James’s Blog: Skimming the Sun.

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: Fellow Pilgrims.

James’s Blog:  Fellow Pilgrims.

Crowded together on this train, heading to the city;

Only this is taking much longer than I had hoped.

Nobody seems to care about my needs;

Sitting there, with their loud conversations, loud music, loud chewing.

I can’t believe this is happening.

Do you hear him? He’s singing along to the music on his headphones!

Enjoy the music, go on! Don’t consider what I might want;

Really, all I want to do is read my book in peace.

 

Oh, now what’s this? Another stop at another station.

There’s a man getting on. I hope he doesn’t sit next to me;

He’s, shall we say, rather on the large side. I bet he smells too.

Everyone’s smiling, watching as he makes his way down the carriage;

Right and left, right and left, he looks for an empty seat, and stops next to me.

Sure, sit right down why don’t you? What else could go wrong?

 

Bad parents, messy eaters, I’ve got them all;

Everyone, it seems, is out to ruin my day.

This would be a really nice journey if it weren’t for them.

The headphone singer seems to be getting louder;

Even Gandhi would have punched this guy by now.

Relaxing, this ain’t!

 

This is the worst group of people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet;

How did I end up in a carriage with them?

All we’ve got in common is our destination;

Now I’m expected to put up with all their nonsense?

 

You’ve got to be kidding me!

Our friend, Mr Fatty, has fallen asleep!

Unbelievable! His head’s on my shoulder! My shoulder!

Right away he starts to snore.

Somebody help me – I think he’s about to start drooling.

Every time I think I’m going to get some peace, someone like this comes along;

Let’s agree that, in future, I should only travel with a certain type of people;

Very nice, clean, good-looking, low maintenance people.

Everyone, in other words, who’s like me.

Stuck on this journey together, they could at least put my needs first.

James’s Blog: The Stone & The Seed.

James’s Blog:  The Stone & The Seed.

(I had an idea, which became this little poem.  If I was an illustrator of any talent I would probably turn it into a children’s picture book.)

 

The paving stone,

set hard and set proud,

said, “I can’t be moved

from my home in the ground.”

 

“Beneath me the earth,

I crush all the life,

no root can take hold

with no hope and no light.”

 

But a small, humble seed

a challenge did make:

“Heavy you may be,

but you’ve made a mistake.”

 

The stone laughed out loud

at the tiny thing’s cheek,

“You can’t lift me up!

You’re too small and too weak!”

 

“It may take some time,”

the seed did reply,

“but I’m not stuck here,

for my goal is the sky!”

 

The years went on by

while the seed sought a gap,

the stone did not know

of the tiny thing’s trap.

 

And go visit now,

this is what you will see,

a humbled, broke stone

that’s been split by a tree.

James’s Blog: Anyone for Seconds?

James’s Blog:  Anyone for Seconds?

Daisy wiped the tear from her cheek with a perfect white handkerchief.

“I know you all understand my struggle. It’s just so…so hard,” she said. “Oh, that sounds silly. To say it’s ‘hard’. I just don’t know any other word.”

“It’s a perfectly good word,” said Thomas, reaching out and patting her on the shoulder.

“And it’s perfectly accurate,” said Maureen, her lips stretched in a thin line. Daisy nodded glumly.

Maureen continued. “That’s why we’re here. To support and help one another. We all understand. We ‘re all in the same boat here at the Over Eighteens.”

The Over Eighteens had been meeting weekly at Thomas’s house for the past year. There were seven of them. Daisy, Maureen and, of course, Thomas were the founding members. Billy (no-one called him William) and his wife Trish joined soon after, shortly followed by George. Jayne (yes, that was how she spelled it) was new to the group. This was her first meeting.

Every Thursday morning they gathered around the coffee table in Thomas’s lounge, squeezed on sofas (and chairs brought in from the dining room) and encouraged one another. That was the purpose of the group, to share and encourage, and to share and encourage in one particular struggle. The name Over Eighteens referred not to age, but to weight. The only thing in the group that could be called thin was Maureen’s lips. Everyone bore the same burden, of struggling with their size.

Thomas glanced at his watch.

“I think that’s enough for today.” He looked over at Jayne. “It’s been excellent to have you here this morning, Jayne. We always finish with a…well, I guess you could call it a creed of sorts. We say it together, you know, to make us all feel like we’re united in this.”

Jayne nodded nervously.

“Just listen, and you’ll pick it up soon enough,” Thomas said, nodding at the rest of the group.

“We agree that we’re overweight,” the group said, in unison. “But we don’t want to be. We’d like to be thin. In the meantime, we will support each other, listen to each other’s struggles without judgement, encourage each other and look forward to the day when we are all our perfect weight.”

Silence settled on the thoughtful group.

“Now,” said Thomas, clapping his hands together, “who wants a cup of tea?”

There was a chorus of responses as Thomas stood up and moved through to the kitchen.

“You should come over for dinner sometime, love,” said Trish, smiling at Jayne.

“That would be nice, “ said Jayne, smiling back.

“Cor, yes, I love it when we have guests,” said Billy. “Trish always goes to town with the deserts!”

“I’m surprised you have any room left for desert,” interjected George. “After all, I saw how much you put away at the All You Can Eat Pizza Buffet yesterday!”

“You can talk!” said Billy, laughing.

Thomas returned from kitchen.

“Kettle’s on,” he said, placing a huge, heavy plate on the coffee table. On the plate was the biggest chocolate cake that Jayne had ever seen. “Who wants a slice?”

Hands shot up around the room. Jayne kept her hand down.

“Ummmmm,” she said, as though she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to begin.

“Go on,” said Maureen, smiling with those thin lips. “Have some. Thomas is a fantastic baker.”

“I’m sure he is, but…” Jayne stopped.

“But what?” said Daisy.

“Well, shouldn’t we…well, I’m trying to diet.” Jayne bowed her head, as though she’d confessed to some awful crime.

“Oh, of course you are,” said George. “We’re all trying to diet, aren’t we?”

Ernest nods and grunts of agreement.

“The thing is,” said Daisy. Jayne looked up to see her wiping a thick smear of chocolate icing from her cheek with that no-longer perfect white handkerchief. “The thing is, that it’s difficult, isn’t it?”

More nods and grunts.

“After all, that’s why we’re here. Because it’s hard, as Daisy said earlier,” said Thomas.

“We’re all in favour of diets. That’s what we’re all after – the ultimate goal is losing weight – but it’s not quite that simple, is it?” said Daisy.

“I don’t know what I’d do without this group,” said Trish, through a mouthful of smushed chocolate cake, “to lift my spirits and help me feel better about things.”

“That’s right,” said Thomas, nodding. “That’s absolutely right.”

Jayne looked around at the group, as they grinned at her, encouragingly. She knew that she would feel more encouraged if they didn’t all have chocolate-stained teeth. She made a decision.

“It’s been lovely to meet you all,” Jayne said, standing up. “But I have to go now. The truth is, I think I’m in the wrong group.”

The gathering sat in silence as she left the room. After a short moment they heard the front door slam.

“That’s a shame,” said Thomas. “Now, who’s for seconds?”

James’s Blog: Death by Watching.

James’s Blog:  Death by Watching.

Above the waist Philip oozed calm confidence, but underneath the desk his foot tapped like a woodpecker. Opposite him, the young executive leaned back in his swivel chair, Philip’s CV in one hand and a twirling pen in the other.

“I see that you’ve got plenty of experience in television, Mr Hendrickson.” Read more

James’s Blog: The Sermon as Art.

James’s Blog:  The Sermon as Art.

Over the years, the line between writing a story and preparing a sermon has become blurred. These days, I tend to take the same approach with both, which means that I spend longer editing a sermon than writing it in the first place. I revisit it frequently, toying with the order of paragraphs, or searching for exactly the right image or turn of phrase.

It’s not about ‘trying to be clever’.  The sermon – like every effort to communicate – is actually a work of art, and needs to be treated as such.

Art can be a spiritual experience for people. A poem, painting, story, film or sculpture has the power to give people a taste of what lies beyond themselves. This is one of the ways in which God has weaved revelation into the fabric of what it means to be human. The sermon is unique among art in that the explicit contract between artist and audience is that God is front and centre. Some people turn hostile if they suspect that you’re trying to sneak God into areas where He’s forbidden, but with the sermon you’re allowed to be blunt.

Because of this, I find myself squirming in the pew if I suspect that I’m listening to a preacher who takes more care over constructing e-mails than he does over sermons.

“It’s about God. It’s got nothing to do with me” is an excuse used by sometimes well-meaning, sometimes lazy preachers who think that God is a KitchenAid mixer – you just throw in the ingredients, and leave Him to it. This approach denies one of the fundamental concepts of the Bible, namely that God, as an act of love, freely delegates to us responsibility for His reputation and message.

It’s got nothing to do with human effort or creative manipulation, rather it recognises that art and communication have divinely-ordained rules. Don’t tell me that Jesus, who painted pictures of plank-eyed people, camels squeezing through needles, and angry vineyard workers didn’t take how he communicated at least as seriously as what he communicated.

I’m not saying that every preacher needs to be a poet, or that clever structure is an adequate substitute for a vibrant relationship with God. What I am saying is that every preacher needs to realise that things like language and format actually matter. A preacher doesn’t need to succeed in creating art, but a preacher needs to at least try.

James’s Blog: Creating Life.

James’s Blog:  Creating Life.

I really needed my character to make that phone call, but it just wasn’t working. The story demanded that he pick up the phone and dial those numbers, but it didn’t feel right. So what do I do now, when I have a story, but a character who doesn’t want to play ball? “All right,” I said to my character, “what do you want to do then?” You can imagine my shock and disappointment when he took that scrap of paper with the phone number on it, scrunched it up and threw it in the bin. “What are you doing?” I said, “I need you to phone that number!” But it was no good. He wasn’t going to make the call. Read more

James’s Blog: The Road to Hell.

James’s Blog:  The Road to Hell.

I saw a man throwing a child at the sun.

“Why are you doing that?” I said.

“I’m helping him. He told me that he was cold,” the man said.

I looked at the bruised child on the floor.

“I think he needs to go to the hospital,” I said.

“Sure,” said the man, lifting the child above his head once more.  “Which direction is the hospital?”

James’s Blog: A Metaphor.

James’s Blog:  A Metaphor.

There was once a boy who wanted to make a difference. He worked hard at this, but was often left frustrated by how little change he saw. On one particularly frustrating day, he took a scrap of paper, wrote on it TRUST IN JESUS, rolled it up and put it in an empty glass bottle. Then he took that bottle down to the beach and threw it into the sea as hard as he could.  It didn’t really make him feel any better, but at least, he thought, he was doing something. Read more

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