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Vicci writes:

Those of us who are of a certain age will remember Spirit in the Sky as an iconic song of our teen-aged years when (at least in the rural communities) there were village discos where you could buy pop, crisps and perhaps a chocolate bar if you were really lucky, where alcohol was banned (but occasionally slipped in via cunningly devised routes) and where we would stand around in circles head-banging to this song. My mother, who nursed at the island hospital, would mutter darkly about brain injuries, but was unusually unable to back this assertion up with work-derived illustrations.

It took an embarrassing number of decades for me to realise that this banger of a tune was a song that thought it was making a statement about Christians. Having grown up with the concept of the Spirit living in me and thus having never thought of God as a “Spirit in the Sky” in the first place, it didn’t occur to me that anyone else might.

So who is right? Me, who thinks it’s okay to start not just a sentence, but a whole paragraph with “so” or Norman Greenbaum, who wrote a part of the soundtrack to my youth? The ancient Hebrews believed that it took three elements to create a baby. They understood about male and female – after all, they were mostly farmers – but they didn’t understand why sometimes conception happened, and sometimes it didn’t. The Holy Spirit made sense to them as the missing element. If we follow that thought to its conclusion, it would suggest that not only do our bodies contain the DNA of both of our parents, but also that we contain the Holy Spirit. Some of you may think that this doesn’t account for the events of Pentecost, but bear with me.

When I was a child, the house was predominantly heated by a coal fire. This was in the sitting-room, and had a back boiler where water was heated. If the fire went out overnight, we not only woke up to a very cold house, but no hot water and a long wait for the fire to be re-lit and the fuel to become a warming influence, and not just a crackling light. Of course, we also didn’t want a spark to fly out and set the house on fire and there was a trick to balancing these two needs. It involved letting the fire burn down to glowing embers and carefully covering these with a small mound of ash. This was called “banking in the fire.”

The following morning, the first person up would have to rake through the ash, so that it fell down below the grate, was then scooped up and thrown away, and the embers were gradually coaxed back into a full flame with the addition of initially small pieces of wood and coal, and then as the fire took hold with larger bits.

I wonder if the Holy Spirit in each of us is banked in, tamped down with sin, fear, worry, anxiety and so on and when we confess our sins and add in to our lives the things that Wesley called “the means of grace”: Bible reading, prayer, Communion, gathering together with other Christians for fellowship and debate, then we are performing the spiritual equivalent of the early morning routine of raking through the fire and bringing it back to life.

The song says “Never been a sinner, I never sinned” but then goes on “I got a friend in Jesus”, perhaps suggesting not that the singer has never sinned, but that Jesus has wiped those sins away. For me, thinking of sin as the ash that damps down the fire of the Holy Spirit in me is a helpful way of understanding why it might matter so much to God, and also of interpreting my day. Imagining the means of grace as adding fuel to the fire of the Holy Spirit in me gives me an image that calls me back to Bible and prayer when the daily routines have become difficult to follow.

In the end, perhaps we are both right, Norman Greenbaum and me. Perhaps the Holy Spirit is in each one of us, a well-fed fire, or a banked in, scarcely there ember, and also outside of us, in the world at large, God’s Spirit in the sky and in the very air we breathe.

…

Norman Greenbaum is still alive and kicking – you can find out more at https://spiritinthesky.com/

Well, here’s the thing. There is no Friday Fix today.

Not because the world is short of songs with something to say. Not because the connection between a well-chosen lyric and the deeper things of life has dried up. But simply because nobody sent one in. The inbox sits there, quiet as a country church on a Tuesday afternoon.

And we’re not judging. Honestly.

But we are about to launch a whole summer season of One Hit Wonders — those gloriously brief musical gems that appeared in the charts, said their piece, and were never quite heard from again. One magnificent moment. One song that somehow said everything.

The trouble is, a season needs submissions. And submissions need you.

So here’s our gentle, entirely non-desperate appeal: dig back through your musical memory. What’s the one-hit wonder that’s stuck with you? The one that came on the radio and made you turn it up? The one that, when you think about it, might just have something to say about faith, or hope, or what it means to be human?

To get the creative juices flowing, we’re sharing a link to BBC Radio 2’s show on the UK’s best-selling One Hit Wonders — it’s not brand new, but it’s a wonderful trip down memory lane, and who knows what it might shake loose.

🎵 https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b010mwjbhttps://www.bbc.co.uk/

Send us your Fix and let’s make this a summer to remember.

The inbox (fridayfixmail@gmail.com) is waiting. Hopefully not for long.

Gill writes:

My recent reflections have often been about how lately it feels like I’ve been swimming in some pretty deep, heavy waters against the tide. So today, I thought I would give the despair a well-deserved day off. Instead, I thought I’d focus on the pure joy of savouring the moment. And to help us do that, I  thought I’d take a little step back into 1966 and this classic from Cliff Richard and The Shadows.

Your recollections of this track are probably of a bright, relentlessly cheerful piece of vintage sixties pop. It’s the kind of tune that is definitely of its time. But if you peel back that upbeat tempo and actually look at what the song is saying, it has the perfect message for our busy modern minds.

The song starts with that feeling of isolation:

When the world in which you live in
Gets a bit too much to bear
And you need someone to lean on
When you look, there’s no one there

Tell me about it, Cliff. And then it goes on to talk about the world closing in on you:

When you’re walking in the city
And you’re feeling rather small
And the people on the sidewalk
Seem to form a solid wall

Back then, that solid wall closing in on you was probably more literal – brick, mortar, and bustling crowds. Today, I think our solid wall is usually digital—the endless scrolling, the furious commentary on our screens, and the crushing weight of opinions we didn’t ask for. 

If we don’t actively and intentionally claim our own peace, the noise of the world will claim it for us. Making the most of a quiet moment seems more of a challenge to make space for. In a world that demands our constant attention, making time for peace and joy is probably what you could call an act of radical defiance. As Julian Cope once sang, it’s a way of saying ‘World, shut your mouth!’

We have a lovely, long bank holiday weekend stretching out ahead of us – with cracking weather promised apparently. It can be easy to treat these extra days as time to catch up on chores, run errands (usually to the tip), or, dare I say, spend an extra twelve hours staring at our phones.

This weekend, I wonder if I could challenge you to do something different. I wonder if you could practice a little bit of radical defiance. You don’t need to buy a train ticket to some dramatic coast or countryside to do this though. I think that ‘the country’ is more a state of mind. It’s any neutral ground where you are completely safe from the noise—and surely the absolute best place to find that is in nature.

There is a profound spiritual peace waiting for us outdoors. When human spaces feel fractured and heavy, stepping into creation reminds us that there is a wider, divine reality at work. Nature has a beautiful way of grounding us because it doesn’t have anxieties like we do. A forest doesn’t care about arguments. A stream doesn’t worry if it has done the ‘right’ thing. The grass grows, the trees reach upwards, and the breeze blows exactly as God designed them to do.

When we quieten our minds in green spaces, we aren’t just escaping; we are opening our hearts. We are making room to hear that “still, small voice” that so easily gets drowned out by the digital roar of our world. For a moment or two, we can tell ourselves that while we might feel powerless to fix the world, we can rest safely in the hands of the One who holds it all.

So, pack up a flask of tea, find a patch of green, and go reclaim your piece of the country.

Have a peaceful, wonderfully defiant Bank Holiday weekend.

…

Well – Cliff is still with us 60 years later and you can find out what he’s up to at https://www.cliffrichard.org/

This summer, the Friday Fix is celebrating one-hit wonders — those songs that blazed into our lives, lodged themselves deep in our hearts, and somehow never left, even if the artists largely did. You know the one. It appears on the radio or playlist, and you’re immediately 15 again, or standing in a kitchen you haven’t stood in for decades, or remembering a summer that felt like it would last forever.

We want to hear about yours. What’s the song that got away — and what does it say to you about faith, life, or the human longing for something more?

Send us a short reflection pairing your one-hit wonder with a moment of theological insight, and we’ll share it with the Friday Fix community. All musical tastes welcome — guilty pleasures especially encouraged. Drop us a line at fridayfixmail@gmail.com and let your one hit wonder have its moment yet again.

Gill writes:

I’ve found myself using a phrase quite often so far this year. That phrase is ‘knock the dust (from your shoes).’ Its origins lie in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 10. It’s one of those phrases or quotes that I turn to when I find myself caught up in heated debates or doomscrolling through Threads. It helps me step back and check myself. Take a breath and ask what’s going on here?

You may be familiar with the story in Luke 10 – it’s where Jesus sends out seventy-two disciples — in pairs, which is itself worth noting — and gives them a remarkably practical set of instructions. Find a welcoming house. Stay there. Eat what they give you. And if a town doesn’t receive you? Shake the dust from your feet and move on.

In other words, don’t get yourself embroiled in a prolonged argument. Don’t keep trying harder and harder to win people over. Just — walk away.

I find that Cast’s Walkaway, from their 1995 debut album All Change, captures something of that same spirit. It’s not an angry song. It’s not particularly sad or full of pent-up frustration. It’s underpinned with that Britpop confidence — nay, swagger — of the 1990’s but underneath it, I find there’s something wiser than it first appears. If you’ve heard all they got to say / you looked but turned away. The walking away here isn’t defeat. I think it’s discernment.

And in 2026, discernment might be one of the most countercultural things we can practise.

We live in a world engineered to keep us engaged — not productively engaged, of course, but hooked. The (doom) scroll. The ‘hot take’. The reply that definitely won’t change anyone’s mind, but somehow we can’t resist typing anyway. Comment sections on social media seem designed less for conversation and more for combat by keyboard warriors. Algorithms that have learned, very efficiently, that outrage keeps us online longer than wonder does.

Into all of that, the song says: walk away. Just like Jesus told us to do two thousand years earlier.

I think the thing to notice about the Luke 10 instruction is that it is not about having a sense of resignation. It isn’t Jesus saying don’t bother because people are useless. I think it’s something more purposeful than that — more about assessing a situation, like triaging in a hospital A&E, or a gardener knowing when soil is ready. The disciples aren’t carrying a message that diminishes if it goes unheard in one place. They carry it onwards. You’ll never lose your dreams, as Cast put it, in one of those lines that you could almost throw away until you sit with it.

There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to reach people who, right now, simply aren’t ready to hear. We’ve probably all felt it — in a family conversation that turns circular, in a social media exchange that generates more heat than light, in a world of soundbites and bots where nuance goes to die. The temptation is to try harder, speak louder, and find the persuasive argument that will finally land.

But Jesus offers us something different: permission. Permission to move on. To trust that the Spirit works in its own time, through its own means, and that our job is not to force every door but to notice which ones are opening.

Walking away, in this reading, is not apathy. It’s not giving up on people. It’s an act of faith — that the Good News is bigger than any single conversation, that it will find its moment, and that burning ourselves out helps no one.

So maybe the questions are: what dusty shoes need a shake? Where are the open doors? The receptive hearts? The places where something might actually take root?

Walk away from the noise. And walk towards life. And never lose our dreams.

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Find out more about Cast at https://castband.co.uk/