I am not a theologian. (This bracket exists solely to allow medics the chance to revive readers who have fainted at that revelation. All done? Good. Let us move on.) In consequence the following is less an essay than a tentative inquiry, in which I grope my way through the theological jungle with no certainty at any stage that I shall not plunge irreversibly into the swamps of heresy.
Though before I start groping I can't help asking how anyone does get to be a theologian. Theology means literally the study of God, and since God is acknowledged to be the great unknowable, who moves in mysterious ways and who passes all understanding, there doesn't seem much to be gained from studying him (or her, or them, or indeed it). Furthermore I can see no fair way of setting or marking a theology exam. When a subject consists entirely of metaphysical guesswork there can be neither right nor wrong. If a candidate asserts, say, that God is a goat it's a brave marker who puts a cross in the margin and deducts a mark. He risks the butting wrath of Sky Billy.
Nevertheless it remains possible in the 21st century, and even in advanced secular societies such as this one, to acquire a masters degree in theology, and according to the internet such a degree opens up four possible areas of employment: teaching theology (which feels just a little circuitous), becoming a minister, becoming a missionary and, oh dear, oh dear, oh maximal dear, school teaching. Which immediately brings to mind an awful school I taught at for two terms where God was very high on the agenda for some of the staff but for none of the children. And I remember with a seething of the intestine the chaplain laying his hand on my forearm one afternoon when I was angry about some matter now forgotten and saying in a voice so unctuous you could have oiled a hinge with it, "Joe, this life is only a rehearsal".
That, fortunately, was a long time ago and in a foreign country, yet this afternoon I was driving the dog through the suburb of Heathcote when I passed a banner. It had been attached to a picket fence outside a little church. "Have a heavenly Heathcote Christmas" it said, and there was an illustration which I shall come to in a moment.
I was unaware until then that there was such a thing as a distinctively Heathcote Christmas, but what piqued my interest most was the word heavenly. I am aware, naturally, of the seductive influence of alliteration on many a writer of advertising slogans, and I am also aware of the colloquial use of heavenly to mean no more than nice. But I think it is reasonable to expect a more theologically rigorous use of the word when it pinned up outside a church.
