Last night, I joined a church for the first time ever...

I've been a part of three churches in my life previously. Two were tagging along with my parents, and one I was paid to be at. But last night, of my own volition, I walked into a church (sunny), partook of the service (enjoyable), talked with people (pleasant) and drank orange squash (strong).

It was odd being at a church where I didn't know everyone. Where I didn't have to do anything, but sit and stand and worship and wonder. Where there was no pressure to do anything in particular, just be me, and allow God to influence the person that I am.

We were a rag tag bunch of followers last night. There were a couple of folks in wheelchairs. There were people who talked during some of the songs. There were a few music-based mishaps. There was me and my short attention span. But at the crux of it, we were church, all trying to follow Jesus in the best way we know how.

I'm glad I can be church with these people.

Elephants

Yesterday, I saw some elephants. I say 'saw,' I mean, took a trunk in my hand, walked about 200 metres with them and fed them. They're incredible beasts. As I lead the elephant down the path, I remember thinking: 'This trunk could kill me,' which, it must be said, is not the most reassuring thought ever.

We took them to a small forest clearing, and there they were asked to show us certain 'natural' behaviours, like kneeling (for drinking, and digging up roots), blowing (for... good question. Someone did tell us, and I'm sure it's very useful...), and a violent shaking of the head (for cooling down, or getting rid of flies. Apparently.)

The elephants were rewarded with food, and then we were given a chance of a close up. The elephants responded to every order their trainers gave - to open their mouth, lift up their foot, wave their trunk, etc., and it was all rewarded with food.

But I felt uncomfortable.

It all felt a bit like a performing circus. Seeing animals with such majesty and power, yet as tame as your household dog made me feel dirty inside. Of course, the elephants are well treated and fed, and given as much space as possible. But it all felt a bit tawdry and shallow, witnessing elephants given wood pellets as a rewarding for flapping their ears.

They were meant for more than this.

In the same way, we're meant for more than living life and performing tricks when it seems expedient to do so. We were created with such potential, and yet, we sink into obscurity because we don't get shot down so easy then.

There's a band called [dweeb] who are breaking up. They've been around the (Christian) music scene for about 10 years now, but I've never really got into them. In a conversation about them last night, I was pretty scathing about their music and their impact. But, for 10 years, they've endeavoured to stick their head above the parapet and do something good. How can I, as a mediocre, as yet unknown, wannabe musician/comedian/theologian, shoot down an artist because they tried?

Of course, it helps if that effort is coupled with skill - but when we live a life trying to keep our nose (or trunk) clean and not getting in anyone's way, we fail to live up to our potential.

So maybe, as I've documented before, going home will be the best possible thing. Maybe our music will start to get out there, when we actually come together to write stuff and gig. Maybe I'll do some open mic nights and try out some jokes on people. Maybe I'll write a book, preach sermons, help people understand God's love in practical ways.

But I won't know, unless I try.

I Have A Dream...

I have reached a point in my life that I think most, but not all, men in this country go through. It's a difficult period. It can happen at any time, but usually is most at the fore in the average male around the age of 30. I'm obviously an early developer, but it's a serious issue that the less fair sex face. In fact, I would probably go as far as saying that this state of mind can be the catalyst for a great deal of mid-life crises. It's rarely talked about, and there is something of a taboo about the subject. Ladies, your gentlemen friends may be suffering in silence, and I won't stand for it any longer. It needs to be brought to the light, and I am willing to be the one to bear this burden. Here goes:

I will never be a professional footballer.

Never will I prowl the wing at packed stadia up and down the country, nor will I be sworn at with increasing vehemence as I don't kick the ball right.

I won't ever be able to use my celebration (well rehearsed and practiced since childhood) for THAT winning goal, or any goal for that matter.

I won't be able to talk about how "at the end of day, we got the three points, and that's what matters. We-gave-110%, couldn't-ask-for-more, dodgy-offside-call-but-ref-does-a-hard-job, I-just-love-my-football."

I shall never be lampooned in the national press for not running fast enough or running too fast or being in the wrong place or being in the right place and failing to do anything about it.

At the grand old age of 23, I shall hang up my hypothetical signature series boots and call it a day on pretending to still have a chance at being a professional footballer. I will never be talent spotted, mainly because I have no talent. I have matured significantly enough to see it is just a pipe dream, a whimsical thought and a pointless charade. It is merely a chasing after the wind.

Now, where did I put my guitar? You don't need talent to be a rock star, right?

A Perfect Specimen

From Jesus Needs New PR.

Any thoughts?

As Funny As Cancer

Early today, if you had spied me walking along my road towards Waitrose, you would have seen me pause for a moment, make a fist with my right hand, and punch the palm of my left before pressing on with my journey and wondering whether to blog about that moment.

Y'see, in that moment, I had a regret.

The best part of 8 years ago, I said something stupid. And it's one of the things that whenever I remember the moment, I go all cold inside, and wish the earth would swallow me up. Even now, 8 years on. I doubt anyone else remembers it. I've apologised for it, and I have kicked myself - literally and metaphorically - for it many times since.

I suppose I wish the humorous pay-off to all of this was something merely inane and pointless. It's not. It was a joke about cancer on the day of a friend's relative's funeral. Who had died of cancer. To my friend's face. Which, as you can probably imagine, is about as funny as... cancer.

I can't even remember particularly why I did it. I could claim I was trying to lighten the mood (with jokes about cancer?! Yes, that's HOT stuff, right there) but I probably wasn't. I'm fairly sure I was in the eternal pursuit of a laugh, which is something that has trailed me through me life. Presentations? Sermons? This blog? All done for laughs.

Yesterday, at a birthday party with old friends who have seen me go from cute little nerdy kid to the person I am today (make your own jokes...), I was asked several times what the future held in store for me. I struggled, on every occasion, not to make light of their concern. They genuinely wanted to know how to help, how to pray, what they could do. All I could do was respond with sardonic grunts and jokes about becoming homeless.

Which, when I think about it, is kinda funny. Well, funnier than cancer, anyway.

Grand Designs

In the last two months I’ve had three interviews. I’ve travelled up and down the country, lugging bags and suits onto a variety of trains. I’ve got into cars with people I do not know. I’ve stayed in strangers’ houses, eaten strangers’ food, shaken strangers’ hands and said with a knowing smile and a nervous laugh; “I hope we meet again.” I’ve explored churches and parishes and cities. I’ve spoken to any number of church leaders, be they ordained, or skilled in making cakes. I’ve thanked churchwardens and youth groups. I’ve met open charismatics, closet charismatics, male vicars and female vicars. I’ve made videos and nailed presentations. I’ve had hard questions and easy questions. I’ve answered questions about sexuality, sexual relationships, and gender issues. I’ve been able to smile and laugh and make mistakes and worry about them endlessly at night. I’ve said goodbye to interview panels and administrators. I’ve spent time in pubs and cafes, I’ve caught buses and I’ve waited for trains.

And I’ve had three ‘phone calls saying that I didn’t get the job.

And somewhere, in amongst all that, is a grand plan of God’s own design, that will end me up in the right place.

As long as that right place is at home, scrounging off my mother.

Influenced by the ever-linking and -delightful Phil Groom, I read a poem today on another blog. I don't know where he finds these things, but I shan't complain. It's a particularly unique take on being a vicar, and I enjoyed it a lot. Find it here.

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The Christian New Media Awards have rolled around again. If you've a blog, enter. Why not, it might be fun?

I promise I won't whinge this time.