Global warning
I HAVE bought a new car. At least, it’s new to me (I’ve never owned a brand new car). I took it for its first long drive. I wrapped up warm — it was that kind of weather. I had an engagement at the other end of the M23, on the south coast; so this was the first time I’d taken it on a motorway.
Halfway to my destination, an orange warning sign appeared on the dashboard. Although my competence with vehicles is very limited, I know that that is never a good thing. In the circumstances, I had no alternative but to keep going, nerves jangling.
I spent a morning with a church. I preached at great speed, because I wanted to get home. On the way back, the orange sign turned to red. I was agitated, but I did not despair. I drove as close to the speed limit as I dared, and parked outside the flat. I ran up the stairs to find the user’s manual. Ripping off my hat and gloves, I fumbled through the pages to locate the one about dashboard signs. Found it! And the light means . . . it’s cold outside.
Sign language
I OUGHT to be more grateful for dashboard signs than I am. Chrysler substantially increased car safety with an innovative range in 1937. Their modernisations included a speedometer that indicated the speed on a rotating barrel behind a horizontal slit in the dashboard, accurate petrol and temperature gauges, and early-warning signs for the generator and oil pressure, which immediately attracted the name “idiot lights”.
As a driver who attempts to be unfailingly polite, I appreciate the unofficial collection of ways that there are to communicate with other drivers. I have observed that, although it’s never mentioned in the Highway Code, the universal sign for “Thank you” seems to be a double flash of the hazard-warning lights. A sustained use of the headlights from a vehicle approaching you might mean either “I am allowing you to turn right in front of me” or “I am coming through at speed.” It’s quite a gamble. . .
The one addition to a car’s signage which I would genuinely appreciate is a light that simply says, “Sorry!” I would use that repeatedly and with sincerity. At a party, I once fell into conversation with a man whose job was designing cars, and I mentioned this to him. He replied, “Never apologise. It’s never your fault.” I think it’s safe to assume that he was unacquainted with the General Confession.
Life support
AS PART of a lively discussion group, everyone present was invited to say which object we would choose to depict what our Christian faith meant to us. The selection was interesting: a foundation stone, a key, a sun. After a little thought, I chose the AA (the vehicle-recovery version, not the alcoholism-recovery one).
The Automobile Association was founded in 1905 by William Bosworth. It was, in part, a response to the Motor Car Act, which, two years previously, had required drivers to hold a licence and display a number plate. It also raised the speed limit from 14 to 20 mph, but introduced substantial fines for exceeding that.
The AA set about helping motorists to avoid police speed traps and dangerous corners by erecting thousands of roadside warning signs. Additionally, there was a coded warning sign: if a patrolman failed to salute a driver whose car bore an AA badge, it was an alert that there was a speed trap in the vicinity.
In 1949, as wartime petrol rationing approached its end, the AA introduced its breakdown and recovery service. At first, it operated only after dark in London, but was subsequently expanded nationwide.
One of the few bills that I don’t resent paying every year is to the AA. To be honest, I don’t get full value for money from their breakdown service. I’ve hardly ever called them out. As years go by, I use the car less and less. Taking it further than my church is a rarity. I get queasy if I push it over 30 mph, and I don’t even know which side of the road they drive on north of the Thames.
I am tremendously reassured, however, that one day, when I’ve broken down in the pouring rain on a country lane where I can’t even see a street light, I will know exactly what the first thing I’m going to do is. I am not going to despair: I am going to call the AA. After that, I’ll take things one step at a time.
That is why I chose it as a picture of my Christian faith. None of the difficulties of life have been swept away by my beliefs. I’ve done my share of flooding the bathroom, losing my car keys, succumbing to illnesses, and breaking my heart. But I seem to have endured these without paralysing damage to my inner life. I have never despaired. I have always known whom I’m going to call on first. After that, I take things one step at a time.
In this world of darkness
ON A chilly Wednesday morning, the alarm jolted me awake what seemed like a mere ten minutes after I had finally succeeded in dropping off. I had lost almost an entire night of sleep. My mind was teeming with issues of huge significance over which I have no control.
The fact is that I am scared about the rise in neo-fascism in countries that once gave so much to defeat it. I am aching on behalf of those who are wounded and afraid because of changes in provision for transgender people. I feel the shame of the abuse that has scarred the way in which the Church of England is viewed throughout the nation. I watch the endless rain and cannot help thinking that this is a sign that our climate is changing in a way that will overwhelm future generations.
I got into the car and drove to the midweek service at my lovely little church. Nothing that they have done in recent months will substantially change the actions of presidents, billionaires, or global polluters. But, throughout the winter, they have given beds overnight to homeless men and women, supported those who are bereaved, welcomed LGBT+ people, and visited those who are lonely. As reliably as the AA, they have opened their doors so that a hundred faithful but fallible people can say their prayers.
I turned off the engine and sat for a while in the car park, the magnitude of the world’s needs swelling inside me. And it was almost as if a voice was calling to me from inside the building: “We understand. We will do what we do as faithfully as we can. It’s not much, but it’s something. Hey! Come on in. It’s cold outside.”
Peter Graystone is a Reader at the Church of the Good Shepherd, Carshalton Beeches, in the diocese of Southwark.
