A Matter Of Faith

As a consequence of going Israeli dancing last weekend Polly and I found ourselves addressing the congregation of Holy Trinity, Wallington, this Sunday. We had been chatting to Stephen, the vicar, between expositions on dance in Leviticus, and had inadvertently reminded him of our existence. He asked us if we would be prepared to be interviewed during the service about our faith. Polly said yes, totally ignoring the little strangling noises issuing from me and the frantic shaking of my head that was going on behind the vicar's back. With malicious glee she committed us. Only later did she realise that she too would have to speak.

Sunday arrived and we arrived at the church as a family only a few minutes late. Before I had even had time to warm myself next to one of the iron radiators we were being invited to the front to address the congregation.

I have been in this situation many times in the past but not for a few years. A hundred or more faces watched me expectantly. I flicked the controller on my wheelchair and levitated into the air. That was better, I could now see and be seen. It also killed a few seconds. Polly took the microphone and spoke with her usual wit and assurance about her faith and how it enabled her to cope with some of the extremely harrowing situations she faces with her work as a clown doctor. All well and good but it was upping the bar and I was acutely aware that anything I said was going to sound trite or glib or worse, hypocritical.

All to soon Polly finished her bit and Stephen turned his vicarly attention to me. After giving the congregation a brief run down on my writing and theatre background and doing a great job plugging this blog he asked me what my faith meant to me. Good question. It was one of those situations when you open your mouth to talk and haven't got a clue what's going to come out.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time you will be aware that if Jesus wants me for a sunbeam then he has grossly misjudged the weather. I admitted that I had 'issues' with God, which seemed to strike a chord with a significant number of those listening judging from the wry chuckle that followed. I went on to talk a little about the many good things in my life and left it to them to decide whether I attributed those to my faith or not. I did say that my faith has formed the backdrop to my life for the last 35 years or so, which however I feel about that sometimes, is absolutely true.

As ever when I raise matters of faith on this blog I am acutely aware that I am disappointing or disillusioning many of my readers, especially my many Christian friends who would, no doubt, prefer something more unequivocal from me. Equally I know for a fact that a huge number of my readers are atheist and hold no truck whatsoever with anything pertaining to faith. They say you can't please all of the people all of the time, but it would be nice to please a few people some of the time. So, for the tiny number of readers who lack certainty in matters of personal faith, this post is for you. As you dangle over the precipice of uncertainty you can at least be comforted by the knowledge that somewhere nearby I am hanging on grimly with you. Not a great deal of comfort, I realise, but at least we're not alone.

Until next time.

Why I Cried On Sunday

You would think that being severely disabled would be enough, but, oh no, on top of FSH MD you can still get all the coughs, colds, infections and allergies that everybody else get to endure. Normally that's just life but occasionally circumstances combine to present you with a very particular situation as occurred on Sunday.

Friends Stewart and Catherine had asked Polly and me to be godparents to their youngest son, Elliot. Wonderful, we were thrilled to be asked and the service was held at our church, Holy Trinity in Wallington on Sunday.

Holy Trinity is one of those Victorian edifices that stands, complete with steeple, on the approach to Wallington and has served the local community for generations. In recent years the multi-purpose, all singing all dancing Trinity Centre has been artfully integrated into the fabric of the structure providing a hall and function rooms as well a kitchen to further serve the people of Wallington. On Sunday a couple of hundred people gathered for the morning service, supplemented by friends and family of Stewart and Cath because the Christening would form part of the service, and sang hymns and worship songs and generally behaved in a typically Anglicany manner.

Stewart and I had placed ramps in position to enable me to get up on to the raised dais. When the time came for the Christening I ascended the ramps and took up my godfatherly position with Polly and the others in the party. We promised to raise Elliot in the Christian faith and on cue he began to cry. Stephen, the vicar, took Elliot to the font and splashed him in an appropriately holy way. Elliot was so surprised he forgot to cry and spent the rest of the ceremony tracking rivulets of water as they dripped from his head.

The problem started for me when the Christening was over and I had to negotiate the ramp again. There is something in the air within the church that makes my eyes run. I don't know if it is the dust, the polish or pollen from the flower displays. It may well be a combination of all three; I don't know. What I do know is that by the end of the ceremony my eyes were streaming so much so that I could hardly see. The ramp was a complete watery blur as I gingerly crept towards it trying to align my wheels so as to slot into each of the 8 inch wide channels. 200 blurry faces watched patiently as I edged forward, tears streaming down my cheeks, hoping I had remembered exactly where each channel was placed. I was so busy trying to line up with the ramp that, when I was finally descending it, I barely remembered to brace myself in time to prevent myself from being pivoted forward and out of the wheelchair in an undignified heap onto the transept in front of the pews. By the time I was back in my place I could barely see anything nor hear anything other than the pounding of my heart.

When the next hymn started I made my way down the aisle, negotiating fellow wheelchair users and baby buggies, and out into the clearer air of the Trinity Centre. The sweet, elderly lady on door duty looked at me aghast. To her I looked like a weeping member of the congregation, fleeing the service in tears. She must have presumed that I was overwhelmed by the awesome responsibility of my godfatherly duties, or so moved by singing about mountains being laid low or what have you, that I was having an emotional and spiritual breakdown. She immediately placed a hand on my shoulder and told me everything would be all right. I assured her it would be and she reluctantly let me go without counselling.

Later, after the service, several people asked me if I was okay and remarked that I looked rather red and flushed. I'm sure I did, though whether from an allergic reaction or embarrassment I couldn't tell you.

The rest of the day was lovely. We had a buffet lunch together and Elliot, slightly bemused, is now presumably safe in terms of his immortal soul until such times that he is old enough to take responsibility for it himself. Maybe, when he is older, he will be told how his godfather was moved to tears on the occasion of his baptism. Be happy, Elliot, God bless.

Sweeping The Playground

Last Monday Polly and I were invited to take part in the Daffodil day celebration at Westminster Central Hall in London. The theme was The Earth Is The Lords and about 2000 people attended. Polly performed the poem Red Shift and a sketch called Sweeping The Playground. Both pieces went down really well, I'm pleased to say. A few people have asked about the scripts.

Sweeping The Playground came from the show Hopes And Dreams and was a 2 hander. We converted it to a monologue for this event. Before anyone accuses me of some kind of theological inconsistency I'm absolutely happy to accept that Genesis chapter one is a creation myth, and not, as some people bizarrely hold, an accurate and scientific account of the origins of life, the universe and everything. But, as with many myths, there may be truths worth exploring within them.

SWEEPING THE PLAYGROUND

Just look at this mess, honestly, it's enough to make you weep, isn’t it? And as usual it’s down to me, the caretaker, to clear it up, though it doesn’t seem fair to me. Not that fair comes in to it. I am sweeping one corner of the greatest act of concentrated creativity ever… ever created.

I was there right at the beginning you know. “And God created the heavens and the earth.” Wallop. There I was. It caught me quite by surprise I can tell you. One moment nothing, the next instant ‘Zap!’ you’re stretching your wings and forming a choir. Quite disconcerting I can tell you.

I tried to have a word with the creator, but the Creator, he was already on to other things. He was busy creating the universe. I shouted after him, “it doesn’t have to be so big.” But did he listen? Did he buffalo. I thought to myself, anything this vast and intricate is going to be a nightmare to maintain. I’d better grab a broom.

I can’t you tell how much there is to keep clean. In this galaxy alone there are one hundred billion stars. I told him that he was going over the top. Who needs a hundred billion stars? But he didn’t stop there, oh no. There are billions of galaxies, each one as unique as a snowflake. This was creativity in abundance. A celebration of imagination.

Eventually, when he’d finished painting with broad strokes, so to speak, he got down to detail. Planets and moons and such like. I noticed he paid attention to one planet in particular. A blue green one whipped with white clouds and as beautiful as anything you’re ever likely to see. I could tell he intended this one to be special.

I pointed out to him that he was spending too much time in one place. When you’re painting on a canvas the size of the universe no one is going to appreciate the minutiae. God just smiled. A smile on the face of God is like… is like… the first day of a long holiday. Or it’s a cool breeze on a hot day. It’s like a hot drink after playing in the snow

Yes. When God smiles you know everything is going to be perfect. When God looked at planet earth he smiled.

He loved it. I could tell. He made oceans and he made the land. The oceans he filled with fish and creatures of the deep and the land he sculpted with mountains and plains and valleys. The land was lush with grasses and flowers. Forests quilted the landscape. Creatures walked, crawled and slithered everywhere.

I watched the Creator build his kingdom, though he was less like an architect and more like a child at play. There was joy in his invention.

Then when everything was perfect he reached out and took up a handful of dust from the ground which he shaped and moulded. A head, two arms, legs. Then God breathed his Spirit into the dust and man became alive.

And I thought ‘uh oh, here’s trouble.’ Later, when it had all gone pear shaped, I asked him why he had put such a creature as man into his perfect kingdom.

He showed me the universe again. The countless galaxies, the billions and trillions of stars tied up with cosmic string. Then he showed me man again, puny and imperfect man. And there, uniquely, I saw the divine spark that God had breathed into him at the moment of his creation.

Oh, and he hasn’t ruined everything. There’s still hope. Lots of it. You see the Creator doesn’t see humans as just another cog in the machinery of his universe. He sees them as part of the process of creation. They’re not here to just decorate the kingdom like pretty peacocks. (Which is fortunate really 'cos most of the ones I’ve seen couldn’t decorate a living room with a can of paint and some self-adhesive wall paper. )

My job is just to sweep up, but they can actually build the kingdom of God here on earth.
But it made me think why did God make all this for them? It’s incredible.

But then, ask yourself this, why does any father build anything, if not for his children?

Stephen Deal, 1998

The Holy Handkerchief

You will probably have surmised by now that I have a certain degree of cynicism regarding the whole spiritual healing malarkey. (A hint may be me using words like malarkey.) Why, you may be wondering, have I dedicated some 5000 words to the subject?

A few weeks ago I received an email from Barefoot Brian telling of an experience he had had at a meeting in Dudley (in the UK). Brian had been at a meeting led by speaker Marc Dupont, a guy who had been heavily involved with the whole Toronto Blessing phenomena of a few years back. During the course of the meeting Brian felt strongly led to pray for me and get a piece of cloth blessed for me with healing in mind. As it happened Brian had a clean hanky on him and after a bit of 'should he, shouldn't he`, he succeeded in tracking down Marc Dupont and (in Brian's telling) virtually forced the poor, exhausted man to pray over it. He wrote to ask me if I would receive this 'holy hanky` in the spirit it was intended, and asked “Do you want to be healed?”

As you might imagine this left me with something of a dilemma. You now know my history (or some of it) with such things and the idea of a 'prayer handkerchief`, particularly the light of the Duane Falcello monologue, made me smile. However, I like and respect Brian. I'm known him for 30 years, from a time when we both helped run Christian youth camps at Hill House in Somerset. Although on the charismatic/evangelical wing of the church, Brian falls well within the bell-curve of normality for Christians as a whole, and is someone whose judgement I'd trust. So first, let's answer the question he asked: do I want to be healed?

Yes. Not because I don't value who I am, or appreciate how my disability has shaped my personality and what I've done and achieved in my life. I don't wish I'd never been born with Muscular Dystrophy because without it I would never have done the things I've done, met the people I've met, or had the children I've had. Dystrophy has been both a curse and a blessing for me But if someone (God?) could snap their cosmic fingers and relieve me of its burden, restoring the strength to my limbs, I'd forsake the advantages of a Blue Badge in a second. I'm tired of being tired, tired of aching and tired of feeling helpless to stop the further slide in my condition. So yes, I'd like very much to be healed. That said...

Do I believe God can heal me? Short answer: no. Longer answer: may be, it depends what you mean by healed.

Do I believe that an entity capable of creating a universe, establishing the laws of physics so that M=MC2, micro-manages his creation to such an extent that he would physically alter my DNA to bring about a cure for a congenital condition? And that if he did, he would focus his attention on me, rather than the countless other suffering souls in his creation? Would a supreme being, who could with a mere thought banish the spectre of, say, AIDS from the planet by making a minute alteration to a simple virus, rather turn his attention on me, a relatively wealthy (compared to many on this planet) individual. What kind of ego would I need to believe that? But supposing he did. Suppose this omniscient being healed me, would that be a sign of love or a slap in the face for the countless millions of faithful Christians who, through out the ages, prayed for similar blessings and not been heard? Why me and not them? Would God be so arbitrary?

I have a friend, Karen, who I've mentioned in this blog before, and to whom I owe a great debt, for it was she who introduced me to Polly, all those years ago. Karen, and her husband Gareth, have three children, the youngest, Tristan, was born within a couple of weeks of my eldest, Matty. Tristan, for no apparent reason, was born devastatingly handicapped. At nearly 9 years old he can not feed himself, nor sit unsupported. He will never walk and will forever be utterly dependent on those who love him. Fortunately there are many who do. Tristan is a beautiful boy. He has black hair and amazing eyes with lashes to die for. He sits engrossed for hours with something as simple as a tiny red plastic tennis racket. When I last saw him he was entranced with the lights on the controller of my wheelchair, gurgling with happiness when I made them flash. How could I expect God to heal me and not Tristan? And if he does, then what about my brother, or Blake or Dani or many others reading this? Why should God heal one but leave others untouched? Surely if God has the power to heal then no amount of theological sophistry can justify him healing me over Tristan, hankies not withstanding.

So Brian has wasted his time and his neatly folded square of cotton. Or has he? The first consequence of Brian's act of faith has been this series of posts, and the thousands of people who have read them and been inspired to consider their position on the subject. I, myself, have been forced to think about things I'd long ago put aside. What about the testimony of those with tales of divine healing, what am I to make of those? Rock God's mothers prayer for the healing of a blind friend? Tigger35's experience with autism? And many others known to us individually. The problem, as I see it, is that anecdotal evidence is not truly evidence, however sincere the source. Many of us have heard stories of miraculous healing that defy rational explanation often from impeccable sources. Unfortunately none of them are absolutely verifiable. I've looked for a verifiable account of a miracle healing of a genetic condition like Muscular Dystrophy, believe me, I've looked. It has NEVER happened. If you show me one accredited account, I'll show you a thousand doctors and scientists who doubt it.

But who is to say God has to act in a supernatural manner? If not for the 'miracle' of Penicillin and its anti-bacterial descendants I would long ago have died of pneumonia. Even as I write this I am looking at technological solutions to some of the problems I'm having. The probability is that with the right help my life can be greatly enhanced. Brian and his hanky have directly inspired me to talk openly and frankly about spiritual matters both online and in real life. I've had to confront some uncomfortable truths regarding my relationship with a deity who it sometimes seems to have abandoned me. (Or me him. We're still arguing about the details.)

I have just learned that Brian himself has very recently gone through a serious medical emergency requiring your actual brain surgery. He reports that he is well on the mend I'm glad to say. Did God heal Brian? Well he didn't wag his celestial finger and dissolve the subdural haematoma. Rather Brian was able to access the more statistically reliable NHS and have high quality non-supernatural treatment. Does this mean God was nowhere in this situation? Of course not. Brian, I imagine, credits God with putting all the, doctors, nurses, CT scan operators, and so on in place. And I can not dismiss this as a possibility. It truly is a matter of faith.

By now all my Christian friends, of whom I have many, are sadly rubbing my name out of the Book of Life. But wait! Put away your metaphorical erasures and read on.

I can not quite write God out of my life for one reason. I know his people. For 35 years the church has been part of my life. And despite the odd Morris and strange person who insists on accosting me in public and laying hands on me, they are for the greatest part, wonderful people. Many of the best, most exciting things I've done in my life have been done with, or facilitated by, my brothers and sisters in the church. When I have been at my lowest or sickest, alongside my immediate family, it is my Church family that has been with me. At a time when I hovered between life and death I know that thousands of Christians held me in their thoughts and prayers. The church has often employed me, frequently to poke gentle fun at its beliefs and rituals. And even when the logistics have been massively complicated by inviting me a long, Christian organisations have still taken me to every corner of the country, from Shetland to the Channel Islands.

While I make no claim that Christians have a monopoly on caring, it is my experience that those I know are among the kindest and must loving people you could wish to meet. If the church is the body of Christ then it is my opinion that Christ is worth knowing. While I have reservations about some kind divine plan, that one day will be revealed to me, I make no pretence to understand the mind of God. May be there is a plan. It seems unlikely on the evidence I've observed and experienced but if there is it had better be one heck of a good one to justify all that has gone on. But I'll let others worry about that.

So, to Brian and all my Christian friends, thank you. Thank you for praying and for caring. The very fact you do so gives me hope and lightens the load. And for those reading who take no comfort in divine providence, all I can suggest is that you, like me, look to your friends, your neighbours and your families for that divine spark.

In the meantime, the hanky is in my medicine box. Make of that what you will.

That's the end of this series of posts. Thank you for reading. Comments and discussion welcome. Good bye and keep warm.

Sit Down And Stay Sick

Continuing on from the last two posts, Stand Up And Be Healed and Stand Up And Be Healed (Again), I'll be writing more about my experiences with so called spiritual healing and my resulting ambivalent feelings about the subject. So, if you can stand it, read on.

Some years after the Morris Cerullo incident I was writing material for the theatre company and was still being bombarded with literature from the man offering me access to books with titles like The Financial Breakthrough Bible, God's End-Time Protection Family Power Pact, Is It God's Will To Heal You Today?, Making Possible Your Impossibilities, Reaping Your End-Time Financial Harvest, and Send Me Your Money So You Won't Burn In Hell (okay I made the last one up but the others are genuine). If I made a small donation to his ministry Morris would often offer to send me an especially blessed piece of cloth which he had prayed over with my name and particular need in his heart. I was inspired to write a monologue for actor Kevin Daniel (now Alastair Kevin Daniel) based on Morris and other evangelists who were in the news at the time. Between us we created a character called the Reverend Doctor Duane Falcello (PLC), a charismatic specialist in Fiscal Theology. Much of the routine was lifted directly from the words of Morris and his ilk. Then as various scandals broke about other major American evangelists, I began to believe the subject was beyond satire.

Here's the script. Remember, I wrote this well over 20 years ago when Kevin was merely a child and I had a lot more hair, so be gentle in your criticism. I share it with you now so you get a sense of the ire Morris provoked in me.

DR DUANE FALCELLO PLC

[F.X. The worst chorus you can find (something terribly repetitive, stating something very bland about God, e.g. that He is good and nice, over and over again). Duane, a T.V. evangelist, enters. He picks up a microphone and smiles sincerely. F.X. fades. Duane speaks with a Bible belt American accent.]

I think we'd all like to thank the Cincinnati Salvation Singers for sharing that truly beautiful and memorable melody with us. I do swear that that song could have been composed by King David himself: "Lord, I ain't no descendent of no ape." How true.

Let us just bow our heads and pray that we shall be filled with the spirit that has made America great.

Brothers and Sisters, I am here tonight to ask you to look into the very depths you call your soul. And I want you to ask yourselves: Do I like what you see?

Think about your neighbour: What is he like? What kind of a suit is he wearing? What kind of a person is he? What kind of a human being? What kind of American?

Now I just want you to turn and look at your neighbour. Yes, just look to the person on your left - MADAM I SAID LOOK, DO NOT TOUCH... .WOULD YOU TOUCH THE HAND OF A SINNER? I want you to look at the person on your left. What do you see? Do you see a person who is saved? Or do you see a person who is condemned to the eternal stench of the brimstone fires of torment? Do you see one who is saved? Or do you see a sinner? A communist? A democrat?

Now just look to the person on your right and ask yourself the same thing... Now look to the person behind you... Look to the person in front of you... And look to the person 2 rows down and 5 along... Now look to the person in seat 36, row 15A - YES YOU MADAM - EVERYBODY LOOK AT HER!

Brothers and Sisters, you are looking at a man. A man who has looked into himself and found himself wanting. I found myself wanting a car, a dishwasher, and one of those dinky little doorbells that plays "The Stars And Stripes Forever". In short, good people, I wanted the things of this world, the sins of the flesh.

But now, Brothers and Sisters, I am here tonight to relieve you of your materialism. Look again into your soul. Is it corrupt, evil, a place of darkness that harbours abomination upon abomination? Does it fester with the pus of Satan's greed? Well relieve yourselves brothers and sisters! Squeeze and burst the boil of Beelzebub's hold over you.

Brothers and Sisters, it is my calling, my mission, to lead you along the paths to health and wealth and all the good things the Lord wants for you! Because the Lord doesn't want us to be poor, No Sir! If the Lord had wanted us to be poor would He have given me, his servant, a Cadillac, a swimming pool, and my very own Senator? I hardly think so.

Dear, dear people; do possessions drag you down? Are you weighed down by the love of money? Well I have the answer. Give it to the Lord!

Do you doubt? Do you doubt the Lord can use this poor humble vessel, such as I am, for this most trying of missions? Why only yesterday a poor woman, crippled by worries about money came to me. I prayed over her, and miraculously her tax returns were straightened out. And this happened before a gathering of nearly five hundred certified accountants.

You see, poor and humble as I am, the good Lord can speak through me... and as it happens I can hear Him speaking to me now... He is asking, no, He is pleading that you take that first step towards salvation. Take out your purse, take out your wallet and give it to the Lord. You cannot buy your way into heaven, my friends, but it surely can't hurt, because the Lord loves a happy giver.

“Duane”, I hear you cry. "Duane, how much should I give as my love offering?" Well, I do believe it is the will of the Lord that someone in this auditorium tonight should give not one, not two, not three, but five hundred American dollars.

But listen my children. I too feel led to give. I have here something very precious to me; my very own prayer handkerchief.

[Pulls out of his pocket a brightly spotted handkerchief.]

I have only a few of these specially blessed pieces of spiritual cloth. Only twenty two thousand of them. And I will GIVE them to anyone who gives to the cause of proclaiming God to the heathen Democrats of this fair land. Yes, if you will give unto the Lord a gift of only thirty American dollars, I will give you one of these blessed prayer aids. Please make your cheques payable to the Rev. Dr. Duane Falcello University of Fiscal Theology, PLC.

Good Night. God bless you. And God bless America.

[S.F.X. National Anthem. Duane salutes. Music and lights fade.]

Some years years later Morris Cerullo descended on London amidst a very controversial poster campaign featuring abandoned crutches, sticks and wheelchairs. I was determined to take Kevin to see the origins of Duane in the flesh and so he and I, accompanied by our friend Harvey, travelled to Earls Court to witness the spectacle. Nothing much had changed in the intervening years except, perhaps, the volume of the praise music and the charismatic hysteria surrounding the event. We went through a similar warm up praise session where lots of repetitive songs were sung that juxtaposed lines about 'flowing rivers' and 'eagles wings' with 'valleys', 'thrones on high' and 'eternal hope' in seemingly random combinations. The Spirit was called upon to move among us and encourage us to part with much of our worldly wealth by placing our credit card details into buckets passed along by teams of beaming stewards. Morris regaled us tearfully with a tale of his vision wherein he descended in to hell to witness the eternal suffering of the damned in torment. Fortunately Morris still had his steel toe-capped devil kicking footwear and was prepared to thwart the plans of the evil one on our behalf.

Eventually the healing ministry began. We were called to come forward if we were in need of spiritual, financial or physical healing. Many made their ways to the platform and all the while stewards circled looking for likely candidates. By this stage in my life I was in a manual wheelchair which I had placed between Kevin on one side and Harvey on the other. As people limped, staggered and wheeled forward l stayed with my brakes firmly on. A steward approached me but I refused to make eye contact. He asked Kevin if he would like to bring me to the front to be prayed over. “No thank you,” said Kevin politely. The steward tried Harvey. “He's happy where he is.” explained Harvey. This caused some consternation among the stewards and they gathered in a pack to encircle me. Kevin and Harvey stood with their hands on the wheelchair firmly blocking me in. For a moment I thought it would turn nasty as an increasingly heated argument ensued and Kevin and Harvey were told they were thwarting God's plan for me and condemning their poor crippled friend to a life of suffering. “We'll take that chance,” said Harvey, sweetly.

At last, and with much sadness at my intransigence in the face of Morris curing people left, right and centre of bad backs, shortened legs, hearing loss and financial insecurity, they left us to our Godless selves. Elsewhere in the congregation other more belligerent disabled protesters were being hauled away as quietly as possible out of the cavernous meeting hall. Meanwhile on stage people threw a way their blood pressure tablets and epilepsy medication in the sure knowledge of having been healed.

The three of us slipped away soon after. As we left we saw a BBC camera crew and Joan Bakewell interviewing an agitated man in a wheelchair who had been forcibly ejected from the meeting. Kevin said to me quietly, as we headed for the presumably much less needed Disabled parking area, “You could always give it a go if you want. It's not too late to go back in.” “No thanks,” I replied. “I'd rather take my chances with Duane.”

Stand Up And Be Healed (Again)

Well, I've obviously struck a nerve. The Stand Up And Be Healed post has had more than 3,200 hits in less than 24 hours. Presumably a lot of those visitors have been disappointed to find that the post was not prescriptive but rather humorously biographical in nature. Sorry.

So, continuing on the theme of spiritual healing, let me tell you the story of my first proper encounter with the phenomenon. In my late teens I went to see an American evangelist called Dr Morris Cerullo at the Colston Hall in Bristol. I had seen evangelists before, one of my best friends father was one after all, but nothing, nothing at all, had prepared me for Morris. The hall was packed to it's 2000 seat capacity. Thunderously loud praise music played and we were led in an hour of worship by skilled musicians and singers, fronted by a slickly professional master of ceremonies. The audience was whipped into a charismatic frenzy until finally Morris Cerullo himself came on to the stage. Morris shouted a series of apparently rhetorical questions. Did we LOVE God? Yes! Did God LOVE us? Yes! How much? Er... Quite a lot! How much? Lots and Lots! Being British it took Morris a while to wind us up to the state he wanted us in. Who is king? God Almighty! Who's his son? Jesus! What did Jesus do for us? He died for us! What did JESUS give to us? Eternal life! (We were getting the hang of this.) What did Jesus give for us? Everything! What did Jesus GIVE for us? Everything! WHAT did JESUS give for US? EVERYTHING! What must we give back to him? EVERYTHING! What MUST we give back to him? EVERYTHING!... Let us take up a collection. The stewards will pass among you with the collection buckets.

The Spirit of the Lord descended on Morris and told him that there were people in the congregation who were being led to give £100. . . No! £500. . . No'. . . £1000. Yes that was it. The Spirit was saying there were 3. . . 7. . . no. . . 11 people here today that the Lord was especially blessing by receiving their cheques (made out to Morris Cerullo Inc) for the holy sum of £1000. The buckets passed among us for the next 20 minutes until Morris was satisfied that we had expressed sufficient gratitude to God for his lowly servant.

Next came the address. We sat mesmerized as Morris regaled us with stories of how as a young Jewish boy he had been taken up and shown around heaven before being commissioned to go out and tell the world about Jesus. Morris was a man on a mission and that mission was to kick Satan's bottom. Satan, Morris told us was at the heart of the worlds woes. Only Satan had been defeated by Christ on the cross and now he was due a good kicking and Morris had his steel toe-capped devil kicking footwear on. Satan manifested his evil through sickness and disease – were we going to allow that? NO!

We were invited to stand and pray. Morris led us in a lengthy exhortation to God to bring about healing as a way of showing Satan who was boss. A great many hallelujahs later those of us with Satan inflicted infirmaries were invited to approach the stage. People flooded forward, limping and shuffling towards hope. Morris welcomed them all. He questioned them and prayed for them. “Do you want to be healed?” Amen! People were slain in the Spirit right, left and centre, being caught deftly by experienced helpers before they hit the floor. A tumor here, a migraine there. Shortened left legs, aching backs, partial sight, Satan was taking a beating. A few were lifted from their wheelchairs and were encouraged to dance across the stage in defiance of their arthritis. Praise the Lord. The one or two very obviously severely disabled people there never quite made it to the stage I noticed, but were taken aside and prayed for quietly in the corner, separately.

I was watching all this from a position high in the balcony. When Morris had asked us all to stand I had obeyed. But that was more than half an hour ago and my weakened back was aching and my legs were trembling with fatigue. I found myself caught on the horns of a dilemma; I was too self-conscious to show weakness and sit down and I was too tired and in pain to make my way all the way down to the stage to receive God's promised healing. I watched in two kinds of agony, spiritual and physical. Was this my chance? Was I missing out on something wonderful? l didn't know. As Morris spoke with silky sincerity into the microphone, his tone matched by an organ, rising and falling with his voice, I knew I'd missed out on whatever it was he was offering.

As we filed from the hall I felt strangely empty. For all the talk of the Spirit moving among us I had felt nothing except a lot of pain caused by standing so long. And looking around me I sensed I was not the only one who felt a little let down. Bemused looks almost rivaled ecstatic looks. Before I'd left I had filled in a little form, giving my address, so Morris could send me a free book so maybe I could learn more from his written word.

For years to come I received regular letters from Dr Morris Cerullo, endlessly offering me various paths to salvation and books promising biblically assured financial security. If I had faith enough to make a small donation to God's work I was promised abundant living and a 'free' set of Morris's latest tapes, books or especially blessed pieces of cloth.

To be continued...

Stand Up And Be Healed

One of the consequences of me moaning on about how much discomfort I'm in is a huge rise in the number of people offering to pray for me. The good Lord has probably become aware of an increase in the volume of prayers badgering him to do something about my condition, exhorting him to bring about some kind of healing in the hope that I'll stop whining and start writing something funny again. The sheer number of people offering to intercede on my behalf is both humbling and bewildering. Warming because of the number and variety of people who have made this kind offer, from close friends who have known me for decades to people who know me only from reading this blog. Bewildering because... well, we'll come to that.

God and I have a history. You will have gathered that if you have read some of my previous posts. The matter of healing has been a recurrent theme in our dealings with each other, sometimes leading to a degree of embarrassment, possibly on both our parts. I'll give you a for instance or two.

I was once participating in a Methodist meeting at a huge hall in Cornwall. The place was packed with hundreds of people who had come to hear Rob Frost speak and Polly and others perform some comedy sketches. I was at the front of the hall and had addressed the crowd as a kind of warm up act and was followed by a time of worship, where hymns and praise songs were sung. It was all very jolly and with my bit over I was feeling quite relaxed, allowing my mind to drift off to wherever my mind wanders off to on such occasions. I was bought up short when a lady in the balcony, shouting out between songs, declared that she had a message from the Lord. The man leading the event, a minister called Steve, glanced anxiously around but the lady remained standing, arms raised in a charismatic manner, and declaimed loudly for all to hear, that the message was for the young man in the wheelchair. Six hundred pairs of eyes turned to fix on me, all safe in the knowledge that it was nothing to do with them, and intrigued to hear what the Almighty had in store for the only person in the hall in a wheelchair, me. Satisfied she had everyone's attention the lady continued, speaking in that peculiar 'God-speak' such people use when they purport to be receiving dictation from the Lord. I'm giving you the gist here, but it went along the lines of

The Lord God sayeth, blessed are his people who drinketh from the fresh spring of righteousness. The valley shall be raised and the mountain smote low by the mighty hand of Jehovah and the holy woodpecker of faith.

She continued in this pseudo-King James bible language for a while, before getting to the nitty-gritty.

The Lord your God sayeth that the blind shall see and the lame shall walk. He beseecheth ye that they who have faith and believeth in the Son of Man shall dance and leap for joy. Step forth and rise up in the name of his holy name, so commandeth the God of Abraham.

Uh-ho thinks I. Would now be a good tine to mention that even in the best of times I'm not your dancing and leaping for joy type? With every eye fixed on me, I adopted what I hoped was a look of spiritual contemplation and prayerful consideration. Everyone watched me in breathless anticipation. Were they about to witness a miracle of biblical stature? As I reddened with embarrassment I swear I was tempted to try to rise from my wheelchair and then fall forward, flat on my face, and say loudly, “so, the message wasn't for me then. Damn.”

I will forever be grateful to Steve for moving the meeting on before my embarrassment became terminal.

On another occasion I was visiting a well known evangelical church in London called Kensington Temple. Just before the service began a group of people approached me and before I knew it had encircled me and were 'laying hands' on me. Several of them started to pray in tongues and became increasingly ecstatic. One of the group placed his hand on my head and exhorted me to “Stand up in the name of Jesus.” When I failed to do so he became quite agitated. “Rise up in the name of Jee-sus!” he demanded. I shrugged apologetically, sorry to disappoint him. Suddenly the atmosphere changed. “If you truly believe you will be healed.” Nothing happened. The group backed away from me. Someone looked at me disapprovingly and said, “you have to want to be healed.” The group wandered away from me muttering sadly at my lack of faith. Suffice to say I didn't much enjoy the sermon that followed on the theme of miracles.

So, does this mean I don't want people to pray for me? Not at all. I genuinely appreciate the sentiment. I simply reserve the right not to be healed on demand. It's not my fault, nor yours, if God withholds his healing spirit from me. But that makes God sound rather petty doesn't it. Perhaps it's a bit more complicated than that. I'll regale you with my theological theory another time. In the meantime, thank you for your concern and your support. Just go easy with the laying on of hands stuff.

Dear Mary - A Christmas Letter

Dear Mary,

Oh my poor, poor girl. A stable! I’m so sorry. It sounds like a nightmare. I just thank God that the baby is okay. Jesus is a lovely name but what happened to calling him Immanuel?

I’m not sure that it’s right that you should be entertaining guests so soon. Did you make sure those shepherds washed? I read somewhere that sheep carry all sorts of diseases. As for Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh - What kind of gifts are they for a newborn? And they call themselves wise. Men! Where is Orient R anyway?

Regarding the problem with the bright star all I can suggest is that you make sure the shutters are firmly closed at night. You must make sure you get a few good nights sleep.

I can’t wait to see the baby. A newborn always give hope for the future.

Write soon dear and give my love to Joe.

Love,

Mum

PS. Did you get the swaddling cloth I sent? I’m knitting you a shawl. It’s blue.

That Healing Touch

If school days are meant to be the happiest of your life then my life was going to be pretty miserable. Don't think for a minute that it was all terrible; for the most part it was just monumentally forgettable. Fortunately school was not the only thing going on in my life. My friend Paul (Rock God) was known universally as 'The Preacher's kid' on account of his father's occupation. Paul took the name to be derogatory but in actual fact it was merely observational. His father, Graham Loader was, and is, a widely respected west country evangelist, who would on occasion take the school assembly and was generally accepted to be infinitely preferable to the usual bland, platitudinous rubbish we were normally fobbed off with.

Graham Loader was at that time a leader of a little chapel set in the dark heart of the Hartcliffe housing estate and he, with others, organised for a youth organisation called the Covenanter's to use the school gym on a Friday evening. Paul dragged me a long. In a Health and Safety nightmare we cavorted on gym equipment and trampolines, played bone-jarring British Bulldog and clambered up and dangled from wall-mounted climbing bars. We were 13 and indestructible. The only condition on partaking of this Friday night mayhem was attendance at a bible study type thing on a Sunday morning at the Hartcliffe Christian Fellowship. Fair enough, there was nothing on the telly.

Through out my teenage years I became immersed in the life of that little fellowship. And while, looking back, I might now take issue with elements of the somewhat black and white theology, it in many ways shaped the person I became. I remember it with great fondness. It gave me my first taste of public speaking, it gave me responsibilities, friends, and ultimately the basis of a career.

HCF was a world away from school. Different friends and different problems. My disability was still an issue though. I had to reconcile the reality of Muscular Dystrophy with never ending tales of healing, where faith led to a physical cure and that no sickness, disability or condition was too great for God to deal with. As the muscle in my forearm weakened and the tendons tightened causing my right hand to claw, I would lie awake at night praying that my fingers would unfurl. When they didn't it was obvious I didn't believe hard enough, or pray the right way. It is to their credit that no one at the church took me aside to discuss my lack of faith, although it must have been tempting for them to speculate on the massive nature of my sin that so caused God to hold back his healing touch. They needn't have bothered. Though I tried to lead the perfect life, pure and holy, I was after all a hormonally normal teenage boy. Just sitting next to Julie Trick in an English lesson was reason enough to require hours of repentance.

The search for healing would be a recurrent theme through out my teens and early twenties and would lead to my somewhat ambiguous relationship with the Almighty. But I can tell you that the kindness, wisdom and friendship of people like Graham Loader helped make what could have been traumatic years easier in many ways. The Preacher's Kid should be proud.

America - In Black And White

Our mini-tour took us out of Georgia and into the Carolinas and two of the most bizarre places I have ever been.

But before that, let me tell you about the show we were performing. Show is probably too strong a word for our presentation. It was meant to be informative about Rob Frost's Share Jesus organisation, giving a taste of various aspects of the ministry including the drama productions he was best known for in the UK. Rob would give an overview of Share Jesus and Polly and Kate would punctuate the talk with comedy drama sketches, written by me. I would be wheeled out to tell a few funny anecdotes about working with Rob and the church scene in Britain and all in all it was a pretty slick, fun evening. The highlight however was anything but slick. It was it's excruciating awfulness that made it so brilliant (to me anyway). Rob had brought along a young man called Matt to drive, move boxes and man the ubiquitous bookstall. Matt was, and is, a good friend, with many talents, especially in the field of evangelism. He is not, however, in any way, shape or form, an actor.

Around the time of the tour it was the 200th anniversary of Methodist founder John Wesley's conversion. At the time he wrote a now famous passage in his personal diary.

“In the evening I went very unwillingly to a society in Aldergate Street, where one was reading
Luther’s preface to the Epistle to the Romans. About a quarter before nine, while he was
describing the change which God works through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely warmed.
I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone for salvation; and an assurance was given me that he had
taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death”.

Rob, working on the assumption that Americans love all things Olde Worlde English, persuaded Matt to don a period wig and dress up as John Wesley and then recite the famous passage. I can not adequately communicate how much Matt loathed doing this. The normally articulate young man was reduced to a stammering, word muddled misery. To make matters worse, Matt was fair haired with a complexion to match. The southern sun gave him sunburn, which in combination with flaming embarrassment turned his face into a tomato red. The audiences always gave him an appreciative round of applause, though whether cause they enjoyed the virtually incomprehensible performance or out of pity for his suffering, we'll never know.

The vast majority of our performances took place in Methodist churches. There were a couple of major differences between our familiar British Methodism and Methodism in the deep south of the USA. On one occasion I was doing my bit when I looked up to see, leaning against the door jam, a huge man with a sheriff's star. If you had to cast a Hollywood caricature of a 'good ole boy' southern sheriff you need have looked no further. He wore reflective sunglasses (even though it was dusk) and had a belly hanging well over his belt. Most disconcerting of all was the enormous gun he had attached to the belt. He stood watching me and chewing gum before leaving when he decided I was neither funny nor a threat to national security. I've been in many churches in my time but have never seen anyone armed in one before. Not even in the rougher parts of south London.

The other thing you could not help but notice was the fact that in the churches we visited everyone was white. This seemed at odds with the warm, friendly and, yes, Christian people we met. As the days and churches went by I realised that if a black family had turned up at any event they would have been genuinely and warmly welcomed. I also realized that this would never happen. Coming from a multi-cultural city like London this was, to say the least, odd. I can not stress how nice people were. I presume that had we met a black family they would have been every bit as nice. But we didn't. Not once. There was no sense of segregation, only separation.

So, on to North Carolina and the mystery of Ay-uh.

Red Shift

Just to redress yesterdays rant here's something I was commissioned to write a few years ago.

In the beginning
The Universe was smaller than
a mustard seed
Every star and planet was very
squashed indeed
But then
said God
an Architect
and Physicist
a Chemist, Engineer and Fine Artist
I will not have my Universe
contained within this speck
Let there be light
And light there was
The brightest flash
The loudest crack
Of thunder ever heard
And out
and in
to nothingness
The Universe was poured

Galaxies like Frisbees thrown
Red shifted into place
While Nebulae like flowers grown
colour in the space

Alpha and Omega rang
The beginning and the end
The birth, the death
The life, the breath
The distant Lord, the friend
Our Father
who in heaven cared
E equalled M C squared

The echo of that thunder crack
(what scientists call ‘Big Bang’)
can just be heard on quiet nights
still ringing down the years
Lift up your eyes and strain your ears
listen with your soul
The faintest murmur can be heard
Of God’s creative
Thunder roll

Stephen Deal 1997