Writer

The life of a professional writer is odd. Quite lonely. Requires a fierce dedication, like a concentrated flame – the hard blue option on the Bunsen burner, not the orange floaty flame.

You have to get yourself absolutely centred on your focus, eliminating all distraction, and keep it there. You have to come back to it, come back to it, come back to it, fasting from human society until it becomes alien to you and you no longer know how to do it or scarcely what it means.

You have to be able to mine deeper and deeper, finding every seam of thought and insight in your subconscious, making it give up everything it has – because every article, every devotional, every Bible study, every individual thing you write, comes from the germ of an original idea and those are what it is so very hard to come by.

You carve out the time you need and defend it against all comers, and lock into the focus, and bleed the subconscious until it is wrung dry.

And then it’s done, the work for today, and there you are bewildered – peevish and disoriented, cast up on the shore of a world become alien by virtue of its very normality, unable to settle to anything, appalled by being alive, as vacuous as a goldfish, as empty as fracked earth.

People say, ‘I want to be a writer,’ ask, ‘what do you have to do to be published?’ Oh, that’s easy! You have to eviscerate the living core of your soul and formulate it into words that can reconstruct its vital meaning, its tender, honest life. And then you offer it for sale. You make your deadline.

More thoughts on church

From my post the other day about plain and simple worship with no correlated socializing, a very interesting comment thread developed. Two commenters put their finger on something that has been an issue for me, that I’d like to look at more closely. I don’t think I have any solutions, but the questions are strongly felt, and I am inching my way towards a reconsideration of a lifetime’s assumptions.

Here are the questions my commenters asked, that I wanted to stay with and muse on a bit longer:

‘I understand and share your longing for "worship"...On the other hand, Scripture itself seems to point toward "community". Surely there is place for both?’  (Rebecca)

‘I wonder whether church goes beyond my needs. Whilst I crave a singular worship experience, maybe it is those very connections that help me to better love and be loved and to give to others? Is their need greater than mine?’  (Lucy Honeychurch - but my emphasis of the 'my', which seemed to be implied.)

Meanwhile, over on Facebook, in the comment thread that developed there, a friend (she reads and comments here, but I won’t give her name as my Facebook page is not public) made the point:

‘There is, of course, a place for both types of community and worship. Children, in particular, are not inclined to sit still for an hour while adults do boring stuff that they don't understand. Once they would have been expected to, like it or not. But I can't help feeling that this was rather selfish on the part of the adults.’

Again, she put her finger on a difficult aspect of this.

In my own life, it shows up most clearly in respect of my grandchildren. They (with their mother) attend church at a small village chapel in the countryside. It is a most loving faith family; welcoming, kind, inspiring, open to change. Everyone in the chapel is on the church council (this frequently happens in the small village chapels), so all decisions are made and actioned together. Music is a mix of traditional and new, and a projection screen fits in unobtrusively alongside a traditional pulpit, organ and sanctuary area.

In that chapel, the stained glass window in the sanctuary was designed and made by my daughter Alice, and the cross above the pulpit by Bernard, my previous husband – the last piece he completed before he died. Even he, with his deep dislike of all things ecclesiastical, felt comfortable in that little chapel.

Simple, plain, cheerful, reasonably democratic, it would be the obvious choice of worship community for me.

Since my first grandchild came along, it has also gradually increased its attending children from usually none to a small number – perhaps half a dozen or so. The adults in that church have a real heart for children, and have given huge swathes of time to working with the village children in school and after-school activity settings. Children are always welcome there.

Children are also always welcome at the big high-church Anglican church where the Badger goes. They are loved, encouraged – and so are the many chronically ill and disabled folk who come along pushed in wheelchairs or accompanied by assistants from the care facilities where they make their home.

This, in my opinion, is absolutely, unequivocally, one-hundred-per-cent a good thing. Jesus said ‘let the little children come to me and do not try to stop them’. Jesus had a special soft spot for the helpless, the sick, the outcast and little children. A church that doesn’t welcome children (in practical terms as well as theoretical) is not his church at all. I am all in favour.

But. Oh, isn’t there always a ‘but’!

A couple of years ago, I went along to that little country chapel, and came away quite shaken. It had been my intention to maybe settle there as a regular worshipper. It was during Advent, and the tree and crib figures had been put on display.

The children in the church ran about everywhere. One mother brought in her children (late), and they ran in and found places to sit (not near her), and got out their electronic games. Any thought that occurred, they either called across to her or ran across to tell her (then back again). One of the older children encouraged the younger ones into tinkering with the crib figures and dismantling tree decorations. All the children a lot of the time ran round the whole church and – rather like flocks of starlings – in circles round and round the central space at the front. Sometimes adults remonstrated with them, but it seemed to make very little difference.

Meanwhile, in the big church where the Badger goes, something similar happened at the back, where the children liked to congregate because toys had been set out for them. Of course toddlers and crawling babies cannot usually stay still the whole length of a church service, but these were children of perhaps eight to ten years old. Sometimes a cup would be knocked over and broken from the crockery made ready for after-church coffee. Once a free-standing notice board was felled with an almighty crash in the middle of the intercessions. In the back few pews, the care assistants accompanying the (quiet, orderly, reverent) disabled worshippers chatted continually at normal speaking volume.

I cannot say I have any objection at all to any of this. If it seems appropriate, if it makes people feel welcome and relaxed – then I am all in favour.

In similar wise, if making the passing of the peace into a time of social exchange and general chat is the cultural norm of the church, I don’t mind – I don’t think it’s wrong. I’m not against quiz nights and alpha courses, after-church coffee, mince pies and mulled wine with the carol services; it’s excellent, it’s great.

But it isn’t me.

I understand why other people should not be forced to worship as I wish to do – that would be terribly selfish of me. I understand that church envisioned as a community social event is very healthy and positive.

But I don’t want to go. And what I don’t understand is why I should, or why not to go might be selfish. It seems that if things are done my way and the other people don’t want to attend church because of the way I do things, I’m being selfish (yes, I see that). But if things are done the other way and I am the one who doesn’t want to go – it’s still me being selfish (and I don’t get that).

I have no criticism to make, I do not disapprove, I applaud the openness and the moving with the times. I accept that church as I knew and loved it has gone and is no more. I don’t grumble about it, because I think it is hugely important that church is inclusive, and that the little ones have a chance to join in. God bless them, God bless them. I love them. But church as it is today just isn’t me. 

Same with the big Christian festivals where the worship is organized according to the format of a rock concert. Am all in favour. Isn’t me.

When I say, 'isn't me', can I make clear - I mean as in, it does my head in and I just can't stand it. I'm not talking about a simple matter of taste or preference. I have always delighted in all sorts of different ways of doing church - from cathedral worship to smells and bells to anabaptist.

Each to his own. I don’t want to put a damper on anything, interrupt, or interfere. But I don’t want to go any more.

For a long time I buckled under the pressure of my sense of obligation – that I ought to be at church. But – like many other people – as I grow older I find it less easy to be what I am not in order to please others.

So I pray. I love and trust the Lord Jesus and I try to live my life as I think he would want me to. I hold the church in love, and each week as Sunday approaches I hold into the light of God’s blessing the various church communities with which I have been connected; but I don’t go.

I have tried attending Quaker meeting, which I dearly love. But again, there is the pressure towards socializing, and strong overt reminders of our duties in that direction. And then - oh Lordy! makes me blush - oh dear - last time I went to meeting, I was one of only two people who offered spoken ministry in the course of the meeting. In the Afterthoughts, a couple of others spoke. One of the Friends observed that he had been sitting in the meeting wondering why he was there, seeing no point to it at all, until the two Friends had contributed their Afterthoughts. My spoken ministry in the main part of the meeting had been about together holding the light, and had included reference to Siegfried Sassoon’s beautiful words ‘In every separate soul let courage shine; a kneeling angel holding faith’s front line.’ Too late, I realized this was probably a serious faux pas because of Quaker Peace Testimony! Uh-oh.

I don’t want to be a jarring note in any faith community. It’s because I love them, because I don’t want to be selfish and spoil things, that I don’t go (and because of the rather terrifying intra-congregational wars and aggression but that's another issue). Not being there is the best contribution, given what I am and what they are, that I can make.

I know it seems so unsatisfactory; for now, it’s the best I can do.

Rumer Into Colour

I wonder if you know the UK singer-songwriter, Rumer? In case not (or even if you do), I thought you might enjoy a listen to her new album Into Colour which comes out on the 10th of this month; this article includes an exclusive stream where you can hear all the songs.

There is so much about this particular album that I love, but my favourite thing about it is its courage. Rumer is bi-polar, and that alone inevitably means each day requires her to be brave. She went through the sorrow and agony of miscarriage, and picking up the pieces and going on from that is always, always a hard and lonely road. And then of course, she has taken the human reality of her soul into the sometimes so cynical world of the music business, let them try to make her product of her music, her voice, her life. Reading the comments on the article I linked you to, where Into Colour is streamed, I feel bruises on my spirit when I scroll through the thoughtless candour of those who have come along to air their opinions. That’s what happens, if you publish anything – a story, a song. You show the world your soul, and what do you get? Some bright spark who wants to tell you you’re just like Karen Carpenter. Oh, please!

I love the song I am blessed. I love Dangerous, with its insight into how terrifying it can be to start again. I well know that feeling. I think the song Butterfly will speak to every woman who ever lost a baby. And Better Place – that's so lovely.  My favourite of all is You Just Don’t Know People, with its maturity of reflection, and its hope.

As we talked about this new album over breakfast this morning, our Alice said what a blessed relief it is to be offered songs where you can actually hear the words. Amen to that! 

I love the honesty of this music, too – not only the emotional honesty as Rumer allows us to share the working through of the deep experiences that have shaken her inner world (it takes courage to public share those things), but the artistic honesty; lyrics that put into words the movements of the heart, carried by original melodies. That’s another thing I love about Rumer’s music – it has actual tunes. So many commercial songs are churned out artificially – constructed bands singing constructed ditties – that proper singer-songwriter work like this is a rare joy. It takes me back to the wonderful flowering of music in the 60s and 70s when musicians like Carole King and Joni Mitchell brought their heart and soul to the public stage.

Fab, I think. How about you?

Just-go-to-church - a tentative movement

We get a look at Country Living magazine when we visit my beautiful mama, because she has a subscription to it. The Christmas copy always feels delectably festive, so we fork out from the housekeeping to buy our own copy. It’s out now, this last week of October – ‘a little bit previous’, as they say in Yorkshire.

So in between things, over a cup of tea this afternoon, I took a look at it. The Christmas issue always includes a feature on the seasonal celebrations at a country parish church; this year it’s St Beuno’s on Exmoor, apparently the smallest church in England. It is a Saxon church named after a 7^th century saint – so, a link with England in the very-far-from-Dark Ages. And the article says: ‘Why it was built in this remote location is a mystery – perhaps to hide from Exmoor’s weather or heathen marauders, but also to serve the spiritual needs of the forest workers who supplied Porlock’s shipyards with timber.’

Well, now.

When I was a child at school the teachers observed a strict classroom policy of ‘no shouting out’. If the teacher asked a question – or if the student had a question – the de rigueur procedure was to raise your hand and wait for the teacher to respond. If the teacher had put the class a question, many students might have a hand raised, in which case the teacher would choose. Or pick on those who had not raised a hand, ignoring all those who had.

Any class of children included a handful, usually boys, desperately eager to be chosen to answer a question. Their raised hands were held as high aloft as the child could strain, jabbing the air with fingers outstretched, as the child in tones of agony uttered a (muted) cry of ‘Sir! Sir! Sir!’ or ‘Miss! Miss! Miss!’ (depending on the gender of the teacher, obviously).

The Hermiones of the educational world.

Mostly, regardless of the question, I have no answers. In my mind questions proliferate and answers are few. To almost any enquiry my mind formulates the response, ‘Well . . . it depends what you mean . . .’

But, now, this business of St Beuno’s church. Why could it possibly have been built, in that remote place?

And for once I've got my hand up: 'Sir! Sir! Sir!'

Could it be that everywhere was remote in England in the Dark Ages, Exmoor no more than anywhere else? Could it be that Saxon settlements were less durable than, say, Roman towns with their villas and aqueducts, and left less trace when long-ago communities had ceased to be? Could it be that – hard to imagine, I know – the holy men who built it were seeking a measure of separation from human society, drawing apart to pray and wait upon God? ‘Abide ye here with the ass; the lad and I will go yonder.’

And for what purpose might that church have been built? Ooh, let me think . . . As a shelter from the weather . . . mmm . . . No.  To hide from the benighted heathen? Er . . .  probably not. The men who built that church would have been missionaries, not hiding from the heathen. They weren’t shy. They weren’t timid. They weren’t scared. They were men of faith and conviction, the old Celtic saints. Hiding? A thousand times no.

Oh. So, to serve the spiritual needs of persons from Porlock, then? Up to a point, maybe.

Or perhaps St Beuno's was not conceived to be all about human society and community activity.

You know why I think they built that church? Oh, go on – you do. Yes. Call me old-fashioned, call me unimaginative, but I think they built St Beuno's for the worship of God.

Now, here’s the thing. I’m wondering if the time could conceivably be ripe for what one might call a just-go-to-church movement.

Maybe not. Maybe it’s just me. 

I do want to go to church – but only to worship God. Then I want to go home.

I don’t mind making friends, in a quiet way. I’m not a total misanthropist. And I don’t mind other people being community-minded. If folk like their churches buzzing with friendliness and social events, well, that’s good isn’t it? I applaud it and admire it – but I don’t want to go there.

I was reading the Country Living article and thinking it looked nice at St Beuno’s until I read the dread words (this was Colin the vicar), ‘I do like to get others involved.’ My italics, not Colin’s.

Oooh, stop it Colin!

What my heart longs for is a little church in a field, the inside simple and plain. Quiet worship, peaceful and traditional.  Just an hour long. A thoughtful homily. Prayers for the worldwide human community and the peace of the earth, for the suffering and the dying, the bereaved. Prayers of thanksgiving for God’s loving-kindness, for the wonder and the beauty of being here. The peace passed without chatter or excitement. Our communion made. Quiet greetings and smiles exchanged. And then go home. No questions. No 'involvement'. No Sunday School, no events. Just people and God.

Okay, I apologise. It really is just me, isn’t it? My just-go-to-church movement will be a minority of one.