As if by Magic: Theology, Imagination, and a Thought Experiment
“Well you know my name is Simon…"
It isn't. This is a lyric. One that I'd better not quote in full for copyright reasons. But the things he drew came true. That was his whole schtick. And line two.
The third line gives me palpitations, slightly. That's only because when the makers of the TV programme thanked Mike Batt, the songwriter, it was because he'd put a catchy tune to the concept of pictures taking someone over.
(An imaginative child might have heard witches. That might be understandable.)
And then we all climbed the ladder with him.
Simon.
As told by Bernard Cribbins.
Not the witches.
I remember watching this programme at my friend's house where I was staying aged about, I don't know, five? My parents were "on retreat" somewhere more or less the 1970s Christian British equivalent of the Hamptons.
It was the day of their anticipated return and it was snowing. So my friend and I were taking a leaf out of Simon's book and drawing pictures of them at Lee Abbey — with their car snowed in.
Nothing witchy about that.
And, not that I spent my childhood watching television, but I know a ripple of familiar laughter will make its way across a certain swathe of readership if I add at this point, quite randomly:
— as if by magic, a shopkeeper appeared!
Mr Benn.
Another rich source of imaginative territory. Walking out of the door — any door you like — and finding himself back in the dressing room of the fancy dress shop.
Genius.
Williams Wish Wellingtons deserve an honourable mention too here, but only because of the territory. Not my favourite, but if it was a blog — Related Posts. The thing is, on Sundays (and all week long at home) I heard some pretty outstanding real life stories — stories to match any of those on TV. And by the way, when A Knight Won His Spurs in the Stories of Old was an actual song we sang at Sunday school. That's an ACTUAL CROSSOVER with a Mr Benn episode.
Do you see where I'm heading with this?
Bagpuss.
That's right. Not a new toy. More like something emerging from a tumble of textiles at the kind of jumble sales they often held at church. Accessible and non-pretentious. Is that a stripey cushion, or a cat?!
Never mind the human in this story, who seemed to be nocturnal (or was it the other way around — timezones…)
The woodpecker, Professor Yaffle was a carved wooden bookend — very much like the owls my Dad had on his book shelf propping up CS Lewis — and Madeleine the rag doll always reminded me of a family friend at church with us. I won't mention her name, in case she stumbles on this post. (Kind, leggy, bit of a bossy boots, but very colourful.)
My Bible imagination didn't actually need help. My mum had stories —
like Nanny praying loudly as she plunges her hand into the sea a short while after someone had come in to tell her they'd lost their false teeth. In one manoeuvre, she lifts them out.
No wish wellingtons required.
And then you look at the Bible. Originally written in a language much more attuned to the merging of dimensions of time and space and faith than we might be used to.
A boy and a giant.
Lions in a lions' den.
Easter morning.
Now, at some point I grey up and started studying philosophy.
Serious stuff. Deep, old.
It only made things worse.
Apparently, you can think out of the box.
Apparently, you can build your own scaffolding.
Apparently, creating imagery that helps you think aloud
is a thing.
Plus, I read a book by James K A Smith.
Whoosh.
So. There's a Stage Door on my website.
Go through, you'll meet the Keyholder.
You might even find The (nearly ready) Empty Theatre, if you look.
(I love that one. Plenty of plans for that one…) You'll definitely find the Coffee House. I won't link it here. You have to go through the Stage Door, for reasons that become clear.
And in time there will be conversations, caminos, opportunities to participate. I'm not trying to draw a crowd.
I'm trying to draw my breath.
Pushing.
Wondering aloud.
Making some kind of conference centre
without one.
Like Lee Abbey.
Snowed in.
