I suppose I should consider myself duly honoured.
I’ve been chosen to judge the relative merits and qualities of potential new celebrities.
This is not some merely parochial thing, I should quickly add.
It’s never actually happened to me (yet – but please don’t read this as a hint that I would like the job, I’ve got more than enough to keep me thoroughly occupied) – it’s never actually happened to me, but there is [at least for some, I guess] a certain dubious ‘kudos’ in being invited to judge, for instance, a Woman’s Rural jam-making competition.
I can see why they might invite the local minister for such a task. They’d presume upon his honesty and conclude that in this jam-maker-eats-jam-maker sort of scenario, and against a backdrop of increasingly widespread ‘match-fixing’, he’d be less liable than some to accept sticky back-handers from contestants in this sport.
And they’d perhaps presume as well that he’d be as well placed as any to handle with great pastoral sensitivity and wisdom the likely fall-out of mutual recriminations, emotional distress, and relational tensions.
As I say, I’ve yet to be asked to fulfil such a role as the local parish minister. But I guess if I were to be asked, I’d take it as an honour, reflective of the high regard in which I was held by these matriarchal leaders of this thriving local realm.
How much greater the honour, then, to be asked to fulfil such a role at a national level! I have to say the invitation took me completely by surprise: I had to read it twice to be sure it was really me they were inviting.
I mean, this is ‘Move-over-Simon-Cowell’ stuff – the platform, perhaps, for some widespread national recognition. Who knows?
And I suppose, as I said at the start, I should have felt duly honoured by the fact I’d been invited. But right from the start, there was a certain nagging feeling that I maybe shouldn’t build my hopes too high or read too much into this invitation.
Why?
Well, the invitation started very warmly.
“Jeremy, come and judge…”
It was personal right from the start. They knew me, plainly. And knew me well enough not only to address me on Christian name terms, but to know how suitable a judge I would be.
The date for the judging was unfortunate. That was the first thing that made me suspect that perhaps they didn’t know me quite as well as they’d seemed to suggest.
The competition’s being held on the 29th April. Check your diaries. It’s a Sunday. Not exactly the best of days for an extra-curricular national responsibility. Not for a guy like me, anyway. How well do these folk actually know me?
‘Jeremy’ as a form of address began to seem ever so slightly ‘forward’, just a little bit presumptuous on their part.
However, if that particular detail about the date aroused my suspicions, the nature of the task they were asking me to be doing made me rather more incredulous.
They were asking me to judge some new beers. This is Sainsbury’s 2012 Great British Beer Hunt: and they were looking to me to adjudicate.
Along with (presumably) a metaphorical half-a-million others.
A singular honour, I’m sure.
But despite their personalised, e-mailed invitation, the fact that I’m otherwise occupied on a Sunday every week, the fact that I’m not in truth a beer-drinker (and therefore plainly not a connoisseur of any sort), and the fact that I only very rarely (and always entirely randomly) have occasion to buy any beer, combined to make me feel, and suspect, that I was little more than a name pulled from a bag (one of their re-usable ones, doubtless).
Which, despite the hype in the invite, sucked any life there had been in the sense of the thing being an honour. I was simply a pawn in a marketing move on the cut-throat chessboard of supermarket supremacy.
It was cyberspace junk-mail.
It crossed my mind that that’s the very nature of the line the devil adopts. Temptations are examples of his advertising genius: so attractive, so persuasive, so complimentary.
‘Jeremy’. So very personal, warm and friendly. He knows me so well! He thinks of me so highly! He likes me so much!
‘Come and judge …’ You’re so wise, so knowledgeable: your opinion counts for so much, your judgments are so astute, your experience is so valued.
He flatters only to deceive.
You are the best, you deserve the best, you shall have the best.
It’s simply spiritual junk-mail. The sort of thing that came through Jesus’ ‘letterbox’ on the parched wilderness of Judaea: three times over. The ‘temptations’.
The sort of thing we all have coming through the postbox to our souls. Junk-mail. Presenting as such an honour. Offering such desirable things. But resulting in only shame.
What an upside down world is the world of today’s advertising!
The Advertising Standards Authority down in London have received a complaint [they dismissed it later] that the adverts presently appearing on buses here in Edinburgh, and saying simply trypraying, are “detrimental to the psychological wellbeing of people by giving them false hope.”
Don’t laugh too quickly or too loudly. The self-same ASA recently upheld a complaint against the ‘Healing on the Streets’ team in Bath because their website stated that “God can heal.”
Presumably that, too, is thoroughly detrimental to the psychological well-being of people. Commending the God who heals is now harmful to your health.
Naaman was fortunate enough to live in Syria rather than Bath. And his Israelite servant girl, thankfully for him, didn’t have a website.
Otherwise the Bible would have been a chapter short. 2 Kings 5 simply wouldn’t be there. A circumstance perhaps only a man by the name of Gehazi would have welcomed.
Of course, no one objects when the adverts for beer are paraded across our screens and streets and down the sides of buses, suggesting that this will really make a man of you, this will satisfy your longings and will slate your thirst.
The Junk-mail, beer-drinkers’ flattery.
You are the best, you deserve the best, you’ll have the best.
No word of the beer being potentially “detrimental to the physical well-being of people.” No hint of the damage the beer may cause to your waist line or your liver. No mention of the harm that’s brought to countless homes and families and the often fatal accidents occasioned by such drink.
What an upside down world it is when objections are made to trypraying along the side of an Edinburgh bus, but none are raised if those buses instead suggest you tryboozing.
Crazy. It’s enough to drive some to drink.
But “God can heal”?
Well, yes, I’ll happily be the judge of that!