47. https://everyday.org.uk/online/

Yesterday I bought a book without going to a bookshop. I also kept up with a few friends without having the inconvenience of actually meeting them and I even managed to check the weather without having to open the curtains.

We’re all familiar with the online world and how it has changed the way we live. It used to be something we might worry about; If I had a pound for every person who told me the newspapers I produce would become extinct in a year, I’d be able to retire from my job at the newspaper. I suppose they are gradually going - as are many of the shops which sold them - but we’re just that bit more used to the change going on.

There have always been people who prefer the trappings of social interaction to come to them. Think of all those people who bought the record rather than go to the gig. Many people I know prefer to wait for the DVD rather than run the gauntlet of noise, phone lights and the smell of fast food which constitutes any visit to the cinema these days.

But people’s migration to online living leaves us with many social spaces less well attended than before. Perhaps the paucity of worshippers at many services is a reflection not of people’s disenchantment with what the church offers, more that they just don’t want to actually turn up week after week.

Cue the online church. It’s a place you can visit, join prayer, sing praises, hear a sermon and so on without ever leaving your home. It’s a church - and a whole religion to back it up - which you can carry round on your phone just as you carry the gossip of friends, Jacob Rees-Mogg memes, hours of music, up-to-the-moment cricket scores or unlimited porn.

After a brief and not altogether successful Google I’ve found the Everyday Online church and with an hourly service starting in four minutes, I’ve barely time to find some headphones and make a coffee before I’m off to church.

The name Everyday Online has me pondering. Everyday mean normal, ordinary, humdrum even. Every day, on the other hand, means a constant presence. It could be a mistake; it could be a sassy attempt to cover both bases or even invite a comparison between the two. Oddly enough Ikea are currently using the same spelling. You have to wonder where in the spectrum of subtle or ignorant it lies. There is, as Nigel Tufnell once said, a very thin line between clever and stupid.

Everyday Church is not entirely virtual. There are a string of real, solid South London churches behind this website. But it’s the online incarnation which interests me. Click on the site and you can join any service live. Each service lasts an hour and includes much of what you’d expect to encounter if you pulled up to one of their real churches in Croydon or Wimbledon. There’s a welcome, some extremely well-produced music from the band complete with singalong lyrics, the option to join prayers and a lengthy sermon in the form of a lecture.

Darren is our online pastor, ironically he’s pictured against a background of a completely empty church. Giving the sermon is Phil. There are buttons to click to chat live with other worshippers or type in your request for a prayer. The sermon is backed up by exhaustive notes for those who want to delve deeper into its themes. 

It’s a decent theme this morning. There are three key directions Jesus works, says Phil. In towards the the church family, up towards God and out into the wider world. Too many people - and too many churches - only cover two of those dimensions. Time to throw away your 2D Jesus and usher in the 3D saviour. And that he does - giving a fearful whack to the cardboard cut-out Jesus he’s been sharing the screen with. 

It’s a compelling lecture full of references, philosophical and scriptural back-ups and delivered in a very watchable fashion. I can think of plenty of places I’ve been to where this standard of preaching would open up a few eyes.

But absorbing as Phil is, he’s up against all the other distractions of being online. I’m drawn to the live chat as we go along, and the live request-a-prayer - although my request for the online community to pray for me to get round the afternoon’s cycling challenge in Coventry is shunted into the cul-de-sac of ‘someone will be with you shortly’.

I find myself wondering if Phil will notice if I just check the latest on Brexit resignations, order some more socks or have a quick game of solitaire. Such distractions exist in church, of course, but this seems relatively risk free.

Ultimately the online church route lives or dies on what it is you actually want.  There may be any number of reasons why people are in the unfortunate position of not being able to go to church and this could provide an option to them. But for those of us who can still attend, it’s a fairly straight question of where in your list of priorities you place genuine human contact. This is convenient, free (if you ignore all the ‘donate now’ buttons and banners) and only takes as long as it takes to watch. Do you really need to venture out and sit in a sparsely-populated building with a few others you only see once a week? 

Judging by the overwhelming majority of the places I’ve been so far this year and the enjoyment of the community identities they’ve built up over years, worshipping alone on your laptop still has a lot of folk to conquer. 

46. St Paul’s, Leamington

This church has changed a lot since I was last here. Mind you that was about thirty years ago. Back then it was a rather sombre building inside and out.  A dark, towering place so close to the road that it looked far too big for where it was. Inside it was dark wood and small windows. I went here once for a wedding which I recall not being the lightest of events anyway.

Now, a complete remodelling has opened up the interior. The pews have gone and the modern seats allow for a multitude of configurations. The windows may somehow let in more light (there’s a lot less dark wood to soak it up), but that could also be down to the four big screens looming over the congregation. 

There’s a real sense of welcome to this church - always a sign that things are healthy and people are proud to share what they’ve got. It’s especially welcoming as this was not my intended visit this morning. A trip to Sydenham yielded not the vibrant church on the attractive website, but a set of closed and shuttered doors. That’s not the first time it’s happened - it’s a battle getting people through the doors sometimes so casualties are hardly surprising.

Today’s service is an all-age worship and it’s very well attended. I may have my qualms about the move away from hymns to a more modern sound but it’s certainly popular here. People of all ages are joining in - even when the lyrics on offer (and the actions which go with them) are definitely aimed at the under fives. 

Vicar Jonathan leads a series of prayers offering thanks for (and to) those who work so hard to run the various youth groups. And we’re treated to a very well-produced video of what some of those youngsters made of a recent Christian festival they went on. 

A video, a big screen, some music... could this be the influence of multimedia smart phone life coming through? Add to that a parable in the form of a children’s cartoon and a couple of lively presenters to analyse it and the whole sleek modern feel is there.

The parable for the morning is that of the prodigal son. I’ve always found this a difficult parable. Partly that’s because my deep-seated sense of morals leads me to believe the free-spending, selfish behaviour of the prodigal ought to end in some kind of comeuppance. It would in Shakespeare, in Dickens, in Enid Blyton. 

I know it’s a story underlining the forgiving, loving nature of parents (and through the parable, God) but it just seems unfinished. I’m happy with the idea of a forgiving God - it is after all the absolute basis of Christianity. I just stumble slightly at the idea there is nowhere you can go in life, physically or metaphorically, which is so far from God that you’d never be forgiven. 

Many months ago I heard a Methodist minister attacking just this blanket absolutism when it came to always forgiving those who hurt us by turning the other cheek. She argued that there are some cases when we owe it to ourselves and those who might also be harmed in the future to refuse the other cheek and take action instead. I thought it was very brave and very laudable then and I wonder what she’d make of this reading of the parable today.

I think her message of ‘sometimes enough is enough’ could extend to there perhaps being some things that God would not forgive. Some actions which go beyond what even divine grace could sweep aside. I’m sure everyone could think of a few. As parents we know there is much that we’d forgive from our children and that love will always drive us to err on the side of compassion. But there MUST be things that lie beyond that line surely?

Hopefully, as this is a rare chance for me to be accompanied by my daughter before she heads off to university, it’s a theoretical line we’ll never have to explore. 

45. Holy Trinity, Leamington

I got married in this church 32 years ago this weekend. We chose it because we wanted somewhere close to where we were living and it seemed a good, solid church. It still does - hemmed in by parking shoppers but still with enough big trees to look the part.

Not a lot survives from that day. I still have an album of photographs - all taken indoors as a fairly hefty summer shower pelted down outside. The photographs have begun to look a bit dated I suppose; a cross between hire-shop traditional for the men and best eighties hats for the women. My side of the church was significantly less full on the day. I come from a non-churchgoing background - I’m not sure my mother had seen the inside of a church since her own wedding. She would debate theology with anyone and was fascinated by other cultures, including the Jewish element in her own upbringing, but church was not part of our family life.

It was the first time in ages I had seen my father, mother and sister all in one place. It was never repeated and, unless the afterlife permits such things, never will be again. Thirty two years have seen a lot of changes.

In some ways this morning has been about things which don’t change and things which do. There may be a new face looking out from the pulpit - and after 32 years why wouldn’t there be? - but the fabric and feel of the church is pretty much the same. There's a huge stack of roof tiles beside the altar, testament to the fact that even 'no change' takes its toll. An invitation to pray for the roof repair team is heartfelt.

I recall it being a church which drew the bulk of its congregation from the burgeoning retirement homes and properties in North Leamington. I recall too, the vicar at the time regularly choosing his time in the pulpit to warn these decidedly senior folk about the dangers of fornication and suchlike. The new curate Esther assures me that’s one thing that has changed.

After a series of services accompanied by guitars, keyboards and drums, it is both a pleasure and a relief to hear that Holy Trinity still boasts a fine organ and the personnel to play it. There’s something about the combination of church organ and some inspirational hymn words. I’ve wondered what makes people choose a particular church and - despite being a guitar player myself - this dependable, solid sound would be a must for me.

Another thing which hasn’t changed is that the organist who played at the wedding back in 1987 is in church this morning. He’s not at the keys as he’s taking a day off but it’s pleasant to remind him of what a fine role he played in our big day.

This morning’s readings provide an interesting theme. Based on the argument in the synagogue when Jesus decided to cure a crippled woman on  the Sabbath only to be chastised for working on a rest day, we’re invited to ponder which side of the fence we are when it comes to rigid rules or justifiable pragmatism.

It’s an interesting debate. From the point of view of the the woman it’s a no-brainer. I doubt she would care what day it was or which rule had been broken. It’s tempting to view the nit-picking attitude of the elders as being just that. Surely you’d make an exception for something so audacious and impressive as that? And when all’s said and done it was a fairly quick laying on of hands - goodness knows what they’d have made of the shift Ben Stokes put in this afternoon to win the test match at Headingley. Perhaps, though, we’ve grown more accustomed to rules - particularly religious rules - not being as set in stone as they literally once were. It would be a strange world if we reverted to the six-day format still in evidence when I was young.

Curate Esther makes the point that we should all have the courage, from time to time, to stand up against rules we see harming the people they claim to protect. It’s an excellent point. Failing to do just that has cost so much down the years inside the church and in the wider world. I have a suspicion that the coming months and years will provide plenty of opportunities for us all to demonstrate our willingness to question injustice.

Despite not being here for three decades I shall retain a soft spot for Holy Trinity. It’s a good working church with a tradition and past which seems to be in very capable hands. For the record - I sat on the groom’s side.

44. St John Baptist, Berkswell

Berkswell is a splendid sight on a sunny morning. The early golden light seems to make the church stonework glow and the distinctive porch - a thing worth viewing in its own right - is garlanded by some fabulous sunflowers.

I’ve chosen to come here, to an early-shift communion service because I’m on my way into Birmingham to spend the day at Edgbaston watching Somerset and this provides an excellent opportunity to tick off a church I’ve long wanted to visit and get to the ground before the first ball.

Today’s communion is being led by Canon John. He starts proceedings by welcoming us and by telling us he’s recently retired - about twenty years ago. Canon John is here filling in for a couple of weeks while the permanent vicar is away enjoying a holiday. Yesterday he was working too, he says, in this very church conducting a wedding. 

I have many retired friends and they all have one thing in common - they seem to be busier than most people I know who work. Apart from me of course. It could be the demands of the family - particularly grandchildren - or being a key cog in a voluntary organisation, or even just going places or preparing to go places. I know a few who feel duty bound to help out at the place they worked because they don’t want to let former colleagues down. I suspect that is partly the case here, but only partly.

Having been interested in theatre all my life I’ve seen many performances reflecting the wide range of commitment and ability people are prepared and able to give. Although the truly breathtaking pitch-perfect performances are the undoubted highlights, there have been plenty of times when it’s the slightly less polished, slightly less confident performances that have won my heart. I’ve seen any number of stumbles on stage but it’s how people have recovered from those mistakes that makes me want to support their efforts more than applaud the abundantly-talented and professional. 

There are lots of little stumbles on show here - as you’d expect with a stand-in vicar and a congregation very small in number. We have a lesson read by a woman who was sitting quite contentedly in the pew behind me before being asked about two minutes before the service starts if she would mind reading from Hebrews as the person scheduled to do it had not materialised. A quick scan of, it has to be said, a lengthy and complex set of verses, and she read perfectly. Any theatre would be proud of rising to the challenge like that.

I expect Canon John has delivered the standard communion service hundreds of times down the years, but each theatre is different and each production has it’s own peculiarities. But it’s with complete openness and confidence that he stops and asks the congregation if HE should read the next prayers or if someone else has been nominated. He takes the prompt - including the gentle hint that he should by now be heading upstage to the altar to prepare the bread and wine - with calmness and good grace.

Later I see an engaging mime show as three ladies who have all appeared at the same point, divide between them the duties of removing the communion altar rail and re-stacking the kneelers. It’s all done in whispered urgency as if giving the game away would be the worst sin presented before the Almighty this morning.

It’s these small things that help to make life less automatic and more human. They remind us that, while the script may be unchanging, it’s the interpretation on the part of the performers which will determine that performance’s value. I can’t, of course, be certain but I’d guess that none of these people is here expecting perfection to be laid before them. They’re here, I would say, because they want to help out, to take part and enjoy doing just that.

Canon John’s brief address to the congregation centres on his wife’s perfectly reasonable demand that, as he sails deeper into his eighties, he set aside one day each week for spending time as a couple away from other distractions doing the things they like. One day a week, he tells us, to make the best use of the time they have remaining. One day to do only the things that matter and that you love. I would guess that her husband is probably following the path of most retired folk and is already doing that on the other six anyway.

43. St Paul’s, Warwick

The new football season has started. Depending on who you choose to follow this might actually have happened last week. But this weekend has seen the big teams shove their much-vamped £70m players out onto the pitch and start the quest for more trophies, more fans and more money. 

Football is a big money business - it has to be to sustain the jaw-dropping salaries, the pampered lifestyles, the absurd cost to TV companies so we can all watch wall-to-wall product. 

But there’s another side to the game of course. Just a quick scan of yesterday's results from further down the food chain shows Newport traipsing all the way to Cambridge for a goalless afternoon. Wrexham will have clocked up a fair few motorway miles to get to Dover and heaven knows what time the players and fans of Eastleigh in Hampshire had to start out to reach Barrow-in-Furness in time for kick-off. 

You have to wonder how teams like this keep going, let alone why. It can’t pay for a limited number of diehard fans to have to travel that far. Why sit for five hours on the M5 and M6 when you could just join the other millions watching Manchester City on the TV? The result is sparse crowds and teams barely breaking even.

So what’s this go to do with a pilgrimage round churches? Fairly obvious, I suspect. This morning sees me at another Sunday service sharing a wonderful space with fewer than twenty people. There’s nothing wrong in that, but it’s a pattern I’m seeing time and time again. There are churches where the pews are full certainly, but there are far, far more where they’re struggling to hold onto a couple of dozen regulars let along bringing in anyone new.

A few years back there was a surprise hit TV show called Troubleshooter. Industrialist Sir John Harvey-Jones would take a break from running ICI to go and dispense wisdom - sometimes is a shockingly blunt fashion - to firms struggling with dwindling sales and ageing workers in tough markets. Quite often the advice would be radical and utterly without sentimentality. Change could be pretty brutal. I’d love to know what the great man’s view would be of all these under-attended, fairly static churches. He’d probably recommend closing most of them, selling them off and concentrating resources in those that remain. 

Perhaps that’s what’s needed here. St Paul’s in Warwick - a gem of a church tucked away by the side of the racecourse - could easily find itself one one of the Troubleshooter’s hit lists. In some tough-talking board room scene it would be rendered redundant and its congregation simply grafted elsewhere. Of course there would be outrage and many tears but it’s all for the best isn’t it?

Judging by this morning’s welcome I’d say no. Fewer than two dozen there may be, but there is a pride in welcoming a newcomer to the church. The man who comes over to shake my hand asks my name and where I’m from and then proceeds to point out every single one of the congregation by name.  It’s an impressive demonstration of how close a family a small church can be. I doubt many people at the larger gatherings could boast the same knowledge of the people with whom they choose to worship. It clearly matters.

This communion service is one which mixes the traditional form of the service with songs rather than hymns. I have to admit that, after a long succession of such musical offerings, I am starting to pine for some decent hymns.

These modern songs are usually well-played (as is certainly the case here) but their banal, endlessly uplifting lyrics and strummed open chord sound (not to mention the unnecessary chorus repeats to drag out the length), can quickly become repetitive and deathly dull. I know being uplifting isn’t in itself a crime and is part of the whole church-as-spiritual-affirmation business, but sometimes a rousing rendition of Abide With Me can be equally inspiring and I find myself wondering if the advertised presence of a church organ should feature higher in my choice of where to visit next. 

But as the final song rolls on St Paul’s offers something I’ve never seen before in the form of a very eye-catching flag dance performed to the side of the altar by a member of the congregation who’s clearly done this before. It works well, I have to say. Interpreting the music and providing a visual to keep us all focussed - John Harvey Jones would probably have recognised an innovative idea there and asset-stripped that for it to reappear elsewhere. For me it was just a further reminder, if one were needed, of how attached people become to their own place and how they demonstrate that connection in whichever way best suits them. 

And in the end that’s what keeps all those small clubs, tiny family businesses and slightly becalmed churches going. Fans of Eastleigh don’t want a bigger club, they want this one. The same is true for companies which have done things one way for generations and would lose their soul if they suddenly changed tack overnight. For churches, there is always the feeling that things will carry on as they are as long as the people who go along want them to. It’s not efficient and it’s strategically fairly moribund but that’s just the way it is, and for collectors of churches like me, it’s a perfectly acceptable state of affairs.

42. Leamington Mission

Football should kick off at 3.00 on a Saturday afternoon. Shops should shut at 5.30 six days a week. Pubs should stop serving at 11.00. And the correct time to go to church is 10.30 on a Sunday morning.

The pressures of commerce and television have scuppered the first three of those and it’s been one of the lessons of this pilgrimage that the last one doesn’t apply and never really has. 

From Friday Prayers to Thursday afternoon spiritualism, the notion of ‘church on Sunday’ is completely redundant - and always has been in the eyes of the Seventh Day Adventists. Placing their beliefs firmly in the literal teachings of the scripture, it’s a Saturday (Sabbath) for them.

The Mission is a smallish chapel-like building which has been many things during its time. I remember coming here to watch a cracking blues gig back in the early 1980s and I recall the Royal Antediluvian Order of the Buffaloes having the place for a while. It’s now home - as it has been for some time - to a congregation of Seventh Day Adventists, who meet here on Saturdays for Bible study and worship.

Worship at The Mission starts with music from the band with the words on the big screen and moves through communal prayer to a full recounting of the Joseph saga to an audience of one rather bewildered child, before more music and a talk from a guest preacher. 

I’m getting slightly more used to these big screens. Not having to balance hymn books, service sheets and books of common prayer on a tiny shelf is a clear bonus, but looking up during the offertory prayers to find the church’s sort code and account number in foot-high writing is arguably still a step too far. 

The music is uplifting in theory but I do find these anthemic concoctions can so easily become bland, simplistic and repetitive. Perhaps it’s the noticeable lack of numbers today, or the pre-storm humid weather, but the place is hardly buzzing.

Today’s talk stems from the story of Gideon. After years of living under oppression, injustice and cruelty he appeals to God for help. Visited by the Angel of the Lord and instructed to take some decisive action himself to improve conditions for him and his people he answer with a few polite points. He wants to know why he should be expected to lead the way when he’s not the obvious choice, he wants to know why God has let this situation develop in the first place and he wants some sort of sign as proof that it won’t all go horribly wrong.

Over the course of a not altogether inspiring 40 minute talk we’re invited to agree that Gideon was just throwing up excuses and that he should just have had more faith. We all of us, the speaker repeats at length, just need to trust more and have more faith.

I find this one of the most troubling aspects of religions which rely almost entirely on the literal text of the Bible. Faith, in this expression, seem to mean trusting absolutely and at the same time abrogating any right to ask questions. We are, as humans, a naturally inquisitive species. Our development down the ages has been almost entirely as a result of that constant search for answers. Out greatest achievements, conquests, discoveries and so on have been made because we wanted to challenge our own ignorance. It’s true that some of our worst actions have come from the same desire, but with absolute faith and nothing else, where on earth would we be?

So we’re left with a rather unsatisfactory answer. Whatever awful things happen in your life, don’t waste your time trying to work out any notion of causality or reason, just believe a bit harder. In a way it’s faintly redolent of being told not to be a doomster or gloomster but that Brexit heaven can be achieved just by believing in it enough. I find it as impossible to give any credence to that view and its proponent as I do to any kind of blind religious faith.

To imagine a life without questioning is almost impossible for me, without conjuring up visions of some dystopian, submissive half-existence - and that doesn’t seem to be the case for the people here today. So perhaps they all secretly DO question things but find the answers acceptable. Or perhaps there is something about unquestioning faith which I’m not yet able to grasp. Either way it’s another question for which I think is worth reasoning out an answer, but I don’t truly believe the answer is to be found here.

41. St James the Great, Old Milverton

One of the conversations I’ve had quite often with friends since starting this blog and my wanderings round churches crops up whenever they ask me where I’m going next.

I’ve amassed an impressively long list of places I’d like to go and I’ll often have an idea of where my next visit will be. But mentioning the name of the church often brings a bit of a blank expression on the face of the person asking me. 

A very flimsy observation would be that we often know where a church is, but not what it’s called. Round towns and cities we tend to refer to churches by which road they may be in, or which more secular landmark is close enough to pin down the location - the big church near the Shell garage, for example, or the modern one near where you park for Argos.

Out in the countryside the churches seem to be synonymous with the village in which they stand. So, this week I’ve been telling those kind enough to enquire that I shall be at St James’ - then adding ‘at Old Milverton’ when they look bemused. 

The naming of churches is probably covered exhaustively by those of a scholarly and ecclesiastical persuasion. I’ve often wondered if it actually mattered. It helps differentiate, certainly, but is there any more than that I wonder. I can’t imagine people would travel too far simply to be a member of one congregation purely on the basis of that church’s name. Would some saints prove more popular than others in attracting the crowds? Would St Peter’s be packed out while St Kentigern’s stands empty?

Perhaps church names are of as little importance as those of pubs. I’ve never chose to visit one pub over another purely as a result of its name. You don’t have to be a royalist to go through the doors of the Queen’s Head or feel you are more likely to be among equestrian folk simply because you’re in the White Horse.  

But St James is St James and part of the reason I’ve come here today is that this weekend is the feast of that saint and therefore the patronal festival service of the church.

St James The Great together with his brother John were from fishing stock and were among the first to be invited by Jesus to leave behind their daily lives and join him in his wanderings and teachings. They accepted and became disciples.

It’s hard to imagine how such an invitation from someone today would be received. The idea of turning your back on all the things you may have worked for, not to mention the people with whom you’d shared so much of your life, to follow a fairly untrodden path, no matter how enigmatic its figurehead, is almost unthinkable. It’s the kind of move we associate with people lured in by shady cults, or perhaps the actions of someone in the throes of a mid-life crisis. Not the sort of thing we’d advise doing without prior research, a decent contract and some fairly watertight guarantees. 

Nevertheless, I’m sure the number of people on their deathbed regretting such a rash move is hugely outnumbered by those reaching the end regretting that they lacked the courage to give it a go when the chance presented itself.

Perhaps having a little bit more of St James in our lives wouldn’t be a bad thing. It’s something which I ponder every time I daydream about walking the route to Santiago knowing I’ll probably never take so much as the first step.

The service this morning is bright and cheerful. The welcome in this beautiful and clearly much-loved church is warm and genuine. We’re treated to a sermon touching on the example of trusting faith set by St James, full of splendid humour and topical relevance. In the collect for St James’ Day we ask for divine guidance in turning our backs on the false attractions of the world to follow a better path. I’m not entirely sure what those ‘false attractions’ might be. I only hope I’m steadfast enough to make the right decision when it comes along, even if that decision is to at least lift the curtain on a few false attractions just for completeness’ sake.

It has become something of a gentle joke but nothing which takes place in a church seems to be complete without coffee afterwards. At times I’m tempted to wonder if the church believes that the friendship, understanding, redemption and salvation it offers is not enough to bring the people flocking, but offer a cuppa and the masses will beat the doors down.

Coffee after the service is a bit more than that of course. It gives the opportunity to socialise and reflect on the message of the morning and the wider significance of spending these times together. Somehow the ritual of standing round sipping a cup of tea or coffee makes those conversations easier. 

This service goes one better (a lot more than just one better in truth). Today being the rough equivalent of a birthday for the patron saint, the service is followed by generous glasses of wine and some truly splendid plates of nibbles. These treats were supposed to be enjoyed outdoors in the churches fabulously picturesque churchyard, but this being England in the summer we’re forced indoors by some fairly heavy rain. Nobody would want the problems of a soggy canape or rain splashing into your wine glass.

I wonder if, had the weather on that morning at the sea’s edge been enough to make anyone think twice about venturing outdoors to listen to a wandering preacher, James’ life would have turned out different. Probably not. It’s the decisions we make which shape our lives but it’s the conviction and vision within us that shapes those decisions. Perhaps that’s why he became a saint and I didn’t.