From Growing Up Pains to the Sacred Diary: Nothing Is Wasted - Softcover

Plass, Adrian

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0310278570 ISBN 13: 9780310278573

Publisher: Zondervan, 2002

Synopsis

Two favourite works by best-selling author Adrian Plass in one volume Adrian Plass has a way of telling our stories by telling his, and by so doing has endeared himself to a multitude of readers. Perhaps his secret lies in his humour, from the dark to the absurd. Or it could be his penchant for poking gently but frankly at the foibles of Christian living. Both qualities are on display here, with two of Plass's best-loved books rolled into one. The Growing Up Pains of Adrian Plass offers reflections on a difficult passage in the author's personal journey, during which the television programme Company and some of its memorable guests made a deep impact on Plass's faith. The Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass Aged 371/2 is a laugh-filled, fictional daily chronicle of family and church exploits, featuring Plass's literary alter ego and a memorable cast of supporting characters. Referring to The Sacred Diary, Plass writes, 'I don't think I shall ever be unhappy enough to write such a funny book again.' Though different in character, both books in this volume explore the darker side of living the Christian faith--and, in Plass's inimitable style, point beyond to the bright hope that lies in Jesus.

About this title

About the Author:

Adrian Plass is one of today's most significant and successful Christian authors, and he has written over thirty books, including his latest, Looking Good Being Bad - the Subtle Art of Churchmanship. Known for his ability to evoke both tears and laughter for a purpose, Plass has been reaching the hearts of thousands for over fifteen years. He lives in Sussex, England with his wife, Bridget, and continues to be a cricket fanatic

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Early photographs show that I was little more than a huge pair of ears mounted on two long skinny legs. In most of those early pictures I look slightly troubled and very earnest. Each week I attended the local church at the other end of the village, an activity that seemed to me to have very little to do with God. The Roman Catholic chapel in Rusthall was a converted private house, and therefore lacked the atmosphere of sublime mystery and divine confidence that I rather enjoyed on our occasional visits to St Augustine’s, the huge and ornate mother church in Tunbridge Wells. There were few points of interest for a small child in an hour spent in one of three physical postures, listening to someone speaking a language that he didn’t understand, to a God who seemed as distant and irrelevant as the dark side of the moon. Some of those services seemed to be several days long. Afterwards, my father, my two brothers and I would proceed sedately back along the path into the village, all my little springs of boredom and tension popping and pinging into relaxation as I looked forward to Sunday lunch and the traditional midday comedy half-hour on the radio. Nowadays I have a great respect and fondness for the Roman Catholic Church and many friends who are members of it, but if you had asked me at the age of eight or nine to tell you what I enjoyed most about the mass, I could have named only one thing. I did rather look forward to that point in the proceedings when the priest placed a wafer in the open mouths of the communicants, as they knelt in a semicircle around him. There was a satisfyingly repellent fleshiness about all those extended tongues, and a fascinating vulnerability about the grown-ups, waiting like baby birds to be fed with something that, once inside them, (I was told) would turn into the body of Jesus Christ and nourish them in a way that I couldn’t begin to understand. That the church seemed to me to have very little to do with God may have had something to do with the fact that, while my father was a convert to the Catholic Church, my mother, whose religious background was the Congregational Church, remained a Protestant and didn’t come to church with us on Sundays. We frequently experienced our own domestic version of ‘The Troubles’ and I can recall how, as a small child, I felt painfully bewildered about the religious separation between my parents. Why didn’t mummy come to church with us? Did she know a different God? No? Well, in that case why didn’t she come to church with us? I would understand when I was older, I was told. The shadow of conflict darkened those Sunday morning ser-vices throughout my early childhood and had a strongly negative effect on my feelings about God, who clearly wouldn’t or couldn’t sort out our family. If my poor father had been a more secure man the boredom of the services and even the parental conflict over religion might not have mattered too much. As it was, his inability to trust the love of his family resulted in twenty-five very difficult years for my mother, and, in my case, a very confused and troubled perception of what love, adulthood and Christianity meant. Two incidents spring to mind as being typical of the kind of emotional half-nelson that he was expert in applying and which must have contributed heavily to the emotional constipation which led to a breakdown in my own life years later in 1984, and from which I am only just emerging as I write. The first concerned my father’s black prayer book. It was a small, plump, much thumbed little volume, whose wafer-thin pages were edged with gold. As a child it seemed to me a miniature treasure chest, filled with immense wealth that had somehow been compressed into a tiny space for easy portage. Dad’s prayer book was part of him, like the little round boxes of Beecham’s pills, the tin full of old and foreign coins, the trilby hat, and the tortoise-shell reading spectacles that made my sight worse when I was allowed to try them on, before they were put away again in the case that snapped shut with a pleasing hollow ‘plock’ sound. One day we had all been naughty – all three of us. One of my brothers was two years older than me, the other was two years younger. I must have been about eight years old at the time. We seemed to spend our lives pursuing one of three activities. The first involved the consumption of vast slices of white crusty bread, spread thickly with butter and marmalade. We often accounted for three long loaves in a single day. The second activity was simply playing together, and the third, which usually grew naturally out of the second, was simply fighting each other. Today, the eating and playing stages had passed all too quickly. We three boys had argued and squabbled and cried and fought for most of a long rainy Saturday. My parents’ patience had been tried and tested in a way that, with three boys of my own, I now fully understand. They had tried everything: the gentle rebuke, the not-so-gentle rebuke, the appeal to reason, the bribe, the threat, the repeated threat, the repeated-yet-again threat, the last chance option and finally the shriek of fury. Nothing had worked. My father had long since abandoned any attempt to play an adult role in the proceedings. He was an angry child, hurt by our refusal to make it easy for him to be grown-up.

About this edition

• Publisher: Zondervan
• Publication date: 2002
• ISBN 10: 0310278570
• ISBN 13: 9780310278573
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 320