Part 4 - I Walk The Line

So Southampton now becomes my spiritual home. Here I found a ready-made group of similar-aged, similar-outlook young people who took me into their heart and gave me a real sense of belonging. I guess, in hindsight, I was kind of desperate for that, and so I threw myself into this with everything I knew. Before I knew it, I was involved almost every night. Young people’s group, drama, boys brigade, house groups – you name it, I couldn’t say no to it, and before long everything revolved around that group. I think it was these years which really cemented that conservative evangelical perspective for me, and I really did think this was it. I knew the answers, I’d been told them, and I was able to repeat them to order. And I believed them, I really did. Here was a family of people that really accepted me and affirmed me, and I was more than willing to affirm the beliefs that made me part of this family. I learnt the language, took on board the values, and was fully immersed in this Christian experience. I was even prepared to harangue people in the local precinct with the proselytising that went by the name of “Street Drama”. This was a period of certainty, of clarity, of purpose (and I really miss that about those times).

And yet, looking back, the occasional sense of unease did creep through. The sense that things might not be as straightforward as they seemed. Yet if there was doubt or uncertainty, I believe that was just something that would be overcome as I grew and learnt more.

And grow and learn I did. By 1990 I, along with my wife and a few others, ended up leading the young people’s group. Looking back, I can scarcely believe that happened, or that I (then still only 25) could be trusted with that. It was during that time that we took a group of young people to Spring Harvest. And it was during that time that two paths presented themselves in a way that – in hindsight – I feel I’ve spent almost the following twenty years trying to resolve.

The first of these took place during one of the big evening meetings. Again, the usual call up to the front for people who felt some kind of calling, to be prayed for. And suddenly this seemed to be speaking to me. In the back of my mind for a while had been the nagging thought that I should be getting involved in leading worship and preaching. But it had been something that I’d pushed to the back of my mind, often dismissing it as vain ambition, not a genuine call. And yet, a this event, it suddenly became clear to me that this really was what God wanted me to do. So I went forward, was prayed for (I remember there being people falling over all over the place as they were prayed for, and being somewhat disappointed that this didn’t happen to me). And I felt a real sense of affirmation that this was right, that this was where I should be heading, that this was the next step in God’s step for me.

However, the other path was also opening up as well. The event at which this call came was not the main big-top worship event, but a smaller (relatively speaking) event that ran in parallel. And the reason I’d ended up there was because I had started to feel uncomfortable with what I perceived as a very manipulative atmosphere in that big-top. The event seemed to me over-hyped, very directive, full of inanities, and intellectually questionable. I just didn’t feel comfortable with this style of worship, and it opened up a whole series of questions in my mind about the genuineness of this experience.

Those two paths only seem obvious to me in hindsight. At the time I was ready to following that preaching and worship-leading path (something which my church affirmed in me), and was prepared to live with the uncomfortableness that I’d found in that big-top. In fact, I’d rationalised this apparent conflict in my head in a very positive way – being in a position to lead worship and preach gave me an opportunity to present a more measured, more thoughtful, more reflective version. It put me in a position to make a difference. And – to a degree – I think I did. I definitely developed a certain style and attitude in the way that I went about this, something distinctive from what else was being done in the church. And whilst not everybody might have appreciated it, I think that there was a certain constituency who appreciated that and got something from it.

And so it seemed that all was well, that things would just carry on this way, and that I would be a reliable, if slightly left-of-centre, part of this community for as long as could be perceived.

Well, that’s what it felt like at the time.

[Next>>> Part 5 - Revelation In The Post]

Part 3 - Wading Into The Water

So the journey proper had started. Early the following year I responded to one of those reasonably regular calls to be baptised. I remember thinking at the time that this was what God wanted me to do. That God had spoken to me, and that resistance was not an option. I had to make that stand, and I genuinely felt pleased to have done so. I didn’t feel coerced, I felt that this was a genuine decision that I had made to witness my faith, and one that had been directly prompted by God.

Gradually I started to get more and more involved with the youth group at church, something which helped to move my faith beyond that initial impulse, to something with shape and substance. Admittedly, that shape and substance was an inherited one, one that was taught and implied by the evangelical sub-culture of which I was becoming a part. But I wanted that – I wanted to be told what this was all about, and I took it all on board.

Now don’t get me wrong – this wasn’t a wild and dramatic charismatic experience. This was a fairly conservative evangelical group, one that was certainly aware of some of what was coming out of the house church movement, but only taking on board a relatively tamed version. And for me, that was fine.

And so things settled down for a while. School and church were the two key parts of my life, and the latter was definitely the more meaningful. During that time, my parents had moved down to Cornwall, and so when I finished my A-levels, I moved down there to join them. My parents hadn’t really settled into a church during that time, but two formative events stick out during the 8 months or so I spent down there.

The first was going with them to a service at the local Methodist Church. It was a fairly standard Methodist service, from what I remember. However, the difficulty came towards the end, when they took communion. In the Baptist church, I had been used to communion being brought round to each of us, served in our seats by the church leaders. The Methodist approach, however, was more like that of the Anglican’s, whereby all the congregation gradually files up to an altar rail, and kneels to receive communion. As I saw this happening, I became more and more anxious about what to do (I think it was that uncertainty about what I was meant to do, rather than any theological dispute), to the extent that when it came time for our pew to go up, I just couldn’t, and walked out the back of the church. Looking back the whole episode just feels silly and pathetic, but I remember at the time being really worked up about it. I also feel bad about it because I think that my actions were partly responsible for putting my parents off that or any other church. They never really found a spiritual home while they were down there, and never have since.

My other memory from that time was of being taken to a charismatic event of some sort by some friends who lived in our road. I don’t think I really knew what I was getting taken along to. This was a special event - I think there was some nationally-renowned speaker there. To be honest, it was probably reasonably tame, but I do remember being surrounded by people speaking in tongues, raising their hands in the air, and the usual paraphernalia of those kind of events. I felt very isolated by all this, just unable to engage or understand what this was or where it came from. And it wasn’t something I felt particularly jealous about either – this wasn’t really something I wanted, it just kind of bemused me. I remember driving home with our friends afterwards, probably very quiet, and unable to empathise with the excitement that they all felt about it.

After a short time down in Cornwall, I moved back to Portsmouth in search of work (I hadn’t been able to find any employment since leaving school), but also because I still had a girlfriend down there as well. I eventually did find work, which was great. And moved into digs in Southampton. But I remember during that summer starting to feel somewhat distanced from church and Christianity. I remember feeling that it wasn't making much sense, didn't really relate to life as I found it, and that it was a waste of time. I can’t really recall what prompted that, but I remember being in that state. I was 19, just starting work, and maybe trying to feel my way into the world. Perhaps some of that was unsettling my faith.

Later that year, though, I ended up splitting up (through some complicated circumstances) with my long-term girlfriend. And bizarrely, it was that which pushed me back to the church. I was now living in Southampton, yet still my social and church life revolved around Portsmouth. That split kind of forced me to sever those links, and to look for a more settled home in Southampton. The easiest way to find some kind of life seemed to be to find a church with a youth group like I’d been used to. Fortunately, the local Baptist church offered just that, and so started the next phase of my spiritual journey.

[Next>>> Part 4 - I Walk The Line]

Part 2 - I've Found What I Didn't Know I Was Looking For...

Well, before I knew it I’d turned 16, finished my ‘O’ Levels, and was contemplating starting 6th Form. No real direction to be honest, nothing much to get too wound up about. And church was still there, a pervasive background to my social life. Girls had entered the frame recently as well (a small group used to hang around with the older BB members), and so a fairly average (if slightly straight-laced) teenage lifestyle was in train.

And then I got an invitation to go to Greenbelt. Alan and Celia were friends of my parents, and were involved in leading the BB company that I was part of. I’d never heard of Greenbelt at the time, but they must have said something to make it sound interesting, because I accepted their invitation, along with a number of other young people from the church. So off we trudged, and found ourselves in a tent in a huge field with thousands of others. I was no stranger to camping, having done a lot of it with BB. And I was no stranger to the Christian sub-culture, having been exposed to plenty of that through Church. I don’t really remember what we did there – I have recollections of wandering around the main village, and the toilets stick in my mind, but other than that there is nothing too much that sticks in my mind.

But what I do remember is the Sunday. On Sunday morning, Greenbelt holds its Communion service. This is the point at which the whole of the festival comes together to celebrate communion. This year Cliff Richard was playing at Greenbelt (that very evening, in fact) and as a consequence the crowd was quite large – 30,000 or so. As we sat there in that service, 30,000 people all partaking of this one uniting ritual, it suddenly all made sense to me. I don’t remember this being prompted by anything any individual said or did, I just remember thinking that here was something that really mattered to all these people, something important to them, and I wanted some of it. I remember saying a prayer of some sort, a prayer of surrender to Jesus (I’d heard templates of this prayer plenty of times before, so I knew the words to say), and that was it. It was kind of like finding that last piece of the jigsaw, the piece that finally enables you to make sense of the whole of the rest of the picture. I knew all the background, I’d heard it all a thousand times before, but something about that gathering of people made it real, made it make sense in a way that it just hadn't before.[1]

And so, filled with this new life and purpose, I proceeded to tell everyone around me about this wonderful, miraculous event that had just changed my life. Except I didn’t. I don’t think that I really said much to anybody about it. I certainly don’t remember talking to my parents about it (I think the first time that really came up was when I brought a Good News Bible with some Christmas money). And I don’t really remember talking with anybody else very much about it either. However, somewhere along the line, it did prompt me to start going along to the Youth Club at the church. This not only introduced me to a wider group of friends (including more girls – yippee!), some of whom were for more overtly Christian than I would have been comfortable with before. But it also, slowly but surely, pulled me in to a scene that started to help me to make sense of that experience at Greenbelt. It gave me a language to describe my conversion experience, and gave me a framework not just to understand where I was, but where I should be going. Suddenly here were people who understood what was going on, and were able to show me where to take it. And it made sense. It really did. I was so glad of that. Life was falling into some kind of place, and here was something solid and principled on which to base it. God was suddenly something real, someone who was part of my life, every single day. And with that came a really strong sense of community and fellowship with a like-minded group of people. By this stage BB was starting to fall apart a little, but here was something more than adequate to take its place. I threw myself wholesale into this community (which may have been helped a little by a recent girlfriend!), and found within it a sense of purpose and belonging. I may not have been consciously looking for it, but now I found it, I knew this was what I wanted.

[Next>>> Part 3 - Wading Into The Water]

[1] The other life-changing event of that Sunday took place that evening. Somewhere in the evening main-stage line-up, sandwiched between something like Garth Hewitt and Sheila Walsh, an upcoming Irish band had blagged their way onto the running order. That band was U2. And that 15 minute set was the start of a life-long following of the band.

Part 1 - Growing Up

So let’s start at (or near) the beginning. From my earliest memories I attended church. My mum and dad were loyal, if not fervent, attendees at a local Baptist church. Mum had grown up in the Baptist church. Dad had been part of the Methodist church down the road, so it wasn’t a particularly big leap to join the Baptists when they got married. So my sister and I just grew up with all that. As I say, it wasn’t particularly fervent – church was something we all did as a family, but it wasn’t something (at least the faith and spiritual side of it) that was really talked about at home. In fact, I don’t remember ever having a conversation along those lines. Likewise Church itself was – as I remember it – fairly innocuous from that perspective. Yes, all that bible stuff was there, in the background (and it must have given me a reasonable background and awareness of a lot of bible stories). But largely it acted as a backdrop for Boys Brigade. My dad was an officer in the BB, and I was involved from the age of 5 upwards. That, more so than school, was my social life – it was around BB that much of my spare time revolved, and later (if slightly incongrously) where my first experiences of girls came from.

My first recollection of church being about something that might have a more profound affect on an individual came when I was about 10. Baptist’s practice adult baptism, whereby the believer chooses to be baptised by full immersion when they are able to make a public profession of their faith for themselves, rather than christening of a baby as initiated by the parents, as many other churches practice (incidentally, this still makes far more sense to me, despite my 10+ years as an Anglican). Anyway, around this time my dad decided to get baptised. He never really talked about the reasons behind it, what had prompted it after all those years, or what it meant. And I just kind of accepted it, and didn’t really ask any questions. However, I do remember being quite proud of the fact, and having the wind taken out of my sails somewhat when I told Nigel, one of my closer friends at church, about it, only to find that Nigel himself was also being baptised at the same time. I remember thinking that he seemed a bit young for such serious stuff (but then Nigel was quite a serious boy then – he’s changed a lot since then, last heard of (via. Friends Reunited) as a tattooed ex-Prison Officer and large Snake breeder living in the US). But I don’t remember this, or the actual baptism itself, having any kind of profound affect on me.

As I grew up, into my teens, BB became a bigger and bigger part of my life. Church was there, I did Sunday School and all that, was involved in whatever activities were going on, and was (unawares to me) getting a good grounding in the bible. I remember thinking that at some point, sometime in the future, when I’m older and ready, then maybe I’ll think about doing something about this Christianity for myself. But it didn’t seem that important for now.

[Next>>> Part 2 - I've Found What I Didn't Know I Was Looking For...]

So what's this all about, then?

This is a story. A story of faith. A journey. It’s not a particularly dramatic story. It’s not one with soaring highs and desperate lows. It’s just an ordinary story of one man and his journey of faith. It’s not a sob story, and I’m not looking for sympathy. In some ways I feel a little embarrassed that this matters so much to me, when other people have so much bigger issues to deal with, and do so with a quiet dignity. It’s not even (I hope) a complete story – it’s just a snapshot in time that will serve to shed some slight on the past, and some provide some pointers for the future. Please beear in mind, however, that it’s difficult to be objective when you’re so close to the subject. And also that there is a possibility that I'm creating a story, and linking events together, that maybe don't warrant it - after all this is only my perspective. Somebody else would probably tell a very different story.
That said, the story exists, here and now, because I have a need to make sense of it. The reasons why may (or may not) become clear as the story unfolds. All I know is that, at this point in time, I need to understand where I am. I think I’m doing this largely because I need to work out where to go next, and understanding the journey seems to me to be a useful way of trying to figure that out.
But why not keep it to myself (I hear you asking yourself). Well, three reasons. Firstly, doing it this way gives me an impetus to see it through. Secondly, I have a vague feeling that there may be some value in this to others. Thirdly, I’d kind of like various people who have been alongside me for the journey to have some understanding of where I find myself.
So that’s what this is all about. You don’t have to read on. You don’t have to pretend to be interested. It’s about Church, belief, spirituality, faith and all sorts of things that I can understand being very off-putting. I genuinely won’t mind if you don’t read any more. But an audience of zero won’t stop me telling the story. So here goes.

[Next>>> Part 1 - Growing Up]

Why the Spiral Staircase?

What is The Spiral Staircase? Maybe this will help to explain:

Armstrong owes the title of this book to Helen Gardner, who, in a lecture on Eliot's "Ash Wednesday" sequence, pointed out that the spiral staircase becomes a symbol for spiritual advance. As she began to immerse herself in sacred writings, Armstrong recognised that "the very absence I felt so acutely was paradoxically a presence in my life". Those seemingly arbitrary revolutions in her own progress had finally returned her to what she had been seeking all those years ago, "when I had packed my suitcase, entered my convent and set off to find God".

Review of "The Spiral Staircase", by Karen Armstrong