Looking for the Spiral Staircase

2011 - A Musical Retrospective

2012-01-07T13:23:00.000Z

It's a little late, but I'd wanted to do this for a while, and finally got the time. A look back on my musical highlights for 2012. Indulge me!

We kick off this little re-cap of my musical year with The Decemberists “The King Is Dead”. Following up the somewhat gothic, wonderfully over-blown concept album “The Hazards Of Love”, this saw the band honing in on a more simple and direct set of songs. Ably assisted by the wonderful Gillian Welch (more of which later) and Peter Buck of REM (of whose early days the album has strong echoes) this collection included full-on country-rockers such as “Down by the Water”and “Calamity Song”, the indie-rock (with a definite country tinge) of “This Is Why We Fight”, alongside more reflective and gentle numbers (including “January Hymn” an “June Hymn”), before closing with the bitter-sweet “Dear Avery”. A strong collection of great songs, this took a little while to lodge into my consciousness, but once there it was something that was regularly revisited throughout the year.

Second up, and not a million miles away from The Decemberists, is Dawes “Nothing Is Wrong”. Described elsewhere as The Band fronted by Jackson Browne, this would have felt equally at home in 1971 as 2011. Nothing new or ground-breaking here, just a collection of well-executed, tuneful Californian Country Rock. Lyrically it is somewhat naive and formulaic, but with cracking tunes like the opening “Time Spent In Los Angeles”, and an obvious love for the heritage of this obviously American rock music (Fleetwood Mac and Neil Young being other touch-points), there is much to love and enjoy here.

Next up is an album that came as a complete surprise to me. I’d known Glen Campbell from his late-60s singles, including the wonderful “Witchita Lineman” and “By The Time I Get To Phoenix”. But this year he released what he has said will be his last ever album, “Ghost On The Canvas”. Recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's, this is a gorgeous collection of songs which look back over his life in a reflective but celebratory way, aware of the ups and downs he has suffered, but at peace with where he finds himself. A mixture of self-composed songs (with lyrics by producer Julian Raymond, based on conversations with Campbell about his life) and covers of songs donated by the likes of Jacob Dylan, Paul Westerberg and The Dandy Warhols, it also features brief instrumental interludes reminiscent of Beach Boys (whom Glen spent some time playing with). More obviously upbeat and full-bodied than Johnny Cash’s “American” series that he recorded towards the end of his life, this collection shares much with those albums in its reflections on a full life, and a sense of contentment with where he is. A truly life-affirming collection of wonderful songs, this proves that maturity and experience are no anathema to great pop music.

Peter Bruntnell is not well known. That is without doubt, and to be honest I don’t think he cares. But over the last 10 years he has released a steadily consistent set of albums that have moved from an Americana Country Rock to a more English psychedelic folk rock kind-of-thing. His latest, “Black Mountain UFO”, I first heard live at his gig in The Railway Arms in Winchester. Again this is something of a grower that benefits from repeated plays, a more obviously pop-oriented collection of songs than previous efforts. Displaying a penchant for 70s sitcoms (two songs are “Reggie Perrin” and “Penelope Keith Blue”) these songs gradually reveal their depths, with the usual bitter-sweet reflections on life and love.

Gillian Welch has already featured here, via her contribution to The Decemberists album. This year saw her break an 8-year silence to release her new album “The Harrow and The Harvest”. Returning to the more stripped back sound of her early recordings (following the inclusion of a fuller band on her last album, 2003’s “Soul Journey”) this was perhaps a career-best. With long-term collaborator David Rawlings, she has conjured up a deceptively simple collection of songs you swear you’d known all your life. With nothing more than the voices and acoustic guitars of Gillian and David, these wistful songs linger deep in the consciousness, the spaces as important as the sounds. Old-time, deep-south American folk music for the 21st century, the year was capped off with a wonderful, two-and-a-half-hour, four-encore set at Brighton Dome which was just mesmerising.

Duke Special is a man of many talents, who has refused to stick to the normal path of pop stardom. With his thick matted dreadlocks, and Kohl eyes he certainly has a distinctive look. Taking a deliberate swerve after his last “normal” collection “I Never Thought This Day Would Come”, recent projects have included purpose-written songs performed live to accompany a Bertol Brecht play, a recording of songs written by Kurt Weill for an unfinished musical, and a homage to 1920s music, based on Paul Auster's silent film star Hector Mann. For me each of those projects had their highlights, but were patchy. Not so this years project, “Under The Dark Cloth”, a specially-commissioned suite of songs for an exhibition at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York of of the work of early photographers Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Steichen and Paul Strand. Inspired by individual photographs, co-written mainly with Boo Hewerdine, and recorded with the Irish RTE Orchestra, this is nothing if not ambitious. Yet it works. The lush orchestral backings don’t swamp the songs but bring them gloriously to life. The lyrics take the photographs as a starting point, but then take giant leaps of imagination to conjure up memorable stories and atmospheres. From the crash-and-bang of “Hand Of Man”, to the sly humour of “Washerwoman” and “You Press The Button, We Do The Rest”, the piano-led ballad of “Georgia O’Keefe” and the atmospherics of “Cloudgod”, this is a many-splendoured thing that keeps giving. More info and copies of the photos at http://www.dukespecial.com/underthedarkcloth.

Moving on to jazz, this year has brought forth a host of unexpected surprises. First up is Poland’s Marcin Wasilewski Trio. A piano trio who first came to prominence through their contribution to a series of ECM albums by fellow countryman, trumpeter Tomasz Stanko, the album "Faithful" is full of the trademark ECM characteristics - space, a very distinctive European sound, and exquisite sound recording. Never drifting off into technical showiness, the trio paint a rich textured soundscape that is both thoughtful and emotionally engaging. I’m relatively new to jazz, and still find it somewhat intimidating. But this is a sound that I’ve really grown to love, something that bears repeated listening, and which is starting to make a lot of other music seem simplistic and unengaging for me. More of this stuff, please.

More of the same? Well Julia Hülsmann Trio is certainly in the same vein as Marcin Wasilewski. Another ECM-based piano trio, this time from Germany, “Imprint” is another gentle, understated exercise in piano-trio jazz, full of delicate intricacies, and not succumbing to the more-is-more philosophy of notes-per-bar. Thoughtful, elegant and introspective it maybe, but in a world of superficial gloss and haste that has to be a good thing.

You wait ages for a piano trio to come along, and then you get three in a row! Australia’s Trichotomy are a somewhat different proposition to the last two, though. “The Gentle War”, despite it’s title, is an altogether more boisterous recording. At times playful and energetic (“Chase”), at others lyrical and reflective (“Blues For The Space”), sometimes dissonant and almost aggressive (“Shut Up”), the album covers a spectrum of moods and emotions, yet holds it all together in a consistent whole. Seeing the band perform earlier in the year at Turner Sims highlighted the strong interplay and telepathy between the three musicians, as the songs expanded beyond their recording in a spirit of improvisation an adventure. Looking forward to much more from this talented bunch.

Another European contender is “Skala” by the young Norwegian trumpeter Mathias Eick. Unlike some jazz this is full of tunes and melodies, and draws on influences from pop music (Joni Mitchell, Radiohead, Sting and Elton John are reference points) as much as from jazz. Underpinned by more of a rock back-beat than a jazz swing, these tunes rise and soar, taking the listener on a journey that is at once familiar and yet always revealing new things. An album I am constantly going back to, and which bears continued playing. there is an embarrasment of riches here that makes this a near-perfect recording.

Over the couse of three albums, trumpeter Matthew Halsall has become one of my very favourite artists. His latest album, “On The Go”, continues the theme and mood of the last two, yet manages to move things on as well. A combination of sparse, moody ballads (“Song For Charlile”, “Samantha”) and more up-tempo groovers (“Music For A Dancing Mind”, “The Move”) Halsall has a gorgeous tone to his instrument. Never flashy, this music is rich and timeless. Always subservient to the feel of the music, the vibe, Halsall and his band work seamlessly together to deliver an almost spiritual experience that leaves one refreshed and content.

And so the final selection in this end-of-year review. That honour belongs to Nat Birchall, a saxophonist who plays with Matthew Halsall, and records for his Gondwana label. Birchall is, if I’m honest, not my usual cup of jazz-tea. An heir to John Coltrane and the spiritual jazz movement, his music is less tuneful than I usually like. But there is an emotional connection at the heart of the music on "Sacred Dimension", a deep and yearning spirituality, that cannot fail to connect with me. This is warm and embracing music, music full of life and improvisation that sits atop a solid groove. For weeks this was the music that kept the autumnal chills away on the journey too and from work. A trusted friend that continually refreshes.

Agnostics (not so) Anonymous

2010-12-29T06:37:00.000Z

Well it’s been nearly a year since I last blogged anything here. So as the end of that year approaches, it seemed an appropriate time to review how things have changed, and where I am.

In hindsight, looking back at my last post, it get the impression I was trying to reach a conclusion that wasn’t there to be had. It feels like I wanted to tie up a whole load of loose ends, put them behind me, and move on. In hindsight that was probably wishful thinking, probably a little naïve, and maybe even self-deceiving.

In many senses I don’t think that the last 12 months have moved me on very much at all. I haven’t felt like things have fallen into place. I haven’t experienced wide vistas opening out before me. If anything it’s been a cloudy and fuzzy year, one where I’ve been somewhat numb and distant from any idea of faith, and one in which I haven’t been that strongly engaged in any kind of searching or understanding.

And yet as I sit here now, thinking back over those twelve months, some things do appear clearer to me.

For one, I think that the conviction of my agnosticism has grown much stronger. As I said at the beginning of the year, that isn’t an “I can’t decide / can’t be bothered” position. It is one of genuinely not knowing. And more to the point, one of not knowing how one could know. When I look around me, and I try to make sense of what we are and where we have come from, the “God” answer no longer seems a viable one. By which I mean I don’t see how it is concretely more viable than many other explanations.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been re-watching the TV series Cosmos, by Carl Sagan. It is really an attempt, from a scientific standpoint, to understand and explain the nature of the cosmos, who we are, and our place within it. To a certain extent it is a product of it’s time (late 1970s), but it still remains relevant. I remember watching the series at the age of 16, and being very moved and impressed by. Whilst it was deeply rooted in the scientific approach and world-view, it still allowed room for awe and wonder and – to a certain extent – mystery. I don’t think the fact that I made a Christian commitment a few months after watching this was a coincidence. In many ways I think that commitment was an attempt to make sense of what I felt, and find a home for it.

Watching it back now, those same feelings re-emerged. But this time I was in a different place. Somewhat older, probably somewhat more jaded, less certain of things, and more wary of any certainty when it came to the biggest of questions. And as I engaged with that, I think it has helped me to confirm where I stand. That when it comes down to it I don’t see that there is any way that we, as finite human beings, can ever have definitive answers to those kind of questions, can ever really truly know the reality of the universe, the nature of all things. How there is something rather than nothing, the nature of out consciousness, and whether there is really any ultimate purpose or meaning to this existence? In the past God has been used to provide answers to these dilemmas. And I had brought into that approach. But that no longer seems to work for me – both intellectually and emotionally it feels dishonest, and I can’t stay with it.

So I feel that I now stand somewhat naked in all of this existentialism[1]. And I feel that I should move beyond it – put it behind me and get on with my life. But I struggle to know how to do that. Sometimes I feel I want to cry at the loss of certainties and explanations. That grief that I mentioned last time is still there, still haunts me. This was such a huge part of my life, or at least of the way I understood my life. And as a result it’s absence feels significant and debilitating. I know I need to move on, I know I need to put this behind me and get on. Perhaps the dawning acknowledgement of where I am will act as a spur to do that. Who knows? What I do know is that there isn’t a rewind button, there’s no putting this particular genie back in the bottle. And so I have to move on. This isn’t a place I care to be paused in indefinitely.

[1] And yes I know, all this navel gazing may seem pretentious and unnecessary. But for good or bad these things matter to be, this is who I am, this is where I am.

And This Is Where It Ends / Begins

2010-01-04T09:22:00.000Z

And so here we are now. The story is over. We’ve reached the destination.

If only!

The reason I’ve taken the time to re-tell all this (and if you’ve kept with me through all this, then thank you – you deserve a medal!) is to try and get my head around where I am now, and why I’m here. I still don’t think that’s easy, and if there’s anything that re-telling this story has taught me it’s that trying to comprehend the here-and-now is very hard – it’s often only in hindsight that we can make sense of these things.

All the same, I’m going to try and sum up where I think I am. I’m conscious that the story I’ve relayed may be a little light on specific details – beliefs, events, questions, etc. But hopefully here is where I’ll try and redress some of that.

I really don’t know if I believe in God anymore. There – I’ve said it. Part of me wants to (believe, that is), but a much bigger part of me really doesn’t know. It’s not that I don’t believe in God. That most definitely is not the case - I can't be that categorical. So I guess that makes me Agnostic. But that’s not in a “I can’t decide, or can’t be bothered to think about it” sense. I think my agnosticism is a case of genuinely not knowing. For me, God is the mystery at the heart of our very existence. But it is just that - a mystery. An unknowable mystery (which is why Apophatic theology - or Via Negativa - which attempts to describe God by what he is not, makes a lot of sense to me).

I guess in that sense I’m a believer, in that I have a belief in God. The question seems – to me, at least – to be what we mean when we talk about God. I can’t believe in the personal, friendly chap up-there that I grew up with from my evangelical roots. The one that randomly interferes with his creation, that talks to each one of us, and seems to worry about the pettiest of little things. That kind of God just doesn’t make sense to me. And I guess whilst I’m at it, any kind of being that can in some way be related to by us is something that I find equally difficult to accept.

Now that’s not to say that there may not be some all-powerful, all-knowing source that is behind everything. There may well be. But the key point for me seems to be that such a God would be so far beyond anything that we/I could every understand or appreciate or conceive of, that it seems we could never really know whether there was such a God or not (from another perspective, there is always the sense that God is in us - that is, God is that which is the essence of being human. That is another sense of God that makes sense to me).

So maybe I do believe in God. What I’m not sure about is what I mean by God - the classic God that I’ve grown up with in Church is one that I struggle to make sense of, but I know that isn't the only way of understanding God.

Yet I do still think that there is a place for religion in my life, maybe even Christianity, albeit a somewhat radical interpretation of it. Maybe religion is more like poetry - a creative response to the human condition that seeks to illuminate and guide, to challenge and bring comfort. Religion as art - an attempt to express the inexpressible, to make sense of the incomprehensible, a mirror held up to the diviine. That, to me, seems a noble endeavor worth pursuing.

Now let me get this straight - I never wanted to be here. I never wanted to openly destroy or deny my faith. But I view my current situation much more positively than that. For me, this is the next stage on the journey. I see new vistas opening up ahead of me – new possibilities, new opportunities. In many ways, it feels liberating and freeing to have reached this point. But at the some time, I can’t help but feel a sense of sadness for what I have lost. In some ways I feel like I’m in mourning for what has gone. Probably I’ve gone through some of those classic “stages of grief” (denial, anger, bargaining, depression), but I feel that I’m coming through to a state of acceptance.

Now there may be those reading this who have there own faith, maybe a more traditional Christian one than I feel I have for myself. To you I genuinely wish you good luck. I really don’t want to change what you believe. If your faith works for you, then that is wonderful – treasure it and value it, because that is something very precious. Just because it didn’t work for me doesn’t mean you’re wrong. But it didn’t work for me, and I can’t cling to the pretence that it does. So my journey has to move on. Where it takes me, I really don't know. But move on it must.

To close off for now, this piece by the philosopher Mark Vernon is my current favourite encapsulation of the kind of place where I stand.

Part 7 - Once More Unto The Breech

2010-01-03T22:00:00.001Z

So suddenly here I was, adrift from any kind of church for the first time in a long while. And initially I didn’t have any problem with that at all. A few months later another (admittedly maybe over-hasty) e-mail from myself to my ex-vicar resulted in the rest of the family leaving the church as well. No need to go into the detail, but suffice to say that the experience left a nasty taste with us that has taken a long time to heal.

That summer we went off to Greenbelt as a family, something that we had been doing for a few years (Greenbelt has remained a constant throughout these years). On our return we felt that, after six months or so without church, we really wanted to be part of a worshipping community again. So we started looking around. Friends that we had made at our previous church (he was a Chaplin at the local higher education establishment) had recently moved themselves, for similar reasons to us (they had been part of our homegroup), to another Anglican church a little further from us. So it made sense that we go and try them out. This church was a much more traditional, almost Anglo-Catholic style of Anglican church, what with it’s robed choir, sung psalms and strong use of liturgy. And yet, having now become used to the Anglican experience, this didn’t seem alien, and in many senses was very attractive. And so, principally because of the presence of this other family (who had children similar ages to our own) we decided to make this place our new spiritual home.

Again, we threw ourselves into Church life, although a little less so than before (a definite trend emerging here!). To my later regret, I let myself get flattered into being part of the PCC, and almost instantly regretted that. This was dryer than dry, and whilst I appreciate that the kind of stuff that happens at PCCs has to happen at some level in all churches (I’d had similar roles in both previous churches), this was something that seemed just so divorced from what I thought a life of faith should be about that it became more than just an irrelevance – it was actually a distraction from faith. However, the vicar at our new church was one that really had time for me, and I for him. He was open, willing to listen to my occasional ramblings, and most importantly seemed to appreciate some of the questions, doubts and uncertainties that were still haunting me. Through him, I got to lead a semi-regular reflective service that gave me a real sense of purpose and belonging that much else in that church did not. That seemed to find a niche for a few people, but it never seemed to get any real traction within the church, and once again I felt that what I was wanting from a faith community (although I don’t know I’m too sure what that is) was not what the vast majority there wanted. Once again I was out on the edge, sometimes struggling to hold on.

During this time a couple of things sustained me. The first was a group set up by a friend of mine, Bob, that was an attempt at a kind of church-in-a-pub. Dubbed Edge of Belief, it brought together on a occasional basis a bunch of people who were similarly struggling to find their way through a life of faith, just to chew the cud and listen to each others stories. That tailed off after a few years, and a little while later a much smaller group of friends (primarily instigated by Larry) came together on a similarly ad-hoc basis to do a similar thing. Both of these shared some similar characteristics (which were also something that the earlier homegroup experience also shared); they were free and open opportunities for people to tell their stories and listen to others; they were intrinsically relational, deriving their strength from the human relationships that flowed from that sharing of stories; and they served a particular need at a particular time, their existence never outlasting their usefulness.

Back at Church, I was still trying to make things work out. I’d applied to be a Reader (a lay role, who can preach and lead services), and had got accepted to do that. This was a continuation of previous dalliances with more formal roles in the church – I’d even contemplated a full-time Minister / Vicar role in the past, but never really progressed it. Having been accepted, however, I realised the nature of the role would have left me firmly committed to this parish, to this church. Given that I wasn’t really feeling too at home here, and also given that the nature of may faith really didn’t seem up to the kind of rigorous investigation that such training would inevitably require, I chickened out. I think I used some kind of excuse about work and family commitments, but I think that was probably just that – an excuse. I was really getting to a point where I realised I needed to back right off from any kind of formal church role, because I was really acting out something that wasn’t true to who I was or where I was coming from.

Looking back, I think that this event was maybe the realisation that has brought me to where I am now. But more of that later.

[Next>>> And This Is Where It Ends / Begins]

Part 6 - Changing Sides

2010-01-03T06:51:00.004Z

Events, however, were to take me off in another direction. As a result of some personal issues, we ended up leaving the Baptist church and finding a home in our local Anglican church. It wasn’t a move made lightly, but it was a necessary one.

To be honest, I didn’t know that much about Anglicanism. But what I did know, I particular the breadth of church experience that was held together under it’s roof, led me to think that this would be a good home, given my (then) current position. In fact, the church that we joined wasn’t that different from that Baptist one that we’d left (which, in hindsight, may not have been a good thing). Obviously it had many of the Anglican trimmings, but at it’s heart it shared a similar conservative evangelical world-view that made it relatively easy to fit in. So we settled down to become part of this new community.

And become part of that community we did. In fact, what we found there was the strongest sense of community that we had ever experienced within church. Not necessarily within the broader congregation, but we very quickly became part of a homegroup that, for a number of years, really became church for us. For what we found here was a group of people who had come from a variety of different backgrounds, who brought with them a variety of different experiences, but who - for a time - found themselves in a very similar place. That group, maybe 10 in number, became a real haven for all involved. For three or four years we were on a journey together – we were questioning together, searching together, wondering together, growing together. That group was one where we were all able to open ourselves up, in an environment that was full of love and compassion, that didn’t judge, that accepted who we were and where we'd been. As a result we were able to grow and step out on new paths, seeking out new horizons, knowing that there was support all around. Looking back, it was a very special time – one that we probably only appreciated the significance of in hindsight, but one that had (I think) a profound influence on all those involved.

Yet within that group were probably the seeds of its demise. As I’ve already alluded to, that group became – for most of those involved – our truest experience of church. While the homegroup was part of this church, and we were all members of that church, one of the things that probably united as a group was a certain disaffection with the underlying evangelical ethos that church. With the strength of community that built up within that group, we were in some senses marginalising ourselves from that broader church community.

That wasn’t originally the case, as the sense of dynamism that came from our little community was directed back into the church. Again (as with my experience in the Baptist church) we were trying to instigate change from the inside. We were trying to be an agitating voice of change that (we believed) would be able to open up that church to the broader sense of spirituality that we were discovering. And in so doing we would challenge the underlying conservative evangelical ethos of that church. For a while it seemed that we were succeeding. We instigated a Justice and Peace group. We introduced a more reflective worship experience. We were getting more involved in the broader community. And it seemed we had the support of the church in doing this.

Over time, however, the underlying tensions between the direction that the group was taking, and the general direction that the rest of the church was heading in, started to become more significant. Not long after we had joined the church, the original Vicar left. The new vicar was of a much more charismatic inclination, and was initially supportive of what we were doing. However, over time these tensions became more obvious. It became clear that there were two different directions, and that the direction that our little homegroup was moving in was not one that the bulk of the church was really interested in.

And then two things happened, although I can’t be sure of the sequence. Perhaps it all kind of happened together. Firstly, one by one we were loosing members of the homegroup. Not because of the group itself, but because people were either moving away themselves (in some cases as a direct result of the growth and discovery that they had found within that group), or finding their own personal tension with the church too much. New people came in, but the sense of community, the sense of commonality and shared discoveries was dissipating. Secondly, the seas of my own personal faith journey were becoming more and more choppy. I was increasingly finding that all those questions I now felt able to ask were not getting the answers I thought they needed. I was increasingly feeling more and more uncertain of things, and finding that the number of things I actually believed were getting smaller and smaller. The Post Evangelical had opened up things massively for me, but I was finding it hard to bring things back together in a way that made any sense. I think that this was compounded by being part of a church which was increasingly unable to accommodate the kind of questioning and searching that I was doing. The homegroup had been my source of sustenance during that time, but as that started to fade in its significance, the lack of empathy with the church of which we were a part became more and more profound. Every Sunday I would come back wound up by something or other, and every week I would feel more and more on the edge of things. Eventually, I got so close to the edge that I jumped.

To those who didn’t know me too well, it would have seemed a very sudden move. I was still quite heavily involved in things, and had a reasonably high-profile. But I wasn’t prepared to take the time to slowly bow out, so it all happened a bit suddenly and probably over-dramatically. I’d signaled my leaving in an e-mail to the vicar, in which I outlined my reasons for leaving. This included a long list of the kinds of questions that I was wrestling with and was unable to answer. After a few days, I picked up that the message that was going around was that “Ian has lost his faith”, and that this was why I had left. In a probably over-dramatic flourish, I took it upon myself to circulate my original e-mail to everybody I knew who might be remotely interested, to put my side of the story, and to let them know that I hadn’t lost my faith, I was just trying to re-assess it. Thinking back, I think that the vicar’s assessment might have been closer to the truth than I was prepared to admit at the time. I don’t actually think I had lost my faith, but it might well have been true to say that I was loosing it. I wasn’t ready at that time to let go so totally, but deep down I might have been laying the ground for that.

[Next>>> Part 7 - Once More Unto The Breech]

Part 5 - Revelations In The Post

2010-01-01T07:15:00.003Z

Greenbelt re-appeared back in my view in 1994. Since that initial conversion experience I’d been once (1989), and it had hovered in the back of my consciousness in the intervening years. I don’t remember how the 1994 trip happened, but I went off with Steve for the weekend, and had a great time. The general ethos of Greenbelt really clicked with me, and this felt like a community that was willing to push boundaries and explore.

This seemed to chime with where I was at. Becoming involved in preaching and worship leading had been great, but it meant putting my own faith under the microscope more and more. I was doing some lay-training, was reading around subjects, and whilst this was giving me material for sermons, it was also leaving me with an uneasy feelings – that things maybe weren’t so neatly packaged as I’d have liked, and that there were loose ends that I really didn’t want to start unraveling.

Part of this was probably prompted by a couple of trips to Taize in the late 80s / early 90s, which had done two things – opened my eyes to the validity of a broader Christian experience than the one that I was used to, and made me appreciate silence and simplicity in worship.

Anyway, I decided to go to Greenbelt again in 1995. And this turned out to be one of those pivotal points in my faith journey. Glancing through the programme, I noticed a series of talks with “The Post-Evangelical” label. Looking more closely, I was intrigued with the description of what was being presented, and decided to along and hear Dave Tomlinson, who was giving the talks. I knew nothing about Dave or his back-story at this point in time, but something about what was being described in the programme clicked with me. Well, for me, and for many others, the book that accompanied that series of talks (launched at that Greenbelt) was one that really opened eyes. Suddenly – or so it seemed – we were being given permission to ask all those awkward questions that we’d quashed to the back of our minds. The Post-Evangelical paints a picture of somebody who had been fully-immersed in the evangelical world, and yet who had found it ultimately unfulfilling. And who was now striking out beyond those narrow confines to recognise the vast breadth of experience, both ancient and modern, that was Christian. Yet (and this was – I think – the key factor that made it resonate with me) that experience was always coloured by that founding evangelical experience. This “new” experience was one that, almost by definition, was defined by what it was rejecting.

It was this permission that the book presented which, for me, brought to the surface all sorts of questions. No longer were these doubts and uncertainties things to be ashamed of and hide from. They were seen to be a valid striving and searching, something that would encourage growth and development, not something that would hinder it. This was new and exciting territory.

Of course, the destination when pursuing these questions may be a lot less certain than where I had been heading previously. And I think that was something that I didn’t appreciate until later. In hindsight, the implications of opening this Pandora’s box weren’t clear to me at the time. But once that lid was off, there was no chance of getting it back on again. There was no reverse gear on this journey (however much, in subsequent years, I might have wished for one).

Coming back into regular church life I had a new boldness. I realised that there was a broader church out there, and that the narrow experience that I’d grown up with was not the be-all and end-all. And I tried to incorporate that into what I did in preaching and worship leading – not being overtly challenging or difficult, but trying to broaden things out, introduce a broader palate. And most significantly, I think, becoming less interested in giving answers, and more interested in raising questions.

But through all of this I was still ultimately convinced that my task was – in some small way – to transform that small area of church that I was a part of. It was to take what I’d found, and somehow infuse the church with that spirit. I wasn’t turning my back on it. I genuinely wanted to change things, to make a difference. There was still a future to be had here.

[Next>>> Part 6 - Changing Sides]

Part 4 - I Walk The Line

2009-12-31T09:05:00.002Z

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

2009-12-30T13:06:00.001Z

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...

2009-12-29T07:38:00.002Z

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

2009-12-27T22:07:00.005Z

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?

2009-11-07T19:34:00.000Z

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.

Why the Spiral Staircase?

2009-11-02T20:41:00.000Z

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