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Sunday, 15 March 2009

  • My Christian Walk (Cont.)

    For most of the following year (1996) I served variously as MC, script writer, actor, singer and musician for Street Level, a Christian theatre company based at the Elim Pentecostal church in West Croydon, Surrey. We were a group of three consisting of myself, and two Croydon girls, married company leader Sally and 19 year old Esther, and we toured several shows around schools in various tough multicultural south London areas including Croydon itself, as well as Thornton Heath, Crystal Palace, Norwood, Norbury and others. One of these, “Choices”, was almost entirely written by me, although it’d been based on an idea by Sally who also heavily edited it for performance purposes. On the whole the kids - most from quite deprived backgrounds - were incredibly receptive to our productions, and we were greeted by them with an almost uniform affection, which was a surprise and a delight to me at least, and for a few brief months in 1996, Street Level was on fire with afranticcreativityleadingto shows with a radical Christian message performed to great success for the benefit of some of the capital’s least privileged young people. Until things started to go wrong.
     Towards the end of the summer, Sally asked me to write a large scale project for the group. She suggested a contemporary version of John Bunyan’s classic Christian allegory ”The Pilgim’s Progress”. This I set about doing, and after some weeks of labouring over what turned out to be an unwieldy and often violent epic marked by scenes of the blackest humour, my spiritual health started to suffer. What’s more, I'd started to tire of the long and costly early morning train journeys to Croydon via Wimbledon or Clapham Junction. As a result I started slowly withdrawing from Street Level, which wasn't very kind of me because I think Sally had started to see me as her rock, and she’d a lot of responsibility on her plate with regard to forthcoming performances and the training of afresh crew of young Christian actors. As things turned out, "Paul Grim's Progress" was never produced, and I’m not surprised, because although artistically it had its merits, spiritually it was grossly immature. In Christian terms I was still only a little over three years old, and it showed. In time I destroyed all but a few pages of it.
     By this time, I'd defected from Cornerstone to the Thames Vineyard Christian Fellowship based near Twickenham, having heard that the Vineyard movement contained members whose spiritual gifts were exceptional. My curiosity aroused, I went along one Sunday evening and had a powerful experience which made me want to stay. As I'd done with Cornerstone I joined a Home Fellowship group where I did part of the Alpha course, which had been pioneered by Nicky Gumbel of the famous Charismatic Anglican church Holy Trinity Brompton. I'd visited HTB at some point during this period, which was witnessing the height of the revival movement known as the Toronto Blessing, as well as other churches affected by the Blessing, including Pioneer People in Esher, where I'd seen Gerald Coates preach.
     In 1999, I was appointed chief musician for Liberty Christian Centre, the small suburban church I was attending at the time which was a satellite of London’s famous Kensington Temple, and I’d been recommended for the post by my friend Marina, Russian wife of Pastor Louis, late of New York City. She went on to become worship leader, alternating as such with Martha, another close friend, originally from Peru. It was Louis who’d got in touch with me the previous summer through KT about joining a cell group at his home in the Surrey suburbs. This eventually mutated into Liberty, with which I forged very close ties from the outset. 
     While a new beginning came towards the end of 2000 when I was made lead singer for a Swing band called Nuages - after the famous instrumental by French Jazz guitarist Django Reinhard - this was counterbalanced soon afterwards by the sad dissolution of Liberty. And so, in early '01 I made yet another return to Cornerstone, only to leave it for the last time in late summer 2002.
     This sudden exit came in consequence of a desire born of intensive internet research to seek out places of worship existing beyond the Pentecostal/Charismatic family of churches. Spiritually speaking, this’d been my whole world for nearly a decade, to the degree that I barely acknowledged any other church as worthy of the name Christian, although I had engaged on a similar search of short duration some years previously. My quest led me to churches known as Cessationist which is to say they don’t believe in the continuance of the supernatural Gifts of the Holy Spirit such as Tongues and Prophecy. It also took me to the Sermon Audio website, and I downloaded so many online sermons there that my computer may have crashed as a result. And then there were the discernment ministries, some cessationist, others not, which I visited, pouring over church history ancient and recent for hours on end. I learned alot from them, but I’ve not returned much to them since. When all’ssaidanddone,there’s nothing that can lure me from the pure Word of God which has ensured the survival of the Church of Christ for over two millenia.
     Among the churches I visited during the wandering year of 2003 were Bethel Baptist Church, Wimbledon, Christ Church, Teddington and Duke Street Church, Richmond, all located in the pleasant and affluent outer suburbs of south west London.
     Bethel is what is known as an Independent Fundamentalist Baptist church, and therefore KJV only, in other words using the King James Version of the Bible alone. I attended three services at Bethel and fully intended to return for a fourth and so witness the preaching there of David Cloud of Way of Life Ministries, something I was looking forward to doing given that I was familiar with his sermons from the Sermon Audio website, but never did. I was held up at Wimbledon British Rail station for over an hour on my last Sunday at Bethel, and this experience may have put me off travelling by train to church. But the truth is I’d left too many churches in my time and was tiring of the position of new boy brought about by perpetual church-hopping. I now believe church-hopping indeed luke-warm fellowshiping in general to have the potential to be a serious danger to any professing Christian.
     Christ Church is a Free Church of England fellowship, The Free Church of England having separated from the established C of E in 1844 in response to the High Church Anglicanism of the then Bishop of Exeter, Henry Phillpotts. It’s resolutely Evangelical, as well as liturgical and Episcopal, and its member churches adhere to the Doctrines of Grace, also known as the five points of Calvinism, these being Total Depravity, Unconditional Election, Limited Atonement, Irresistible Grace, and the Perseverance of the Saints. According to Calvinism, those who form part of the Elect have been predestined to final salvation by God, and that no one can come to saving faith through their own free will due to total depravity.
     Duke Street is also a church which emphasizes the Calvinist Doctrines of Grace, while Bethel is free-willist. In consequence, many Calvinists would describe it as Arminian after the Dutch theologian Jacobus Arminius. This isn’t an entirely accurate description in my view given that true Arminians maintain that salvation can be lost, while most Independent Fundamentalist Baptist fellowships are upholders of what is known as the eternal security of the Saints. In short, they are neither Calvinist nor Arminian, which is an oxymoronic statement to some believers.
     For me, all true believers are united by a clear adherence to certain key doctrines forming the basis of the one true faith without which there can be no salvation, even when they may be divided by non-saving inessentials, or secondary truths. For example, while I’m an upholder of baptism by full immersion, I certainly don’t believe adherents of infant baptism to be heretics, at least not automatically. On the other hand, I have a real problem with those who maintain that a person must be baptised in order to be saved, because the Bible makes it clear that we are saved by faith alone. That said, every Christian should be baptised by full immersion because God commands it, and God urges us to keep his commandements. Also, while I believe that Christ will return prior to establishing his reign on earth for a literal thousand year period, which makes me a pre-millenialist, it goes without saying that a person can maintain that Christ won’t return until after the millenium,orthatthemillenium lies in the past, and still be a saved Christian. These are justifiable differences in scriptural interpretation.
     Before 2003 which was my year of nonstop internet research, I'd known next to nothing about the finer points of my faith, although I was fairly well versed in the subject of the prophetic interpretation of the Bible thanks to having been introduced to this early in my Christian life by Spencer and Grace Nash, through various magazines and books such as “Prophecy Today” and the works of Barry R Smith. I had no clue as to the differences between Calvinism and Arminianism, Covenant Theology and Dispensationalism, Cessationism and Continuationism and so on. But I was still saved by the Grace of God, and I don’t believe anyone is either saved or damned by believing one or the other of these distinctions. That said, true saving faith must produce fruits, such as repentance, and adherence to sound doctrine.
     I emerged from that year of intensive study at peace again with the Pentecostal-Charismatic movement, and yet conscious as never before of the importance of adhering to the fundamentals of the faith once delivered unto the saints. But this didn’t last. I recently had to make yet another return to the world of discernment through online research. No Christian has a perfect knowledge of the truth, but I believe there is unity to be found between Evangelicals adhering to the fundamentals of the faith irrespective of what church they choose to worship in. But this unity can never be at the expense of the uncompromised purity of the Word of God.
     Until recently when I became a member of Duke Street, I hadn't been settled within a church since 2001, which points to a restlessness which may be at least partly attributable to the fact that I accepted Christ relatively late. After all, the Bible makes it clear that each person who rejects the sovereignty of the fleshly realm for Christ’s sake will know incessant tribulation and persecution. Perhaps this is especially true of repentant Christians who come to faith following a relatively long period of time within the decadent heart of the world as avid flunkies of the Flesh. However, as comfort these late converts have a true and infinitely worthwhile purpose in life. This was something that constantly escaped me in my youth, for all the fierce, flaming fanaticism of my beliefs and ideals.
     In many ways though I’ve been my own worst enemy. One by one I’ve had to slay evil habits left over from my pre-Christian existence. In my early days as a Christian for instance I still entertained a fixation on the occult, albeit from a Christian perspective. Now I can barely stand to look at pages filled with occult information and symbols. But every so often I find myself immersed in a labyrinthine search for information related to a subject that has me briefly in its thrall. As a result it requires mental processing through nonstop research and the fervid taking of notes. The most recent topic of this kind was the purported spread of pagan religion in the antedeluvian world following the destruction of the Tower of Babel when God confused the languages, and I couldn't wait to be free of it. Words, ideas have such preternatural power over me, but then I'm highly sensitive on a psychological level, and perhaps others too. Whether this is genetic or environmental or both I can't say. I find myself deeply troubled by speculation regarding aspects of the antedeluvian world such as the Nephilim unless these come from strictly Biblical sources - and I greatly admire the courage of true Biblical Watchmen - but it's an area I'd rather leave be for the sake of my peace of mind, especially when the non-canonical books of the Bible such as the Book of Enoch are brought to bear.
     The truth is I'm most content when at peace with my faith, and least while lost in an endless quest for cyber-knowledge with one page linking incessantly to the other until information overload becomes a serious possibility. From time to time however, I'm tempted to venture beyond my comfort zone into the realm of the mysteries of the Bible and history. It's hard for the intellectually curious not to wish to do so, and the Bible makes it clear that in the days immediately prior to the Second Coming of the Lord Jesus Christ, knowledge shall increase (Daniel 12:4), and this may well be via the miraculous medium of the World Wide Web. But a love of knowledge, as well as extreme sensitivity, which may also be on the increase, are in my view dangerous qualities unless anchored to true Biblical faith.
  • Carl Halling Christian Testimony

    Reborn in the Nick of Time

    The period embracing the autumn of 1992 and the first few weeks of winter may well have been the most debauched of my entire existence.
    I'd get up early, possibly about six, and then prepare myself for a day ahead with a bottle of wine, usually fortified. Then I'd keep my units topped up throughout the day with vodka or gin, taking regular swigs from the miniatures I liked to have with me at all times. Some evenings I'd spend in central London, others with my new friends from the college, and we were a close and pretty wild crowd for a while. There were times in town when I couldn't keep the booze down, so I'd order a king-sized cola from MacDonalds which I'd then lace with spirits before cautiously sipping from it through a straw. I was a euphoric drunk and so almost never unpleasant...but I was unpredictable...a true Dionysian who'd cry out on a British Rail train in the middle of the afternoon, causing passengers to flinch with alarm...or perform a wild disjointed Karate kick into thin air on a crowded London street. Another afternoon I tore my clothes to shreds after having arrived too late for an audition. Abarman who served me some time afterwards asked me if I'd been in a fight. And then there was the night at Waterloo station - or was it Liverpool Street? - that I had to be escorted across the concourse to my train by one of the drunks who used to sleep rough at mainline stations back then. They've since been moved on, God bless them.
    But all these insane incidents came to a head one night in early 1993 in an Indian restaurant in Hampton Court close to the Surrey-London border. I'd been dining there with two female friends when, suddenly feeling like pure death, I asked the friend closest to me - both physically and emotionally - whether I looked as bad as I felt. She told me I did, so I got up from the table, walked a few paces and then collapsed as if stone dead in the middle of the restaurant. I was then carried bodily out into the fresh night air by two or three Indian waiters, one of whom set about shocking some life back into me by flicking ice cold water in my face. "Don't give up", he pleaded, his voice betraying true concern...and in time thanks to him some semblance of life returned, and I was well enough to be driven home.
    Yet, within two days I was drinking as heavily as before, continuing to do so virtually around the clock until the weekend. I then spent Saturday evening with my friend from the restaurant, and at some point in the morning of the 16th after having drunk solidly all night I asked her to fill a long glass with neat gin and each sip took me further and further into the desired state of blissful forgetfulness.
    I awoke exhilerated, which was normal for me following a lengthy binge. It was my one drying out day of the week, and so I probably spent it writing and generally cleaning up the accumulated chaos of the past week. One thing I definitely did though was listen to a radio doc on the legendary LA Rock band the Doors which I'd taped some weeks or perhaps months earlier. I especially savoured "When the Music's Over" from what was then one of my favourite albums, "Strange Days" released on my 12th birthday, 7 October 1967, in the wake of the Summer of Love, a song which seemed to me about living in the shadow of death, beckoning death, mocking death, defying death. I powerfully identified with the Doors' gifted front man Jim Morrison who'd been drawn as a very young man to poets of darkly prophetic intensity - such as Nietzsche, Rimbaud and Artaud - whose works have the power to change the course of peoples' lives, as they surely did Morrison's. In this respect he was similar to me; butsadly unlike me he never escaped this ruinous fascination.
    Thrilling to this frenzied Dionysian epic with its famous unearthly scream and discordant guitar solo, as well as other intoxicated Rock anthems, while revelling in my own image of myself as a doomed poet, at some point as Sunday evening wore on my legs went numb and I felt on the point of collapse. So for pretty well the first time in my life, alcohol really turned on me, stopped being my beloved elixir and became a mortal enemy. Still, I opened a spare bottle of sparkling wine I had about the house even though I'd hoped not to have to drink that day. Once I'd drained it, I felt better for a while, in fact so much so that I took a few snaps of myself lounging around looking haggard and unshaven, with freshly cropped hair. I still have them in fact.
    Soon after this macabre photo session I set off in search of more alcohol. Arriving at a local delicatessen, the Asian shop-keeper nervously told me that the off-license wasn't open for some time yet. There was nothing for me to do but take refuge on a nearby green, where I lay for a while, still dressed I imagine in the shabby white cut-offs I'd been wearing earlier.
    Finally, the offie opened and I was able to buy more booze. I can't remember what I bought, but I think it may've been a litre of gin, because that's what I was guzzling from the next day. One of the last things I remember doing on Sunday evening was singing hymns in a nearby Methodist church as the tears flowed...tears of remorse, tears of fear, tears of desperation. I have no further recollection of what happened that night, but it was probably hellish, and there were many such nights ahead.
    At least one of these nights saw me endlessly pacing up and down corridors and stairs in an attempt to stay conscious and not die and each time I shut my eyes I could've sworn I saw demonic entities beckoning me into a bottomless abyss. I set about ridding my house of artefacts I instinctively knew to be unacceptable to God from what I believe was the night of the 16th/17th onwards. Many books were destroyed...books on astrology and numerology and other mystical and occultic subjects, books about war and crime and human atrocity, and books about artists in love with death, although I kept some behind to be shredded at a later date.
    I genuinely believe though that for all the horrors I was going through, it was at some point during that first night I came to truly accept Jesus Christ as my Saviour for the first time, and this marked the beginning of my relationship with God the Father through whom no one can come without Jesus Christ.

    Had my violent conversion not come about when it did, I might have been lost forever. It all depends of course on where a person stands on the issue of of Predestination and Free Will. I'd have surely immersed myself in the new Bohemianism of the 1990s, and become a New Age - as well as New Edge - zealot.
    The adversary values of the sixties had apparently all but faded into history by about 1973, although in truth, they'd merely gone back underground where they set about fertilising a variety of anti-establishment tribes including the Anarcho-Punks and the New Age Travellers, both of whom were largely '80s and '90s phenomena. Then some kind of amalgam between these clans and the growing Rave-Dance movement produced yet another great counterculture, which I fell for with all the fervour of one who'd missed being part of a genuinely subversive Bohemian underground...only to be delivered from it all in the nick of time.
    But I wasn't saved in any church, nor through being evangelised, so mine was what might be termed a violent "Road to Damascus" conversion. But being reborn against all the odds didn't immediately protect me from the calamity I'd brought upon myself; in other words, I had to suffer in the physical, if only briefly. Although that's not strictly true, because my pre-Christian existence probably took a serious toll on my nervous system, and one I'm paying for to this day.
    Many Christians are of the opinion that the longer a person puts off coming to Christ the less likely it becomes of their ever doing so and I'm among them. I also believe that those blood-bought believers who do convert relatively late in life may be required to pay a far higher price for the follies of their pre-Christian existence than more youthful converts, especially if these include alcohol, drugs, fornication, and involvement in the occult. God can and does heal Christians damaged by their pre-conversion sins but He's not obliged to do so as his Grace is sufficient. So while I was almost certainly already a Christian by the morning of the 17th of January, my ordeal was far from over.
    I somehow made it into New Eltham that Monday morning for classes at the University, but by evening I felt so ill I started swigging from my litre bottle of gin. I also phoned Alcoholics Anonymous at my mother's request, and agreed to give a meeting a go. Next day on the way to Richmond College I got the feeling my heart was about to explode, not just once but over and over again. After classes, I tried walking through Twickenham but I couldn't feel my legs and struggled to stay conscious so ended up ordering a double brandy from the pub next door to the Police Station. I was shaking so much the landlord thought I was fresh from an interrogation session. I was thrown out of another pub for preaching at the top of my voice. Walking through Twickenham town centre I started making the sign of the cross to passers-by, telling one poor young guy never to take to drink like some kind of walking advert for temperance and he nodded without saying a word before carrying himself offsharpish.
    Later that day in an effort to calm myself down, I dug out an old capsule of Chlomethiazole, commonly used in treating and controlling the effects of acute alcohol withdrawal, but allegedly dangerous, in fact potentially fatal, when used in conjunction with alcohol. I still had some capsules left over from about 1990 when I'd been prescribed them by my then doctor, which meant they'd long gone beyond their expiry date.
    For a time I felt better and was able to sleep, but soon after waking I felt worse than ever. Later that day at an AA meeting, I kept getting up to stick my head under the cold water tap, anything to shock some life back into me, while my sponsor Don kept trying to keep me in the hall with the others, as if doing so produced actual spiritual benefits.
    Next day saw me pacing the office of the first available doctor, who seemed at a loss as to what to do with me, but then it may have been touch and go as to whether I was going to stay on my feet or overdose on the spot and die on him. It was he who prescribed me the Valium which finally allowed me to enter a long, deep sleep which may've saved my life. Once I'd awoken from this, I finally felt as if a frontier had been crossed and that I was safe in the arms of God for the first time in my life. My new life began at this point.
    The following piece was actually written in the dying days of January 1993, although not as a versified piece...as a series of diary notes recording the incidents I've already described, and I believe it to be a faithful account, may God forgive any involuntary inaccuracies.

    Oblivion in Recession

    The legs started going,
    Howlings
    In my head.
    Thought I'd go
    Kept awake with water,
    Breathing,
    Arrogantly telling myself
    I'd stay straight.
    Drank gin and wine,
    Went out,
    Tried to buy more,
    Unshaven,
    Filthy white shorts,
    Lost, rolling on lawn,
    Somehow got home.
    Monday, waiting for offie,
    Looked like death,
    Fear in eyes
    Of passers-by,
    Waiting for drink,
    Drink relieved me.
    Drank all day,
    Collapsed wept
    "Don't Die on Me".
    Next day,
    Double brandy
    Just about settled me,
    Drank some more,
    Thought constantly
    I'd collapse
    Then what?
    Fit? Coronary?
    Insanity? Worse?
    Took a Heminevrin
    Paced the house
    All night,
    Pain in chest,
    Weak legs,
    Lack of feeling
    In extremities,
    Visions of darkness.
    Drank water
    To keep the
    Life functions going
    Played devotional music,
    Dedicated my life
    To God,
    Prayed constantly,
    Renounced evil.
    Next day,
    Two valiums
    Helped me sleep.
    By eve,
    I started to feel better.
    Suddenly,
    All is clearer,
    Taste, sounds,
    I feel human again.
    I made my choice,
    And oblivion has receded,
    And shall disappear...

    Called by Contact for Christ

    There is a widely held belief within Christianity that the sooner a person comes to Christ the better when it comes to their immortal soul. The same could be said for their subsequent relationship with God. There may for example be serious health problems resulting from a former self-destructive lifestyle which could seriously damage their effectiveness as Christian witnesses. On the other hand, one possible advantage of being a late convert is a testimony with the power to cause those normally sceptical of the changed life to sit up and take notice, such as that of this Rock'n'Roll child, raised in an era during which messages of rebellion against not just society and the family but God himself were disseminated by an adversary culture led by Rock music. How could I not be affected, especially given my great impressionability and volatility?
    Many of us - we Rock'n'Roll children - drank voraciously from the spiritual darkness that was everywhere from about 1965 onwards, and it affected us in ways unique to us, and very little of it was positive in my opinion. This darkness has been a thorn in my flesh ever since my first days as a Christian, when I suffered from panic attacks that could be triggered simply by my leaving the sanctuary of my home, although these didn't last long. But I've never been able to fully throw it off.
    I struggled on with the PGCE, partly at the University of Greenwich, and partly at Richmond College, Twickenham, while rehearsing for “Simples of the Moon” which premiered at the Lyric Studio, Hammersmith on the 4th of February 1993. I also attended occasional drugs and alcohol counselling sessions at a church in Greenwich, south east London with a counsellor Elaine, who spoke with a soft cockney accent and had the gentlest pale blue eyes. The only time I ever knew her to lose her composure was when I announced to her over the phone that a matter of hours after deciding of my own volition to stop taking Diazepam, I'd switched to Chlomethiazole, unaware at the time that when it inter-reacts with Valium, it can be fatal. However, enough time had passed between my taking the capsule and calling Elaine for me to be out of danger, and I can recall her literally laughing with relief at this realisation.
    I owe a lot to people like Elaine, and my AA sponsor Don, who kept regular tabs on me by phone during my very worst time which was a great comfort to me, and other AA friends. Still, I chose to attend only a handful of meetings before stopping altogether. One of the reasons for this was that a matter of days after coming to Christ, I received a phone call from a man called Spencer Nash who worked as a counsellor for an organisation called Contact for Christ based in Selsdon, south London. I think he'd got in touch as a result of my having half-heartedly filled in a form that I'd picked up on a train, perhaps the previous summer while filled with alcoholic anticipation as I slowly approached Waterloo station by British Rail train with the sun setting over the foreboding south London cityscape. Knowing me I tried to put him off, but before I knew it he was at the door of my parents' house, a trim, dark, handsome man in late middle age with gently penetrating coffee coloured eyes and aluxuriant white-grey moustache, and at his insistence we prayed together.
    Some time later I visited him and his wife Grace at his large and elegant house where suburb meets country some distance beyond the Greater London border. On that day, Spencer and I made an extensive list of aspects of my pre-Christian life he felt required deep repentance, and we prayed over each of these in turn. My continuing use of tobacco was one of the issues addressed, and while it may have been coincidental, soon after I'd taken my last Valium, I stopped enjoying cigarettes. Admittedly, I continued smoking on and off for about four years afterwards, but I never really enjoyed a cigarette again. In fact, even as early as 1994, a single draw was enough to interfere with my breathing for the rest of the day, and so rob me of a good night’s sleep.
    Additionally, we discussed which church I should be attending, and there was some talk of my joining Spencer and Grace at their little family fellowship in the suburbs, but in the end, Spencer gave his blessing to Cornerstone Bible Church, where I went on to be baptised by the pastor, the charismatic Chris Demetriou. Cornerstone, known today as Cornerstone the Church, is a large fellowship affiliated to the Word of Faith Movement and specifically Rhema Ministries of Johannesburg, South Africa, pastored by Ray McCauley. I'd attended my very first service there even before becoming a Christian in late 1992. Drunk at the time as I recall, I’d sat next to a beautiful blonde woman of about 55 whom I later discovered to be a successful actress who at the height of her career in the sixties had appeared in television cult classics “The Avengers”and “The Prisoner”. Apart from an elder from the Jesus Fellowship, who’d laid hands on me at a meeting of theirs in central London, she was my veryfirst Christian mentor, if only for a very brief period of time. However, I was never to see or speak to her again as I didn’t return to the church for several months, and by the time I did as a new believer, I think she’d moved to another church. We kept on missing each other, and she died in June 2001. I’ve never forgotten her.

    Descent into the Hothouse

    In the early part of '94, I set out on the final phase of the PGCE (FE). To recap, there'd been two previous attempts at passing this exam, the first taking place in 1986-'87 at Homerton College, Cambridge, and the second, in 1990, at the former West London Institute of Higher Education, based on two campuses in the suburbs of Isleworth and east Twickenham, the third, which was the only one I actually completed, in 1992-'94 at the University of Greenwich in New Eltham, south east London.
    I failed in this, my last attempt mainly I think because I didn't demonstrate enough authority in the classroom at Esher College where I did my teaching. To their credit, my tutors at Greenwich offered me the opportunity of retaking TP, but I chose to turn them down. Perhaps I was a little disappointed. After all, the course had cost me quite a lot in terms of time and effort.
    But if I was, it wasn't for long because in September I auditioned for a newly formed fringe theatre group called Grip based at the Rose and Crown pub in Kingston for the role of Roote in Harold Pinter's little known "The Hothouse". While perhaps not among Pinter's greatest plays, "The Hothouse" is a superb piece nonetheless, and eminently Pinteresque, with its almost high poetic verbal virtuosity and inventiveness and dark surreal humour laced with a constant sense of impending violence. Written in 1958, it wasn't performed until 1980, when it was directed by Pinter himself for London’s Hampstead and Ambassador Theatres.
    From the auditions onwards, I gelled with the American director Tim because while most of the auditions I'd attended to date had depended on the time-honoured method of the actor performing a piece from memory before a panel of interviewers, Tim had us reading from the play in small groups, which enabled us to attain a basic feel for the character and so feel like we were actually acting rather than coldly reciting. Once he'd told me the part of Roote was mine, I devoted myself to his vision of Roote, the pompous yet deranged director of an unnamed English psychiatric hospital: the Hothouse of the title.
    He demanded of me an interpretation of Roote which was deeply at odds with my usual highly Method-oriented, subtle, intense, introspective and yet somehow also emotionally vehement approach to acting, but his directorial instincts were spot-on. His production received spectacular reviews not just in the local press, but in the international listings magazine Time Out in which my performance was described as “flawlessly accurate” and “lit by flashes of black humour”.
    A major agent went out of her way to express her interest in me and asked me to ensure my details reach her which I did but I never heard from her again, possibly due to the shabby condition of my CV at the time, and I didn't pursue the matter further. Like so much about my past behaviour, it remains a mystery why I didn't more fully exploit the opportunities offered me by the unexpected success of "The Hothouse" and so go on to the West End superstardom some may've seen as mine for the taking.
    In my defence, it has to be said that since my recent conversion my priorities had shifted so that I viewed worldly success with less relish than I'd done only a few years before. Also, I badly missed the relaxation alcohol once provided me with following my work onstage, and the revels extending deep into the night during which I’d throw my youth and affections about me like some kind of maniacal gambler, and which were the reward for my labour. So while I still loved acting itself, the process of being an actor had become pure torture.
    I'd boxed myself into the position of no longer being able to enjoy social situations as others do, nor to relax. This may've been something to do with what the state of my endorphins, the body's natural feel-good chemicals. After all, there is a theory among certain authorities on addiction that these can be permanently depleted by long-term abuse of alcohol and other narcotics, although I'm not in a position to either endorse or dismiss it.
    To further complicate matters, towards the end of '94 I started falling victim to heavy spiritual problems related to my thought life and for which I'd ultimately seek a solution in the shape of what is known as Deliverance Ministry. Initially I did so through the late prophetic evangelist Frank Wren, whose Trumpet Sounds Ministries lay then as now in a little village in the heart of the Devonshire countryside.

    Within a short time of “The Hothouse” reaching the end of its two week run, Grip’s artistic director Martin asked me if I’d like to audition for his upcoming production of Jim Cartwright's two-handed play “Two”. Naturally I said yes and so after a successful audition, found myself playing all the male characters opposite great actress from Liverpool Jane, who played all the female, and by the end of the run the houses were so packed that people were sitting on the side of the stage at our feet, something I'd never experienced before on the London fringe. Yet as much as I loved working with Martin and Jane, I dreaded the end of each performance, which'd see me make my excuses as soon as it was possible to do so without causing anyone any great offence to anyone.
    Release from what had become a torturous dungeon of sobriety came while I was attending some unrelated function at the Rose and Crown a day or so following my final performance in "Two", when a guy I'd only just met offered to buy me a drink and I asked for a glass of wine. Apart from the time at my parents’ house a few weeks earlier when I took a swig of what I thought was water but which turned out to be vodka or gin, this was the first alcohol to pass my lips since January '93.
    This single glass of wine made me feel amazing, doubly so given the purity of my system. I cycled home that night in a state of total exhileration, feeling for the first time in months that I could so anything. Over the next few week my drinking increased, reaching a climax in a pub in Twickenham where I met an old university friend who'd just finished a course at St Mary's University College in nearby Strawberry Hill, and where I drank and smoked myself into a stupor.
    Cycling home afterwards, I took a bend near Hampton Wick and came off my bike, striking my head against a bus shelter. I stayed flat on my back for a while abject and stinking of drink -I could've sworn I saw a shadowy figure running towards me as I lay there in the dark - but before long I was shakily resuming my journey home. However, weeks of controlled drinking and one massive binge, possibly combined with the adverse effects of violently smashing my head, resulted in my becoming ill and virtually incapacitated for what might have been as long as a fortnight. As I remember, there were times during this awful period when I'd awake from a feverish sleep in a frantic state, my face a sickly pale, close to blacking out, terrified of dying, but each time I felt God came to my rescue just when my I felt I could stay conscious for not a second longer, breathing life back into me. All I could do was lie around, waiting, praying for a return to full health. It seemed to take an eternity,but eventually I did return to normality, determined never to drink again as long as I lived. But then of course I did...several times more throughout the '90s, and then the '00s, and each time I relapsed I felt worse than I'd done previously. Would I ever learn?
  • The Rock Revolution

    Rock as I see it is far more than just a simple popular music derived from Rythym and Blues, Rockabilly, Boogie Woogie and so on. Rather it's an immensely influential international subculture of varying artistic and intellectual substance which some cultural theorists have even gone so far as to describe it as a religion. And they have a point. Rock has possessed a spiritual dimension since its inception, and an intellectual one since about 1965. And many would single the one-time Protest poet Bob Dylan out as the person who more than any other helped to invest mere Beat music with genuine artistic and intellectual substance. From Dylan onwards there've been many Rock artists who've looked to movements within artistic Modernism for inspiration - to the Romantics, the Decadents, the Surrealists, the Beats and so on - and it could be said that Rock has been the main engine of the avant garde impulse in the West since the late sixties, with the rebelliousness and nihilism this word entails. That's not to say however that Rock has been a wholly negative influence, because much of it has been positive and uplifting, and of considerable artistic value to boot. That said, more than any other art form in the last fifty years Rock has disseminated a culture of instant gratification throughout the West and so greatly contributed to the alteration of its moral fabric.
  • The Intellectual Temptation

    It's my contention that intellectuals are more tempted than most by various dark lures including pride, rebellion and sensuality. The same could be said of those who've been lavishly gifted by God with beauty, or great talent and so on. Intellectuals have been among the most powerful and often also dangerous men and women in history, and the Modern World has been significantly shaped by the ideas of intellectuals such as Rousseau, Darwin, Marx, Nietzsche and Freud. Their theories and especially those of Marx and Freud and their apostles both orthodox and schismatic fanned the flames of a largely bloodless revolution in the 1960s and while this'd been quenched by about 1972, the philosophies that inspired it far from fading themselves set about infiltrating the cultural mainstream, where they became more extreme than ever, and so entered the realm of the Postmodern, while remaining the ultimate consequence of centuries of Modernist erosion of the Judaeo-Christian fabric of Western civilisation.

Thursday, 03 July 2008

  • In the Line of Cain

    The Playboy Philosophy which exploded in the 1960s could be said to have reached its full flowering in this decade (the 1980s), even if the vast majority of people whose salad days fell within it ultimately forged respectable lives following a brief season as outsiders.Sadly, I never did, and I'm suffering for it now...from a cruel nostalgia for the trappings of status, security, respectability I once scorned. How bitterly I regret such short-sighted narcissism, a narcissism that's been promoted and worshipped in the West for over half a century, as our society has given itself increasingly over to spiritual rebellion and wholesale sensual abandon - where once these were marginalised as aberrant. These are the same outworkings of the flesh that corrupted the antedeluvian world, and which survived the Flood to be disseminated throughout the nations to spell the end of one empire after the other, the Babylonian, the Medo-Persian, the Greek, the Roman.
     I had no excuse to embrace them. After all, I'd been blessed at birth by every good gift. But the truth is that the most desired qualities - such as intelligence, talent and beauty - are uniquely dangerous unless submitted in their entirety to God, not least to those who possess them. These people are visible and therefore vulnerable, and with more temptations than most, all too likely to fall prey to Luciferian pride and Luciferian rebellion...like David's favourite son Absalom who was physically flawless but morally bereft. Little wonder therefore that so many of them are drawn to the power offered by art, and especially music, the writer of the first song Lamech having been in the line of Cain. Indeed, there are those Christians who believe that the Cainites were the first pagan people, and that they corrupted the Godly line of Seth through a sensual and wicked music not unlike much contemporary Rock. Of course not all Rock music is flagrantly wicked, far from it. Much of itis melodically lovely. While in terms of its lyrics, its finest songs display the most delicate poetic sensibility. The fact remains, however, that no art form has been quite so associated as Rock with rebellion, transgression, licentiousness, intoxication and a thanatophiliac love of death nor been so influential as such.
    To think I once desperately sought fame as a Rock artist myself, and if not as Rock'n'Roll superstar then as actor, or writer, and it was surely a blessing I never gained this pagan form of immortality because had I done so I'd almost certainly have been used for the furtherance of the kingdom of darkness. Once I'd served my purpose I may well have died a solitary premature death as an addict, as has been the fate of so many men and women briefly briefly animated by the charismatic superstar spirit before being cruelly discarded by the Enemy of Souls.

    Updated: 15/3/09


     

CarlHalling

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    • Name: Carl Halling
    • Gender: Male
    • Member Since: 8/27/2007

About Me

  • BORN AGAIN BIBLE BELIEVING CHRISTIAN Artist (Actor, Singer, Songwriter, Writer, Other). Born London. Born Again 1993.

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