list, it would seem.

Growing up in the age of the IDP – affectionately nicknamed ‘I Don’t Pay’ – and the HIDB, and Board of Agriculture housing grants, there was a pervasive sense that people like me lived by the begging bowl.Policy relating to the development of the Gàidhealtachd was once described as ‘chucking buns across the fence’, as though to appease some invisible beast. The beast in question was usually referred to as ‘the Highland problem’. What our government, and those tasked with developing us described in this way, though, was just normal, everyday life to us. We had grown used to being perceived as a burden.

It wasn’t about the Gaels being charity cases, though, nor was it about being unable to fend for ourselves. Indeed, it was about something else entirely; it was about the fact that we never got to be in control of our own destinies. And we never fought for that control because we simply never believed that we were good enough.

To be honest, I’m not at all sure why I’m using the past tense. Although I am well and truly over the Hebridean cringe, many more are not. You see it manifest daily on social media, and in letters to the press, critical of our local institutions – the inept Comhairle, the corrupt Trust – while lauding what takes place elsewhere. Why aren’t we like Orkney, Shetland . . . anywhere but here?

It’s a destructive and defeatist argument which gets us precisely nowhere. We are not Orkney or Shetland – but neither, sadly for them, are they us. So, instead of wasting time on whingeing, what are we going to do?

Let’s start by understanding the bun chucking in a new light. Government policy, changes to legislation, development initiatives – these are not charity; they are initiated to mitigate against the one thing that we can never change: geography. Remote from the centres of power and distant from markets, these necessary measures have always been an attempt to level the playing field.

That done, we generally get on with things. When the HIDB was created, it ushered in a period of economic development; with the birth of Comhairle nan Eilean in 1975, islanders showed unprecedented levels of initiative and entrepreneurship. Ditto the IDP; Ditto the 2003 Land Reform Act. This is how we roll. If you build it, we will come. Give us a fair chance. We don’t request special treatment, or positive discrimination – just an even-handed crack at doing the best we can.

This is why I believe there is still an argument to be made for the largest capacity interconnector that SSE can build. Sometimes it takes an islander to know islanders. There are those willing this to fail, just so they can wallow in the satisfaction of having been right to negatively compare their own home islands to other places.

Never mind them, though, because there are others, those triers, just waiting for the playing field to be evened out. Islanders always take advantage of the opportunities that development creates. I have every confidence that this scenario will be no different. Once that cable gets the go-ahead, there will be no shortage of schemes, no lack of vision. Projects will most definitely come.

I can understand the regulator being reticent about giving the go-ahead to something which might, on paper, be under-subscribed. It has to be paid for, and it’s their job to ensure that much needed development in the Western Isles doesn’t end up costing the UK consumer money.

What they cannot know – and what we have to prove – is that they are dealing with no ordinary place, and no ordinary people here. Let history speak for us, and show that we never knowingly passed up a chance to make things better for ourselves.

The word ‘insular’, meaning inward-looking derives from the Latin word for ‘island’. I think there are times when that is a strength: let’s look inward at all the ways in which we Hebrideans maximised every opportunity we ever got – not to be like anywhere else, but to be absolutely true to ourselves.

 

 

 

 

One man and his God

Whereas other cultures used to put children up chimneys, the norm for people of my age and background was to be put to work part-time as sheepdogs, in the absence of a suitably qualified collie. My father was hopeless at training his animals, and so he had four children instead who, if not as intelligent as collies, were certainly more responsive to his shouted commands.

As if this degradation was not enough, we would find ourselves subjected to ‘One Man and His Dog’ on television of an evening. I suspect my father hoped that we might pick up a few pointers if we watched enough episodes. He would comment on the shepherds’ control of their dogs, and of the responsiveness and obedience of said dogs. I, however, was always more interested in watching the sheep.

They are not the smartest of creatures, and they have a flair for the unpredictable. Nonetheless, I like their placid faces, and still maintain that the ear of a sheep is the cutest ear of any mammal you are likely to meet. And, having worked with so many of them, so to speak, I had gained an insight into some of their ways.

The outrun and the shedding was all good entertainment, but the moment I found most anxiety-inducing was the penning. Holding the gate open with his left hand, the shepherd would try corralling the flock in, often waving a crook with his right. You would almost be on the point of breathing a sigh of relief when – disaster – one woolly maverick would make a bid for freedom. Sometimes, this would be the end of someone’s dream. Frankly, if your only dream was to win ‘One Man and His Dog’, you probably deserved a reality check, but each to his own.

We too, like sheep, have gone astray. The Lord views us as his flock and it is the work of his church to help bring them safely into the fold. It is towards this end that the work of evangelism and outreach tends – get them on the outrun, win them for the cause. But I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that our eye should be on the ones we are just about to usher into the pen. There is a real flight risk there, and we all know why.

Satan is an awful lot more interested in people who are responding to the Lord than he is to the ones who are lukewarm, or even cold. They are nowhere near God’s pen; they are fully exposed to the ravening wolf, and easily picked off to be devoured.

Surely, then, a master strategist like the devil is going to turn his attention more fully on the ones who are almost – but not quite – safe. They are teetering on the brink of salvation, but the gate to the sheep-fold is not yet safely closed behind them. Something might yet catch them, out the corner of their eye, and they could easily turn and rush towards it.

I have been that sheep, so I know it’s true. It is while you are a churchgoer, a Bible reader, an utterer of prayer . . . but not yet safe in his grasp, that you are most vulnerable to the wiles of Satan. He will tempt you with the world in all its tinsel show; and he will contrast this with the dull rigidity of a life lived for God. Adept as he is at warping truth, he will remind you of all the things you want to do, all the things you have a right to do – and he will tell you that God can wait.

And I know others, now, who are in that position. The pen is open before them, they are almost within the circle of that gate . . . but Satan is up to his tricks again. He shows them the world, yes, but he does something else even more insidious. Coming right up to them, he whispers into their ears: ‘Look. Look at the ones who are already in. Apart from the fact that they are trapped, and can’t go anywhere, how different are they to you?’

He tells those who come to church, who hear the Word, and who are beginning to love the Lord, that they can have all of that – but why hang around with a people who are no better than those who live in the world? How are you, he asks them, meant to have fellowship with ‘these people’; and he lists them. I know he speaks to adherents, and I know he plays on the fact that they have seen bad behaviour from Christians. The church has in it liars, the self-righteous, the unjust, the vain . . . people, in fact, in all their brokenness.

Satan says to them, ‘why should you sit down in fellowship with these hypocrites?’ And they look again at the person in the pew next to them, and they realise that he is right. That upstanding Christian is a fibber. Or self-righteous, or egotistical.

Jesus, on the other hand, says to them, ‘take your place among these people – they are just like you; and yet I have claimed them all as my own’. He loved us while we were still defiled by original sin

We need to be mindful of his portion, to have care of one another. That includes especially those on the brink of life. Satan is watching them, hovering like a bird of prey over defenceless lambs. I have to examine my own life, therefore, and guard against being the stumbling-block that excuses them from coming in.

It gives an added impetus to our witness when we consider that those looking most closely at our example are nearer than we think. They are not necessarily the unbelievers on the outrun, but the almost-theres within the shelter of his gate.

Tilting at Windmills

Having spent a fair bit of my teens and twenties campaigning for the SNP, I was on something of a sabbatical in 2005. Not long married, my life revolved around making a home for myself and my husband. But I was delighted, and on a Red Bull/coffee-induced high the night Angus Brendan MacNeil took the Western Isles back for my party. He visited our home the next weekend, and I was glad that supposedly Tory Donnie had quite literally hung out the flags in celebration.

There were others, less nationalistic than I, who were – nonetheless – delighted with our new MP, simply because he had ousted Calum MacDonald. After eighteen years, the sitting MP had fallen foul of the anti-wind farm lobby, with his vociferous support for developer-led projects in Lewis. Like most rural politicians with any vision at all, Mr MacDonald had a desire to see inward investment come to his constituency, and said of the proposed Barvas moor wind development:

‘It is the equivalent of oil coming without the problem’.

Ah, Calum, without the problem . . . if only.

Scroll forward to the present day, then, and what do we find? Angus MacNeil, now an MP of fourteen years’ standing, making an urgent plea for the 600mw cable that can only be justified by . . . yes, you guessed it, developer-led wind farms.

And, isn’t politics a funny old business, but it seems that Calum MacDonald agrees with the man who replaced him. He is quoted as saying, ‘we certainly need one big development in order to finance the interconnector’.

Before you start getting a warm, fuzzy feeling, and begin to believe that the two of them are pulling on the same oar for the good of community over party politics . . . well, na bi cho gòrach. Did you just come down the Creed in a fishbox?

Calum now supports wind farms developed by communities. Wee communities, like Aiginish, Sandwick, Melbost and Branahuie, that is. He thinks that four grazing committees have more right to represent ‘community’ than, oh, say, Comhairle nan Eilean, or the Stornoway Trust. Perhaps it’s having fallen foul of the ballot box himself that leaves his attitude to democracy so jaded; we will probably never know. Somehow, though, the folk from those four committees have been persuaded that they, and they alone, have the right to derail something that elected representatives of the whole community have worked for years to bring to fruition.

I sympathise with Calum; it can’t have been easy seeing his career as MP being taken away in one evening. He must have wanted to stay where he was and see the Barvas project – and, later, its successor, the Stornoway Wind Farm – to completion.

In 2008, three years into Mr MacNeil’s tenure, the Barvas Moor development had been rejected; four years after that, the Scottish Government gave the thumbs-up to LWP’s Stornoway project.

Had he still been our MP, I wonder how Calum MacDonald would have received these tidings?

We can only know what his response HAS been, as a member of the unelected public. It has been to try, most cynically, to drive a wedge between one iteration of community and another. He has attempted to paint legitimately elected organisations, representative of the Western Isles in the case of the Comhairle, and of the Stornoway Estate in the case of the Trust, as somehow infringing the rights of crofters.

How? In acting for the greatest possible good, for the widest possible interpretation of the word, ‘community’, how has the Comhairle or the Trust acted to the detriment of anyone? No one can answer that, except in the usual way – by bandying about words like ‘corruption’ and ‘cronyism’; sentiments that are beneath contempt and, incidentally, far more detrimental to the integrity of our community than any decision made by elected members.

There has been a coming together in the last few days, I am delighted to see. The Stornoway Trust, Comhairle nan Eilean Siar, the MP, the MSP, and even the First Minister, are all united in their desire to see the 600mw interconnector awarded to the Western Isles. One councillor, claiming that the entire Comhairle was out of step with him, received a letter from the Council Leader. I shared the copy that came into my own possession, not mischievously, but because I felt the public needed to see it too.

You can only make decisions based on the information available to you. I believe that Lewis Wind Power has been very conscientious in supplying that; I know that the Trust has also made a great effort in that regard; and yes, perhaps the local authority could do better. If you are too quiet, you allow misinformation and propaganda to fill the vacuum. Roddie MacKay’s missive to Councillor MacCormack, however, says everything that needs to be said.

The community, in every measure that we have of that quality, has now united behind the common good. Calum MacDonald has – once again – found himself on the wrong side of the debate. But there is a spirit of consensus in the air, and he could still be part of that – himself and the so-called ‘four townships’.

A few people have got dewy-eyed over the idea of ‘the crofters’ being mistreated by the nasty Comhairle and the wicked landlord. Some have got carried away with the idea that this handful of people, from four unelected grazing committees, are heroically standing up against the might of a French multinational.

But, in reality, they are simply tilting at windmills.

Could We Be More Bethesda?

There have been two big issues in our local news this week, and although they may appear unrelated, they both show up something quite disturbing in our democratic processes.

Unless you’ve slept for the last twenty years, you will be familiar with the word, ‘interconnector’ (no, don’t switch off) – the subsea cable that will unlock the renewables potential of our islands. It emerged recently, following weeks of rumour, that Ofgem is minded not to consent a 600mw cable, though it may yet agree to a 450mw version. The hand-wringing which ensued from various quarters is understandable, because 450 would not leave much spare capacity for community schemes.

The other story, which has been rumbling on for a while now, is about Bethesda Hospice’s funding shortfall. I don’t mind telling you that the first time a MacMillan nurse mentioned the place to me, I shuddered and wept, because of what I felt it symbolised. Reality, though, was so different: my husband spent the last week of his life there, and I with him, never having to leave his side. Looking on, I saw him nursed, not only with dignity and respect, but as though he was every bit as precious to the staff as he was to me. Their care of him, and of me, is something which contributed to the blessing that I felt while walking through the valley of the shadow of death with Donnie.

These nurses didn’t know a lot about the man they were caring for. He might have been a tyrant, or a wife-beater, or a bully. They didn’t know his lovely nature. But it didn’t matter, because they minister to all in their care just the same.

Is it all down to good training? The staff are evidently hand-picked to ensure their suitability for the quiet, dignified and loving environment that the hospice provides. Nonetheless, I believe that there is something more at work here – there is that essence of God which inclines in sympathy towards the human. Every one of us is made in the image of our creator; that, if nothing else, should inspire mutual respect in us, one for the other.

And, if this is possible in the underfunded environs of Bethesda, where some people are living out the hardest moments of their lives, why is it not possible in the community at large?

What is missing in our midst, that we speak so viciously to one another over issues that may be important, yes, but fall far short of being life or death?

The news of the interconnector – which is by no means a final decision, incidentally – has had the opposite effect in some quarters, to what you might expect. While the Comhairle, the Stornoway Trust and our elected representatives at Holyrood and Westminster are all calling for unity in order to boost the local case, there remains one dissenting voice. Playing out their own peninsular war, the people of Point and Sandwick Trust seem determined only to prove that they have had the right answer all along.

In a bizarre move, their honorary president, and former chair, claimed that he had been speaking up for community renewables as a councillor for ‘considerable years’, and had received no support from his thirty colleagues. On closer examination, it seems that he has been saying this for three or so years, but not in the council chamber. It reminds me of that time I almost missed an internal flight from Cairo, because the announcement was made by a lady mumbling ‘Luxor’ in the corner of a noisy departure lounge.

So, you have a councillor who eschews the normal mechanisms of local government. This will not surprise anyone who was privy to the recent Facebook discussion of the Bethesda funding shortfall, in which the councillor intervened in an attempt to silence us. He loftily informed the participants that discussion of the matter in open forum was unhelpful, and that negotiations were taking place behind closed doors.

If that was not enough of a canary down the mine, the manager of Point and Sandwick Trust supplied me with another one this week, when he disparagingly referred to my good self as a ‘token woman’. Now, I couldn’t care less about his opinion of me because, apart from anything else, we are unacquainted. His ignorance of who I am, however, is fairly eclipsed by his disrespect for the ballot box. Perhaps this is understandable, seeing he has been a victim of its vagaries himself in the past, but that doesn’t entitle him to ride roughshod over what the majority wants. Those speaking up for unity – the Comhairle, the Trust, the MSP, the MP – have all been returned by democratic election. They, and not a handful of people in four crofting townships, represent the majority.

It’s difficult to change position, even when you know it is for the greater good. I understand why those who ruthlessly banged the drum against developer-led projects will find it so hard to put that crusade aside now. They will, perhaps, see it as surrender. But it would be more in the order of a dignified truce.

For my part, I will publicly change position on something too, as a pledge of good faith. This time last year, one of our elders surprised me by suggesting it would be good to have a woman – even one – on the Trust because it would ‘stop daft wee cliques forming, like you always get on all-male committees’.

While I am still of the opinion that gender alone is no reason to vote for anyone, I do see the need for some feminine input. We approach the process differently. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m a woman, or a naïve fool, but I like to think that local politics could learn a thing or two from the staff of the hospice: treat people with respect; acknowledge their equal right to an opinion; don’t demean yourself by sinking to a level you will regret later.

Remember, we are all in this together.

 

 

 

 

 

Turning Over the Tables

I was told on Sunday – by a member of my own church – that ‘Christians shouldn’t strike – not for more money anyway. And certainly not on your salary’. Leaving aside the etiquette of commenting on anyone else’s financial situation at all, let alone in front of others, I found this remark pretty dispiriting. It belongs, I feel, in that all too prevalent school of thought which exists both in and outside the church, and which says that Christians should just be nice, bland, inoffensive people who turn the other cheek and take whatever blows the world feels like doling out.

That philosophy, which adheres to ‘it’s nice to be nice’, is what is going to march us blindfold off a cliff if we don’t wake up to the danger.

When Christ turned over the tables of the money lenders, and ejected them from the temple, he wasn’t concerning himself with being nice. In fact, whenever I hear the phrase, ‘righteous indignation’, it is this scenario that plays in my imagination. I would think it was the straw that broke the camel’s back; he had watched them sin against his Father in so many ways, but this defilement of the temple must have been just too much to take.

We all have our limits. For the past few weeks, I have been involved in a whole variety of situations and conversations which cause me to fear for this generation in which we live. I have been speaking to politicians about the role of Christians in public life, and I have been thinking about the way that we ‘do church’ in Lewis. There is a disconnection between us and the harsh reality of a world that embraces as progressive just about everything that opposes God’s will for us as a people.

Christians should be the most political people of all. We should be joining political parties, lobbying, writing letters, attending meetings, starting petitions, and, yes, joining trade unions. As a member of EIS FELA, what sort of Christian would I be if I told my colleagues that I could not strike for more pay because it breached my principles? What sort of Christian would let them lose several days pay in order to obtain justice for themselves – and me? If, as believing people, we place ourselves apart from society, from our communities and our colleagues, we are most assuredly not following the example that Jesus, friend of sinners, set for us.

This is radicalism. It means going back to the roots, and the Free Church was certainly born out of a concern for moral and social justice. Why? Because it was born out of a passion to see the headship of Christ recognised, and the centrality of the Bible restored to public worship. But that doesn’t just mean having a nice, tall pulpit with a big book open from which the minister preaches every Sunday – although that is certainly an important element – it means carrying that book and its message around in our hearts every day of the week.

I was lectured yesterday, too, about the privilege of Christians, and that we should not abuse it by preaching intolerance against people whose lifestyles we question. The point that everyone seems to be missing when they say such things is this: I would not preach disapproval at those of the LGBT+ persuasion because, although I know their lifestyle is at odds with God’s teaching, so has my own been: many times. Their sin might be different to mine, but it is no worse.

Besides, as I have said before, I see no merit in talking to sinners about sin. They are like the dead people in ‘Sixth Sense’ – they don’t know they’re sinners. I can hardly stand over them and tell them that they’re sinners, because I’m one as well. It takes Christ to show them what they are lacking. Only in the light of his truth will they see what is awry, and what must be put right. All I can do is point to him, and try in my own imperfect way to witness to his perfection.

You can’t witness from a church pew, however. Take it from me, there’s a big clue in the fact that our most vocal unbelievers approve of us being Christians in private. Worshipping in church or at home, you’re bothering no one.

What the world wants is to push Christians back to the margins. While we were sleeping, they turned mainstream, Bible-based morality into bigotry. We live in a country that so misunderstands the tenets of the faith upon which it is founded that it has recreated them as hate speech.

I could sit with fellow church members and debate the finer points of trade unionism, or purity of worship, or the myriad other things we do that equate to fiddling while Rome burns. But I happen to think that we have bigger problems than that. In fact, I think that, instead of firing shots across one another’s bows, we ought to be a little more willing to go out into the real fray.

There is a reason why the Bible uses so much military metaphor. We are a people, a unit; not a rag-tag band of mavericks. The voice of one crying in the wilderness was all very well for John the Baptist – but this current desert requires teamwork. Pulling each other up, circling one another’s efforts with prayer, and presenting a united front: that’s where our energy needs to go now.

From there, we have to spread out and ensure Christ’s influence is every place we are able to go. And, because he goes before us, there are no limits except in our own small minds.