The crowd
We humans like to run in herds. This well known fact was especially demonstrated to me in Prague, the jewel of the Czech Republic, where I was speaking at the Salvation Army European Youth Congress. This magnificent medieval city was teeming with English tourists, many of whom are prepared to fork out cash for an airfare in exchange for cheap beer – the stag party scene is huge there. Boarding our flight at Bristol, we were greeted by a gaggle of giggling chaps sporting matching t-shirts, all embroidered with the name of their unfortunate friend and victim, who was wearing a skirt, red fish net tights and a shocking pink wig, which is called having fun. The group also had matching beer bellies, which is apparently deemed to be a desirable fashion item. I was intrigued by the antics of a number of liquid lunch imbibing Brits abroad there. Loud ladettes led the raucous singing and celebrated the myth that following a certain football team makes one a superior human being. It was not a pretty sight, and as I watched the locals sniff with disdain, I was tempted to resign from being British.
Prague has shown me once again that superstitious religion feeds our herding instinct too. In the centre of the beautiful Charles Bridge is an iconic statue which should be rubbed by all who pass by, or so local custom dictates. Lines of eager tourists wait their turn to give the brass a buffing, for reasons which are apparently unclear to most of them. The fact that everyone else is into pious polishing is enough. Next in line, please….
I fell victim to herding of the culinary kind, erroneously assuming that a full restaurant must indicate that good food is served there. Sampling the unfortunately described Czech cuisine, pork knuckle with sauerkraut and dumplings, was described by my wife Kay as “a cultural experience”, which is code for a cataclysmic disaster. The Czechs are generally quiet, undemonstrative people, which may be the result of their fondness for cabbage soup; one tends to be tight lipped when concentrating on combating another wave of internal combustion.
But there was the bright day when I saw a couple of refreshing jailbreaks from the herd. I watched as the then World Chief of the Salvationists, General John Larsson and his wife Commissioner Freda were hard at work. As leaders of the largest army in the world, the distinguished looking couple could have easily made a brief appearance - the social equivalent of patting these eight hundred young people on the head, and then disappearing back to the elite seclusion often enjoyed by denominational big cheeses. Not these two. Over four days, they laughed with and listened to hordes of grinning youth who could barely disguise their delight because their Head and First Lady were among them. One afternoon, in the sun baked Old Town Square, the General spoke at an open air gathering with warmth, compassion, and sterling clarity about the Lord Jesus. A few moist eyes were evident among the tourist crowd during the event, and the army youth cheered their silver haired hero on.
And I watched with greater fascination as a young, trendy looking Salvationist chap broke away from the safe camaraderie of his fellow Christians and made his way into a large group of shirtless, lager loaded chaps who were working hard at filling the small spaces between their tattoos with the lobster red of sunburn, and who were quite happy, so to speak. He smiled at and shook hands with each of them, and chatted warmly about God and life for a good half hour, answering their loud, slurred questions with kindness. When it came time to bid them farewell, it was obvious that he had made a real impression. Strangely, as he walked away, it was as if suddenly his audience reverted to the herding politics of the pack; they burst into a loud, mocking song, perhaps embarrassed at the vulnerability that they had shared with the brave young man. Who knows what long term impact his words and smile might have?
As I left the Square, the smell of pilsner and the sound of soccer songs in the air, I wanted to raise my hat to the leaders and troops of the Salvation Army. Many of them wear uniform – but helpfully, those I’ve met this weekend aren’t given to mindless uniformity.
And I’m wondering about my own herding instincts. Sometimes, going with the flow just won’t work, especially if the flow is headed over Niagara. Will someone – perhaps me – please just stand up and be counted?