Herds
We humans like to run in herds. This well known fact has been especially demonstrated to me in Prague, the jewel of the Czech Republic, where I am speaking at the Salvation Army European Youth Congress. This magnificent medieval city is 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 here. 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 fishnet tights and a shocking pink wig. This is called having fun. The group also had matching beer bellies, apparently desirable fashion items. I’ve been intrigued by the antics of a number of liquid lunch-imbibing Brits abroad here. Loud ladettes lead the raucous singing and celebrate the myth that following a certain football team makes one a superior human being. It’s not a pretty sight, and as I watch the locals sniff with disdain, it tempts me 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 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 a full restaurant must indicate that good food is served there. My wife Kay described sampling the unfortunately described Czech cuisine, pork knuckle with sauerkraut and dumplings, as a ‘cultural experience; 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 resisting another wave of internal combustion.
But today I saw a couple of refreshing jailbreaks from the herd. I have watched as the World Chief of the Salvationists, General John Larsson and his wife Commissioner Freda, have been hard at work here. 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 disappeared back to the elite seclusion often enjoyed by denominational big cheeses. Not these two. Over the last four days, they have laughed with and listened to hordes of grinning youth who could barely disguise their delight because their Head and First Lady are among them. This 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 was time to bid them farewell, it was obvious 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 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 stand up and be counted?