"Greeks look for wisdom," so the Apostle Paul said. And Jews? They require a sign, a miracle, a healing, an omen (1 Cor 1:22). One internal, the other external.
I think I'm more Greek than Jewish.
What was I seeking for at the age of 15 in an all boys grammar school in Kent? I wasn't looking for a person but an ideal: an ideology, a structured, verbally-expressive manifesto to pin my colours to, a standard to which I could run in a storm and know it wouldn't move, something that would be true in all circumstances for all people . . . something I could use to wrap around the head of my enemies to prove how right I was . . . something to justify myself with and prove to my mother what a good boy I was.
Yes, I was a bit of a 'mummy's boy'. I was a good dutiful boy who did generally as I was told: I wanted to please, I wanted to be accepted. So I performed the best I could in football, in cricket, in rugby, in exams. I tried so hard to be right, to be good, to please, but, as you most probably know, that's impossible; I could never rest.
This is where the perfectionism started. I remember stabbing a thick paperback dictionary with a sharp pencil in anger and frustration one evening as I worked late at my desk. Just the light of my father's old Anglepoise lamp lit my desk. Tears streaked my face. I worked and I worked, and even when I did find the answer to the hidden question of my heart at the age of 15, I was still like this for many years afterwards. I worked slowly and methodically to a hidden rule that I made up, some whimsy off the top of my head! I rarely lifted my head from this slavery as I strived for acceptance from some invisible teacher leaning over my shoulder (strange that I should become a teacher later on in life!). Whether single or narrow-minded, I tried to justify myself at each turn. I put such pressure on myself to be good and to succeed that the contemplation of failure was unthinkable, and when it occurred . . . unbearable.
Spending years in a Roman Catholic primary school didn't help either, if anything it made me worse and being confirmed when I was 11 was pointless: I had no understanding. I remember nothing of the promises I made; I only remember my confirmation name: David. But I mustn't digress about my Catholic experiences: that's worth several more postings. However, there were a few subtle but telling events in that school that did change the course of my eternal life. One of them happened one Wednesday morning, during mass, when the priest told us about the parable of the house built on sand. It created such a vivid picture in my mind that I will never forget to this day . . .
