i’m not strong enough yet;

I spent so many years in a closet. Hiding behind junk, praying nobody opened the door. Praying that the closet would melt away from me. Feelings would leave. Things would change.

A wife. Children. A marriage ceremony that she would plan. We’d fight over the details. Debate whether that weird cousin was invited.

It didn’t happen. Continue reading

Fragments from world-weary pages

Since I became a Christian, I have always kept a journal. Usually, I write in them sporadically rather than keep them religiously or with any real discipline. They’re notebooks where I jot down thoughts, prophetic words and prayers. Sometimes scripture I want to revisit, or things I want to remember; occasionally they’re sermon notes.

To contextualise, I attend a charismatic CofE church in London. Therefore, I believe in and fully affirm the concept of prophetic words, physical healing and the continuance of spiritual gifts and ‘charisma’ long since the time of the early apostles.

Since starting this blog, I’ve been toying with sharing the words below. These are a selection of eight of the ten most recent entries in my journal, edited only to protect the anonymity of both myself and those mentioned therein. Nonetheless, there’s enough in there for someone who knows me well enough to figure it out. If that someone is you, say hello. Continue reading

Letters to the Church (II)

Dear Church,

Your words are so beautiful.

Love, grace, joy. Faith, hope and love. We will never let you go. We love you.

We would be devastated if you left us.

Please don’t leave. There is a home for you here.

You make promises you can’t keep, but thank you for trying.

We look together at the Son of Man, the Son of God. A warrior who chose words and grace over swords and chains. I like to think he was a big hugger. That he always had a box of tissues to the side, just in case, and that he made the best, most comforting cups of tea. Continue reading

What are you doing here?

Here we are. The first post.

I’ve blogged before. For a while I wanted to be a journalist, before the performing arts took their hold on me. Words have always gripped me, grappling with my heart and dancing across my mind, filling my thoughts with conscious and unconscious brushstrokes of freshly-formed metaphor, imagery, allegory.

Remember these chains – taken from the words of Paul when he wrote to the Colossians. He was in prison, probably malnourished, probably dying. He had a thorn in his side, but all he could repeat was the grace and the glory of God. But at the very end of his note, after some teaching and some words of advice, he quivers. Continue reading