That itchy feeling

COMMENT

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RECENTLY I rediscovered the country singer Nanci Griffith. There’s something about her songs that goes to the heart of the human condition, speaking into the injustices in the world.

I once was a lot like you

We share a dream I couldn’t make come true I was a child who wrote my name Across a frosted window pane And there are jobs that I might hold If they’d just let me through the door Without a shower and new clothes That I can ill aff ord

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it seems to me that there is often at the heart of a great song, or a compelling piece of artwork, something that can only be described as a longing and a yearning; a striving to feel, to describe or even, dare I say it, scratch an itch – that goes beyond description. It’s as though there is a blueprint somewhere within us that speaks to us about fairness and justice and how things should really be.

Often we forget about the feelings of those who sit on street corners looking for support. They too have dreams and longings that seem to go nowhere. If only we could share our restless hearts. For we are no diff erent from the so called ‘down ‘n’ outer’. The only diff erence is that, for most of us reading this article, we have a bank account. Take the bank account away and we would discover our common humanity. We too are people in search of meaning.

There is something in our DNA, a kind of residue of memory, a sadness that evokes a sketchy knowledge of a lost kingdom where we once belonged. C S Lewis, in his book The Weight of Glory, describes this feeling as ‘the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited’. So we listen to songs that speak of rainbows and lost lands and never quite understand why we do so.

What if that land, that kingdom is closer than we think? What if it were true that we could uncover the ‘thin places’ of which the Celtic saints spoke, where heaven touches earth, where wrongs can be righted?

Jesus’ teaching and presence in this world laid the foundation of a theology where there is nothing that is not sacred. All of life lived in the presence of the Almighty can be made holy. If only we could learn to go back to Eden and walk with God ‘in the cool of the day’, so much of our fear and anxiety would disappear. Perhaps the longing and yearning I have described is in fact the longing of the human heart to know God our creator. St Augustine wrote in his Confessions of this restlessness: “You have made us for yourself and our heart is restless, until it rests in you.”

Developing and nurturing our prayer life is surely the core of meaningful discipleship. It is an attempt to address this restlessness. There is much to be gained by spending time in prayer. It is a reconnecting of ourselves to Eden, to the Father, to the Creation, to each other.

Over the years I have found the following routine helpful in my prayer life.

Take a moment to be still, to find a quiet spot to review the day. Take time to reflect on something for which you are thankful. Take time to confess something for which you are sorry. Resolve how you might change in the future.

Review tomorrow with all its opportunities.

Ask God to open your eyes spiritually, to recognise the ‘thin places’ in your own experience where heaven is touching earth.

Who knows, it may lead you to stop and speak to the person sitting on the street corner, and for you that will be the ‘thin place’, the place of encounter with Jesus. Or you might be drawn to listen to Nanci. Either way, like me, you’ll never quite put your finger on the itch. It always remains to remind us of our true home and our longing to return.

This article appears in the March 2018 Issue of Life and Work

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