77. St Nicholas, Kenilworth (Online)

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.

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.

76. The Crypt Chapel, Lambeth Palace, via Facebook

There will have been a different moment for each person when it finally struck home just how serious this crisis is. A moment when this went beyond being the threat of a virus affecting a distant community with the potential to cause inconvenience to travellers, to being something that has profoundly changed our lives at present and may well leave them looking very different in the future. 

For some it may have been the moment the first cases reached the UK or the realisation that the weekend in Rome was off. Many people I know properly sat up an took notice when football was stopped. Perhaps when the school gates were locked. And there will have been plenty of people for whom any remaining sense of distance from the problem will have been crushed by the sight of the pub door closing with no immediate  prospect of re-opening.

And for those who live lives even remotely religious, the closing of the the churches has been both a profoundly spiritual and upsettingly practical development as well as an undeniable statement of how serious a position the world now finds itself in. 

All these aspects of our different lives - football, pubs, work, shopping, schools, churches - make up the underlying fabric of what we do. They dictate the meaning and structure of out lives. Their removal, even either temporarily or in part, leaves us bereft and struggling with how to make sense of things. We also, quite naturally (and with commendable creativity) look for alternatives, ways to beat the crisis. Footballers have been challenging each other to YouTube skills contests; musicians and theatre groups have been live-streaming their efforts just to keep reaching the isolated. 

As an aside it makes me ponder what would happen in the future should some global computer virus gradually wipe out life online. Perhaps many of us would be forced to isolate ourselves in the real world in search of entertainment, companionship and fulfilment. But that’s probably one for the satirists.

You can have a faith without a church of course. History has provided us with plenty of instances when particular faiths have been driven out of any overt public presence. Many people have relied on their faith to get them through such crises. Conversely there are examples of religious communities existing without any open congregation, opting instead to mark the offices of the day with closed prayer and absolute disconnection from the world outside. But, for most, it’s the interaction of place and people which is essential and it’s this which has provided the problem and the catalyst to what the faith community has been doing in the last few days. How do we keep going when we can’t go at all?

My still lengthy list of places of worship I’d still be fascinated to visit has had to be set aside. Who knows for how long. I’ve enjoyed doing this blog but to keep things going in the way I’ve been producing it is going to need some creative thinking. 

I’m starting this period of necessary exile by tuning in on Facebook to the sight of Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury, conducting a morning prayer service to about three people in the crypt of Lambeth Palace Chapel. It’s a specially-recorded short service offered to the online world through the Church of England website. It’s strange to hear the familar words of the service with no response. A tough time for vicars too evidently but at least they still get the sermon. The thoughts expressed are in many ways identical to those we’ve heard from politicians and the medical community; Keep yourself safe and think of others. 

All churches have been responding using the new technologies which, one could assume, have played their part in keeping attendances falling. Online services, webcams, community forums, downloadable instructions for having your own service at home. Virtual Friday prayers. It’s all out there. 

The fact that this also happens to be Mothering Sunday is, awful as it sounds, neither here nor there. Cynics might say restrictions on what we can do have probably hit the retail and service industries far more than any other area. All those unsold chocolates, un-sent flowers, cancelled pub lunches. If you haven’t been thinking constantly of your vulnerable parents over the last few weeks, then not being allowed to deliver a card and a bunch of flowers is hardly going to make a difference.

The panel discussion on Radio Four this morning shows that the problem is similar across all faiths. And so will be the resourcefulness of the response no doubt. It may provide some more of the heartwarming community rallying we’ve been seeing.

One of the things faith - any faith - has enabled people to achieve is in providing the chance to pause, reflect and reset for the trials to come. Ironically this new life of avoiding as much actual social contact as possible gives all of us the opportunity to do just that. 

Whatever the resources, whatever the setting and whatever the faith (or complete absence of it) I hope we all manage to do that. Priorities have never been clearer.

75. All Saints, Preston Bagot

I got three texts quite close together toward the end of last week. Two were NHS reminders about my forthcoming appointment urging me not under any circumstances to forget it. The third was from the doctors’ surgery itself telling me the appointment had been cancelled so resources could be concentrated on the imminent arrival of coronavirus cases.  I also had a number of emails on the same day encouraging me not to lose sight of the need to renew a library book, telling me my home contents insurance is due and breaking the news that the football match I wasn’t going to anyway was now off.

We get our messages lots of different ways in these modern times but some things, I found myself pondering on Sunday morning, remain resolutely non-modern. It’s a grey and rainy morning a good half a mile outside the small hamlet of Preston Bagot and the bells of All Saints are being rung loud and long to advise the faithful not to lose sight of their appointment with Morning Prayer. It’s a very reassuring sound, even if I used to hate its intrusion during my younger days when Sunday mornings didn’t really start until well after lunch. I wonder if the pealing of church bells will one day be replaced by the ping of a text reminder - I certainly hope not.

Of course it’s not just a question of the medium, it’s the message too and this morning’s message is one of faith, compassion and support backed up by simple common sense. As messages go it’s no earth-mover. It’s hardly dramatic and hardly anything we couldn’t work out for ourselves. But boy do we need it. 

There are fewer than a dozen here for the early start. Brave souls the vicar calls us. She begins by telling us (with an exasperation only partly-feigned)  how, as a person past the age of 70, she’s received calls from members of her family telling her what she should do to avoid the virus. On top of this comes the advice from the government and medical communities, all routinely filtered, enhanced and just plain exaggerated by the news industry. Add to that the rumours we seem to pass from person to person with a far greater efficiency than any virulent bug, and it’s a cocktail of information and supposition guaranteed to bewilder.

Perhaps it’s the natural cynicism of the journalist in me but some of the messages which seem to sweep the nation on a daily basis seem to have a very calculating hand behind them. One well-placed salvo of social media posts results very quickly in another gap on the supermarket shelves. Toilet rolls, pasta, anything with the phrase ‘anti-bacterial’ on it - they’ve all disappeared in the last few days. It’s a pity I can’t get any success with spreading fears over the future availability of the Romany Pie CD; a few boxes of that being loaded into trolleys wouldn’t be a bad thing. 

Of course the past masters of the whole ‘terrify them into buying’ thing was always the church itself. Take a look at any history of pre-reformation catholicism and the sight of carbootfuls of Andrex pales into insignificance. In the teeth of such apocalyptic behaviour it’s a wonder the church doesn’t cash in afresh. 

Perhaps now is the time for a neo-Victorian bible-thumping campaign warning all to get in line or face the damnation of coronavirus without the Almighty’s help. But it doesn’t and the patient invocation to us to act responsibly and with others in mind is as much a measure of how the church has changed as it is an indication of what we in the pews feel we need to hear. 

But at least we’re here to hear the message. It has emerged this morning that the government is on the brink of instructing all those over 70 to stay in their homes and have no contact with the rest of the population. Without being unnecessarily rude I think that would leave this morning’s congregation at just me and the organist. He’ll be busy so it might fall to me to ring the bells.

As a footnote I stopped off at Sainsburys on my way home to buy milk and cereal. The car park was gridlocked, shoppers very stoney-faced and the shelves noticeably sparse in places. Caught up in the maelstrom of mass-hysteria all around me and being swept along by the herd, I panic bought three onions I really didn’t need. These coming weeks will provide many tough trials for all of us I expect.

74. Holy Ghost Zone, Coventry

This weekend has seen the threat of coronavirus spreading even further, bringing with it not only the prospect of further deaths - I believe the national figure stands at just two as I write - but a whole wave of rumour, concern, reaction, overreaction and more rumour. Who knows where we’ll be in a week’s time, let alone a bit further down the line.

At times of concern like this people turn to their faith. Maybe not in the form of thousands of new converts streaming into churches in the hope of deliverance, but certainly in the form of those who already go placing their trust not in the politicians and the scientists but in the Almighty. 

Last week the Church of England moved to advise clergy to avoid actual contact during services and to urge its congregation to shelve the traditional handshakes just for the present. Today the hands are very much in evidence - held aloft, clapping to the rhythm and rattling the living daylights out of more tambourines than I’ve ever seen in one place.

The Holy Ghost Zone in Hillfields is part of the Redeemed Christian Church of God. It’s based in a fine-looking red brick building right in the heart of this highly diverse part of the city. There’s a branch of the church in Leamington too but it was firmly shuttered-up when I attempted to go there. This one, though, is very much open.

It’s an early start for those who fancy joining in the pre-service Sunday School. This runs out to be not a colouring book session for the under fives but a detailed discussion on a topic led by a very convincing teacher. Today’s subject is, with one eye on International Women’s Day, the subject of why some people find it difficult to meet the right marriage partner. I’m not entirely sure ALL the women I know would see that as the ideal subject but, via a few verses from the Gospel and some decent audience contributions, a lively discussion ensued on what we as men and women could do to reduce the delay preventing us from fulfilling God’s wish that we all find some sort of wedded bliss.

The Sunday School gives way to the service itself and - as seems to be the case in quite a few churches now - we’re in the hands of the band to get things going.

Very decent musicians and an undeniably confident singer lead the way through the best part of an hour of extended songs with very limited lyrics but gutsy, soaring choruses and the chance to belt out some noise. This is where the tambourines come into play - not only and percussive accompaniment to the music, but as a kind of accentuation to spoken prayer. Only those with fully-charged hearing aids will know the shattering effect on the eardrums of a dozen out-of-control hand percussionists. It’s unbearable, so I retreat to the back of this large space for the remainder of my time. 

The effect on everyone else though is clearly profound. There’s something refreshingly unashamed about the way worshippers at churches like this connect with each other and with God - totally immersed in the moment and, in some cases, literally floored by the power of what’s going on. 

The prayers are not that dissimilar to the music in many ways. There’s a repetitive rhythm and an invocation to join in and shout out. It’s uplifting, cathartic and leaves those who lose themselves in it visibly invigorated. It’s also - dare I say it with the shadow of the virus creeping ever closer - highly infectious.

In the recent days I’ve heard a lot from the politicians and the science and medical community about ways of at least delaying the spread of coronavirus;  we must wash our hands while singing Happy Birthday, disinfect door handles and catch our sneezes the instant they threaten to emerge. I’ve not heard anyone talk about combatting the deadly threat simply through the power of prayer but, it that were remotely possible, I’d put my money on the Holy Ghost Zone leading the crusade.

73. St Peter’s, Wellesbourne

You can get whole books of phrases we take for granted in everyday speech but which all come from Shakespeare. One fell swoop, the course of true love, heart on one’s sleeve, protesting too much, borrowers and lenders and so on. They become part of the fabric without us pausing for too long to wonder at their original context or specifically intended meaning. I’m sure the same is true for phrases which have made the short journey from the bible or the church into collective ownership. Even the most cursory Google search yields rise and shine, fight the good fight, wolf in sheep’s clothing, the powers that be and a whole host more. The one which springs to mind today is the concept of turning the other cheek. 

St Peter’s in Wellesbourne managed to make the news last week - albeit in a very local way. The vicar turned up one morning to discover, like thousands of others every week, that burglars had called. While the church was open to the public, someone had forced open a collection box and helped themselves to the contents. In the case of the other thousand people what follows has a familiar pattern - rage against the unfairness of it all, ring the police to try to get justice, ring the insurers and see if someone can compensate this loss and then lock the doors securely and resolve not to let the outside world in again. 

In the case of this church that hasn’t happened. Instead the vicar posted a polite note on the church door inviting those responsible to think about their actions and come along to a service where the forgiveness the church preaches would be put into practice. 

I’m curious as to how far this concept of turning the other cheek will stretch, and if there is a point at which one will simply run out of cheeks to turn. The note is still there as I arrive, as - at the back of the church - is a ripped-open donation box as a reminder to all. But that’s all there is - no mention is made of the missing money, or the damage caused in stealing it. 

St Peter’s has a decent, if slightly subdued, turnout for this family communion. It’s a fine airy church with the added bonus of a full set of bell ringers hard at work in their glass enclave.

This being Lent, the theme is about avoiding fairly hollow promises to forego chocolate or alcohol, concentrating instead on spending more time in personal and religious reflection. Self-denial is always secondary to self-education it would appear.

Perhaps this fairly inward-looking approach is designed not to pull in fresh numbers, but to make better Christians of the ones who are here. Trouble is, they all look decent and vice-free to me. Not for the first time I’m confident that I’m the youngest person here.

Restraint is certainly evident in some parts of the service. The continued spread of Coronavirus and the seeming certainty that things will get a lot worse, has forced the church into a reaction. The usual offering on peace in the form of a handshake is replaced by an awkward if well-intentioned nod.

When it comes to communion, those with even the suspicion of a cough or a cold are implored to skip the communion cup. We are all advised to keep washing our hands and informed that blessings will, for the time being, be administered to the head of the recipient with a virus-defying gap of a few inches. Never mind the chocolate or the wine, this Lent might see us all giving up human contact.

72. Baitul Ehsan Ahmadiyyah Mosque, Leamington

All churches need to get more people in. Look within the doctrine of any religion and you’ll find it somewhere - spread the word, tell the people, grow. But, in addition to the hand that beckons, all churches need to reach out with a hand of friendship too - offered particularly in the direction of those who may be in danger of forming very unfriendly views. 

This double need often results in the kind of event I’m delighted to have stumbled on tonight. It’s an evening of poets, some from the mosque, some from the visiting ScriptStuff open mic brigade, reading their work on the theme of peace and it’s being hosted by Leamington’s Ahmadiyyah community in their centre and mosque.

The religious element is not lost entirely as you’d expect given where we are.  The event is top-and-tailed by prayers and words from the spiritual leaders and the performance doesn’t begin until we’ve seen a promo video detailing the history of the Ahmadiyyah community and reiterating its peaceful mission of love for all and hate for none. 

It’s a message - indeed a video - I have encountered before. The last time I came here was for a multi faith response in the wake of the first London Bridge terror attacks. The function of reaching out to the wider community is clearly taken seriously and effectively performed here. A few of the churches I’ve visited could benefit from taking note from this.  Perhaps it’s just a result of the traditions of the community - no religious group does opening the doors, welcoming strangers and providing them with food in the way this community does. I’m befriended by a chap who is as enthusiastic in telling me about the mosque as he is in loudly encouraging readers mid-poem and greeting each completed performance with open-handed slamming of the table top. My quiet attention and polite applause seems awfully timid in contrast.

There’s also a comparison to be seen in the poetry we listen to. The concept of peace as a broad term has many connotations. Peace between nations and religions obviously, but peace too in our inner selves, peace in our relentless misuse of mother nature, peace as a refuge from the maelstrom of modern life. And then there’s the peace we achieve when, we’re told, we discover God and establish a lifelong relationship with him.

It’s noticeable that in general terms the ScriptStuff readers cover the bulk of the secular interpretations while the readers from the Ahmadiyyah community restrict themselves almost exclusively to the last. For the former it’s as if religion and politics are equally responsible for divisions and we have to register our abhorrence of that and call on everyone to make the change for themselves. The latter seem to concentrate, though not absolutely exclusively, on God’s word already being poetry to which we merely must listen.

Within the space of a couple of hours we encounter poetry as protest and poetry as prayer. And bringing those two together is perhaps what this entire evening is about.

For me though, the event has two outstanding contributions. And they come from its two youngest participants. A young Muslim lad whose fabulously moving poem of first-hand persecution stops everyone in their tracks and then the area’s young poet laureate adding her quiet voice to the call for better understanding. 

Having, if nothing else, been tacitly complicit in allowing some of society’s divisions to widen by not doing anything, we’re reminded that the fate of both poetry and peace rest with the young. Their contributions are good news for all. Only the drinks are in danger as my table-thumping neighbour can’t contain his admiration.

71. St John the Baptist, Baginton

Last week’s reassurances that remaining faithful would see the storm pass were all very well, but as Ciara blustered her way out her friend Dennis was just making an equally powerful entrance. People struggling to repair fence panels blown down in one weekend must have been looking over their shoulders as a second weekend’s battering arrived. Flooded fields and roads have barely had time to subside before another two days of sweeping, heavy, incessant rain. More disruption, more destruction and more people anxious about the approach of flood waters. Plenty, then, to worry about.

I almost didn’t make it to St John the Baptist in Baginton this morning. The route to the village featured a stretch of road where a blown-down tree was blocking half the road followed by a junction which had become a most attractive, though decidedly impassable, lake. Local knowledge got me through only to be rewarded by a fair old soaking between car and church door.

St John is a small church. Only a dozen or so people are here today and, despite an attractive display of children’s work on a table at the side, I may be the youngest here. With the announcement that our vicar today is moving away into a retirement home there must be worries over how this will affect the church.

And worry is the theme for the day. The gospel reading and the sermon which follows explore the nature of worry and entreat us to trust in God and just know that everything will be alright in the end. Faith - any faith, I’d say - makes enormous demands of our trust, but this blanket sidelining of worry in favour of effectively closing your eyes and letting someone else sort it out is, for me, difficult to allow.

I worry too much, I know that. I always have. The psychologist Philippa Perry says anxiety and pessimism is directly linked to the stories you encounter all through your life. After thirty years of reporting car crashes, crime and (increasingly) flood damage, it’s no wonder if during a hymn my thoughts stray to what state my house will be in when I get home. If I get home at all of course. The noise of the rain hammering against the windows doesn’t help.

If you’re not worrying about what can go wrong, these days, you might well find yourself worrying about not having enough going right. Watching the TV I’m bombarded with adverts aimed at making me worry my phone, my holiday, my car, my funeral even should be brighter, bigger or better. Worrying, it would seem, can be big business for someone.

I think the Buddhists have the best approach to getting worrying under control - breaking down the panic, putting things in perspective and then pushing it completely out of the picture. I can’t help but note that this approach comes from within rather than by passing responsibility to someone else, however almighty that person may be. 

Service over, it’s time to brave the dash to the car and the country lanes which have had another hour to worsen. Trying from the inside not to panic while simultaneously trusting to faith, I do safely make it home - but not without having to drive fifty yards on the opposite carriageway’s pavement under a bridge when it became apparent that, for me, this mud red sea would not be parting.