The view from my kitchen window last night at around 22:30.

The city is beautiful.

Alas my photography skills fail to capture the glory of the full moon

From my living room.

The Campsie Fells and the last glimmers of light.

Enjoy.

Today turned into one of those days when I ended up thinking life was so much less hassle when I was an engineer and wondering why did I need to spend four years studying theology to end up doing what I was doing.  There is some bad pseudo-Newtonian theology that would say that what was unfolding was the 'almost equal and opposite reaction' to the earlier post, but I refuse to believe it.  Just 'one of those days'.  After I'd done all I could I had a stupidly rapid turn around to get over to Girls' Brigade where I'd foolishly agreed to be 'inspecting officer' for the end of year award's night (crazily early 'even' by Scottish school year end but there you go).

It was the same old same old: little girls so excited they almost burst, earnestly singing with all thier might 'he's got the whole world in his hands' as the mums eagerly sought little Roxie's face and granny wiped away a few tears as Morag won the prize for best attendance.  I've been doing these things now, as a leader, for 29 years (scary! nearer 35 overall) and it ought to be meaningless but it's not.  Somewhere in those little girls' endeavours there was a reminder that it is all worthwhile... that the days you go home thinking 'I'll swing for you, so I will' (even in a middle of England accent!) are as nought compared with the joy in those little hearts.

And so, of course, it is with ministry.  Some days are just grot (and today wasn't all grot by any means) but they disappear in the glimspes of grace, the surprises of joy, the aha moments of new understanding, the uproarious laughter of divine humour... and a million other wonderful bits even of same old, same old.

So, whilst I really don't want too many days with the frustrations today brought (none from my regular 'flock' in case they are feeling worried!) the reality is that theology is non-Newtonian and there is is always a source of joy to be found if we are open to spotting it.  In the end, no matter if it would be easier and less hassle to be an engineer, it would never give me the beautiful moments that this calling does.  Likewise I may not have spent four years studying theology to deal with stuff that crops up, but the stuff that crops up ultimately shapes my theology.

(And now I'll get my tea!)

Holy Spirit at work... sometimes faster and more mysteriously than we will ever imagine.

This afternoon I have been invited to lead the closing prayer at a small, midweek Gospel Meeting as it breaks for summer.  Next session I have been invited to speak.

That may sound like something teeny weeny, but it's massive.  If you know what I'm talking about, you'll understand and marvel as I do.  If you don't, then marvel at the marvel!

All over this land God's Spirit is moving...

Recently I started noticing a new (to me) range of baking products in the supermarkets that sounds as if it ought to be a Baptist company... I am thinkinf of Fiddes Payne, a company evidently founded in 1993 and belonging to people called White (a few Baptist ones of those too).  The image of Paul Fiddes and Ernest Payne in a kitchen sprinkling pink sugary bits onto cupcakes is too surreal for words!

Yes, I finally did some research work!  I have two very fat, very worthy and, frankly, very dull, books that I need to read.  They sit on my desk at church or on my settee at home and scowl at me menacingly.  These intimidating tomes have the ability to paralyse my best endeavours simply by being there, so on Saturday I turned away from them and focused on a slim volume of short essays, with positive results.  I only did a couple of hour's work, but I think it was a useful couple of hours, and may finally have broken the psychological stranglehold of worthy-but-dull-ness.

The essay I read was looking at the history of reading and seeking to try to answer some of the what, why, where, when, how questions that arose.  It then noted that its findings needed to be brought into dialogue with those from literary theory to see what emerged.  It sounded fascinating, relevant to my work, and some of it got my grey matter going, which must be a good thing.

Seemingly, as far back as the 17th century lots of fairly ordinary people did learn to read even if they did not learn to write.  Focusing on life in France, the writer noted that people learned to read in Latin the few texts they needed for participation in church worship - so they may not have understood one word of what they read but they could make a stab at reading it and follow the mass on a Sunday.  A bit like me trying to read Czech or Finnish I guess.

Reading was, it seems a very communal activity.  We probably all know about monks having someone read sacred texts to them at meal times, but evidence seemingly suggests that even relatively lowly artisans would have someone to read to them as they worked (not unlike the radio in the background nowadays).  The idea of the lone reader, silently imbibing a text in the privacy of a garret evidently did not exist until much later ... or if it did, was not the norm.

Books were expensive, but with printing and the emergence of non-religious publications, available and valued by any who access to them.  A bit like toddlers with favourite bedtime stories, it seems that 17th, 18th and even 19th century Europeans read the same books over and over again, savouring the familiar and, perhaps, spotting new nuances over time.  Books helped them make meaning of their own lives, but the 'how to' book (and its implications for the reading of sacred texts) was a long way off.

All of this seems interesting to my research for many reasons.

Firstly, from a methodological perspective it challenges, or at least critiques, the concept of a single implied reader; instead there is the possibility of a 'corporate reader.'  That feels quite exciting from the point of view of thinking about Baptists reading history together to aid their theological reflection and how early (17th/18th century) sources might fit into that.  It also impacts on my desire to develop a new approach to writing the history - which needs to take into account this intent.

Secondly, it intrigues me greatly when I think of the 17th century texts I've already read and how they are presented as conversations.  If these books were read aloud to an 'audience' they become almost more like plays or drama than straight forward prose.  Messrs Keach and Marlow each postulated unnamed characters to debate the topic of hymn-singing.  How were these books read, I wonder?  Was it two voices (I almost hope it was) and did they 'act' or simply read?  And what did the audience do?  Did they listen and then discuss or did they interrupt and join in?  It's fascinating to wonder.  Well it is for me.

What I am beginning to speculate is that, almost by chance, my decision to focus on this late pre-Modern/early-Modern period where books were read and discussed communally (so the contemporary reading group is demonstration of there being nothing new under the sun) is actually ideal for my work.  By using sources and resources that may well suppose communal reading and corporate reflection, I may find styles and approaches that adapt for twenty-first century British Baptists.  Whether that means books per se, or creative use of drama, poetry, film or whatever, I am far from clear.  But it's kind of exciting, and makes me feel that just maybe I can look those big scary books in the knee-caps and give them a go after all!