There’s a line in Nehemiah 12, when the people of Judah are celebrating the dedication of Jerusalem’s wall, that reads like this: “The sound of rejoicing in Jerusalem could be heard far away.” Read more
James’s Blog: Partying out in the Open.
God
James’s Blog: This Post-Easter Blog is Far Too Long.
Sometimes a song or a story or a poem will generate a powerful emotional response in me by putting into words something that is buried deep within, something I haven’t really given shape to myself yet. This is what art does. Why just the other day I was listening to someone explain how he had been left shaken by listening to a short story that somehow managed to encapsulate his own experience of childhood. Read more
James’s Blog: The Overachiever.
For many years I’ve been haunted by the spectre of underachievement. I’ve been convinced that I should have got more done by now; made more of a difference; that I’ve fallen well short of my potential. I’ve spent large chunks of my life frustrated with myself. It’s a form of perfectionism that has, at times, both motivated me and made me miserable. Read more
James’s Blog: The Jeremiah Blues.
So God says “Go!” and you say, “No, I’ve worn
These shoes before. I know the way this ends.
With me abused, misused, confused and bruised,
I wonder why you don’t have any friends?” Read more
James’s Blog: An Advent Poem.
There are those who think it odd,
that you came as man and not as God.
A God would make things right
with shows of power, glory and might.
A God would shake the stage,
smiting evil-doers with holy rage.
A God, you see, will get things done.
A baby can’t. He needs his mum.
A baby is no use to us;
a baby screams and makes a fuss.
A baby doesn’t clear up mess,
solve problems, or bring progress.
But as for us, we’re not so hot,
we’re babies too, don’t pretend we’re not.
We need to scream, need a nappy,
we need our toys to make us happy.
We haven’t grown up in years,
so only a baby could share our tears.
We’re still learning how to crawl,
so I’m just thankful you came at all.
James’s Blog: Father’s Day
And have you ever regretted those words,
spoken in light but planned in darkness?
Did it seem like such a good idea,
in those days before, when the three of you
laughed and danced and joked and sang
with delight, before delight had even been invented?
Did you know, when you said to each other,
“Let us make some people now, some good ones,”
that you were sentencing yourself
to years and years of dirty nappies,
bare feet on carelessly discarded Lego bricks,
and ungrateful teenagers blanking you every day?
Did you know that you would spend
sleepless nights, longing for the days
of innocence, when a grazed knee was
the worst thing in the world,
but so easily fixed with a hug, and rewarded
with the dried tears that made you feel loved?
Did you know that you would bear it all?
Every broken heart?
Every bad decision?
The death of every pure thing?
Every act of cruelty and hate, some so evil
that they leave an irredeemable scar on history?
And does the pride outweigh the shame,
and the hope outweigh the despair,
for the three who trust so much?
Do you say, “That’s my boy!”,
or “I’m so proud of her!” when we take
our first faltering steps onto the shore?
And do you see beyond the reborn darkness,
to the flicker of light in every act of love,
so small, so frail and yet so vital?
And when you reach down and we slap your hand away,
is your forgiveness and patience really endless?
(Because I know mine isn’t.)
And are you looking forward to that time,
when we’ll finally come to our senses,
and you’ll at last be buried under the weight
of all those “Best Dad Ever!” mugs
that we made or bought in secret
with the stuff you gave us in the first place?
And do you have a knowing smile,
or a tear in your eye, as Adams and Eves,
so desperate to become gods,
discover that divinity is hard, ugly work?
Do you ever look at the stars and wonder,
these days, who’d be a father?
James’s Blog: Skimming the Sun.
I had a thought the other day.
There is really only one story – God’s story.
You and I create stories, but the only bits that will last are those that reflect the heart of God’s story. I don’t mean that only stories that talk explicitly about God are the only ones with any value, rather a tale’s worth depends on how much it reflects the story from which all other stories flow. Give me a yarn spun by an atheist with the scent of heaven in his nostrils rather than another two-dimensional moral diatribe written by someone with a fiery pen and a cold heart.
God’s story burns at the centre of the solar system, orbited by every other story ever created. There are stories that are popular and lauded, but are really nothing more than lifeless, icy rocks spinning out into the infinite void. Then there are others, small and ignored, that rotate so close to the sun that they burn with a lover’s passion and can’t be seen without looking at the source itself.
I hope that, whenever I write and whatever I write, I am in some way honouring the story that keeps me warm at night.
“Since all the world is but a story, it were well for thee to buy the more enduring story, rather than the story that is less enduring.” – St. Columba
James’s Blog: Five More Random Thoughts on the Subject of Trusting God.
I think that there are at least five different types of God to trust. Which one do you put your hope in?
1) The Enabler of Spoilt Children.
This God owes you. Everyone knows that when this God says things like, “But seek first the kingdom and my righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well,” what he’s really saying is, “What do want for Christmas?”. When life doesn’t go well, it is this God’s fault – after all, didn’t he say he’d look after you? Following this God is like being on a roller coaster, dipping and climbing between feelings of confident entitlement and angry disappointment.
2) The One Who Doesn’t Really Mean It.
This God, like everyone else in your life, will let you down. He makes promises all the time, but doesn’t deliver. The only thing you can be certain of is that he won’t come through for you. He’s like a lifeguard who encourages you to dive headfirst into the pool, with no intention of jumping in after you when you get out of your depth. Trusting this God turns you into a nervous swimmer, stuck on the side of the pool, unable to put even a toe into the water.
3) The Master of the Monkey’s Paw.
This God keeps his promises, but in an unexpected and unpleasant way, like one of those horror story genies who gives you exactly what you asked for. He is a trickster who needs to be outsmarted rather than trusted. You’ve accepted that your best bet for happiness is to try and manipulate the small print in order to get a positive outcome. Believing in this God leads to a crushed, submissive spirit that is constantly expecting to be punished ‘…for your own good.’
4) The Divine Bureaucrat.
This God also keeps his promises, but only to the letter of the law. You will get what you’re entitled to – nothing more, nothing less. He is always busy figuring out how little he can give away without being sued for breach of contract. Under this God, the Bible becomes a watertight legal contract. Trusting this God leads to low expectations, and a feeling that he needs to be backed into a corner before he’ll reluctantly dish out bread and water and expect you to be grateful for it.
5) The Real Deal.
This God can’t be contained by small words like ‘gracious’ and ‘generous’. To this God, the promises that are written in the Bible reveal his heart without defining the limit of it. He believes that it is possible to be kind without needing to announce it first, and that children can have birthday presents even though nothing has been submitted in writing beforehand. Following this God will get you into trouble, but the good kind of trouble, and eventually you’ll be able to face whatever life throws at you with a quiet confidence and hope.
James’s Blog: Five Random Thoughts on the Subject of Trusting God.
1) Trusting God to be faithful is like trusting the sun to be hot. It seems like a sure thing in theory, and we’re very happy to say that we believe it to be true, but we’re also really hoping that we can get through life without having to prove it.
2) I suffer from Truster’s Remorse. It’s that feeling you get when you actively take steps to trust God, but then you worry that the warm glow on the horizon is not the welcoming hearth-fire of heaven, but rather just your bridges burning.
3) Sometimes I wish that I could pin God down before trust is required. It would be nice, for example, to have His signature at the bottom of an iron-clad contract before taking steps. However, I know for a fact that He prefers clay to paper. Plus I hear rumours that it’s possible for even lawyers to be saved.
4) When I reflect on those times that I’ve trusted God with something big – I mean really trusted and not just paid lip-service to the concept of trust – I’m forced to admit that He’s never let me down. Well, except for that one time in 2015 when I really wanted Him to do something specific and He did something else instead. He never seems to like my ideas.
5) C.S. Lewis was on to something when he wrote, “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” I’m not really afraid of trusting God, rather I’m afraid that trusting God will mean having to follow Him down some dark paths. So it becomes a question not of trusting God to keep His promises, but rather trusting Him to not break me along the way. If God can be trusted in this way, then I have nothing to worry about. If I can’t trust Him with my life , then it’s time to find a new God, don’t you think?
James’s Blog: Love is Not Fair.
Soon I’m going to have to book a family trip to the dentist. Last time Parker refused to have his teeth checked. We’d let him know about the visit well in advance, and he seemed fine on the day itself, so we were caught off-guard by his spirited rejection of the dentist – the irony being that he is probably the child who needs a dental check-up the most. To the dentist’s credit, he was reluctant to push the issue lest Parker end up traumatised. As for me, well, I was ready to kneel on his chest and prise his mouth open with my bare hands by the end of the visit. Don’t worry – I didn’t get that far.
It didn’t end there. After we left the dentist Parker had another full-blown tantrum, this time accusing Ruth and I of not letting him go to the dentist, and blaming us for the fact that all his teeth were going to rot and fall out. You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you. Haven’t you? HAVEN’T YOU???!!!
This time I’ve offered him Lego if he has his teeth checked, and that might do the trick. To his brothers and sisters it looks like he’s being rewarded for performing simple tasks, but there you go. I’m sure that they know that life is not fair. I’ve been very careful to make that clear to them on several occasions.
It is hard for them. I do wonder if, through their eyes, autism looks like fun. You get praised for run-of-the-mill behaviour, and don’t get punished nearly as much as it seems you should. But if they understood autism they wouldn’t wish to be in Parker’s shoes. Free Lego doesn’t seem like much of a trade-off when you think about all the extra complications he’s going to have to negotiate in order to form meaningful adult relationships or perform to the best of his ability in everyday situations.
I hope that my children realise something important – that loving everybody the same means loving everybody differently.
Love, by its nature (and I’m talking about proper, getting-your-hands-dirty, self-denying love here) means doing what is right for each individual according to his or her needs, strengths and weaknesses. Love is personalised. Life isn’t the only thing that’s not fair, because if love was fair it wouldn’t be love. One size most definitely does not fit all.
Some people, by the time that they get to my age, have been beaten around the head by life so badly that it’s left some pretty deep scars. I know that what God expects of them is different to what He expects of me. I know that sometimes He’s a bit harder on me than He would be on others, but equally I know that there are things He lets me get away with. However, I wouldn’t for one second suggest anything other than that God loves us all with the same burning, self-sacrificial, personalised passion.
Fairness is all right for robots and pets, but children deserve something better.
