Still small voice

God spoke to me three days ago.


Okay, I may be mistaken there: He may not actually have spoken, but I'm pretty sure that he did.

For many of the arrogant atheist troop this admission that I may be wrong could seem like evidence for the prosecution. I can assure you that it isn't, because God has definitely spoken to me before.

When God sent an angel to speak to Zechariah, we're told that Zechariah was gripped by fear (Lk 1.12), the reason for this fear probably being that God hadn't had any direct contact with people for 400 or so years. Zechariah didn't know where to put himself. I felt the same the first time God spoke to me: I was gripped by fear, and I felt a certainty that if I looked up at God I would die, right then and there. So I rather sensibly stared at the floor.

This time, there was no sense of an all-powerful force, which is what leaves me feeling a bit uncertain.

By chance I started reading Listening to the Voice of God by Roger Barrier. I wasn't looking for another book, I'm still only part way through Chavs and They **** You Up, but it caught my attention and I ploughed through it. As a result I realised that I had been longing for God to speak to me again, even if it meant scaring the cr*p out of me, but that I wasn't really listening. So for a while now I've been attempting to really properly listen, and that's when I heard something.

A very quiet something, but a something which felt right. This thing I heard (I can't call it a voice, it didn't come via the ears for a start) seemed to be pointing out that my bedroom was a mess and that I needed to tidy it.

How prosaic is that? Tidy your bedroom. Was it God, or just my Gran?

Anyhow, because I can't be sure whether it really was the Big Man or just my own guilty conscience I've decided to test out the instruction, for forty days. Jesus had the wilderness, I've got a three-bedroomed terrace. At least I can get to the fridge.