You Don't Know What You've Got...

I wonder if they stopped to think of the consequences before they set about trying to depose God. Come to think of it, I wonder if it really was as calculated as that makes it sound. More likely, it was just a matter of one small step logically following on from the last. The move from urging respect and tolerance for other beliefs to endorsing all beliefs (including no belief) as equally valid was so subtle that hardly anyone noticed. Carrying on to insist on prosecution for anyone who taught that their own belief was somehow objectively true seemed a reasonable and responsible step. From that point, discussing religion at all seemed dangerous, and anyone guilty of doing so had to be imprisoned, simply in the interests of tolerance and civil liberties. And then came the final, inevitable step: the 2027 Abolition Act, outlawing religion altogether. It was greeted as a great day for humanity; a triumph for tolerance, reason and enlightenment; the end of centuries of bigotry and oppression.

A world without God. A brave, new world, indeed. After all, what purpose did God serve? We didn’t need a divine provider any more, since the endlessly benevolent Internet gave us everything we needed. We certainly didn’t need any kind of cosmic judge. The justice we meted out to each other was more immediate, more proportional and somehow fairer than anything we could expect from him. We had no need of miracles, either, now that science could solve practically any problem we could imagine – even creating life. All that was left of God was an archaic, superstitious concept.

But the fundamental error that the atheists made was in not realising that trying to eliminate something is certain to make people realise they miss it. The increasingly shrill anti-God polemic only succeeded in reminding people that God was, actually, good. The championing of the human spirit as the pinnacle of existence merely made people reflect on how flat life seems without someone or something, greater, better, other than oneself. The draconian fines and prison sentences might have driven religion underground, but they also drove people through the doors of clandestine places of worship in unprecedented numbers, dwarfing any previous religious revival Britain had ever seen. It would appear that God has a great deal to thank atheists for.

Change of Plan!

So I got a little bit stuck on the 'Love' piece, and at the same time got inspired to write something on 'Faith'. So I'll post the 'Faith' piece in a second, and I'm afraid you'll have to wait a day or two for 'Love'.

This next piece is different - kind of a mixture of fantasy, satire, dystopia and optimism! Hope you like it!

Competition Results

I entered 'In Loving Memory' in the September flash fiction competition at cazart.com. I just found out I was one of the runners up. That's great, but my first reaction was to be annoyed that I didn't win. (Much to Jo's despair.) I just think the results were a bit odd. I didn't think the winning piece was much good at all, although that might just be me being a bad loser. At least one of the other runners up seemed stronger. Hmmm. See what you think.

Anyway, I'm writing another piece now. If 'What If I Just Kept On Driving?' was about hope, this one's about love. And yes, there is a 'faith' piece in the pipeline too.

What If I Just Kept On Driving?

I can’t do this anymore. Not at my age. Speeding around the country to endless meetings, trying to charm people whose names I can only just remember, so that I’ll meet my sales targets. And motorway service stations. I’m so unutterably sick of motorway service stations; of the crap, overpriced food and the staff who look as bored and apathetic as I feel. I’ve had enough of it. Leave this nonsense to the young turks who still think they can achieve something and be someone by flogging tat to strangers.

I woke up this morning with the prospect of a drive to Gillingham ahead of me. I mean, Gillingham. If ever a town was guaranteed to instil existential ennui in a man, Gillingham is it. And as I curse my way out of bed, I’m struck by a vague sense of low-grade pointlessness. I look around me. I survey my one-bedroom kingdom. Simple, functional, devoid of all the feminine trinkets that made the old place feel like home. I’m about to leave this expensive but soulless apartment to drive a featureless road to a depressing town, to do a job I no longer have any passion for. I’ll earn my money and give half of it away to a woman who treats me with cool, morally-superior politeness, so that a teenage girl who despises me can continue to feed her £200 a month retail habit. Is this what it’s all come to?

My mind begins to drift. I picture the journey to Gillingham in my mind, and I start to wonder, what if I just kept on driving? What if I carried on past Gillingham to Dover and got on a ferry? How difficult would it be to find a quiet little town somewhere in Brittany and start again? How long would it take before anyone noticed I was missing?

I’m still daydreaming when I slump into the driver’s seat and start the engine. Thin, wintry sunshine starts to struggle through the clouds, so I pull down the sun visor. As I do that, something drops onto the floor at my feet. I fumble around and find a folded piece of paper. When I open it up, I’m greeted by Camilla’s florid but precise handwriting:

Dear Dad,

Whatever Mum says, I still think you’re alright. Have a nice day.

Love

Camilla

She signed off with one of those colon-and-bracket things that’s supposed to look like a smiley face. And actually, I am smiling now. God knows why. It’s an off-hand one-line note, written on the back of an envelope. Hardly a warm and effusive hymn of praise from an adoring daughter. But for some reason, I find myself smiling. Even with Gillingham, motorway service stations and meaningless clients to contend with, for some reason that note makes it worth my trouble not to disappear.

In Loving Memory

There’s not much there to look at now. Just a small pile of rocks on a windswept cliff top. Josie and I put the rocks there to mark the spot – to do something to commemorate what happened – because it seemed clear that no-one else was going to. After all, who commemorates a suicide? We felt like we had to do something. Josie said it felt as though if we didn’t do something to remind us of Gareth, that there’d be nothing to anchor him to us, that our memory of him would just float away on the breeze. Hence the rocks. It had the sensation of weighing him down, stopping him from flying away and leaving us. Leaving us for a second time.

Standing there now, nearly eight months later, neither of us really know what to do or say. We’re left just kind of standing there, looking at the rocks, looking past the rocks, out over the edge of the cliff into the air beyond. I glance across at Josie, with the wind playing a wisp of her dark brown hair across her cheek. She brushes it away impatiently. I always thought she could do better than Gareth. That's a hard thing to say about my brother, particularly now he’s gone, but it’s true. When I used to see the two of them together, something used to jar inside me. It just wasn’t right. I tried persuading Gareth that she wasn’t for him, but he wouldn’t listen. He said I was jealous. He had a point.

The one good thing that’s come out of Gareth’s death is that it brought me and Josie together. You know how it works – two people leaning on each other, talking things over, grieving – I suppose it was bound to happen.

‘Let’s go,’ Josie says. She smiles bravely, turns to head back to the car, and takes my hand. In a funny way, this has all turned out for the best. Far better than I expected when I did what I did. I was right. Josie could do better than Gareth. That’s why I pushed him.

[Inspired by the image 'Memorial' at www.elephantwords.co.uk.]

Ed

Ed couldn’t sleep. Hadn’t slept properly for weeks now. It began with one or two nights of tossing and turning for an hour or so, until his mind eventually stopped whirring and let him drift off. But soon, alarmingly soon, it developed into a persistent, nagging insomnia which drained him of all energy and enthusiasm, leaving him vacant, listless and dispassionate. An awkward position for a vicar to be in. He knew everyone expected him to be patient, caring, wise and simultaneously bold, visionary and indefatigable. But he felt none of these things. Could his parishioners see through the thin veneer of patience and vibrancy which he put on for their benefit? Surely they could tell by now that their vicar just wasn’t up to the job.

The irony was that the job had reduced him to this state in the first place. The ever-lengthening list of sick and elderly to visit, the exhausting counselling of young men in the throes of the Dark Night of the Soul, the endless, cripplingly mundane meetings, populated by people who seemed psychotically driven to make sure the church lounge was painted exactly the shade of beige they wanted. It all combined to leave Ed’s head spinning, even late into the night.

An unfortunate side-effect of the insomnia was that it left Ed more disposed than usual towards navel-gazing. A better man, a wiser, more godly man would surely be able to handle these pressures, he thought. Did it reflect on his own spirituality that stress drove him to insomnia, not prayer? If he was plagued by this inconsequential yet strangely debilitating affliction, how could he still tell his flock he believed in a God who healed? Wasn’t he living a lie, just pretending that he was OK? And the more Ed drifted towards self-recrimination, the more time his insomnia granted him to think it all over. More and more time, confronted with his own darker side; the vices and character flaws he couldn’t seem to shake off, his fondness for cigarettes, alcohol and internet pornography. More and more time, lying in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, quietly hating himself. Which of course took him deeper and deeper into the grip of self-recrimination. It was all so neatly self-perpetuating.

Ed couldn’t see the situation improving any time soon. He decided this was just a cross he’d have to bear. Particularly since his sexuality was so glaringly at odds with everything everyone believed about him and expected of him. Material for months of lying awake, in that one fact alone. No doubt about it, a vicar’s lot is not a happy one. Especially when the vicar is gay.

We're back...

And... you're back in the room. It's been a while, but here we are again. I've been inspired to resurrect this blog by my desire to get some of my fiction out there. By 'out there', I'm not sure exactly where I mean, but just knowing it's online and people can read it if they're really determined to find it makes me feel I've accomplished something. Anyhew... my first piece of flash fiction will follow in a few minutes.

By the way, if you like this next piece (or even if you find it mildly disappointing but still enjoy really short pieces of well-written fiction), check out elephantwords.co.uk. I aspire to write for this site one day, but in the meantime, check out what's there already. Some of it is very good indeed.

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! I can't believe they ended the series like that! The 12th season of ER finished last night, with half the main cast either dead, dying, or being held hostage! And then they glibly announced that the new series will begin sometime at the beginning of next year. NEXT YEAR?! What are they trying to do to us?! I'll be in need of psychotherapy by the end of October. I NEED CLOSURE!!!!! AAARRRGGGGHHHHH!!!! Even the 'official' ER website seems to be two entire series behind, and offers no insights into future plot developments at all. What am I supposed to do with myself?

Still, at least the World Cup starts on Friday. That'll do nicely as a distraction. At least, until England get knocked out by Germany in the second round, rendering me even more hysterical than I was to start with. In the meantime, the BBC Sport website is running a highly diverting little competition called Goalfinger. It's a quiz, structured like the World Cup itself, and offers the prospect of tickets to every round of the FA cup next season for the lucky winner. I'm feeling quite smug, having just played the quiz and won the World Cup with Saudi Arabia. Check it out...

I woke up this morning with a distinctly sort throat. The thing is, I seemed to spend most of the weekend shouting. I was part of the team running Fort Rocky, YFC's weekend residential for 11-14 year olds. It was a whole load of fun, not just for the kids but for the team too. Who cares if it rained non-stop for the whole weekend? There was climbing, a zip wire, loads of food and random games involving mexican secret agents, jam donuts and an inflatable fish. Where else could I get to dress up as a sumo wrestler and get 200 kids to execute a karate chop, while screaming 'ATTAAAAAA!!!!' (Possibly the most politically incorrect thing I've ever done, and almost certainly the reason for me feeling a little hoarse today.) We also saw a bunch of kids become Christians. Blinding weekend.

I'm actually beginning to enjoy food shopping. I never thought I'd hear myself say that, but it's true. You see, a couple of months ago, Jo and I joined a 'food cooperative' with some of our neighbours. We order a lot of staple foods from an organic supplier, buy in bulk, and get the stuff for wholesale prices. And the beauty of it is, shopping basically consists of sitting in our neighbour's kitchen for 2 hours on a Monday evening, guzzling wine, and picking what we want from a catalogue. Now tell me that doesn't sound better than trudging round Tesco's. You can even get a case of Samuel Smith's Best Organic Ale for less than £20. And very tasty it is, too.

The downside is the buying-in-bulk bit. Usually, it's possible to split an order of, for example, a 20kg bag of chick peas, with another member of the cooperative, but that doesn't always work. Last night, Jo and I ended up ordering 12 tins of chopped tomatoes. Hmmm. Firstly, what are we going to do with them all? (Can I look forward to chopped tomatoes on my organic muesli?) Secondly, where are we going to store the bloody things? For anyone who's read Catch 22, I'm beginning to feel like Milo Minderbinder with his warehouse full of Egyptian cotton.

You also find some slightly off-the-wall items in the catalogue. Tom last night ordered in a job lot of 'Sea Vegetable Rice Cakes'. What on earth is a sea vegetable? Seaweed? Or the salad from an ill-advised late-night kebab, which was chucked into the sea off Brighton pier? And what on earth does one do with a sea vegetable rice cake? 'Do you just eat them on their own?' Helen asked. 'I've got no idea!' Tom replied. An adventurous man. I hope he's got an understanding wife.

The conversation turned to jam. Gina mentioned a friend who makes 'Hedgerow Jam'. Apparently this means scouring the hedges of SE26, making jam from what she finds, and selling it on. But the range of items on display in the hedges of SE26 is quite mind-boggling. Plastic bags, empty Special Brew cans... They'd give the jam an interesting texture. On any given Friday night, it's highly probable to find a courting couple if you look in enough hedges. Not sure I'd want them pureed and spread on my toast. Does seem a harsh punishment even for pre-marital sex.

Really though, I love all this. It's adventurous. It's flicking a big, fat V-sign at evil, nasty multinationals. And it's gloriously English. Where else on earth could you possibly find an arrangement like this?

Christians are great. Fantastic people. Really. (I find it immensely frustrating that, even when I'm trying desperately hard to be sincere, I still sound sarcastic.) I genuinely love the church and the people in it. But, they aren't half weird sometimes. Take the church service I went to last Sunday night. An act of worship involving writing down sins and problems in our lives, taking the paper to the front of the hall, and jumping on it. (Apparently to symbolise our having faith to move mountains.) Wandering around the hall while singing, to symbolise 'taking ground'. And a middle-aged woman, who clearly thought she was blessed with a gift for prophetic dancing, and seemed to be miming milking a giant cow, and walking like a velociraptor.

Now, I freely admit that I sometimes have a problem with cynicism. I chose to go along with all of the above, precisely because it's exactly the sort of thing I usually raise a satirical eyebrow at, and that usually helps nobody at all. But my goodness, it's hard not to make snide comments. These people practically take the piss out of themselves; how am I supposed to resist giving them a helping hand in the process? Picture a recovering alcoholic, wandering into a pub, and being surrounded by people chugging down every conceivable alcoholic drink. How easy would it be for this recovering alcoholic to stay dry? Perhaps I'm being melodramatic, but I consider myself a kind of recovering cynic. Middle-aged women dancing like velociraptors are likely to send me off the deep end. I know I need to stay in the metaphorical pub. After all, what's the alternative? But I know I'll need God's help to stay on the wagon.

Whether or not I've gained a reputation for being a cynic, never let it be said that I'm oblivious to God speaking to me. If you haven't read The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning, you really should. People seem to think that the idea that God loves us is cheesy - almost a truism. We just don't get it. What the book brings across is just how deeply, irrationally and unconditionally God loves us. I'm not even going to attempt to explain it. Just read the book!

Anyway, I was reading The Ragamuffin Gospel over Easter. It was certainly thought-provoking, but I s'pose it didn't really sink in. But on Easter Sunday, some rather strange things happened to me. I was at Spring Harvest, and, in the same evening, the following three events befell me:
1. A guy who I didn't recognise, having already spent the whole day being inexplicably nice to me, insisted on buying me a coffee. It was only when he physically handed the coffee over that I recognised him from my small group in the 11-14s venue at Spring Harvest 4 years ago.
2. A group of girls who I'd spoken to once (maybe twice?) before, gave me a chocolate bar for no accountable reason.
3. A friend of mine came and found me, and gave me a tube of Jaffa Cakes. (Truly the food of the righteous. If there are no Jaffa Cakes in heaven, I'm not going.)

Certainly an unusual chain of events. It was only when I got to bed that night that I realised that through each of these people, God had been clearly illustrating the lessons He'd been teaching me through the book. He just loves me. He wants to bless me and give me great stuff. I've done nothing to deserve that, but He wants to do it anyway. In practical, down-to-earth ways, He'd shown me that. It might sound stupid, but I'm taking great comfort in the knowledge that God knows that I like coffee and Jaffa Cakes.

So America want to tighten their border controls (or more specifically, their border with Mexico,) to prevent a continuing influx of illegal immigrants. Not surprisingly, a lot of people are unhappy about this. Even less surprisingly, a large number of them are Mexican. Read more on today's demonstrations on the BBC website.

What are we to make of this? Are the new border controls a perfectly reasonable measure, to protect America against a large number of people who, let's face it, are trying to take advantage of them? Or is this yet another symptom of America's insularity and suspicion of anything remotely foreign? (I still can't believe that the overwhelming majority of Americans don't even own a passport.) Probably a combination of the two.

It was a schoolboy error. There's no other way of putting it. I arranged a couple of weeks ago to take a trip to Oldham, in order to meet a contact, with a view to organising a 'Funday' event in the summer. We arranged to meet yesterday, and, not realising exactly how far it is from London to Oldham, I cheerily agreed to meet at 10.30am, and took it for granted that I'd be able to drive there and back in a day. Oh dear. I consulted the oracle over the weekend (AA Routefinder), and was confronted with a 446 mile round trip. That's further than the distance between London and Glasgow.

I was left with a dilemma. Cancelling was out of the question. Getting a train was now also out of the question, as at this notice I'd have had to take out a second mortgage on my flat to buy a ticket. So, I just had to bite the bullet and drive. But, should I phone this contact of mine and ask to meet later, thus eliminating the need to leave home at 5.30am? Or should I save face, and just go ahead as planned? For me, sleep outweighs personal pride anytime. So I managed to negotiate myself an extra hour. Makes all the difference, and makes me look not-too-stupid. Unfortunately, I was still presented with the prospect of ten hours in the car. Incredibly bad for my posture. Still, at least I had plenty of time to listen to Radio 1, immerse myself in youth culture, and surprise myself with how much of the current chart music I actually like. Old fogey? Moi?

OK, this is getting shameful now. Several people have remarked on how slack I've been in keeping my blog even remotely up to date. My excuse is that I've been doing so much writing for work recently, that it's been really hard to motivate myself to blog as well.

But I'm feeling suitably chastened now, particularly after an evening with some friends on Friday, who poured scorn on my blogging credentials. So, here's a quick run down on what I've been doing recently. I've been writing new material for Rock Solid and RS2. By the end of this week, I should have written 12 meeting outlines. Check out the YFC website for more on exactly what Rock Solid and RS2 are. Suffice to say here that I reckon they're about the best resources available to help churches reach 11-14 year-olds. (But then, I s'pose I would say that...)

I've also been writing some meandering thoughts for YPs, the Bible reading notes for younger teenagers. Click here and find 'Insite', to see my online ramblings, but I'm afraid my hard copy material won't be available until September. (This is one of the quirks of my job. Because of the time needed to get material edited, designed, printed and distributed, I have to work months in advance. Last week, I found myself writing an RS2 meeting about Christmas. Weird.)

Yes, yes, I know. It's been over a month. I'm afraid Christmas, New Year, a nasty stomach bug (both ends going at once - urgh) , a new job, and the iPod I got for Christmas have all distracted me from the important business of posting my meandering thoughts here for all the world to see.

The latest is, my new job with YFC is going really well. So far, I have endured a gruelling 5 day conference in a luxury hotel in Wales, (being forced to put up with a bedroom with ensuite bathroom, 3 huge meals a day and free use of a swimming, sauna and gym,) a conference in Eastbourne which involved making total strangers roll toilet rolls across the floor with their noses, and countless "meetings", involving cups of coffee and talking about nothing in particular. It's a hard life, this full-time Christian work, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

The mighty Emmanuel Lightning go marching on too. 5 wins from the last 6 matches have put us 4th in the league, and only 3 points off the top. Wonders will never cease. (Frustratingly, while Lightning are doing uncharacteristically well, Arsenal are just about managing to achieve the level of "woeful". The performance against Bolton on Saturday was utterly toe-curling.) Lightning's website isn't anything to write home about, I'm afraid, but click here for the Bromley and Croydon District League. (Yes, we're in the 3rd Division, but hopefully that will soon change...)

At last! I've finally managed to secure all the necessary funding, and I'll be starting my job as 11-14s Coordinator for YFC in January. The relief! No more pestering people for money. No more long lists of phone calls to make when I'd otherwise be relaxing. And I don't think it's any exaggeration to say that getting the money together has been a miracle. How else could I possibly have managed to raise £10,000 in three months? Praise God.

So, as of January 3rd, I will be YFC's all-singing, all-dancing, all-knowing 11-14s Coordinator, available for youth events, youth leader training, weddings, christenings and bar-mitzvahs.

In other news, my temping job at Morley College finishes tomorrow. It's been OK, but it will be a relief to move on. My boredom recently led me to poke around the Channel 4 history website, where I found tests to find out how black and how gay I am. Turns out I'm actually 50% black. So there. To celebrate, I downloaded 5 A Tribe Called Quest songs from iTunes. Heavy. And I can also put an end to the years of speculation, and tell you quite categorically that I am 16% gay. Which I think came as something of a relief to my wife. Basically it means I only fancy girls, but I moisturise and do the washing up occasionally.

Bored bored bored bored bored. I've been back at work for one day, after a holiday in Wales (wish I'd packed my snorkel for that, by the way), and already I'm so bored my brain is melting. Thank goodness I've got the YFC job to look forward to in the new year. So, I spent a large portion of this afternoon testing my mettle against pointless quizzes on the net. I scored 18 out of 20 on a Red Dwarf quiz (on the BBC website), and 14 out of 14 on The Simpsons (I probably should get out more, shouldn't I?) I can also tell you from the results of extensive scientific tests that the Red Dwarf character I most resemble is Kryten, and that if I was in The Simpsons, I'd be Ned Flanders. (Something of a disappointment. I was really hoping for Sideshow Bob. Honestly, how can you mark yourself high on desire for world domination, and still end up as Ned Flanders?) The most worrying moment of the afternoon was when I narrowly avoided my boss catching me filling in a questionnaire to find out which Desperate Housewife I am. (I'm a Susan, if you're interested.)

From all of this you can divulge the following:
1. If the test results are at all accurate, I'm essentially well-meaning, endearingly disorganised and rampagingly insecure.
2. I need to find something else to occupy my time FAST, before I start to believe I actually AM Susan from Desparate Housewives.
3. It's a really, really, really, really good job my employers don't know about this blog.

This is worrying. Apparently bird flu has hit Paris...

One more thing for today. I was wandering in to work the other day, when I happened to pass two guys about my age, walking in the opposite direction, and obviously deep in conversation. They were walking fairly quickly, so I only caught 2 words of their conversation. I'd share these 2 words with you, but I fear I'd be contravening the obscene publications act.

Immediately, and involuntarily, I made a judgment in my own mind about the sort of people these guys were. It's amazing the impact we can make on those around us, just in a word or two. And most of the time, we probably don't even realise we're making any kind of impression at all. Now, it'd be easy to get paranoid about this, and to tie ourselves in knots trying to make sure we always influence people for good, and that probably wouldn't do anyone any favours in the long run. But let's remember who we are. Let's allow God to influence people through us, actively ask Him to do that, even, and let's think before we speak, too.

(Yes, for those of you who know me, I know that last exhortation was a bit rich, coming from me, but I'm working on it, honestly...)