57. All Saints and War Memorial, Leamington

All Saints really is a jewel in Leamington’s crown. I’ve certainly been to smaller cathedrals and ones without the wonderful sense of space and light this church has. In recent years it has become a regular venue in the town for music concerts and, oddly enough given the years I’ve been here, it’s to these I’ve been, never to a standard service.

This morning is Remembrance Sunday and we’re starting this communion service an hour early to allow time for the congregation and, more importantly, the choir to head up the Parade to the war memorial for the wreath-laying and civic silence at 11.00. Perhaps because of that we’re very thin on the ground. Given the significance of the day and the proximity of the church to the public memorial I’d arrived expecting crowds. There were twelve of us.

Thankfully there are more in the choir as All Saints has always been strong when it comes to music. It’s a slightly truncated service but there’s still time for a brief sermon reflecting how the world needs to be ever-vigilant to prevent a return to the chaos of two world wars. Burke’s oft-quoted truth about evil’s triumph requiring only for good people to do nothing is as chillingly accurate as it ever was - we just seem to have a problem these days identifying who the good people are and working out precisely what they should do.

After a hasty spot of refreshment for the choir we decamp a few hundred yards up the road to join a large crowd awaiting the arrival of the mayor et al. Yesterday I witnessed this same mayor representing the town through two hours or more of wildly enthusiastic, pounding, brightly-coloured Diwali celebrations at the Sikh Community Centre. Today’s flags, cadets, silver band and hymns must seem a world away.

I can still recall my first Remembrance service probably about fifty years ago and during a very brief period when I’d joined the cubs. I remember having to march in lines behind a banner, sit for hours in a cold church and then stay silent for what seemed even longer while everyone stared at the ground. It was as cold then as it is today, although at least the fifty years has provided me with the sense to wear long trousers.

I’ve always had a difficulty working out exactly the relationship between church and military. The church, with its promise of a life beyond this one, certainly has a role to play in helping salve the grief of the countless bereaved souls war leaves behind. And there is something of the church’s constant call for peace and understanding which can only help what meagre efforts nations make to avoid reaching for arms in the first place. But to tell those facing horrific combat that God is on their side, particularly when the enemy have the same God in their spiritual armoury, is plain daft.

Perhaps in these modern times the role of the church is taken by others. Secular alternatives will one day dominate. Go to any football ground at this time of year and you’ll find veterans on show, poppies ironed onto the players’ shirts and a silence far better observed than I witnesses toward the fringes of today’s gathering. I seriously wonder why some people actually turn up so poor is their concentration, so flimsy their commitment.

Where I stood, the prayers were ignored in favour of capturing the best video on the phone, the hymns largely left unsung. The silence fought against a constant barrage of chatting parents telling children to be quiet and - I kid you not - a woman humming along with The Last Post. And at the back of the pavement crowd a constantly shuffling stream of people anxious to get past this obstruction in time for the shops to open.

One day this may all simply fade away. The congregation will dwindle as will the scouts and cadets, and perhaps simply ‘liking’ a Remembrance page on social media will be sufficient to register a nod of appreciation to the countless fallen. And will that actually matter?

In the end all this rigmarole and parading amounts to very little. This is a simple act of remembrance. It’s not about glorifying the military, or about supporting a religion, any religion. It’s not about nationalistic pride or lauding it over the vanquished. It’s just about remembering - and promising to keep on remembering - a generation of people who either had no choice or who made the choice to put the greater good ahead of their own lives. And remembering, like all moral actions, is something you can do on your own. We shouldn’t forget that.

56. St Mary Magdalene, Lillington

On a visit to Hong Kong I wandered into a shop stocked to the ceiling with paper goods in search of a notebook. I failed to find one and it quickly became apparent that everything in the shop was destined for something other than being written on. It was all for burning. Chinese Taoists believe their departed relatives are up with the gods and the best way to send them things is to emulate the smoke rising from a fire and just burn things to send them upwards.

Money features of course, although the not-so-stupid Chinese cottoned on fairly early to the fact that fake money costs less and burns just as well. But the shop also offered card replicas of everything from training shoes to reclining chairs - I suppose even the dead need a sit down after jogging round the clouds.

We don’t have an equivalent for this in the west. Perhaps we feel that when someone has made it to heaven, their needs are pretty much catered for. It would be a poor show, we might feel, if you had to spend your time in the afterlife worrying about money or uncomfortable trainers.

It’s quirky perhaps but no better or worse, and no less valid, than any of the myriad traditions and beliefs we humans maintain when it comes to what to do about those we’ve lost and still miss.

And it’s the dead who have brought me to St Mary Magdalene in Lillington this evening. Today is All Souls day and in much of the Christian community that means a special service in which we take a moment to remember people who have died.

The readings reflect the fact that we can’t escape death. There’s a time to be born and a time to die and so on. And we’re reminded - as we always are - that death is not the end and that eternal life waits for us. Even the hymns are uplifting in their marking of the progress of our lives. There’s a lovely modern setting of Teresa of Avila’s Christ has no Body now but Yours and I note, not for the first time, that music composed to honour the dead is invariably better than music which celebrates the living. Death monopolises the minor keys, the drama and the impact. St Mary Magdalene has a fine organ and a decent choir to underline this.

The first of two focal points in the service arrives with the reading of dozens of names of those whose friends and relatives want to be remembered. It’s a long list and puts me in mind of the memorial following the World Trade Centre attack. There’s a lot of couples here, husbands and wives I’d guess and the names suggests many had had long lives at the time of their deaths. 

Most of the prayers I’ve come across in my visits are aimed at the living. When someone dies they seem to become the departed, the deceased, the late, and the focus is on the upset and grief of those left behind. The phrase ‘our thoughts are with the family’ seems to be reflected in the prayers we regularly hear. But today we just remember - and I am reminded of the basic need we all have to believe that after we’re gone our existence will still have some meaning in the minds we touched while we lived. 

We surely can’t be praying that God will send our lost ones back. While some remembering people taken far too early or in tragic untimely circumstances might secretly, desperately hope some miracle could reverse the grief, I’m probably with the ‘seasons for everything’ way of thinking. Having my lost ones back would simply be bewildering. 

Nevertheless in the service’s main focal point I light a candle and pause briefly to say hello to those I’ve loved and lost. Hardly a day goes by in which I don’t think of them, or recoil in horror at the pace with which the years are speeding me ever closer to joining them. By the time the congregation has taken its turn in lighting a candle, the church lights have been dimmed and we sing the last hymn in a highly atmospheric gloom. It’s a service and a moment I’m sure I will remember for a long time.

Perhaps that’s the purpose of all remembrance: to make us more keenly aware of the time we have left and the imperative to make ourselves remembered in other people’s minds. Thinking of the dead might make us go away and strive even harder to make our mark in this world. After all, you can’t take it with you. Unless it’s cardboard.

55. Holy Trinity, Coventry

This imposing, rather dark church has been a secret pleasure of mine for some time. During the years I worked in Coventry it was somewhere I could rely on for a period of calm in the middle of the day.

There were occasional recitals to be enjoyed but mainly it was a choice of sitting on a bench in the cathedral ruins, when the season allowed, or coming in here to get away from the stress of the city and the job. 

Holy Trinity has a commanding position. It is now the most dominant church in the city centre - partly because of its own splendid spire but partly owing to what happened to its closest neighbour, the cathedral.

November 14, 1940 is a date the city will never forget. A ferocious and relentless attack from German bombers pounded the city and its people throughout the night. When the sun came up the following morning the city was unrecognisable. 

Much has been written about the destruction of the cathedral; much has been made of the way the city rebuilt its Christian focal point and set about the even greater task of coming to terms with what had happened and coming to a lasting understanding with those who had done it.  

It’s an inspiring story, miraculous in some respects, but there was an equally inspiring story just a few yards away at Holy Trinity. Knowing the likely onslaught to come, the church vicar led a team, including his own son, who camped out in the church and spent the night fighting the fires caused by incendiaries falling on the roof. 

I often found myself wondering whether, given the same level of threat to life and limb, I would camp out to defend my place of work against the worst the enemy could throw at it. I have no doubt I wouldn’t, but then again, a church ought to be more than just a place of work and the commitment and bravery on display that night show that this building - along with many in the city - did hold a special place and still does.

There was damage - some valuable, historic windows were lost - but the church stood as it still stands today, alongside the cathedral ruins and, of course, the new cathedral. I doubt if the heroic vicar saw it that way for a second, but there is an irony to becoming the city’s focal point for steadfastness and resolve only to be usurped by a huge modern interloper at the bottom of your garden. A case of ‘always the bridesmaid’ perhaps.

The service this morning is relatively well-attended and there are all the hallmarks of it being a city church: plenty of obvious regulars but many attending on their own looking for a community they may perhaps lack at home.

Perhaps no moreso than any other church in these time of dwindling numbers, but it is a pity this place isn’t packed out. It may not have the sheer acreage of stained glass or stunning tapestry you can get at the other end of the graveyard, but it is wonderfully appointed and, in the shape of a fabulous medieval painting of The Last Judgement, it has enough ‘things to see’ to put it on any casual pilgrim’s list.

The welcome and the atmosphere are warm and genuine and it’s easy to see why those who choose to come here might value it higher than the automatic choice of the cathedral’s space and splendour. 

This morning’s is a traditional communion and provides a welcome chance to dodge out of the bustle outside. Today the square at the church’s front is filled with the noise and movement of some sort of street fair which has the highest count of stalls selling fired things you really should not eat that I think I’ve ever come across. 

As a footnote to this service, I noted among the congregation two people in England rugby shirts. It would have been three had I not opted to be a little more formal. I wondered whether they were here privately giving thanks for a victorious showing over the mighty All Blacks or to get in some early devotional credit with the Almighty about next week’s final. A bit of both I should imagine.

54. St Mary’s, Warwick

Many of us are inveterate choosers of favourites. We like to keep little mental lists of our top tens or best half-dozens. From TV programmes to takeaway treats we all have our favourites. It’s hardly surprising Desert Island Discs has been so popular for so many decades.

If I were asked my five favourite books, three favourite films or favourite painting I could probably name them after a bit of pondering and pruning. If I were asked to name my favourite church service - and I can’t imagine why that query has never arisen - I would have no hesitation. You can keep all the communions, solemn masses, carol services, weddings and funerals; I’m definitely an Evensong fan.

It is Choral Evensong (the choral aspect is a must) that I look out for whenever I try to catch a cathedral at work. I’ve also made a point of trying to time my visits to any spectacular-looking church to take advantage of this quiet, contemplative daily ritual.

Choral Evensong has a very calming blend of psalms, anthems, sung prayers  and so on with the bulk of the work being undertaken by the choir. There’s a bit of standing and sitting to be performed, and often a brief sermon but it’s a shortish service offering opportunity for reflection while appreciating the music. 

It’s a service I always seem to enjoy more in winter than in summer. The candlelight and the feeling of being enclosed in the shadows perhaps. It’s also a service which is traditional in its form and content and doesn’t really suit modernising - no guitar bands or big screens here.

But there is a bizarrely modern slant to this evening’s worship provided not from within the church but from without. The Mop Fair is in town and the bright lights and pulsating music of a huge ride are already in full swing right there on the doorstep as I arrive. 

St Mary’s has a well-earned reputation for its music. I’ve been here for musical gatherings many times. It hosts some big names in the chamber music world and its organ recitals are always excellent, showcasing an instrument which boasts sets of pipes surrounding the nave like a very early stab at quadrophonic sound. I’ve also hear the church’s choir exchanging dawn choruses with a corresponding choir on the castle tower over the rooftops. The church also hosts a special Sunday service during the folk festival which I’ve attended.

Today the choral part of the proceedings is provided by an eight-strong male choir whose perfect intonation and fluid harmonies I could listen to all evening - with or without the occasional, surprisingly pleasing underscore from the waltzer outside. Perhaps for that reason, I’d hazard a guess that they’re giving it all a bit more volume than normal. 

Thankfully, at the direction of the church staff who have doubtless seen it all before, we’re at the very far end of the church, listening from beyond the choir in the chancel so the fairground noise is less of an intrusion than it could be. The sight of multi-coloured bulbs flashing through the main door and reflected down the nave is oddly pretty.

The readings and prayers are given with a note of patient understanding but when we’re called to pray for those who are too ill to be able to attend the joy and revelry outside, I’m not entirely sure I don’t detect a hint of irony.

Choral Evensong, particularly in the darker winter months, always seems to disgorge me back into the busy streets in a way that underlines the busyness which carries on all around these quiet oases of calm. It’s a moment to pause and be thankful for the chance to catch a breath - and a connection with a deeper tradition - in our busy world.

For the dozen or so in attendance this was a chance just to find a quiet sanctuary in the midst of the storm - a storm in more than one sense as the massed black clouds start to deposit their heavy load. Pounding music, screaming youngsters on terrifying rides, flashing lights, the heavy smell of sweet fried food - I’m not hanging around as I scurry back to that other welcome oasis of quiet, my car.

53. St Mary Immaculate, Warwick

On a visit to the British Museum this week I found myself, not for the first time, gazing on the remains of Lindow Man. I was transfixed by the crushed, leathery remains of this two-thousand year old man when I first visited on a school trip and I never miss the chance to look in each time I’m passing.

The undeniably gruesome and faintly voyeuristic act of staring at a dead person notwithstanding, it’s always interesting. As I ponder the simple existence of someone living in the peat bogs of England as the Romans arrived, I can’t help imagining that life moved more slowly then. I also find myself wondering what he’d make of us if for a brief while, he were able to stare out of his glass box existence rather than we in. Racing from experience to experience, defying distances, communicating without pause for thought and taking in more information in a day than he may have seen in his entire life, we must look utterly out of control.

A life based on daylight and darkness, phases of the moon and changing seasons must have been reassuringly regular. Everything from work to rest, eating to leisure in its regular, unchanging slot. Worship too.

But our daily lives are chaotic now. It never stops - and the 24-hour shops, night buses, overnight production and on-demand culture reflects this. Small wonder that many churches find it hard to pull in the punters when the traditional Sunday slot is now prime time working or leisure or just being busy for so many.

It wouldn’t be strictly accurate to call the vigil mass a direct response to this pressure on the set timetable, but it is a helpful indicator of the way things probably have to change. The vigil mass takes place the Saturday evening before the Sunday mass and gives those who can’t go on Sunday the chance to fulfil their weekly obligation. 

St Mary Immaculate is Warwick is surprisingly full for this Saturday mass - no hint of a few people making up for Sunday absences. It’s also apparent that there are people of all ages here and a clear sense, although I couldn’t say where it stems from, that this is a regular and popular service not a stopgap.

Inside it’s a fine-looking church with a splendid mixture of gold circle icons, stained glass and dark wooden painted panels. It has a claim to fame among Lord of the Rings fans as being the setting for JRR Tolkein’s wedding back in 1916.

The readings both touch on the theme of not taking things for granted but being thankful for all the blessings we have. One of the hymns, it is noted in the homily, was written by a man witnessing the worst of war’s atrocities around his city. Rather than railing against a neglectful God he chose to count all the blessings he had. It’s a theme worth pausing to ponder in this current time when everything seems so close to being taken away from us.

Interestingly it’s a point which will be made again tomorrow morning as Sunday’s mass follows the same format, readings and content as this. It’s a bit like multiple showings of the same film.

Some point to vigil masses having their roots in the time when days were measured from sundown to sundown, making it effectively the first mass of the Sunday; cynics have always branded it a soft option for those who can’t face getting out of bed for an early start in the morning. Either way, it’s a long-established part of the timetable and, with online churches now offering on-demand, pray-as-you-go services delivered right to your personal device, it may well have a role to play.

52. Truro Cathedral

I’ve been collecting cathedrals for decades. We’re blessed with many fine and splendid examples in this country and it’s been a slow process of ticking them off one by one when I get the chance.

I think I could trace my fascination with these massive structures back to a school trip to Bristol cathedral sometime in the early 70s. I loved the calm, I loved the jaw-dropping space and - perhaps most of all - I fell in love with all the hidden galleries and tiny high walkways and the secret doors, steps and passageways you’d have to use to get to them. Since then I’ve made it a welcome addition to any journey to take in a visit to another of these wonderful places.

I’ve always tried to go at a time when I could take part in a service. This is not solely so I can legitimately avoid the hefty entrance charges not becoming more often levied than not. I’ve always wanted to see - and hear - the cathedral in action. 

The midlands has provided a decent base for getting round many cathedrals but there are quite a few that defy the chance visit, they’re just too far away. So it’s a bonus, on a trip down to see Millie in Falmouth, to be able to pause in Truro long enough to visit the town’s fabulous cathedral (I have tentative plans to cross Exeter off my list on the way back). 

It’s an impressive sight. It still dominates the town (a city really, I know) mainly as a result of its height - the chance of finding a viewing point far enough away to take in its bulk having long been lost to the small streets and buildings which have sprung up to surround it.

Holy communion this morning is in St Mary’s Aisle. It’s a small side chapel still large enough to make the twenty-odd people in attendance look a little sparse. It’s a short service with very little other than the business of getting things done.

The service is quiet in volume too, perhaps it’s a case of trying not to intrude on the steady stream of visitors making their way round the cathedral’s advertised highlights - the fine terra cotta relief sculpture, the golden eagle lectern, the wealth of genuinely stunning Victorian stained glass and the well-renowned pipe organ. A working church it may well be, but it would be a brave cathedral indeed which halted the flow of cash coming through the door  (or into the tills of the burgeoning gift shop) just for the purposes of worship.

This service being a small affair tucked away at the side of the cathedral, there was obviously no chance to hear the mighty Father Willis organ in full flow. But as luck would have it there was an organ recital scheduled to start an hour later. 

As you might fear, the two dozen people for holy communion had ballooned to well over a hundred for the recital. Whether that’s down to the instrument, the Australian guest organist or the opportunity to sit somewhere quiet, dry and gale free to eat your lunch, I couldn’t say, but there’s probably a lesson in there somewhere.

The instrument, for all the fanfares given it, was impressive; less so the recital itself which seemed to have been programmed more with the cinema organ in mind rather than the bone-shaking seriousness this fabulous pipework deserves. I enjoyed, however, the TV relay of cameras in the organ loft showing hands speeding round the four manuals and highly-polished shoes clattering the pedals. 

The slight disappointment at the programme was mitigated by the discovery in the air ambulance shop down the road of a CD of Bach’s thunderous music  from Truro Cathedral. Mysterious ways, I suppose.

51. Unitarian Chapel, Warwick

This pilgrimage has been characterised by comparisons. I have been struck by the similarities between churches working under the Christian banner. But I have been even more surprised by the differences. For a huge swathe of humanity nominally following the same God and (more or less) the same teachings of one man, there’s an awful lot to choose from. And it is a choice. I’m reminded of a whisky map I once saw. Two axes charted the desired level of smokiness or peat influence, the darkness or lightness and so on. By sliding around to your favourite area (dark and smoky with the merest hint of peat) you could read off the single malt that’s right for you.

Today’s visit to the Unitarian Chapel in Warwick sees me among people who have sited their choice on the equivalent spiritual map a long way from the pomp and circumstance, the regalia and ceremony of many churches, without - it has to be said - actually making a decision to stay on that part of the map. There’s prayer and bible reading and some lustily-sung hymns but it’s very low-key and there are constant reminders to make up your own mind about what you believe. Keep that finger free to choose wherever it wants to go. Unitarianism is all about what you want it to be about you could say. 

The Unitarian Chapel is a lovely little single-room space much loved by chamber concert organisers and meditation groups among others who share this venue with its resident worshippers. There are only about a dozen people here and we sit is a wide semi-circle to focus on the plain table and lectern. There’s a coffee table in the centre with a simple bunch of flowers and a single candle. 

Talking to a few people at this short service, it seems that many are on a journey (apologies for using that hackneyed word but Strictly Come Dancing has just returned to the Saturday evening schedule). I had a long talk with one chap whose spiritual travels have taken him from his Catholic roots, through a spell with Anglicanism and then via short bursts of experimentation including Evangelism. Comparing notes,I find his experience not dissimilar to my own. 

More than one person spoke to me of having arrived at Unitarianism through a liking of its lack of dogma. There’s no creed to recite and it’s clear that all those present can hold slightly (but importantly) differing views and yet be happy with that position.

Today’s service is led by Angela, a visitor from a chapel in Birmingham. She gets to do pretty much everything - prayers, readings and (in lieu of a sermon) an address on the theme of the day, who was Jesus?

Angela peppers the service with a clutch of readings from Khalil Gibran’s collection of character studies of Jesus from the perspective of people who may have shared experiences with him. We hear reflections on, among other aspects, Jesus the prophet and Jesus the bespoke carpenter.

During her address Angela relates what was said at a recent funeral she attended. In listening to a member of the family saying a few words about the departed, she noted how we can all have a different view on what a person was like. Broadly we’ll probably pick out the same things, but to a greater or lesser extent. and with a different priority.

Perhaps Jesus is a bit like that. Certainly to Unitarians. Unlike more dogmatic faiths which preach a particular view, however broad or narrow that might be, it’s for Unitarians to make up their own minds. We have no particular reason NOT to accept some historic evidence that Jesus lived. What you believe beyond that, and what you think that means for your own life, will dictate your answer to the question Who was Jesus?

It would be easy to view Unitarianism as being some sort of Christianity-Lite - a religion with all the bits you object to removed. But that wouldn’t really be fair. This gathering did not feel like at all like watered-down worship. There was a palpable commitment to follow the Christian path and to respect the right of others to tag along for any part of the route they wished to cover.

This pleasingly ‘suit-yourself’ approach to faith is attractive in many respects, perfect for someone forming their own opinions whilst enjoying swapping views with others. Not happy with the creed up the road or the evangelistic outpourings across town? There’s a place of calm acceptance right here.

It is easy to see how this casual approach would tempt many away from faiths where they may feel at odds with parts of what goes on. Given, however that there are so few people here, it would perhaps be more instructive to know what tempts them to regard this as a stopping point on the journey rather than a lasting destination.