Bishop Nick Baines

29 MAY 26

Good morning. The late rock singer Ozzy Osbourne’s son, Jack, spoke recently about the fact that the family have worked with an AI provider to make a digital version of his father a year after his death. Digital Ozzy, an AI generated life-sized avatar, will be able, from beyond the grave, to talk, laugh, answer questions from and tease whoever wants to speak with him; just as Ozzy Osborne did when he was alive. The CEO of the AI company making this, commented that the avatar’s created from ‘authenticated source material, consented and controlled by those who love him most’. His choice of language is striking. Love and control. Living and consent. There is a growing market – estimated at more than £100 billion worldwide for the ‘grief tech’ industry, including what are called griefbots: an AI tool that recreates the dead as a comfort for the living. Organised religion, until recent decades, exercising a near-monopoly on the rituals and processes around death, might reasonably be supposed to be against this. But as evidenced by Pope Leo’s first encyclical released on Monday, which addresses humanity’s relationship with AI, the need for public debate about the ethics and morality of the use of AI is urgent, given the speed of change in its capabilities. The starting point for the consideration of a grief bot is that the inalienable dignity of a human being who’s lived, according to Christian teaching, as someone created in the image of God, continues after death. But we know too that at the point of death, we no longer have any control over how we’re spoken about, how our past actions are interpreted. We’re no longer able to explain ourselves or surprise even the ones who love us best and miss us most. We are, in a curious way, at our most vulnerable, to exploitation or misuse by anyone who might make money from our memory. In this way, dying is the ultimate act of trust - not only in God - but in the people we leave behind. We can ask them to promise us that they will say certain things, scatter our ashes in certain places, live a certain way themselves. But we can’t make them, we have to trust them. Perhaps we begin by recognising that the messy, contradictory, heartache of grief is tender territory whenever it’s invaded by commercialising forces. And in the use of a griefbot, the inalienable dignity of a person is under question at precisely the time when the person who’s died has no voice to contest what’s being done in their name. Love and control. Living and consent. The choices of individuals who have the funds to do this for the people they’ve lost raise fundamental questions not just for them but for all the rest of us in society – who, inevitably, will die one day too.

On Monday over one and a half million Muslims from around the world began filling a vast tent city in Mecca for the annual hajj pilgrimage. Each year this religious practice which Muslims hope to perform at least once in their life, tests people’s faith and physical stamina. But this year, there’s another more sobering reality. Air defence batteries are positioned on the outskirts of Mecca, responsible for protecting the skies over the holy sites. And this is a consequence of the continued US-Israeli war in Iran and the most recent Israeli military strikes in eastern Lebanon, wars which are reconfiguring who gets to travel, how they get there, and at what cost. And amidst the hopes for an end to the war, I wonder how people living and affected by it think about such momentous rituals as Hajj, how they plan, save and travel only to return to continued uncertainty once the pilgrimage is over. Perhaps people have learned how to live beside ruins without letting the ruins destroy their soul. It is said that Lebanon in particular has always sung while burning. Its poets turned ruins into hymns and mourning into the resistance of stubborn hope. But it seems to me that wherever there is war and destruction in the world people learn to live with both grief and hope. Cafés and shops reopen after explosions, children play on the streets, weddings happen during ceasefires, cities still wake up to make coffee by the sea; survival itself becomes a kind of ritual. Maybe that is why so many people want to perform Hajj this year - ritual isn’t escapism from the world’s violence. It is resistance against becoming spiritually shaped by that violence. People who live close to loss ask deeper questions about God, justice, and meaning. The pilgrimage is a kind of surrender to a greater reality – everyone moves in the same direction, recites the same prayers, dressed in similar garments, and despite their different burdens, the crowds repeat the simple but powerful call ` here I am O Lord, here I am.’ And for one suspended moment, as the pilgrims stand as the guests of God, they begin to realise something terrifying and beautiful- that every empire, every militia, every border, every war will one day become dust. That it isn’t suffering but the need for divine mercy for us all which is the final truth about humanity.

Good morning. An odd group gathered this weekend at the Hay Festival for a simple but moving ceremony. Local authority officials joined storytellers and puppeteers beside the River Wye to launch a charter declaring that the river has rights – rights to perform its natural functions and be free from pollution. It’s the latest expression of a global movement demanding that the law sees ecosystems as living entities rather than human property. I love walking the Wye. It winds 150 miles along the Wales-England border through lush pastures and rocky gorges. Yet, there are concerns that some industrial farming practices while not necessarily illegal are polluting the river and that species like salmon and native crayfish that depend on it are disappearing. The charter recognises an ecologist as the river’s official representative at rive r management meetings. The Wye can’t tell us what it wants, so she’s charged to present what the river needs to flourish, setting aside human interests and preferences. This legal arrangement gives form to something we’ve long felt but struggled to enact. The poet William Wordsworth, who celebrated the Wye, sensed that people and rivers belong to something more fundamental, "more deeply interfused" as he writes. But I think the thirteenth century Japanese Buddhist teacher Dōgen Zenji saw most clearly what that perception really means. Dōgen knew that a river can be seen as a resource, a place of inspiration, and presumably it’s something quite different to the fish. But all these perceptions fall short of a more elusive reality. As Dōgen writes, “It's not only that there is water in the world, but there’s a world in water.” We typically live as though we were separate — each of us the centre of our own world, bending what surrounds us to our interests. Buddhism calls this the core delusion and the source of our suffering. So our response to nature is also a call to look at ourselves more deeply, asking not just whether a river is alive, but what it means for us to be alive, within a vast universe on which we entirely depend. The Wye is one of the most loved rivers in Britain, and one of the most damaged. The charter gives it rights. But the rights of nature return to us as duties of attention, restraint, and repair — not just in beautiful places, but at every point where our lives touch the world that sustains them.

25 MAY 26

Good morning. Those attending the National Cathedrals Conference in Bristol this week were asked a simple question: what is the role of a cathedral today? They reflected on a specially commissioned report Living Stones which offered some sobering conclusions about the future of English cathedrals. There was some good news. 77% of adults have visited a cathedral in the past three years. This suggests that many people still see cathedrals as “thin places” where they can glimpse heaven on earth and, as one of the Psalms says, “be still and know”. But the more worrying statistic is that three quarters of England’s 42 Anglican cathedrals are in debt. The growing gap between income and repair costs is difficult to ignore. In his book How Buildings Learn, the American writer Stewart Brand argues that buildings survive by adapting to the people who use them. Cathedrals have done this for centuries. And, in a noisy digital age, they face a new challenge: how once again to reimagine themselves. Many cathedrals now rely on admission charges, concerts, exhibitions, cafés and other attractions to help cover their costs. . For some, this feels like an attack on the essential quality of what is after all a sacred building. It’s a fine balancing act to be sure. My experience of cathedrals has shaped much of my ministry. York Minster was my home cathedral. I studied near Durham, I was ordained in Ripon, and now serve as an Honorary Canon of St Albans Cathedral. This has given me a closer understanding of the challenges and opportunities facing cathedral clergy and their lay colleagues today. Perhaps the real question isn’t how cathedrals can survive, but why they still matter. When in the Cathedral, I often notice that many visitors still come looking for a moment - to pause, to light a candle to pray. I see people of all ages — including many young adults — wanting to stop, to rest, to listen to the silence, if only for a little while. The medieval builders of these vast places — vividly imagined in Ben Hopkins’ novel Cathedral — could never have foreseen the technologies that now shape almost every aspect of modern life. But I’m pretty certain they understood that people would always seek out their wonderful creations: as a calm sanctuary in stark contrast to the world outside. That, perhaps more than anything else, is what our cathedrals are still for today and why we need them to survive.

I don’t really follow football but this past week there seemed to be a lot of it in the news. One of the most contentious stories has been that of Southampton who admitted to spying on their opponents training sessions. They’ve now lost their appeal against expulsion from the Championship play-offs, which they described as `manifestly disproportionate.’ For many of the fans who are hurt it may seem like an unfair and collective punishment. But while the fallout has been enormous, the issue isn’t really about the consequences for breaking a rule. Football survives mistakes, controversy and questionable refereeing decisions every week. What it can’t survive is the erosion of trust. Once clubs begin believing covert spying and deception are acceptable routes to competitive advantage, the integrity of the sport itself starts to erode. Competition in all areas of life must still have moral boundaries because if winning becomes the only value left, then every other principle gradually becomes negotiable. Whether in football, politics business or our relationships, a culture obsessed purely with outcomes eventually loses the moral language needed to restrain itself. Success begins to justify deception and eventually people no longer even recognise dishonesty because it has become so normalised by success. But if restraint is important so is the principle of proportionality. The Qur’an says, ` we have made you a middle nation’ a verse which inspired Muslim thinkers to regard balance and equilibrium as a spiritual act. A small wound shouldn’t become a lifelong bitterness, a mistake shouldn’t lead to total exile and justice should always be distinguishable from revenge. This isn’t weakness, its God consciousness contained in the sacred words, `By justice, the heavens and the earth endure.’ When so much of our culture encourages us towards extremes, cutting people off, letting disagreement turn to dehumanising, and destroying peoples reputations, the courage to remain fair even when you’re hurting or angry is a difficult but necessary virtue. On losing their appeal Southampton issued a statement apologising to their fans and supporters stating that `trust now needs to be rebuilt’ and that they were determined to act with humility and `put things right.” And in the end that is all any of us can hope to do whether in sport or in life in general. All of us carry a relationship we could mend, a trust we can uphold, and while its not always easy, perhaps one of the quietest forms of spiritual maturity is the ability to put something right before time makes the repair impossible.

21 MAY 26

Good morning. “Do not be so open-minded that your brains fall out.” I was reminded of that quip from G. K. Chesterton last week, when I visited The Old Ferryboat Inn in Cambridgeshire, which not only claims to be the oldest pub in England (serving ale since 560AD, apparently), but also to have a resident ghost. A young woman took her life for love almost a thousand years ago and local legend has it she’s haunted the place ever since, appearing each year on the anniversary of her death: the 17th March. That date also happens to be St Patrick’s Day, which is perhaps not the ideal occasion for sober eyewitness testimony. But it’s easy to be sceptical…. According to a recent National Folklore Survey, more than a third of people in England believe in ghosts, and many like the idea of them too. “A haunted house at the top of your street is fantastic,” said Caroline Gibson from Pontefract in Yorkshire, speaking to the BBC about a poltergeist who is currently trending on social media, after featuring on the paranormal podcast, Uncanny. The occult does not sit easily with mainstream Christianity. The Church warns against séances, spirit-hunting and attempts to conjure the dead. Yet in an age inclined to explain everything materially, Christianity insists that the world does indeed have a spiritual dimension. A problem remains, however, of how to discern between spiritual reality versus superstition — or for that matter, between good versus evil spiritual forces. “Do not be so open-minded that your brains fall out” doesn’t really help us with that discernment, but Chesterton, himself a Christian, followed up with another one-liner that might be more useful. “The object of opening the mind, as of opening the mouth, is to shut it again on something solid.” That gets us closer. Open the mind, just not endlessly, to no purpose: open it up to close it again. The risk of being open-minded is that you may sometimes look foolish or naïve. But there is risk too in being so determined never to be gulled, or seemingly unscientific, that you refuse in advance the richness that comes with leading a spiritual life. Ghost stories challenge us to believe that there’s more to the world than what we can understand in purely physical terms. Christianity goes further still, teaching that we ourselves are more than merely physical beings. If a haunted house in your street can be called fantastic, then why shouldn’t a church be called the same – in both meanings of the word? Fantastic in the modern sense of being great, but also in the older sense of being extra-ordinary. A place for open minds to shut down on something solid.

Good morning. As the sun finally begins to coax flowers into bloom, the Chelsea Flower Show will open its gates today. The Royal Horticultural Society’s annual event sees organisations create beautiful planted spaces, which inspire and educate visitors. With our news headlines full of unremitting contempt and calamity, millions of us will tune into coverage of Chelsea this week for relief. I’d like to think this is more than just a comforting distraction.Christian writer CS Lewis wrote about his vision of hell in the novella ‘the great divorce’. Hell was a place of continual twilight where people moved further and further apart into infinite space, driven by mutual suspicion and a sense of time ticking down. Paradise, by contrast was a place of colour, fruitfulness, and sunshine – open to anyone bold enough to stay. In paradise, people were unafraid of each other or the future. They sought out newcomers, working to convince them to remain.The show gardens at Chelsea may be sanctuaries of beauty, but they are also about shared spaces and living well together. Many, like the Trussell ‘together’ garden, are inspired specifically by the way communities deal with hardship – the Trussel Trust’s foodbanks tackle food poverty. Like Lewis’ paradise, communal gardens like this one combat the notion that safety and solace can only be had by building walls and retreating from the world.John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, wrote a collection of health remedies based on what people could grow or source themselves. Titled ‘Primitive Physick’ and published in 1747 it would run to 23 editions during his life. Although his remedies were of their day, his commitment to people’s access to healthcare and use of what was readily available still bears weight. Today, the rooftop garden of the national Methodist offices in London is planted with herbs and flowers used in Primitive Physick, recognising the importance of gardens to our collective mental and physical well-being.A reality of life in Britain today is that access to outdoor space is not equal: many do not have gardens. A Christian vision for good community still resists the notion that beautiful outdoor spaces are only the preserve of private wealth. After the show, all of the Chelsea gardens will find their way out into communities around the country – plants will go to balconies, windowsills and neglected urban spaces, gardens to hospices, schools, and the verges of motorways. They will join many other community gardens schemes, allowing even those of us who live surrounded by pavement, to put our hands in soil and see something grow. These gardens are places of retreat, yes: but also places of truth telling about the quiet work of living peacefully together.