Well, let’s be honest — I’m retired. I retired yonks ago. I was a headmaster in Ealing for years, and a magistrate for 29 years — but you have to retire from that at 70 — and I’ve been ordained as an NSM for 28 years. Now I’m an honorary curate at Christ Church, Barnet, and chaplain and welfare officer to the Magic Circle. My wife’s not well; so I’m also the carer for her. It’s all a great privilege.

I used to sit on the magistrates’ bench on Friday mornings — get into school, clear my desk, take the assembly, and pop down to the court. Whenever any of my Old Boys came along, I couldn’t sit, of course — though one said, “I think I’d rather have you. . .”

I’d see some very sad cases, and it makes you grateful: “There but for the grace of God go I.” There was Fred, who served 30 years in Wormwood Scrubs. He was a very sad case, but he was amazingly converted in prison, and he painted me this beautiful picture of a storm at sea with boat, and a chain and anchor attached to a rock. “That’s my life,” he said, “and the rock is Jesus.” I suppose when people reach rock-bottom, they feel their need for Jesus.

I became a Christian as a boy of 15, and wanted to share Jesus. I’d always worked with children for Scripture Union and Sunday school, and so on. After National Service, when I was 19, I went to the selection board, but I realised then that most children’s work is done by the laity, and when I got the letter accepting me for ordina­tion, I knew in my heart it was wrong. So I trained as an RE teacher.

It was wonderful: I had a congre­gation of 30 children, every half-hour a new lot would come in, the Government paid, and I had all the resources I wanted. Then, 28 years ago, I was ordained as an NSM; so I’ve had the best of both worlds.

Only God can do miracles, but if you have a trick or two in your pocket — well, you give people a bit of fun and enjoyment, and you might make them think a bit. When I went to secondary school — University Col­lege School, Hampstead — we all had to join three societies, and there was this Magic Club. I saw this boy doing amazing things, and he said: “If you join, you’ll learn how to do them, too.”

I can turn a sheet of paper into a £5 note. Yes, I can. If I had time, I could saw you in half. Oh, that’s the easy bit. Putting you back together again would be the hard part. I’m afraid the Magic Circle’s code is that you don’t tell people how it’s done. . . But if you watched me, you’d probably see. It’s just a bit of fun. Yes — it’s a means to an end. I was a bit of a shy boy, but later on, in the pub, you can do a few tricks and a crowd gathers round; they buy you a few drinks. . .

Is Jesus illusion or reality? I call my magic tricks illusions or sleight of hand because you’ve got to be careful. Some Christians aren’t comfortable with magic. They get a bit concerned. I used to do tricks in my assemblies as a headmaster, or for staff parties. I sometimes do assemblies at school still, and the children crowd round and say: “Here comes the magic man!” but one little girl said: “Here comes the Jesus man!” That’s what it’s about.

You’ve got to be very careful that it’s a visual aid and not a visual hindrance. But I get openings — rotary clubs, men’s breakfasts, and if I can, in a tactful way, I tell them the good news.

The Magic Circle was born 105 years ago, and has 1500 members in 38 countries. My role is a means of meeting people. In fact, I had three phone calls this morning, one about someone who is unwell, and sadly, one member has died, and I’ve sent a basket of fruit to another member who is ill. They know I’m there. Sadly, I take a lot of funerals — and only the occasional wedding. I did the funeral recently of Ali Bongo, who was known throughout the world — his funeral was relayed to Europe and the United States.

I was asked to do a trick for the funeral of one magician by his wife. It is a service, after all; so you have to be very careful, very tactful. But they did have a faith; so I said: “This is a sad time, full of sorrow and darkness,” and then I opened the Bible and flames leapt out, because “Jesus is the Light of the world.”

As a Christian, I distinguish between magic (illusion) and miracles (God). We can’t understand how amazing things happen. When our baby was born, we looked at this small, perfect, wonderful creation, and couldn’t begin to understand how something so perfect could have come to be. This is the almighty, loving God showing his power, and we can’t comprehend it with our finite minds.

God uses his miracles as signs on earth. Sometimes people come to faith when their baby is born, and they say: “There must be something. . .” Or when I looked out of the window this morning — we have a bird feeder, and there must have been a dozen little blue tits around it. How did they come to be?

Sylvia and I have been married for 45 years. She has Parkinson’s disease; so I have to care for her. We have one son, a bank manager with two children, living here, and another son with two children in Sydney. They’re very important to us: not a week goes by without our hearing from them.

I’m 77 now. I think you have to keep going while God gives you strength, but some old clergymen keep droning on; so I hope someone will have the grace to tell me to hang up my boots when it’s time.

I really wanted to play cricket for England — you have these pipe dreams, don’t you? So my greatest regret is that I was never captain of the England cricket team. I was in the MCC, but wasn’t good enough to play at the highest level. I used to enjoy Lord’s. I went to see Brian Lara once when he made a century. The man on the door said no, he was too busy, too tired, and so on, but I showed him a couple of tricks, and eventually he said, “All right, he’ll see you.” It was a bit of nerve, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t till I was 15 when it dawned on me that Jesus wanted to be not just a saviour, or the saviour, but my saviour — though I had grown up in a Christian family. In those days, you were given a little card, and I did the thing of kneeling down and saying that prayer, and it changed the direction of my life. No question about that.

I’m very grateful to my parents. I have a twin sister, and we were both very grateful for their love and care. They used to pray by my bedside, and they were certainly a great influence.

Then there was Tom Rees, the great evangelist from Hildenborough Hall. He used to fill the Albert Hall once a month. He asked me to speak there once, when I was 18, and that was a great privilege. He was the Billy Graham of his day, I suppose, and many young people came to faith through him. I looked on him as the prince of speakers. Some sermons are so boring, but they should be enjoyable, memorable, and special. I learned a lot from him.

Gladys Aylward came to my school in her 70s, with a little boy called Gordon. She told us how the cook had rushed in to say there was a rat moving about in the dustbin and Gladys found this little baby in it and took him home. We were so moved to hear this wonderful story that we sent a gift for her work in Formosa. Not long after, she died of pneumonia because she had given her blankets to a sick friend. When I came back to school from the holidays, I found a letter and calendar from Gladys Aylward — one of the last letters she wrote.

We’ve led 13 different trips to the Holy Land and in the footsteps of St Paul, and it was amazing. We had our own Sunday service in a little boat on the Sea of Galilee one Sunday morning, and it was very inspiring. But if you’re fortunate to have a loving home, there’s no place like home, is there? Security, comfort, peace.

I like systematic Bible-reading. There’s a danger in picking and choosing what you fancy. The Psalms are a great source of strength. And St John’s Gospel has wonderful pictures of Jesus. Not just pictures, but promises. The “I am” verses are a great source of strength and hope.

I’ve always loved children — the joyful sound of their voices at play . . . they’re the next generation. Or the early dawn chorus.

Oh dear, angry? That’s a strong word, isn’t it? Be honest, yesterday I was angry with myself. I went to the garage and put two litres of diesel into the car instead of petrol, and couldn’t believe how foolish I had been. I had to wait four hours, and wasted time and fuel and energy because I’d made such a stupid mistake.

I used to take evening camp-services at Crusaders, Scripture Union, and at school, and when I tell the good news — well, if there’s joy in the presence of the angels, I have great joy when someone hears the good news and it’s a turning-point — for all eternity.

Praying isn’t just asking for things, of course, but obviously I pray for the family, and it makes them feel much nearer when they’re far away. And I pray for people I know, for the Magic Circle, the elderly, the sick, bereaved, people who’ve fallen on hard times. And for myself, to “keep going, keep growing, keep glowing.”

“My hope is built on nothing less Than Jesus Christ, his righteous­ness.” In a sad world, all those promises are a lovely bunch of sweet Ps to cherish: pardon, peace, power, protection.

If I could wave a magic wand? Well, when Albert Schweitzer was asked what he would most like to receive when he won the Nobel Prize, he said he would like a beautiful vase filled with time. There are so many things I want to do. . . But there we are; what will be, will be.

It’s a bit of a cheek, and I’m not worthy, but I thought I’d like to be locked in a church with the Queen. She’s the Defender of the Faith, an amazing woman. We’re so blessed to have such a godly monarch. So I’d show her a few tricks. . . But if she’s too busy, or I’m not worthy, I’d like to be locked in a church with Arch­bishop Sentamu. He does amazing things. I’ve got a lot to learn from him — if he can spare the time.

The Revd Peter Liddelow was talking to Terence Handley MacMath.