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 with his chalk came true. That was his whole schtick. And line two.

The third line gives me palpitations, slightly. 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. But 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.

Lee Abbey.

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 my parents at Lee Abbey — with their car snowed in.

Nothing witchy about that.

And, not that I spent my childhood watching television, but this might be the moment to add, 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. Only because of the territory. Not my favourite, but if there was a blog post about that — Related Posts. The thing is, on Sundays (and all week long at home) I heard some pretty outstanding real life stories all the time. 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, but there is an ACTUAL CROSSOVER EPISODE featuring Mr Benn.

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 it a furry, 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.)

So my Bible imagination didn't actually need too much help to get started.

My dad was a primary school teacher. So he always had more chalk to spare.

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.

At some point I grey up and started studying philosophy.

Serious stuff. Deep, also 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 will 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 own breath.

Pushing the doorway.

Wondering aloud.

Making some kind of evolving conference centre of theological imagination

with my chalk.

Lee Abbey.

Snowed in.