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Drew Baxter - Celebrant., Little Barn Lane, Mansfield (2025)

12/11/2025

Welcome to Wednesday

Thank you for your patience this morning. I’m minus an armful of blood but have enjoyed my restorative beans on toast.

Shall we begin?

I bumped into someone the other day who I recognised straightaway, but I could see they were quickly trying to work out why they recognised me. The double take gave it away.

I didn’t feel able to speak first because, when you meet via a funeral, well some folk don’t want to be reminded of that event. You just smile and nod and go about your business.

I didn’t think that of this person, a lady called Kath, but I was in my scruffs, and we hadn’t spoken in a while, so I just smiled.

When they genuinely seemed pleased to see me, and they initiated a conversation, I was quite relieved. What amazes me still, how do these names come into my head?

Kath was with her daughter, Tracey, and we had a lovely chat and then we parted company. She reminded me it was 10 years since first we met. It may well be we will cross paths in the future; who knows? But I’ll enjoy meeting them: such a lovely family.

Some people just stick to your soul don’t they?

That’s certainly what happened with a lady called Joyce, whose funeral service I lead yesterday.

It was 2016 when I first met Joyce and I recall going to her home in Selston to talk about the services for her husband, Denis.

What immediately struck me was how welcoming she was. There was a warmth to her and she was easy to talk to. I remember how she fetched a tea tray with her best china.

The house was immaculate and she was obviously a lady who cared about such things. She wore her grief lightly, privately, behind the veil of a prim and proper lady. But even so, there was a sort of twinkle in her eye. Part sadness, part charm.

I don’t know why it happens but we really seemed to hit it off.

From that day on, every time I drove past the end of her road in Selston, I thought of Joyce: what a lovely lady.

Sadly, I had to visit with Joyce’s family again, to assist with further services, and so I have crossed paths with Joyce maybe eight times in the last nine years.

I always got a hug and a smile. The twinkle was still there.

When I received the phone call saying that Joyce had died, at the age of 92, I was really sad.

I didn’t know her all that well, but she had made a little home for herself in my heart. She had stuck to my soul.

That she had wanted me to be there to lead her funeral service was just so touching.

I don’t take it for granted you know.

The trust placed in me by so many individuals and families, I still find it quite incredible. Why me?

I feel like one day I’ll be found out to be the charlatan that I am and that’ll be it.

Unlike some of my colleagues, I don’t think of what I do as a calling.

There is no great and higher purpose in what I do; no irresistible urge to proclaim my saintly progress. I don’t wander the aisles of supermarkets, imbued with heavenly powers, looking for chances to become an angel of mercy.

My ego isn't that big. Yet.

I come on here to have a laugh about how brilliant and perfect I am - but you do know I’m joking don’t you?

I never, not for one minute, think of myself as having a vocation.

If I ever thought that in the past, reality and experience have bashed that idiotic notion from my thick head.

I am a fallible, somewhat inadequate, but mostly polite, old fart.

I try not to turn into Uriah Heep every time the phone rings; grovelling with humility.

Of course, it’s a privilege to be called upon to serve. I do not take that for granted.

I tell myself that I have a job to do and I must try to do it as well as I can.

Do I worry about getting it wrong? Yes, of course, but hopefully not so much that it cripples my efforts to be of use.

Do I like praise? Who doesn’t?

There are times when, if you permitted it, your head could swell quite a lot.

Praise can do that. You must learn to accept the praise, but then to let it go.

It can cripple you just as much as anxiety.

Kipling was right about triumph and disaster.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how doing this work really makes me feel.

After 20 years, do I finally have a handle on the whole ball of wax?

Is it rewarding? Absolutely.

Is it always easy? Certainly not.

Is it the best job for me? Who knows?
I give it my best if that counts?

Do I sometimes feel a little humble?
I’m not sure.

I may on occasion use the word humble because I can’t think of a better one.

Whilst still contemplating the role of humility in my work, there is one thing I am sure about. As certain as I can be about anything.

A lack of arrogance in the face of loss and grief is not only healthy, but necessary.

And I am unanimous in that!
(Five brownie points if you recognise this quote).

What’s the best lesson I’ve leaned as a celebrant?
Never believe the hype. Especially your own!

Once you start to think you’re the bee’s knees, you’re doomed.

I spoke at length about this with a family just last week. They were having the most dreadful time, dealing with the loss of a much loved family member and I could see just how little impact I was going to make on their pain, even on my very best day.

I shared with them the little mantra I tell myself before every service:

‘You can’t make it better, just don’t make it worse’.

After the service the son spoke to me, and with tears in his eyes said ‘Thank you for not making it worse’.

Wasn’t that lovely?

In those moments I’m allowed a sigh of relief but never a self congratulatory pat on the back.

Is that why the phone keeps ringing?

Not because I’m bloody good at making things better, but because I’m amazing at not making things worse? (Hyperbole used for comic effect).

As I said before, in my eyes, being a celebrant is not a calling. It’s a profession.

One where you don't have to possess magical powers and have divine insight.

Being professional as a celebrant isn't about websites, and awards and a constant need for attention - it means being human not superhuman.

You don’t need to wallow in humility and you shouldn’t want to glory in your perceived successes either.

You don’t need gimmicks, you need empathy and be able to really listen to people.

The question I’m asking myself is this: whenever the phone rings and a funeral director says “the family have asked for you”, what is this feeling that comes to me?

I don’t think it’s humility and I don’t think it’s pride.

I don’t wonder if it isn’t just gratitude?

Gratitude that I might have stuck to a few souls in the same way that people like Kath and Joyce have stuck to mine.

Anyway, the old fat fella in the scruffy blue suit thanks you.

Hang on, I've just told people off for having a gimmick and I have one!

Well would you believe it - I'm not perfect.

Just a reminder now about the Christmas Memorial Service which I will be leading at Mansfield Crematorium on Saturday 13th December at 2pm.

We are putting together a photograph slide show of loved ones and even if you can’t attend, we can still include them in that tribute.

You need to send your photographs, via email, to CREMATORIUM@MANSFIELD.GOV.UK

You will need to send the photograph before 5pm on Tuesday 9th December.

I would very much love to know if you’re attending so please let me know in advance if you can.

That’s it for this week, I’m off to practice being perfect - it won’t take long.

11/11/2025

To avoid any abuse from certain quarters and unwarranted complaints about my tardiness in posting this week's Wednesday Wisdom, I would like to inform you in advance (Yvette Price-Mear Olm) that I have to go for a blood test at 8:30am tomorrow.

I will post when I get back and have recovered sufficiently from what will be, for me, a hugely traumatic event.

Missing breakfast!

I shall regain my full measure of wit by having a small sherry - to replace the bit they steal - and some hot buttery toast with a few baked beans.

So, dear ones, be patient - it'll be worth the wait.

I'm currently brimming with wisdom.

I look forward to spreading it about.

The wisdom and the Lurpak.

10/11/2025

🌟 Annual Christmas Memorial Service – 2025 🌟

Mansfield Crematorium warmly invites families to join us for our Annual Christmas Memorial Service on Saturday 13th December 2025 at 2:00pm in the Thoresby Chapel.

This special service of remembrance will be led by Celebrant Drew Baxter, with performances from the Mansfield and District Male Voice Choir and Blidworth Welfare Band. Together, we’ll take a moment to reflect, remember, and celebrate the lives of our loved ones at this meaningful time of year. 💛

📸 During the service, photos of loved ones will be shown as a tribute. If you would like a photo to be included, please send this to crematorium@mansfield.gov.uk before 5pm on Tuesday 9th December 2025.

Please note, images received after this date may not be shown.

For those who are unable to attend in person, the service will be live-streamed via the link below:

🔗 https://watch.obitus.com

Username: jozi4909

PIN: 836393

Light refreshments will be served after the service, offering an opportunity to gather and share memories together.

All donations received on the day will go towards the Mansfield Crematorium Joint Committee’s chosen charity of the year — Beaumond House Hospice Care, who provide dedicated palliative support to patients and their families across Newark and Sherwood. 💙

We hope you can join us in this time of remembrance and reflection.

05/11/2025

Welcome to Wednesday.

You might need your walking boots on for this one, we’re heading off on a ramble. A ramble back through time, to the dim distant days when…well why not tag along and find out.

Are you ready? Then let’s begin.

It’s Wednesday November 5th 2025.
It’s Bonfire Night.

I am old enough to recall when it was known as Guy Fawkes Night.

These were simpler, happier times; but of course the commercialisation of everything from my generation’s childhood put pay to that, and now it’s all about the bloody fireworks.

Never mind ‘Penny for the Guy’, now it’s 75 quid for a selection box of sparklers.

Yes, Guy Fawkes night has turned into Fireworks week!

Maybe I’m overdosed with nostalgia but I can still recite:

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

My guess is that the history that leads us to this obtrusive and ostentatious modern day extravaganza, has been long forgot. With its unrelenting, deafening, aerial bombardment, history has been blown away.

Forgotten, maybe: but written forever into the fabric of time.

History was one of the few subjects I enjoyed, and did well in, at school. I managed to get a good grade O Level.

I still love history but I’m very much aware that some of the history I was being taught 50+ years ago, has since been revised.

Modern research techniques and scientific advances bring us a clearer picture of what life was like in, for example, 1605; those times when seditious plots were afoot to kill the King.

420 years later it’s not the King who needs to worry, but maybe there’s a certain ex-prince who could do with some gunpowder under him.

I don’t mind that our perspective on history can change, I’m not scared about reviewing what we think we know. I recall that wonderful quote which says; ‘until lions learn how to write, the hunter will always get the glory’.

There are many versions of this type of quote but it basically reminds us that the history we read is usually written by those who have the power to tell the story.

There’s something very important to remember though and that is that history cannot be changed. What happened in the past, happened. It is a fixed point.

We cannot alter that in anyway, so beware of those false prophets who claim history is under attack.

You cannot attack time.

Let me repeat; our history happened, as it happened, and nothing can change what actually happened. It is immutable.

What can change is how we assess what we know about that history and then report on it.

Do we take the view of the lions or hunters?

The history I was taught was passed down almost as received wisdom, passed down through decades without much questioning.

For example, I was taught, and I believed, that Christopher Columbus discovered America. I remember being taught that little verse:

In fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

I’m doing well on the memory test today.

The thing is, he didn’t. Well he sailed the ocean blue but he didn’t discover America really.

He landed in what was for him, and for many, a new world, but he never stepped foot on the mainland of America. He thought he was in the East Indies - he was in The Bahamas.

Columbus was a terrible navigator. I suppose we should give him his due, he did discover somewhere.

This is why questioning what we think we know is OK. Changing our view is OK.

Maybe let the lions have a say as well as the hunters?

I grew up watching classic western films, you know the ones where the ‘Indians’ were always the bad guys.

Savages who murdered the heroes in this saga of brave exploration. The redoubtable settlers, trying to make a new life in a new land.

Their heroes, always riding to the rescue, were the 7th Cavalry. Brave men who fought the heathens and thereby helped create America.

That’s one view of history.

In recent times we have come to understand just how brutal some of those settlers and the military supporting them, could be. This colonisation of continental America, both north and south, came at a heavy price for the indigenous populations.

This episode in US history, specifically the reporting of it, is something that has reared its head in the US, as the Trump government tried to reimpose their personal and biased narrative on the plain historical facts.

I’m talking about the massacre at Wounded Knee.

Something I didn’t learn about in school but came to understand by reading Dee Brown’s excellent book, Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee.

American colonisation in the late 1800’s came at the expense of the native populations when they were not only displaced, hunted and killed but their culture and way of life was all but eradicated. No wonder they might have fought so hard to survive and no wonder their ancestors now speak so surely and proudly about their heritage.

On the 29th December 1890, the now infamous massacre took place at Wounded Knee in South Dakota. Hundreds of the Lakota tribe were killed by soldiers of the United States Army. In fact more than 250 and up to 300 Lakota were killed and wounded, this included men, women and children. Twenty-five U.S. soldiers were killed and 39 were wounded.

Nineteen soldiers were awarded the Medal of Honour specifically for their actions at Wounded Knee.

In 2001, with a new insight into American history, and with an acceptance of just how barbarous these events were, the US Congress officially expressed its deep regret at these events in 1890.

The Trump administration is now saying that it’s time for the hunters to reclaim their victory at this ‘battle’ that never was.

There should be no shame, they say, in the actions of brave white men.

They feel the same about slavery of course, they have no shame.

There’s another quote, often attributed, incorrectly, to Winston Churchill.

Those who refuse to learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them.

It’s likely Churchill was paraphrasing an earlier version of that quote but his instincts were right.

How dreadful it is to consider that the very things that Churchill rallied this nation to fight against, are not just part of our history, but part of our present. In this season of Remembrance, that should give us all pause for thought.

We have learned nothing it seems.

We’ve ranged a long way in this ramble, from 1492 and a lost Columbus, to plots to kill the King in 1605, to massacres in South Dakota in the 1890’s, Churchill in the 1940’s and here we are…Wednesday 5th November 2025.

And what’s this got to do with being a celebrant?

I guess I’ve taken a long and winding road to get to my point.

When I stand to tell those gathered at a service the story of a life, a person’s history, I have to take account that some listening will not agree with everything I say.

Why is that? Well, the history being passed down to me will be viewed through the prism of the person(s) sharing the information.

Most often what I learn and share is a balanced long view of a life lived. I am always aware though, that I have to be vigilant of the overt influences of hunters and lions.

Does that make sense?

Anyway…it will ever be so. A life lived doesn't always match the story we want to tell ourselves when a life ends.

Leaping forward to the year 2445, I wonder what history will say of us?

Did we save the planet or are we as lost as Columbus?

Will our history be the great sparkling fountain of brilliance or the damp squib of doom?

I’ll tell you on Wednesday the 8th of November 2445 - don’t expect too much, I will be 483 years old.

Preserved by Lurpak and sherry - just think how wise I will be by then.

I’ll try and be just a drop wiser by next Wednesday.

29/10/2025

Welcome to Wednesday

I do hope you’re all keeping well?

Thank you for joining me this morning as I tackle the subject of ‘respect’.

I have a cat and there are some pigeons that need bothering.

I wanted to add, I’m talking about respect, in respect of the conducting of funeral services. The Farage Respect - which some of you might also believe in - is not on my agenda.

I want to talk about how we might offer our respects in a decent, human and civil way, without disrespecting family members or the deceased.

I’m addressing my remarks to those who attend funerals as mourners and to those who lead them.

As always, this is just my opinion, and if you are thinking, ‘here he goes again, criticising other celebrants’, well that isn’t my intent, but it is a wonderful added bonus.

The first topic for discussion is how we seem to have lost the art of sitting still and shutting up!

If, as is often the case, we play a song during the service and refer to it as a ‘period of reflection’, don’t take this is an excuse to start chatting loudly about the price of Lurpak or how your dog needs its a**l glands draining.

Sit still, shut up, and stop trampling all over that precious time when a family are trying to recall and then reflect upon the life of someone they have loved and lost.

I had this happen this week, and you must remember that I’m sitting in a position where I can see on the faces of the family. I can see how distressed they are that people are laughing and chatting away, whilst they are trying to have that reflective moment.

Show some respect.

If you must leave the chapel during the service, please don’t do it in the manner of a blind rhinoceros.

Show some respect.

If the family ask that you all leave before them at the end of a service, so they can remain behind for some private time, please do so without tutting or delay.

When the celebrant politely asks you to leave the chapel without descending en masse upon said family - please do as you’re asked.

If the family are emotional and vulnerable and need time alone before the end of the service, you don’t help if you all come crowding around them. You are stealing that private and personal time from them. It’s not about you!

They will see you after the service, outside the chapel. Or at the wake.

Show some respect and just bu**er off!

Try not to attend a funeral when drunk.
It’s distracting and embarrassing and you’ll only ever be remembered as ‘that t**t that ruined Uncle Bill’s funeral’.

Show some respect.

Basically, if you’re attending a funeral, be on time, find a seat, sit quietly, listen, reflect, pay your respects in a polite and dignified manner, then toddle off and raid the buffet.

It’s not brain salad.

Now, to my fellow celebrants. (Throws cat into pigeons).
These are not instructions but merely observations.

In your efforts to respect the wishes of a family, and to provide the service they need, please try really hard not to replace their needs with your own.

I hear about this happening more and more. I will say no more on this matter today other than stop being self important asshats.

Also, in your efforts to respect the family in attendance - don’t forget to respect the whole family - including the deceased.

The person everyone has come to remember.

They are still a person.

I have, in the past, at the point when a celebrant thinks the service has ended, witnessed them do all sorts of disrespectful things.

Pratting about, laughing and joking with chapel staff or funeral directors, completely ignoring the casket after the mourners have gone.

I’m sure they thought no one could see them…well you never know who’s watching.

And before you start rattling on about how I talk to FD’s and chapel staff after the mourners have gone - well yes I do. What I don’t do is prance around the place like a loon, as I saw one celebrant do. I might exchange pleasantries but my focus remains on the job at hand. My job is not done if that curtain is still open.

In my head, a service might begin as the casket arrives but it ONLY ends after the casket, and the deceased, have been waved off on their final journey.

The family might not want a final curtain, but there should be one; or at least a gesture where the end of life is acknowledged with quiet dignity and respect.

It’s why I get shirty when people walk into a chapel whilst the casket is still visible on the catafalque. The funeral is not over…get out!

Show some respect.

I witnessed an episode of what I consider to be disrespectful behaviour this very week. I won’t expand on all that happened but I do have a few observations.

Why would a celebrant who, upon ending the spoken part of the service, rush to the door keen to shake everyone’s hand?

The family were waiting for their private moment, this time was now delayed by a celebrant who felt the need to glad hand every attendee. Just say ‘thanks for coming’ during the service and save yourself a sore hand and a million germs.

The room is now empty. Maybe just you and the casket on the catafalque. How can a celebrant not offer a gesture of some sort? A final bow and closing the curtains perhaps.

The person in that casket had, has, a name and lived a life.
They should not be thought of in any less of a way because they are now dead.

I am disappointed to see some of my colleagues forget this point.

In our services we often refer to people who have lived and acknowledge that their life has now ended; but even though they are dead, they are still loved and their earthy remains need to be respected.

Again, let me add, this is my personal view.

That wherever possible, the last thing I do before leaving that chapel is to either close the curtains and/or make my final gestures of respect.

To send that person on their final journey with dignity and respect.

Oh listen at Drew, the sanctimonious lump; isn’t he so bloody perfect and self important?

You can read this and think that if you want.

If you feel I post things like this to make me feel better - you’re wrong.

My way is my way, and your way might be different - but once the mourners have all left the chapel and it’s just you and the casket, the deceased, do you always offer them the respect they deserve? Do you?

For goodness sake just do something that costs you nothing. Offer a few seconds of your time for the deceased.
No witnesses. It’s not for show. Don’t do it for praise or even payment.

Do it because each and every human life is precious and every death diminishes the world in some way.

Show some respect even when, especially when, you’re one of the last people to interact with them on this earth.

Have some respect. Show some respect.

22/10/2025

Welcome To Wednesday

It must be conker season because a hoary old chestnut has recently been resurrected…better smash its head in.

In my 20th year as a celebrant I am yet to win any awards for my work.

God knows how I’ve managed to survive.

I’m not, by the way, having a dig at anyone who has won awards or been nominated for them. Well done you for providing a top level service to bereaved families. That’s what the best celebrants are all about.

I may not have won awards but I have been gifted bottles of wine and sherry, boxes of chocolates, and received many beautiful cards and loads of hugs.

I’m still waiting for someone to bring me Lurpak.

Despite the distinct lack of premium dairy items, I’ve been richly rewarded.

And you lot, out there, turning up each week to read this drivel. You’re better than an MBE.

In a world of filtered images and AI videos, in a time where ‘celebrity status’ and ‘influence’ count for so much, old farts like me don’t make much noise. Other than the odd fart…it’s my age.

My guess is that even if there were an award for ‘longest serving celebrant in a scruffy blue suit’ I’d not make the shortlist.

That’s fine.

I long ago learned that I don’t always fit in and I’m not everyone’s ideal image of a celebrant.

I also know that I don’t always play well with others. I’m too opinionated.

My opinions, when it comes to delivering services, are pretty well defined.

Serve only the interests of the family you are working with.

My only caveat being, don’t let your focus for your family blind you to the needs of the family waiting to walk through the door of the Crem when you finish…hopefully on time!

I’m not swayed by the apparent prestige of the funeral director or the awards you might have won.

Are you putting the interests of the bereaved before everything else?

Are you doing your best for them and not to gain kudos or burnish your reputation?

I mean it is possible to do both, but you have to balance those demands very carefully.

Now, you might wonder why I am writing about this today. What has rattled my cage?

I’m not telling you.

Has something happened?

Has something been said?

What’s all this conker nonsense?

It really doesn’t matter what prompted this little voyage into self aggrandisement.

What I have written, I believe to be true no matter what prompted me.

It’s not the first time and it’s not the last time I will offer this pearl of wisdom.

To be a good celebrant you need to keep out of your own way.

Put your ego in a sack and drown it like unwanted kittens. (They used to do that you know, in the good old days).

Have a purpose by all means, but have the right purpose.

You cannot cure grief.

You can’t make it better - so try not to make it worse.

As I continue to deplete my stash of business cards, claiming that when they are gone, I will retire, I still feel that powerlessness.

Even knowing that, you won’t win any prizes for guessing I’m probably sticking around just a little while longer.

Sorry to disappoint certain people.

I’m still here…waiting for the time they start bringing me Lurpak.

I will carry on trying to be of some small service.

Have a good day.

15/10/2025

Welcome to Wednesday

What the hell shall I bother you with this week?

Well prepare yourself for something heartfelt and serious.

I will warn you, if you read on you may feel that I’m trying to knock any joy out of life, but sometimes the harsh reality of life needs to be looked squarely in the face.

I want to start with this sentiment.

If only the world were run by nice people. Why can’t we put kind people, decent people, in charge?

When did we decide to let people who are just interested in burnishing their ego and filling their bank accounts, to run everything?

This makes me sad, of course, but it also makes me less than optimistic about the state of things.

Take events in the Middle East.

I, like so many, have been watching as events unfold.

All the applause and backslapping and praise for Trump about ending a brutal conflict. I’m not sure whether I’m the only one who thinks Trump’s optimism for a lasting peace is a pipe dream.

I often wonder if the everyday ordinary folk of Israel and Palestine, the nice ones, wouldn’t be much better off without political interference from anyone, outside or home grown, and in all of its forms.

But I don’t have a big enough brain to solve such enormous issues.

I hear so many nice, optimistic people saying, let’s just hope we live long enough to see that ‘peace’ that Trump and others crowed about, become a reality.

I’m not holding my breath.

I don’t often talk about politics on here as I know my politics are probably a long way from the views of some of my readers. Too many of my views would probably put me into the ‘woke lefty liberal’ camp.
I just try to be nice to folk. I fail an awful lot, but I try.

I think it is our common decency and humanity that are the best and most valuable political tools. We need to keep them well sharpened. They should inform all we do in our dealings with others.
Maybe that’s a pipe dream too?

That people could learn to get along. Accepting that in all of our differences there is a kind of majestic beauty. Infinite diversity in infinite combination.

Consider this: it is man made lines on a map that create nation states, and by default, division.

Someone once told me that a child is born every second; in fact 4.3 children are born every second. In every corner of the globe, new arrivals refresh the tree of life.

Those 4.3 children (I’m sure the missing .7 of a child will eventually arrive) those children will eventually come to see themselves as children of a nation, they will be taught to rally to its flag. To become a citizen.

Yet, at birth, are we not pure and innocent and unknowing of such things?

For a brief shining moment, we are children of the world.
That shining moment is eclipsed then stolen, murdered and buried and all too quickly. And we are all, in a way, complicit in that crime.

The planet would spin on quite happily without any border other than those where the land meets the sea.

The planet would go on spinning if every last one of us disappeared over night.

The planet might offer a huge sigh of relief!

But we are here. We live on this planet as human beings, as equals, and so surely we have to find a way to get on with those who stand the other side of every man made line we create? Lines on a map and lines in our head.

Lines drawn to create a world full of ‘us’ and ‘them’.
And the biggest issue I see is that so many people prefer to be seen as ‘us’ and not ‘them’.

I’m drawn to a lyric written by Oscar Hammerstein for the musical South Pacific. A lyric that was very controversial for 1949 and for some it might still seem so today.

A song about racism and how it is a totally learned concept, not something born within us.

I think Hammerstein was right.

Here are his words:

You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear, You’ve got to be taught from year to year, It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear— You’ve got to be carefully taught!

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid Of people whose eyes are oddly made, And people whose skin is a different shade— You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late, Before you are six or seven or eight, To hate all the people your relatives hate—

I hope this gives you pause for thought.

Let me add to this by sharing how, this week, I was reminded of a poem which also resonates deeply for me. A poem by Walt Whitman called, There Was A Child Went Forth Every Day.

Here is the opening passage:

There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

For Whitman, his hope was that the glory of nature would become part of every child. Children would be inspired and encouraged by the certainty and splendour of the seasons, and the beauty and diversity within the plants and creatures that exist together on this great blue ball hanging in space.

I have read how Whitman expressed his preference to live with animals, not people, because “They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.”

I love Walt Whitman.

But we, the cleverest animal of all, (ha!), we walk into all of the traps that Whitman describes. We stride purposely and with a degree of dumb determination.

Why?

Because we have been taught…dreadfully and carefully and fatally taught.

Taught to see difference and mistrust it. To even hate it.

If I were to pray, which I do not, it would not be to any god, but to that great hope that Whitman speaks about so eloquently in his poetry and philosophy.

I would pray for a world where all of humanity stands shoulder to shoulder, to face the sun and let the shadows fall behind us.

That we would come to know the truth in his words, that “peace is always beautiful”.

If only…

The pessimism that haunts my thoughts is occasionally pushed aside by hope.

Hope must remain; and although it is one of those human traits which I cling to, I do not fully trust its power.

Yet there is this 'hope' that we may live to see the day when there is peace in the Middle East, peace across the entirety of our planet.

But in a universe of balance, where there is hope, there is also fear.

My fear is that there are too many lines already drawn.

Dark, indelible lines that will not fade.

Lines that are deeply revered, worshipped and fiercely guarded by those who profit from their existence.

Lines and divisions which seem impassable.

Perhaps if we want to attempt to overcome these boundaries, then the first thing we might consider is this…maybe we need to start teaching our children a very different lesson to the one we are teaching them today?

Ah look, another of those pipe dreams….

I close with another lyric written by Oscar Hammerstein for the 1955 musical Pipe Dream ( I don’t just throw this together you know).

A song called All Kinds Of People.

It takes all kinds of people to make up a world,All kinds of people and things. They crawl on the earth,They swim in the sea, And they fly through the sky on wings.

All kinds of people and things,
And brother, I’ll tell you my hunch:Whether you like them Or whether you don’t, You’re stuck with the whole damn bunch!

Maybe if the wrong people stopped drawing lines the world would be a much better place?

Maybe if we taught our children not to hate but to accept and love?

Maybe if we didn't rob them of that shining truth handed to them at birth?

But that’s just me; silly old fool.

Drew and his pipe dreams…

And so this is why I am not at all optimistic about peace in the Middle East or anywhere else.

We keep drumming hate into innocent ears.

We keep reinforcing the lines.

Why?

Because some powerful people need them to exist.

Powerful people need a line, they need a ‘them’.

I’d like to think that nice people don’t need lines.

Well that was depressing wasn’t it?
Sorry.

Tune in next week and I’ll try and be a bit jollier.

Drew Baxter - Celebrant.

12/11/2025

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