The church would be dogged for centuries – and perhaps still is – with the relationship between theology and philosophy. Jerusalem and Athens are geographically far apart, but overlap in the world of metaphysics. Theology and philosophy are not, in the highest sense, at variance, of course; but if philosophy takes as its starting-point a naturalistic, rationalistic world view, it will clash mightily with theology.

Anyway – all of that for another day. A recent remark in our house made me pose the question a different way. What has Jerusalem to do with Ibrox? Some of the members of our family are football mad, and Ibrox is a major centre of influence. The conversation that made me reflect on all of this was simply reflecting on the religious nature of modern footballing life.

Of course, each to his own: you can substitute Old Trafford, or Parkhead, or Wembley in the question, and it is still a valid question to ask. You can change the sport, too, and it doesn't take away from the premise behind the question: what has Jerusalem to do with Ibrox?

Just to be clear – this is not a study in the traditional religious conflicts that dogged Old Firm matches in the past. I am not sure whether these are a thing of the past or not; I sincerely hope they are. Both the Protestantism of Rangers and the Catholicism of Celtic were men of straw – poor excuses for religion, but real excuses for bigotry. Let's hope the world has moved on.

The burden of my argument is actually more basic than that: it is that for many people, football is not simply a sporting interest, but a religious one. It meets religious impulses deep in the human psyche. It is one way of filling the God-shaped void in the human heart.

So what does Jerusalem have to do with Ibrox? Much every way, it seems. The parallels between the modern sporting world and the church are uncanny. Both of them command the attention of hundreds of followers (though I grant that Ibrox can command the interest of thousands on any given day when the church finds it difficult to attract hundreds).

The religious loyalty and devotion of fans to their football heroes is quite something: they will spend hundreds of pounds to gain entry to the grounds, and, indeed, to travel to watch the match. They will globe-trot to earth's remotest bounds simply to spectate, so sit and watch as their heroes chase a leather ball around the field and try to kick it into a net. Money is no object: the freewill offerings of the football fans are in staggering proportion.

Most, too, will dress for the occasion, unashamed to identify themselves with their particular squad, and to identify themselves with each other.

It's not quite the communion of saints, but it reflects the religious impulse that recognizes that it is not good to be alone, and that solidarity in the religious quest is something valuable and to be pursued.

So they gather to their sacred temple, sing their songs, chant their incantations, and call on the name of their gods. They freely confess their allegiance to their team, and show unbridled passion for the permutations of team players, and the cross-transference of managers.

The only parallel I can find in my ecclesiastical world is the way in which people speculate endlessly about vacant pulpits, and the distribution of personnel within different responsibilities in the church.

If all of this sounds facetious, let's remind ourselves that Paul himself admitted the value of physical exercise. Many of us have been too slow to learn that; but there is, I think, biblical warrant to argue that there is nothing inherently wrong with sport or with competitive engagement.

But when it takes on religious proportions, as it does in the case of thousands of people, for whom dedication to their particular club takes on evangelistic dimensions, it becomes a dangerous thing. It becomes to modern man what the golden calf became to ancient Israel: a man-made deity, holding out the promise of fulfillment and of happiness. At that level, it becomes more of an addiction than a religion.

And, like any addiction, the promise is short-lived, depends on a succession of highs, and gives no guarantee of ultimate pleasure. 'Do you ever suffer from depression?' the doctor asked a late lamented member of our community. 'Yes,' he said, much to the surprise of the family member who had accompanied him to the surgery. 'I get depressed every time Rangers loses'.

I think the good man spoke more than he realised. The religious hold of the megabuck sporting world of modern times has the power to depress as well as to elate.

The impulses that draw us back to these modern idols are God-given, though often misdirected. The biblical doctrine of creation is the explanation why the human heart needs to be filled with an object of worship.

The biblical doctrine of sin, on the other hand, is the explanation why we try to fill that heart with the world, only to find that the world is not big enough to fill it. Jerusalem or Ibrox? Give me God's dwelling-place with man on the earth any day.


iaind@backfreechurch.co.uk