A writer and theologian has found a new way to explore the things of God – and it has meant leaving words behind

In my twenties, I thought my course in life was clear: I wanted to be some sort of theologian, or religious writer. So that’s what I tried for a decade or two – writing books and articles about religion, doing some other jobs on the side (copywriter, teacher, librarian, househusband).

But something surprising gradually happened. The impulse to be a religious writer got elbowed aside by an even more impractical impulse – to be a sort of religious artist. Oh dear – why couldn’t I have felt the impulse to be a lawyer or a tech developer, or a prime minister?

Art crept up on me. I’d dabbled since childhood, but it felt like a sideline, a distraction from my core interests – literature, ideas, religion. I kept it up in a small way – in one depressed phase while trying to be a Cambridge academic, I did a few paintings of autumn trees. It felt like a blessed escape from the complexity of ideas, a way of participating in the goodness of creation. But it felt unrelated to my main work.