I suppose comedians must be used to it in some ways. To live all your working life with a live audience which you can hear, see and - through the response of their laughter - interact with. Then suddenly, thanks to a TV chance, to find yourself on a film set with nobody to react to your lines however funny and well-timed they might be. Musicians would have it too. Sitting alone in a silent, sterile recording studio is so different from the occasionally restless but reassuringly present audience you are used to.
For vicars, this is a learning curve may will be embarking on for the first time. Preaching when there’s nobody there to preach to; looking for responses in an empty room. And, in many cases, not even being able to try to cope with these unfamiliar times on familiar territory. No church, no pulpit, no congregation.
The coronavirus crisis has worsened since last week. We are now all but confined to our homes. The wonders of IT mean many of us have the simulation of reality in our work, but step outside the door and the real world is a changed place. I combined my permitted exercise with a walk to pick up essential shopping. I passed only one person on my Saturday lunchtime walk through town. After queuing like stacked aircraft before being signalled in to the supermarket I wandered home past St Nicholas which, like everything else at the moment, is shut and locked with just a note on the door to indicate that somewhere deep down, things ARE carrying on. There was nobody around as I sat for a moment to enjoy the fabulous colours of the flowers in which the church is fringed. It’s a fine sunny day and I can’t resist a picture or two.
St Nicholas is, like many churches, offering live-streaming of some services. This morning’s communion is coming from the vicarage dining room. Thanks to a selective raid on bits and bobs from the church itself, the room has been converted into a makeshift chapel. How fortunate the archbishop last week who has such a space already available in the crypt of his palace.
It’s a one-woman-show from start to finish. It must be so odd to hear yourself recite such familiar words without any response, indeed without any real idea of who (if anyone) is listening. The absence of supporting clergy and the usual church wardens is evident in the moment when the vicar realises the altar candle has not been lit and we’re left watching an empty room while she races out to the kitchen for a box of matches.
After that it’s a refreshingly straightforward service, shortened by necessity, but sticking to the usual format and easily followable thanks to the PDF order of service you can also download. It’s not impossible to concentrate on what’s happening, but without the physical reminder of actually being in church surrounded by others, it’s understandable that the gaze will shift at times.
I find myself distracted in particular by the tiny icon at the top of the video which shows how many people are currently watching. It starts off at about 30 and hovers around the 45 mark for most of the service. But I can’t help view it as some sort of real-time approval rating. I only hope the vicar can’t see it; the temptation to adjust the content to boost the ratings is a debate familiar to churchgoers even in non-virus times.
I find myself distracted in particular by the tiny icon at the top of the video which shows how many people are currently watching. It starts off at about 30 and hovers around the 45 mark for most of the service. But I can’t help view it as some sort of real-time approval rating. I only hope the vicar can’t see it; the temptation to adjust the content to boost the ratings is a debate familiar to churchgoers even in non-virus times.
The prayers focus strongly, as you’d expect, those suffering and anxious at the moment and those risking so much to look after them. A few nights ago we all stood on our doorsteps and demonstrated our gratitude toward those battling on the the frontline of the virus by applauding the NHS. I feel after watching this, and pondering for a moment the commitment and determination that makes so many of us at least try to keep going, I wish there were some sort of applause button I could press. But I content myself with sending (I believe) a thumbs-up and a smiley face.
It’s awkward and obviously lacking, through no fault of its own, in so many areas but this online response is so much more than the church could have offered even a decade ago. Without this link, and with home visits ruled out by the virus measures we must all follow, I suppose the church would simply have had to lock the doors and wait for better times. Instead it is able, like the spring flowers which defy the icy blasts the virus blows into all our lives, to keep its head above the soil, offering a promise to us all that normality will one day return.
