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Time
4 min read

The challenge of filling your blank page or keeping it empty

The start of a sabbatical sets Ian Hamlin thinking through the tension between contemplation and action.

Ian Hamlin has been the minister of a Baptist church since 1994. He previously worked in financial services.

A notebook is open at two blank pages. a pen rests across the page.s.
Photo by Mike Tinnion on Unsplash

The famed anxiety inducing nemesis of any writer or creative, the ever-daunting blank page.  Well, I’ve bought myself a new notebook, so I have a literal open page in front of me, but also something more.    

I’m starting a three-month sabbatical from my role as a Baptist minister. Stepping down from my day-to-day responsibilities of work, but also, to a degree, away from the basic structures that define my life; the people, purpose and rhythm of, not only what I do, but who I am. It’s a weird sort of job like that.  

What would you do with three months off?  From work, family commitments, whatever it is that defines your day to day ordinarily?  Well, buy a notebook, obviously, but after that?  

I’m conscious, of course, that this is a rare privilege, a consequence, I guess, of the strange link between a professionalised clergy and academia from days past, but also, a recognition of the all-encompassing nature of the role.  Maybe, because of that, it’s also a real challenge, a true ‘blank page’. 

The first instinct, I guess, is to take a break, to stop, to breathe. That’s undeniably good, but how long for? Is that it? At what point does stopping and breathing become lazy indulgence?  I’ve been reading quite a lot lately, perhaps subconsciously preparing for these months, about taking time out, resting, slowing down.  Often, these thoughts have been expressed as an exploration of the notion of ‘Sabbath’ that Judeo-Christian notion of keeping a period of time, a day a week, special, sacred even.  This, of course, is the route from which ‘sabbaticals’ have grown, not so much the ivory towers and quadrangles after all, but more the Hebrew prophets and itinerant Jewish preachers of ancient days, seeking to find the rhythms of a fulfilled life  There’s John Mark Comer’s ubiquitous The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, which seems to have touched a cultural nerve, but also Ruth Haley Barton’s Invitation to Solitude and Silence.  Then, out of the blue, I was invited to reflect again on Walter Brueggemann’s sense of Sabbath as: 

 ‘the refusal to let one’s life be defined by production and consumption, and the endless pursuit of private well-being’. 

He also observed that, recognizing just how we, like multiple generations before us, each in their own way, are utterly enmeshed in systems and structures designed, not so much for our well-being but rather the benefit of others,  

‘the departure into restfulness is both urgent and difficult, for our motors are set to run at brick-making speed.’   

(A reference to one of those earliest structures, highlighted in the Bible, where Egypt’s Pharaoh had Hebrew slaves building ever larger structures, to assuage their growing thoughts of freedom.)   

Most recently of all, I’ve been struck, by following Pete Grieg’s pilgrimage walk from Iona to Lindisfarne, and  the passing comment that the original Celtic monks, in making the same journey, eschewed the offer of horses to ride, preferring to walk, fearing that the increased pace of travel might cause them to miss something.   

I’m sure I’ve missed lots, I’m convinced I’m caught up in a whole range of hectic, consumerist structures, and I’m often tired, so rest, gets a big tick from me.  At least I think it does, but barely do I sit down, and I’m feeling restless again.  How long can/should I keep this up?  There are so many things to do, opportunities to explore, people to please. I need to justify this privilege of time and space. 

His speaking, his marching, his campaigning and protesting, even his sitting, was driven with a passion and an urgency that was infectious, and effective.

And then there’s that ever-present sense within me, my natural instinct if you will, true, I’m sure, of many.  That I like the idea of contemplation, the need for it even, but, actually, I’m more driven by activism, by getting stuff done.  The focal point of my whole break, planned for quite a while now, is a trip to the USA to follow the life of one of my spiritual heroes, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.  Now, there’s an activist if ever there was one.  His speaking, his marching, his campaigning and protesting, even his sitting, was driven with a passion and an urgency that was infectious, and effective.  His consistent rage against injustice has been a call to arms, both to his immediate contemporaries, and generations subsequently, to get up, go out and do. Ultimately, of course, he poured out his whole life in the cause. It’s taking me an age to read a few preparatory biographies of him, stimulated as I am from every page, challenged to act, to never let injustice rule while I have voice and agency.         

So, there we have it, another paradox, in the complicated business of being the person I’m meant to be, realizing the best of God’s investment in me. The conflict between rest and exploration, being and doing, contemplation and activism. I imagine we are all drawn to a certain place on that spectrum.   

Blank pages, freed up days and diaries, only serve to underline what we already are.  But, I suspect, we can all also hear the call to either end of the range; to be stirred to action by the things that break the heart of God, and to lay down our burdens, take upon ourselves the easier yoke, and live increasingly in ‘the unforced rhythms of grace’.  Maybe, to start with at least, listening to that call, recognizing the tension, while not allowing it to create pressure in us, is enough. Hearing, praying, scribbling my first, semi coherent, thoughts on that vast empty page, making myself another coffee, and wondering what I might do next.      

 

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Creed
Eating
Time
2 min read

So, after Easter what comes next on the chocolate calendar?

Time for some innovation when marking the seasons.

Imogen is a writer, mum, and priest on a new housing development in the South-West of England. 

Broken bars of chocolate piled upon each other.

Mini eggs, creamy eggs, filled fancy eggs, and mini bunnies. The aisle ends of the supermarket have heralded the Easter season for several months. But now Easter is over, what chocolate delights are left to tempt us and keep our calendars on track? 

Some people mark the turning of the year with calendar notifications, some with key gardening tasks, and some with weather apps and temperature checks. I like to track the seasons with chocolate.  

Around September time, the Halloween snack-packs and pumpkin-shaped lollies hallow our shelves with spooky sugar-filled delights. As soon as November 1st hits, Halloween is usurped by Christmas cheer. Family sized chocolate boxes, snowball dusted truffles, and of course the essential stocking filler, the chocolate orange. Christmas is not long over when the colour of chocolate changes from brown (or orange) to pink. Valentine’s Day turns the world into love hearts and fluffy bears, including our chocolatey friends. Once commercialised affection has told us how to woo our loved ones, pink retreats making way for bunnies and eggs.  

In years gone by, Lent would have meant the restriction of chocolate in the run up to Easter Sunday. Pancake day was designed to use up the sweet treats in the home so that Lent could be a time of simplicity and prayerfulness. No longer. Pancake day is now an opportunity to buy additional sweet treats and the, once restricted, Easter Egg is front and centre of our aisle ends. Easter is now an extended season of feasting.  

Although it may sound like I’m complaining, I actually love the seasons. I find the markers of the year hold me as I navigate the, sometimes, monotonous days. The cocoa-themed calendar guides all of us through the year, pointing to the next big thing. The Church of England’s calendar, with its traditional liturgical seasons, colours, phrases, and festivals has declined in usefulness as churches are less frequently the focal point of communities. Perhaps the chocolate calendar can provide an alternative rhythm to the year for supermarket shoppers.  

So, after Easter, what comes next? The Halloween chocolate theme feels a long way off. In the Church of England ‘ordinary time’ marks this summer space between Pentecost and the anticipation of Advent. Days without especially special celebrations or rituals are simply ordinary days. But the ordinary days can also be sacred in their own way. They too carry meaning, hope, and an opportunity to encounter God. So in this ordinary time what should our chocolate calendar promote? Probably just a really good bar of chocolate.  

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