Throwing Jam at a Straw Man

This post is something a little different. This post is a blogging first, like on The Great British Bake Off when they announce that never before has anything containing quite so much jam been constructed in the Bake Off tent. Never before in the history of this blog have I felt compelled to write an account of what I should have said to noted visiting poet Paul Muldoon when he asked me what I was going to do later in life to make the world a better place.



Of course I don’t actually wish I’d said anything in particular to Paul Muldoon. It must be awkward for a noted visiting poet, after all, when your audience are invited to a wine reception for the purpose of asking you questions, and you’ve been circulating, chatting, and then you wander up to a group of students who just stare at you in a friendly but essentially uncommunicative manner. Paul Muldoon dealt with this embarrassing situation by informing us that the world was not doing so badly, the future was sure to be an improvement on the present and past, and in fact that, implicitly, such fine young people as ourselves would certainly go on to make the future really excellent indeed. He asked me what I intended to do; perhaps one day I’d be a president or something, he said. He also said he had an eighteen-year-old son, so one can see where the impulse to be hopeful and encouraging about young people’s futures in general might come from. I don’t actually wish that I’d said anything argumentative to Paul Muldoon.

helen lovejoy

After all, you can’t start explaining to a noted visiting poet that there are people of all ages who want to know what they can do that might be useful, meaningful, worthwhile and fulfilling. You can’t observe that our society ought to help and encourage people of any age to switch jobs, try new things, or make unexpected life changes, if and when they want to, of course, rather than assuming that only the comparatively young have such options ahead. You can’t start talking about injustices in recruitment, those situations in which candidates with experience and talent find that their years stand against them. You can’t say that you think the next few leaders and world-changers, the ones whose names might get into the history books, could be people of any decade, let’s say of the Ferocious Fifties, Scintillating Sixties, Sagacious Seventies or Elegant Eighties, likely as not. And you can’t add that anyway the people you tend to admire most are the brave, wise, honourable, faithful, humble people who mostly go unnoticed.


they put out the chairs, according to stereotype; but in fact they do quite a range of other things too

You can’t suggest to a noted visiting poet that among young people there exists the normal range of human activities: some people doing great things, some doing small things with great love, some doing varying things in varying styles, as well as some not able to do much at all in the world’s eyes but no less precious. You can’t start a conversation with a noted visiting poet about disappointments and doubts, or the ways life can be difficult and make people feel like failures, adding that you’re not trying to claim that twenty-somethings struggle any more with these things than anyone else, only that you don’t think anyone should be surprised to find that a little bit of uphill struggle is widespread amongst human experiences. You can’t say that from some points of view distinctions between generations are arbitrary, that struggling or suffering, or laughing about something or being interested in something or passionately espousing some cause or other, are all things that cut across age differences anyway and put quite unlikely people on the same page.

You can’t say to a noted visiting poet that it seems to you that the world is in rather bad shape actually, its oceans choked with plastics, its clean air smothered under pollutants, its ice caps and glaciers melting, its low-lying islands flooded, its people displaced by wars and persecution or trapped in the modern-day slave trade or sick or starving. You can’t point out that in this very city there are more and more people sleeping on the streets. You can’t say that you know all this, and that it’s not because you think it will help in any particular way that you signed up to spend a year writing on (going round the circle) Vladimir Nabokov, Thomas Gray, Philip Larkin, John Clare, T. S. Eliot or J. H. Prynne. You can’t say that you don’t know exactly what you can do, you wish you did know what you might be able to do, and meanwhile unfortunately you can’t avoid being mysteriously fascinated by late modernism, eighteenth-century antiquarianism or how many stressed and unstressed syllables there are in line 4. You can’t say to a noted visiting poet that most probably the students at his reading are the ones who are into poetry, and that future heads of state, at least in their capacity as future heads of state, would be more easily located at the Cambridge Union just across the road.


Thank you, Wikipedia.

You can’t say that while you’re not sure what you can do, you’re quite content with not being a president. You can’t say that you’ve already tried, or thought about trying, to become a poet, an academic, an English language teacher, an amateur evangelist, a retail assistant and a railway station coffee shop employee, not in that order, and that they all had their good points, though all of them were replete with challenges, since you found it super hard to keep small groups of young learners in order, really quite difficult to turn out the perfect cappuccino under time pressure, and completely impossible to persuade the good customers of Boots to take advantage of pre-Christmas offers on Soap and Glory. You can’t say that if these early endeavours are going to lead step by step to any sort of presidency, you can’t imagine what wildly unexpected stages might lie in between. You can’t say that you suppose you ought to be capable of changing the world, but that changing the world is like daily bread: a confident sense of having done the right thing with one day would be quite enough to be going on with. You also can’t say that you’re British and you’d have to become Prime Minister, if anything, and you can’t do that because you just don’t wear the right shoes.


Leopard-print pumps look smarter. Then again, it can’t be denied that Doc Martens are stronger and more stable.

Anyway, as I said, I don’t really wish I’d said all that to Paul Muldoon. It’s a straw man I have in mind really. Still, let’s maybe try to develop some interesting alternatives to the question, So what are you going to do – next, or after this contract, or after you graduate, or whatever. I myself ask this question all the time: sometimes people do have exciting plans to renew their contract or start one somewhere else or apply for PhDs or postdocs or a PGCE or get married or move house or go on holiday or take a week off to relax a little. Generally, I’m just trying to draw you out, and if, instead of telling me what you’re going to do next, you’d care to tell me about your favourite dog, your least favourite pasta dish or your opinion of Jeremy Corbyn, I’d consider myself well answered. But too often when I ask this question I see a flicker of existential dread across the other person’s countenance, as if the careers advisor figure I suddenly resemble is an unappealing vision.


“the careers advisor used to come to school and he’d gather the kids together and he’d say well look I’d advise you to get a career, what more can I say.”

Basically, I’d like to make everyone feel overall approved of just as they are at the moment, trite as that sounds.

Capture 2

“and I said I wanna be a space astronaut and go into outer space and discover things that no-one’s ever discovered, and he said look, you’re British, so scale it down a bit alright?”

But whatever we do, let’s never ever talk as if the weight of expectation of all the ages is all piled on the shoulders of the very young, and as if the slightly less young have somehow missed the boat. Let’s not encourage the generations to look askance at each other, when we can be so much more effective as a united front. Let’s not hang around waiting for one or two of today’s young people to sweep us majestically forward into a glorious future. Let’s not talk to those young people as if they can only do good by doing something world-renowned. Let’s not forget to encourage them in whatever they might have already attempted. And let’s not, in our eagerness to anticipate future success stories, overlook the existing heroes and underappreciated superstars. It would be unfair, unhelpful, and utterly ridiculous.

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In which the Internet hath no irritation like a woman reading a certain kind of Guardian article

The still point of an ever-onwards-rushing world is a passenger on the Arbatska-Pokrovskaya line of the Moscow metro. I’m standing in the middle of the carriage, hastening, let’s say, from a 1-2-1 at the Russian offices of a ball-bearing manufacturer to the little school at Strogino where I’ll spend the rest of the day with my five-year-olds. I’m carrying a heavyish rucksack, my right arm is straight up in the air grasping the overhead rail, and I’m reading, awkwardly both holding the book in my left hand and turning its pages with my left thumb. Someone hops up from a seat and gets out at Smolenskaya; I glance along the carriage and calculate that the other people standing are all able-bodied men in their twenties or thirties. I sit down.


In that moment I know I’ve lost the game. Not the old game that you can only win by not thinking about (I’ve just lost that game though, and so have you). I mean the game that I play everywhere in Russian public places, usually on the approach to Russian doors. Behold, here is a door; behind me is a random person who happens to be a man. If I can hold the door for him I win; if he holds it for me I lose. I always, always lose this game, even when, in some excessively complicated process, the man has to walk all the way around me to get to the door. For some reason in Russia I’m just not allowed to open doors. Also, and maybe I’m wrong, but I suspect that I get slightly higher priority than a man of my age bracket in the hierarchy of who gets to sit down first in the metro, and if I was firm enough to stick to my own bloody-minded principles, I would refuse to sit down until I was the last person standing. But I’m tired, and I’d like to have both hands free for my book, and the idea that being female gives me a right to that seat makes me feel just a little bit less selfish for taking it. I’m worried, though, that this aspect of Moscow is wearing off on me.


I’m going to lay my cards on the table here and say that I don’t think manspreading is a thing. Of course I haven’t lived in London, or in any big city apart from Moscow. Maybe in all other cities in the world, all men really do make a concerted effort to inconvenience female fellow travellers on public transport, and a sensible reaction is hashtag womanspreading with as many Instagram and Twitter pictures as possible by way of all-out war on the patriarchy. Of course people are inconsiderate on public transport, and it’s easy, on public transport, to feel irritated in the extreme. My own pet hate is overly-demonstrative couples; if other people feel similarly infuriated by their male neighbours’ knees, well, I guess we don’t get to choose our knee-jerk reactions.

But this does not mean that some women’s decision to sit with their own knees assertively spread is a startling piece of news worth featuring in a national newspaper, cough cough The Guardian cough cough. ‘We’re finally taking up the space we deserve’. Bring on the hoop skirts and the petticoats and the bustles, then, and let the gentlemen lay their jackets down in the mud as we pass, fire hazards and all. Or, of course, we can opt for the Moscow stereotype; in Moscow the proper stereotypical way to take up metro carriage space is to wear a big down coat and travel with twenty-seven shopper bags, your dog (also wearing a down coat), a few cats in cat carriers, a pot plant or two and an ironing board. Personally, if anyone has longer legs than me, or a dog, pot plant or ironing board, I will definitely insist on them taking the seat with more room, and if the longer legs etc belong to a male traveller I do not conclude that I am therefore suffering from internalized misogyny.

taking up space

Violence perpetrated against women and girls, oppression from families and societies and government, sexual harassment and assault and exploitation of all kinds: these seem to me too important and horrible to risk being diluted in a general concern about whether all women are under threat from all men’s knees. It seems likely that some women struggle with the feeling that society does not want them to occupy the space they occupy, and this shouldn’t be the case, and is a Bad Thing. But the rhetoric of all women against all men means that somewhere out there, I would imagine, is a woman who wondered if there was something wrong with her because she didn’t have a #MeToo story and she was shocked and surprised at the number of her friends posting #MeToo and yet everyone seemed to be saying that all women were supposed to know about this already. And maybe somewhere there’s another woman who posted #MeToo with no background to it, just because she wanted to feel included. And somewhere there’s a woman who posted it and then felt worse than before, watching for notifications that might bring support but never quite bring as much as a person needs. And all over, everywhere, there are women who never go online and never knew and still don’t know.

It’s all too important, it seems to me, to be discussed in the same opinion column as someone’s otherwise understandable annoyance about male posture on public transport. It’s a topic that feels risky for this blog too. I’m more likely than usual to upset someone. Am I allowed to say, purely on the basis of my own private experience of being a woman, or am I not allowed to say, that I don’t take any particular interest in whether a man sits manspreadingly or crosses his legs or stands on his head on the seat or does the splits in the middle of the carriage? But surely there are more important conversation to be having; surely The Guardian could suggest some more productive way for us to help other women than an alternative method of arranging our knees. I want to hear other women’s stories. I do not want other women to assume that I already know the struggles they have faced, just because I am a woman, when actually I do not know and I want to stand with them if I can and if they are willing to share their stories with me. I do not want anyone’s story to be less heard by me because it does not fit exactly with the kinds of stories most widely publicized at the time under the banner this is what all women experience. We’re able to be more nuanced than that. And we’re able to be more nuanced and adopt a power stance at the same time.


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Thirteen things I learned from my childhood church

It has come to my attention that over the last few years I have criticized the church quite a bit.


tumbleweed moment while I think about whether to try to justify myself or just leave the observation lying there.

This is a list of positive lessons I learned from the church I grew up in, which was pretty charismatic and pretty evangelical, and no, I don’t really know what those labels mean, I’m just taking a stab at giving some background. I chose thirteen things because the number thirteen sounded nice in the title. I tried to choose things that I could associate with a specific memory. I prioritized things that might counter either (a) what I’ve previously written about churches or (b) what people probably think charismatic evangelical churches are like. The list is not exhaustive. It is rather too long. Also, probably the best teaching of a child by a church would appear in her behaviour rather than her memories. But I hope this redresses the balance.

One. God likes you. A lot.

Aged twelve, I took some friends to an evangelistic event where we heard that if we only remembered three words from the whole talk (well maybe five), it should be these three (or five): God likes you. A lot.

Later on, I started inviting friends to the sorts of evangelistic events at which Christian speakers laboriously debated the historicity of Christ’s resurrection, or informed all those present that hell was a very bad place. Foolishly, I failed to notice what was missing. It was never going to be good enough to summarise the gospel in four points on a dinner receipt, even if the points were more or less the right points, though that would have been something. It was always going to feel like a waste of time to lose public or private debates to the nearest available atheist, and winning them would have been even worse. Because I’d come from a church that taught that God likes you.

Someone wondered, why didn’t the speaker say ‘love’? Isn’t ‘love’ stronger than ‘like’? But even the best, most beautiful descriptions of a generous love poured out for all humanity would still need this extra observation, that by the way, God likes you, specifically you; enjoys your company, finds you interesting, really is pretty chuffed about those things about you that make you different from everyone else. Hovering over your head is a big blue invisible thumbs-up sign.

This impression has never gone away even in the moments when I realised I had zero theology and/or I had just been taken apart in one of those silly debates.

Two. You can’t take your stuff with you to heaven.

This came from a skit about a chap with big suitcases and a hotel up a long flight of stairs, the chap plaintively saying, “But what about my stuff?” … You can’t take it with you.

Ironically, perhaps, the children’s workers presented this anti-materialist, anti-consumerist message at what must have been the most materially complex kids’ event even known or conceived in the history of kids’ church: ‘Breakfast on the Beach’, which involved filling the whole of the front space of a 1,600-seat former cinema auditorium with sand and decorating it to look like the Bahamas. I remember singing on the beach, eating a fruit kebab, wiggling my toes in the cool sand and learning that I couldn’t take my stuff with me to heaven; I also remember seeing the trucks, or was it skips, full of sand when they’d got it all out again afterwards, and am now completely blown away by the kids’ ministry team of the time.

But there was no irony really. I think the point was that we were not supposed to cling to worldly goods, treasure them up for ourselves, or sink our identity in them, but that, this being the case, there was no need to hate them or shrink away from them either, since any ‘stuff’ that came to hand could be given away, joyfully, extravagantly, comically. If you had not, you trusted that everything would be OK; if you had, you threw a party for everyone else.

Whether I now live in this spirit of generosity is doubtful. But the anti-consumerism I idealise, even if I don’t achieve it, is more like Breakfast on the Beach than John Lennon’s well-known imagining. Imagine no possessions: fine, but look, suppose I happen to already be in possession of some fruit and some skewers and an electric guitar or two and relevant PA equipment and several tons of sand. Why not lavish it on the one group of people least able to appreciate what it cost us. Why not do something stupid, and see how many baskets full of leftovers there are at the end.

If I am now horribly sceptical about Christian speakers who own a private jet, or offerings talks that suggest that the more you give the more you’ll receive back, it is because my church taught me that I shouldn’t run after all these things, that the kingdom of heaven is marvellous beyond calculation, and that you can’t take your stuff there with you.

Three. Jesus’ love is very wonderful.

That was the reason, I suppose, which has only just occurred to me, for Breakfast on the Beach: the original breakfast on the beach, the disciples meeting this mysterious person who turned out to be the risen Jesus.

Jesus was always imminent and immanent and smiling behind everything good. You were always discovering Jesus, like discovering hidden treasure. Jesus’ love was always surprising. It’s so high you can’t get over it, so low you can’t get under it, so wide you can’t get around it. You made these shapes of high and low and wide with your body and you knew you could never reach far enough. Oh wonderful love.

Four. Sing.

Sing the action songs in the children’s meetings (oh wonderful love). Sing with the grown-ups with guitars and drums in the art deco cinema aforementioned, with its curious frieze of naked Greco-Roman warriors round the top of the walls. Sing a whole new set of action songs that came in when you were old enough to help in the children’s meetings instead of attending them. Sing and dance and wave a flag. Sing along to cassette tapes, sing along to a portable CD player like the cool people. Learn four chords on the guitar and sing of his love forever (D, Em, G, A, D, Em, G, A…). Sing for at least half of the Sunday morning meeting, even on an average Sunday when nothing unexpected crops up. Shortly after I first learnt to write, my notebook included a composition called ‘Mettings’ which read, ‘At mettings we sing’. Stop, period, и всё, basta. I am supremely grateful to my church for always worshipping, fervently, joyfully, and not because of routine but because of earnest desire. When I complain about song lyrics or volume or the way a worship time is done, it is in large part because my first church trained me to want to praise him with tambourines and dancing (often literally), and whatever gets in the way of that is endlessly frustrating, even if the problem is essentially just me being pig-headed.

Five. Pray without ceasing.

Here I’m remembering a coloured card prayer diary that I made when I was about nine and failed to successfully use on a regular daily basis. I started daily prayer times later; now, of course, like Emo Philips, I pray a simple prayer every morning, an ecumenical prayer that speaks to the heart of every faith and goes, Lord, please break the laws of the universe for my convenience… just kidding. Most mornings I stare vaguely at my Bible feeling sleepy and uninformed, and I have no idea whether my on-and-off-often-more-off-than-on God-directedness during the day really constitutes a Christian walk.

Laziness and distraction are obviously issues. The point, however, is that my church did not teach prayer as a mechanistic ritual for earning God’s pleasure or assuaging conscience. The church modelled prayer as a basic attitude towards life. Whatever you did yourself, you committed to God and placed under his kingship. Whatever you did for anyone else, you did it, entrusting them to his affection. Prayer was of course something you actively did, loudly and quietly, steadfastly and spontaneously, with more tambourines and more dancing: conscious, deliberate prayer was your first reflex, whether things were going right or wrong. But prayer was also the background to everything, as if you wrote your life on prayer-coloured paper.

Six. Pray in tongues.

I’m grateful to Wikipedia for the information that praying in tongues is also called glossolalia, and that it can be described as “the fluid vocalizing of speech-like syllables that lack any readily comprehended meaning, in some cases as part of religious practice in which it is believed to be a divine language unknown to the speaker”. In my church praying in tongues happened all the time, sometimes into the microphone with a follow-up interpretation according to the instructions of the apostle Paul, more often as a sort of personal letting-rip, sometimes in one of those beautiful moments when the whole room is singing those grammarless, lexisless, unplanned, uncrafted, untinkered-with, unhesitating sounds. Possibly it ought to put me off, discovering that there is some Scientific Explanation for all this and it’s a kind of psychological or sociological quirk, widespread amongst world religions. But I’ve thought about this and I just don’t care. I really don’t give a [however you choose to round off this clause]: it’s jolly useful to be able to pray in tongues when you want to pray but all your English sounds weird and stilted or just won’t form itself into prayer at all, and one can always say, following the advice of Mike Pilavachi, if this is gobbledygook, let it be gobbledygook for you, Lord. It’s pretty ace gobbledygook and I’m grateful for it even if that’s all it is – much more grateful than I am to Wikipedia.

Seven. Ask for more.

At some point in the nineties, along came the Toronto Blessing with an awful lot of laughing and crying and sitting around soaking up God’s love. This could be everything from brilliant fun to exceedingly annoying: when a visiting speaker gets up to preach, and then starts laughing, and can’t stop, and keeps laughing, and keeps on until half the church is laughing (the other half probably very perplexed and impatient), and still keeps on laughing and then says “More, Lord!” – well, one listening child thought “No! No more! This was quite enough already…”

Having now grown up, and having tried out all extremes of involvement in and detachment from the laughing and crying and falling over, I still think that God is not a God of disorder but a God of peace, that on the whole preachers should get on with preaching something, and that those people should be honoured and appreciated who are never going to laugh or cry or fall over and may be standing around in that kind of meeting feeling very alienated indeed.

At the same time, I don’t wish to shake off the sense of excitement when you think, wait, there is more than this, there is more to God or more to the truth or more to this person or situation than I realised before. It’s a good thing to never stop learning. It is a great thing to get to know the love that surpasses knowledge, whether you do it by sitting on the floor laughing for hours or in some more Britishly conventional way. I do think it’s good to ask for more.

Eight. When making a cheese and tomato sandwich, it’s best to cut the cheese and tomato in thin slices rather than big chunks.

Yes, I am literally thinking of a 9-11s meeting (the subdivisions of our kids’ groups had excellent names in those days) in which two children’s workers each made a cheese and tomato sandwich, and one of them cut everything neatly and made a nice sandwich, and the other cut everything any old how and made a weird sandwich. The moral of the story, if I remember rightly, was something about following instructions. To the casual observer, perhaps, charismatic Christianity might seem to be all about hyped-up emotion, sensationalism and spontaneous impulses. And yet, backstage, charismatic Christian children’s workers were teaching us to be reasonable and rational, to use common sense and to learn from the experience of those wiser than ourselves. Maybe you felt led to make a cheese sandwich, but you made it according to logic and tradition like a well-equipped and skilful sandwich-maker. Also, because you’d done Prophetic Training, you only made the cheese sandwich if on careful consideration it appeared to be Strengthening Encouraging and Comforting, and if it aligned with what you knew already from studying the Bible, and if, obviously, it did not mention Mates Dates or Babies. Reasonableness, you see. (Spoiler: most actual cheese sandwiches pass these tests.)

Nine. Be careful about showing your bra straps.

OK, OK, I put this one in deliberately to shock and annoy people. Well-adjusted liberal-minded folk tend to get twitchy if you describe how once or twice the youth group would be divided into boys’ and girls’ groups to talk about Relationships and related matters, including the vexed question of, um, dressing modestly. It sounds like a double standard, policing girls’ bodies, teaching them to feel shame, squashing young women beneath the ugly heel of the patriarchy. Well… It wasn’t. Sorry. At least, from my personal point of view as a girl in the youth group at the time, there are a couple of glaring reasons why this was not the case.

For one, in our church it was not possible to take a step in any direction without tripping over a fabulous female role model. Women were praying and preaching and prophesying, women were belting into the microphone, magically keeping the church running smoothly as an organization, caring for people wisely, leading, guiding, speaking, running the soup kitchen and the prison ministry, taking off to do development work in distant corners of the globe, using their creativity and intelligence and strength and confidence and even occasionally hosting stereotypical Ladies’ Days with continental breakfasts for those who enjoyed that kind of thing.

For another, the implicit message the charismatic church constantly gives you about your body is that you are to use it. Or rather, you are free to use it, in whatever way you can or find helpful. Raise your arms, stamp and shout, hop around for joy as gracelessly as you choose, lay your hands on people when you pray for them, lower them gently to the ground if they happen to fall over in the process. Dip your feet in paint and walk around on the map of Britain and then someone will wash your feet. Huddle like penguins if anyone needs to be encouraged or empowered, and if you can’t lay hands on the person in the middle, then lay hands on the person laying hands on them. Dance in the worship time, dance on stage, dance at the back where no-one can see except Jesus, dance in the street, dance in your kitchen at home. Speedily reassure anyone who really isn’t into dancing that the whole dancing thing is not mandatory and that worshipfully sitting on a chair is in no way less valid…

So when the youth leader advises you to dress in such a way as not to cause your brother to stumble, the context is your worth, embodied worth, responsibility and dignity as an equal member of Christ’s body who has important things to be getting on with. It was about respect for yourself and kindness towards others, about being free from the pressure of our peers and the fashion industry to look or act in any particular way. It was one fairly trivial side note in a larger message about growing up with a sense of authority and purpose and freedom from any expectations that society in general might be throwing at us along the way.

Ten. I’d far rather be happy than right any day.

Remember when people started saying that the pearly orbs appearing in digital photos of twilit youth services were actually angels? There was some kind of justification about wheels within wheels… wheel shapes, you know… they did look beautiful, those photos. Half of my small readership are now saying gosh, this church was even weirder than we thought. I hasten to clarify that we didn’t think the digital photo blobs were angels for very long…

I’d far rather be happy than right any day. This is (a) a quotation from Douglas Adams and (b) not entirely accurate. I would always get a kick out of being right; less egotistically, it is obviously important to seek and speak out for the truth. So the question is how and where to draw the line between honest, honourable pursuit of truth on the one hand, and, on the other, a smug, narrow, destructive obsession with currently accepted conventions and jargon. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition; everyone expects the theological thought police if the church culture seems to prioritize being ‘sound’ over being who you are. My church, it seems to me, did not do this: a little bit of muddle (look! angels!) was considered pretty much par for the course and something for the pastoral and teaching team to navigate thoughtfully, prioritising people, making sure above all that they knew they were loved. ‘Truth is a person and his name is Jesus’: truth started off with knowing God, each of us and all together, and one could move on to being right about things as a still important but sort of secondary part of the process of being a church.

Eleven. The Father really loves you.

I may have rather implied this already. But we did keep coming back to it. Did you know that he loves you? He loves you. Oh yes he does. Try it with all the different emphases. He LOVES you. HE loves you. He loves YOU. Helovesyouhelovesyouhelovesyouhelovesyouhelovesyouhelovesyou. He loves you yeah yeah yeah. He loves us oh how he loves us. Oh wonderful love.

Twelve. This is the body of Christ, broken for you.

I would pretty soon be out of my depth if I tried to dive into eucharistic theology or whatever it ought to be called. We were a charismatic evangelical former house church, and we simply called it “breaking bread”, and it was quite low-key and I wouldn’t want to suggest that we did it the only right way. But the way you break bread as a child, I’m sure, stays with you. To me, on an emotional level, it seems terribly important that we did not take a ready-divided bit of bread but actually broke it off ourselves, sometimes after the leader of the meeting had, while reading a relevant Scripture passage, torn the whole loaf in two. You see and feel it. You remember that his body was broken. You remember that it was broken for you. And then the cup of wine is a shared cup, the blood of one man that is life for all. I can’t explain it, but I’m sure I knew it on some level as soon as I was old enough to have the bread, which was somewhat before I was old enough to have the wine.

Thirteen. God loves everybody.

Yeah he does.

gods love

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