EXPENSIVE WINE, THE POPE AND ST MUNGO’S

 

I’ve often wondered exactly what the great apostle Paul meant when he advised Timothy, his ‘son in the faith’ to drink a little wine for his stomach’s sake. Unsurprisingly, some have interpreted Paul’s injunction to mean that he wanted the younger man to drink some wine in the belief that, ‘A little wine is good for your digestive system.’

The alternative interpretation is that the boy was drinking too much and his mentor could foresee a dose of cirrhosis of Timothy’s liver in which case; ‘Go easy on the plonk son,’ is what he might have been saying.

 

On the subject of wine I have to admit that I never could understand why, while the Catholics pray over the communion wine and believe it becomes the blood of Christ, most Prods pray over the wine and it becomes Ribena.  And yet they love to tell the story of Jesus’ first miracle when he turned the water into wine. What they fail to notice, or keep quiet about is that he made almost a thousand bottles of the stuff. Now, wouldn’t it be hypocritical of him to create a thousand bottles of quality wine at a party if he didn’t approve of them drinking it?

I enjoy a glass or two of good wine. However, I was saddened as I listened to an article on radio the other day when someone was discussing buying wine as an investment. It works like this: a really good ‘first growth Bordeaux’ can take 15 to 20 years to mature. So you send your request to the wine broker, if he agrees to sell, you part with your money, maybe £15,000 for a case of 12 bottles, and you wait. Twenty years later your crate of wine arrives, and then you wait some more. And the chances are the value of your investment will continue to increase by an up to 30% a year. Terrific, except that the investor never gets to drink his wine. That’s what wine is for, but it’s not why they buy it.

 

I watched the pious pantomime on TV last week as Pope Benedict was honoured by a cathedral full of dignitaries with all the pageantry and grandeur, red carpets and golden chalices, fine speeches and high-sounding prayers. And I couldn’t help wondering how welcome Jesus would have been amid the pomp and splendour of it all. Less than half a mile away in London’s Drury Lane is St Mungo’s, a hostel for the homeless, and I can picture Jesus standing between the cathedral and the hostel; ‘Should I go this way? Or should I go...’ You know something? He wouldn’t have taken a second to decide. He’d have been in St Mungo’s, up to his elbows the hopelessness and the stench of stale urine and last night’s booze.

 

So what’s the link between an expensive bottle of wine, a pope and a refuge for the lost and lonely? Just this; a bottle of Chateau Latif represents the most exquisite tasting wine imaginable, but it remains locked away behind a label that promises much and delivers nothing, just like spectacularly irrelevant religion. There might be little to please the eye in St Mungo’s, but there is love, there is compassion and there is sacrifice.

 

The New Testament writer Jude wrote about loveless religion, he described it as ‘...clouds without rain, autumn trees, without fruit and uprooted – doubly dead.’ Give me St Mungo’s any time.