Yesterday, as usual, I listened to the sermon with all the attentiveness of someone who knows she will soon have to write about it. And, as I do every second week, I sat down later and wrote up the service for the local paper. Now, I know what I and my alter ego write goes down well in the community - people come up to me in Somerfields to tell me they like it - and must be reasonably effective - one of the Old Guard at church hates the way we write because, presumably, we write like the bloggers we are. But yesterday I had a wild notion to write something different, something which really pointed to the difference between choices.
I wanted to write about the girls in Argyll Street shouting their displeasure at Sunday. Sunday, as Doctor Who said the previous day, is always "very boring". That's what I thought as a kid - until the homework took over. So the readings about building your house on the rock instead of sand, about the choices you make in life - they're really about choosing whether Sunday is boring and restrictive or something much better. Are they? Is that the relevance, really?
Anyway, you can see the poem that resulted from this here. The paper would never have published it, even though the language is that of the town it serves. And maybe, tomorrow, I'll put up the poem which inspired me to write one. But not today - it's too good.