The Sirens' Song

I didn't like school. Most lessons held little interest for me. My attitude was: why should I waste time tuning in to double maths when I could be daydreaming?

Suffice to say, school didn't much like me either, and I left with a string of low-grade qualifications. My only decentish result was a grade 'C' O-Level in Classical Studies.

That was my favourite subject. The teacher, Mr Hamlet, was brilliant. He made the tales of ancient Greece and Rome seem vibrantly alive. I found Homer's Iliad and Odyssey so captivating that I may actually have done some revision for the Classical Studies exam. CSE Physics, not so much.

With all that in mind, I eagerly booked tickets for Christopher Nolan's film version of The Odyssey, in all its stunning IMAX glory.

One episode in Odysseus's epic journey home especially struck me. The sirens bit. You know, those beautiful creatures who sang a song so alluring that passing sailors were drawn to shore, where their ships were promptly dashed on the rocks.

Odysseus desperately wanted to hear the sirens' song, but he didn't especially want to be shipwrecked. The solution? He had his crew stop their ears with wax and had himself lashed to the ship's mast. That way, he could hear the song but wasn't able to grab the tiller and send his ship careering towards the rocks. Clever, eh?

It worked. When they were safely out of earshot, Odysseus was set free, and the crew removed the wax from their lugholes. In the film version, our hero explains to his curious shipmates what the Sirens' song was all about:

"It was all the things you wanted it to be… then, all the things you wished you'd never wished for.... It told you what you most want is what you most can't have. And what you most can't have is what you already had and lost. It was the song of all the promises I failed to keep. And it told me I don't really want to go home."

You won't find a song like that on Spotify. It speaks of the restless longing of the human heart.

In the end, the pull of home won out for Odysseus. He risked all to get to his island kingdom of Ithaca and his beloved Penelope, who awaited him there.

On the Sunday after watching The Odyssey, we sang a song in church that was, to my mind, more wonderful than that of Homer's sirens:

There is a hope that lifts my weary head,

A consolation strong against despair,

That when the world has plunged me in its deepest pit,

I find the Saviour there!

Through present sufferings, future’s fear,

He whispers ‘courage’ in my ear.

For I am safe in everlasting arms,

And they will lead me home.

— Stuart Townend

*For various local parish magazines 

Andrew Davies, A Personal Tribute

Andrew Davies 

I was sad to hear of the recent death of Andrew Davies. I first encountered him when I was a student at the London Theological Seminary, where I trained for the ministry from 1988–90. Andrew was the church history lecturer during the first year of the course. The church history syllabus was spread over two years, and both year groups studied together. Which meant that for our intake, the first year of the church history course began in the seventeenth century and concluded in the twentieth. We covered the period from the Early Church until the Reformation in the second year.

Andrew Davies was a member of the original faculty when the seminary was founded in 1977. We got to hear him lecturing on the Puritan era and the early years of the eighteenth century. But Andrew stood down as church history lecturer during my first year and was soon replaced by Robert Oliver of Bradford on Avon.

The first time I heard Andrew speak was when he preached to the student body. I had never experienced anything like it in my life. He had an incredible speaking voice, so rich and deep. But beyond that, Andrew was given to speak with great passion and heaven-sent authority. His text on this occasion was 2 Peter 1:13, on how preachers were to stir up their hearers by reminding them of essential gospel truths. He related the words of a medical doctor he knew: “The trouble with you Christians is that you don’t believe what you believe.” In other words, we are not gripped by the truths we profess.

Andrew’s church history lectures would sometimes morph into preaching, especially one on “Word and Spirit in Puritanism”. He concluded the talk by echoing the words of Thomas Goodwin, urging us to “sue the Lord” for the witness of the Spirit in full assurance of salvation. His lecture on the Moravian Revival was deeply moving, as Andrew told of how Moravian believers sold themselves into slavery in order to evangelise enslaved people.

Although a powerful preacher and lecturer, Andrew was a gracious and humble brother in his personal dealings with people. But he didn’t suffer fools gladly. In one lecture, some students were messing around rather than paying attention. He soundly rebuked them, saying that preachers of the gospel “are not funny men trying to be serious, but serious men who know when to laugh.”

Andrew preached at my Induction Service at Providence Baptist Church in November 2003. His text was Colossians 1:28, “Him [Christ] we preach”. I will never forget the emphasis he put on Him with his deep and powerful voice reverberating around the Chapel. I have certainly endeavoured to do as I was bidden.

Our paths crossed at various conferences where Andrew was among the speakers, and also when he became pastor of Kensit Evangelical Church, where my wife’s family were in membership. He  presided at the funeral of my father-in-law, Peter Hughes.

Whenever we chatted, Andrew was always warm and friendly, never failing to ask after my family and the church I pastor. He was a man of God, a true pastor and teacher who modelled Spirit-empowered, Christ-centred preaching. 

I think the last time I heard him speak was during the Covid-19 pandemic. We kept our local Ministers’ Fraternal going by meeting online. In 2020, Andrew gave a talk on Zoom to commemorate the voyage of the Pilgrim Fathers to the New World aboard the Mayflower in 1620. Very good it was, too.

My thoughts and prayers are with Andrew’s widow, Pam, and the family at this time.

Grace and peace.

Hebrews 13:7–8