millions of us

funny how we share
our names so generously
— John — symbolizing
my uniqueness — the one thing
I will share without fighting

It passes over us, without a trace of envy or resentment — the irony that, by and large, each of our names is shared with a million other human beings. The one single thing that denotes the precious individuality of myself is itself not remotely unique or individual at all. It’s ‘mine’ to the point of being ‘me’, but I don’t get competitive about it. When else does that happen — that we don’t feel possessive about our possessions? I met someone named Hannah yesterday evening, with whom I felt a strong connection. Then last night I dreamed of a Hannah from my childhood. I also dreamed of my own name John, which somehow seemed to have taken on a disembodied life of its own. I’d have liked to get the word ‘soul’ into my poem somehow. I have the name John in common with my paternal grandfather, who died when I was fourteen, and because of the connection of the name, I have often felt, over the years since his death that our two souls were on some kind of common journey. As part of this, I toyed with the notion I might be a reincarnation of John the Baptist.

pencil scribblings #5

Christmas 1992 I was homeless, penniless, wandering around England and Wales believing myself shadowed every moment by the CIA. A day or two before Christmas itself I attended a church service in the town of Llangollen, North Wales. My attendance at that particular church was unusual because the service had a very Evangelical flavour. I was (or am) a convert from Anglicanism to Catholicism: so the Evangelical tradition has mostly passed me by, in my life, apart from one or two brushes with it. This was one such. Generally I can cope happily with Methodist and Baptist services but anything smelling even slightly of Billy Graham (is that still a name people recognise?) turns me off. Anyhow this particular experience of Evangelism was one of my best ever. It was more like a big room than a small hall , and there was lots of enthusiastic singing with which I joined in, enthusiastically. After the service, the Pastor took the trouble to quiz me. I felt he was “testing” me to see if I was of God or of the Devil. He was nevertheless genial and benign. “Do you love Christ?” He threw the question at me and I had to justify myself at that moment and find a way to reassure him. Of course there flashed through my mind the inconvenient fact of my disbelief in the Virgin Birth and the Resurrection. But he hadn’t asked me about my faith. And even though the name Christ begged the question of Jesus’ divinity (which I didn’t believe in) I felt totally able to answer: “I love Christ”, and to mean it. That man’s own sincerity had drawn forth a sincerity from me in return. I am grateful to him for encouraging me to declare my truth in this way. At that moment it didn’t matter that I meant ‘Christ’ as a symbol while he (most probably) meant to pin me down to literal belief. We somehow met and understood one another at that moment. By the grace of God.