8. Holy Transfiguration, Westwood Heath. February 3, 2019

The last time I was in a Greek church was, fairly inevitably, on holiday on one of the many Greek islands we visited in the 1990s. I remember two among the many: One when we felt obliged to go in and part with some drachma after the oldest woman on the island struggled up the steep hill with the keys to let us in, another where I spent about an hour immersed in the evening intoning during a seemingly endless marking of a saint’s day. Then, the relative gloom and stonework of the church was a temporary haven from the heat, today it’s minus 4 and everyone’s wishing the heating was more effective.

Westwood Heath is, on the face of it, an unlikely place to find a fully-fledged Greek church. But, as Spike Milligan once observed, everybody has to be somewhere - so why not here? Outwardly The Greek Orthodox Church of the Holy Transfiguration is a modern church surrounded by upmarket edge-of-the-city newbuilds. Inside it is a stunning display of icons, screens, candles, lamps and wood. Once the incense has been generously sprinkled from one end of the building to the other, it’s hard not to imagine yourself somewhere a lot warmer and more exotic.

Father Theodoros Polyviou - who must at some stage of his life have looked in the mirror and decided that if he looked that much like a Greek priest, he may as well become one - arrives in the car park at the same time I do. He’s very welcoming and invites me to sit in while he prepares for the service. This visit is really three services in one. Matins, the orthodox liturgy and communion and finally a more intimate family blessing of sorts.

And so the morning begins. Most of the service is intoned. Only a very few things are said - most notably when Fr Theodoros kindly switches to English. It’s hard to say when Matins actually starts, it just seems to drift in. But when it does start there’s only four of us in the building - priest, two deacons (I’m making a guess here) and me.

The service is sung mainly by the very friendly female deacon while the other two busy themselves out of sight with preparations. Another man arrives just in time to kiss the icons and take his place in the choir. Two more men then drift in to complete the trio. Walking across the stage to deliver bread or greet each other, chatting while someone else is singing, finding some hidden mints and offering them to your fellow intoners - it’s a very relaxed start here.

The same goes for those in the congregation. There are group discussions, children bickering and looking dangerous with candles, people coming in with food for the table - and while they’re not oblivious to the worship going on, there is a definite sense that it’s something to view rather than take part in. There’s very little by way of congregational prayers or responses. It’s a pleasingly relaxed attitude.

Three boys arrive and wander backstage to get ready just in time to come out carrying candles. I’m reminded of being in a taverna once where I swear they took our order ten minutes before the chef even turned up. It will all work out in the end. Fr Theodoros alluded in greeting me to things being conducted on ‘Greek time’. And how.

By the time we’ve segued seamlessly into the Communion service the place is filling up. Two dozen people have sauntered in, kissed the saints and taken their place. As the Gospel reading gives way to the breaking of bread, the number is approaching a hundred. I’m left with the feeling that this audience knows the play very well and has timed its entrance for the bit it likes best.

Once fully assembled though, it’s an impressive and clearly supportive community. Being so far from your homeland (and again I am aware I’m making a broad assumption) can create a very insular community more intent on clinging to its particular identity than in letting in the outside world.

But that’s not so here. As we put our coats on and prepare to head back out in the cold, Fr Theodoros reminds everyone of those in the city feeling the cold even worse than ourselves - addicts, the homeless, those with nothing. This church will be out on Coventry’s streets this week offering food, warm clothing and a supportive word. And he wants volunteers to shoulder the work. An ancient church perhaps, but one with a very current outlook.

7. Leamington Life Community Church. January 27, 2019

The theory of crowd dynamics has always been an interesting one. Freud examined it, as have countless anthropologists and psychologists, and you can witness its effects in everything from muddy-field festivals to looting rioters. I first consciously experienced it on the North Bank at Arsenal when, in an outpouring I would never have dared to exhibit on my own, I found myself arms in the air proclaiming my love for Lee Dixon.

When like-minded people are doing it, and the mood of the moment encourages it, it seems even the most sedentary of souls can be roused to wondrous displays of rapture.

A snow-threatening grey morning in Leamington is just as unlikely a place as any to be caught up in the wave of euphoria, but the collective joy and emotion coming out of this Sunday service is astounding.

Leamington Life Community Church is small and full. Its single room is as plain as a church could be while still remaining a church; there’s no altar, no icons, no vestments, not even (from my seat at least) any cross. But there ARE people. All walks of life and all backgrounds. And they are all ready to give it up for the music, the moment, each other and the Lord.

There’s not just a welcome for me, there’s a welcome pack complete with water and tissues - energy and tears aplenty were in evidence although, perhaps fortunately, not mine.

The service starts with half an hour of pulsating rock-driven songs of praise from five very talented and very committed musicians. The words are on the wall and all around me the arms are going in the air. This is just like the anthemic portion of a full-scale stadium gig, and - not wishing to look like a junior Tory minister on a Commonwealth fact-finding mission - I join in. I’m not quite as overcome with abandonment as those around me - even the power of the Lord would struggle to wipe away fifty-seven years of English self-consciousness. My arms stay downish and I settle into the sort of rhythmic swaying beloved of backing singers at Pink Floyd shows. The music is hugely uplifting and the lyrics very simple, very affirming. All the best crowd songs are like this. Don’t bother teaching the crowd anything complex; keep the message brief, simple and repeat it over and over again. I can still hear them now as I write.

The service itself is positive in the extreme. The Life CC comes from the Pentecostal region of the religious spectrum. The emphasis is not so much on simply praising God (although that’s still a big element) as on experiencing God right here, right now. The lengthy preaching by a visiting Pastor from Somerset (surely God’s country if any existed) eventually works its way round to the central point that it’s God’s presence in this church on this morning that lifts the whole moment above it just being a cracking good gig and a chance to feel vaguely supportive. If God IS in the room today he’s got his work cut out to stay focussed such are the number of hugs, outbursts, prayers and the like aimed in his direction.

The Holy Spirit being metaphorically present in a bottle of oil, the whole congregation comes to the front to be anointed. After that there’s opportunity for anyone sick or troubled (or there on behalf of someone else who is) to come to the stage and feel the touch of God. Only a few of the older, more staid-looking onlookers decline and the scenes of openly emotional hugs and prayers are such that the welcome pack tissues suddenly make sense.

It would be easy to either become lost in this torrent or to be absolutely sidelined by it and resort to satire but one moment during the proceedings stands out for me, providing a perfectly earthy, practical reason for this church being so full. Pastor Dave urges those currently going through a tough time in their life to raise their hand. He then invites the rest of us to place a hand on the troubled soul nearest us while everybody prays or says what they wish by way of support. It’s not unlike the fairly limp handshake and ‘Peace be with you’ in standard communion, only this has real power both as a gesture and a feeling. Looking round the room it’s as if we’ve all formed into a human web with nobody left on their own. It’s impossible not to be moved by such a clear evocation of the wider family all churches profess to represent and it is equally clearly welcomed and valued by those receiving the support.

The sermon spoke of the need for the church to constantly rediscover its purpose. In making those at a low ebb believe there is something, someone manifestly there for them in this world AND from whatever heaven they believe will come, that purpose it about as evident as you could get.

6. United Reformed Church, Warwick Road, Coventry. January 20, 2019

In common with local theatres, county cricket and Weston-super-Mare, almost all churches are faced by the constant problem of trying to attract more people while simultaneously battling to keep even the ones they have.
They all face their competing attractions whether that be television, an audience spending too much time at work or just the cost of getting around and the promise of better weather elsewhere. Providing a bit of unexpected variety is an obvious move; lowering ticket prices and offering a diet of crowd-pleasing fare might work. But it doesn’t always and there’s only so far you can stray into the realms of diversity before the core purpose is diluted or even lost.

This struggle to remain popular, in its truest sense, is something I recognised at the start of my wanderings and it’s a theme I’m sure will continue to crop up. It will be interesting to note where it is NOT a problem. I’m choosing where I visit partly through a bit of internet browsing. Most churches recognise the benefits of having an online presence and they all seem keen to emphasise the liveliness and vibrancy of the programme they offer. Smiling people of all ages and backgrounds are a constant feature of home page pictures. It’s akin to restaurants wanting to give the impression that you’ll be lucky to get in here, or event promoters hinting that tickets are selling fast.

Although I’d never been in, this is a church I’ve been familiar with for many years. During all the time spent in The Quadrant at the base of the Coventry Observer, the United Reformed Church was the view from my window. Perhaps that’s why I seem to be one of the few people who doesn’t make the mistake of calling it United Reform. It’s also a building I pass on my walk into the city centre every time I come to Coventry. At Easter and particularly in the cold, dark days before Christmas, members of the congregation could be seen huddled together in the porch singing carols to hunched, hurrying shoppers who largely ignored them. It was - quite literally - a thankless task and one, therefore, deserving of respect.

The welcome here is as warm as in any of my visits so far. I am coming round to the feeling that part of the reason for this welcoming is that I must stand out as someone they haven’t seen before. An element of novelty perhaps mixed in with the perfectly sincere church welcome. It also becomes apparent in snippets of overheard conversation, that some regulars took me to be some sort of inspector. I did make one note during the morning; I suppose that may have looked suspicious.

This morning it’s a family service, although it would be a struggle to recognise that from the 32 people making up today’s attendance, only two of whom are anywhere near the age you’d expect. Most of us are considerably older and, in common with many urban churches, not attending as part of a family, even as part of a couple I’d say. But there’s an air of joy in this congregation rather than a feeling of habit or resignation.

The fact that the service itself is broadly familiar makes the small differences all the more noteworthy. There’s little pomp, the tone is informal and straightforward throughout and communion is taken in your seat in a fashion which puts me in mind of airline meal service only with blissfully enhanced elbow room. The vicar, Rev Yvonne Stone, toting a fine Glastonbury accent, wears a ‘dog collar’ but that’s the only concession to vestments. The prayers, readings and sermon are all delivered free from any element of preaching.

Perhaps the most eyebrow-raising difference from anything I’ve encountered before is the lack of hymn books. There are hymns, of course, led from the front by a three-woman choir. But for the words, we don’t bury our heads in a book, we just follow them on the big TV screen either side of the altar, pages kept rolling by Rev Yvonne via her MacBook. Between the hymns we get appropriate pictures and phrases to chart the progress of the service. A cross between bouncing ball singalong and the health messages I’m forced to absorb at the doctors. It’s oddly fun for all that.

Talking with Rev Yvonne after the service she agrees about the difficulties faced in trying to get people in. It’s part of her function to keep fighting that battle. The church has a vibrant church centre next door with plenty of popular activities. Getting people to make the ten-yard journey over to the church itself, however, is still a challenge. It’s hardly surprising though. This is after all the city where carol singers offering free warm mince pies and hot drinks to weary festive shoppers still have their work cut out to get any sort of grateful response.

5. St Mary’s, Oldberrow. January 13, 2019

I have no idea why, but most days I drive one route to work and a completely different route on the way home. So it is that most mornings, while pondering the stresses of the day to come, I find myself in the procession of cars heading out of Henley toward Redditch, passing along the way a tiny, timber-towered church perched on a grassy corner of the A4189.

It doesn’t really advertise itself. Perhaps that’s because Oldberrow isn’t really a village of any significance. It took a brief stop by the wayside and glance at the lychgate noticeboard for me even to discover its name. But since then - and despite its internet presence being equally feint - I’ve had a hankering to go.

Once a month the church hosts a communion service. It’s tiny inside; one room little bigger than a cricket pitch but with a surprising warmth. Warm too is the welcome from the church wardens and Rev Kate. All told we are barely a dozen. The fact that the service booklets run out and are hastily shared, suggests that few regulars are expected let alone a visitor from so far away as Kenilworth.

Without any hymns (the church doesn’t boast anything so grand as an organ or piano) the service speeds through at quite a pace. The readings also being brief, and the communion queue only ten, we’re through in forty minutes.

One of the knock-on effects of the absence of music combined with the tiny dimensions of the church, is to throw the focus fully onto the words. The sermon comes across more like a bible study talk - there’s no figurative middle-distance into which the vicar can easily address her remarks. Rev Kate deliberately comes forward to be as close to the congregation as she can. This feels like it is being said for us, not as part of a general performance we are distantly witnessing. I remember the same being true at a Rachel Podger violin recital a few years ago. Then, it was as if we had been invited in to sit in on a private rehearsal, now it was as if we were there as the vicar was gathering her thoughts.

The same is true of the liturgy. I’m aware of all the individual voices - this is not a collective mumble but a coming-together of people who genuinely want to be here. It’s a very compact and tiny gathering but none the weaker for that.

Without an organ voluntary to see us on our way, the congregation’s reflections are brought to a halt by the noise of the kettle being switched on at the back. Tea and a recommendation to visit the equally-diminutive church at Morton Bagot when it appears on the rota, follows. I promise to go.

It’s inevitable that thoughts should stray to why churches like this are kept active. How do they survive on a dozen people coming through the doors once a month? I suppose the answer is that a lot of them don’t and end up being attractive conversions for those keen to cash in on the characterful buildings in attractive settings. But continue St Mary’s does and perhaps its most important message is to passing motorists: We’re here and we always will be.

4. Lady Chapel, Coventry Cathedral. January 11, 2019

I wasn’t intending a visit to the cathedral. I happened to be filling in time before viewing an art installation in the ruins of the old cathedral (more below) and noticed an Evening Prayer service scheduled to start in a few minutes.

The cathedral has closed for the day - so says the notice on the door. It’s almost completely in silent darkness but I go in anyway. There’s a small pool of light at the reception desk and I’m pointed toward the Lady Chapel, the only other pool of light right down the far end. It’s an eerie prospect.

The Lady Chapel, is literally at the feet of Christ. It’s pressed up against the wall dominated by the cathedral’s most famous artefact, Graham Sutherland’s iconic (and finally the word is correctly used) and overpowering tapestry. So dwarfed am I that the sneaky picture I took only just about reaches the top.

The chapel is deserted. There is nobody here but me and I begin to have doubts over whether I’ve got the right place or time. I know that I have. My previous record for scant attendances at a cathedral service came with a very early morning stop at Winchester on my way to Brighton at which we were still in single figures. This is different. I am entirely alone in this huge space. My watch ticks well past the appointed start time and I’m about to give up the ghost when, in many ways, the ghost finds me.

Quiet, slow footsteps bring a man of the same qualities. Obviously clergy, possibly a lay preacher, he looks at me but says nothing.

“Is it just me?” I ask rather unnecessarily.

He says nothing for about twenty seconds and then asks: “Would you like to read from the Bible?”

“Why ever not? Do you usually get more people?”

“It’s not known,” he says after a gap of a good ten seconds.

And so the service begins. John (I later find out his name as I feel the need to say something as we depart) sits at the side and quietly says a number of short prayers often repeating lines three or four time. I have no idea why, but he says ‘God made us, not we ourselves’ and ‘We are the sheep of his pasture’ over and over. There are gaps of at least a minute during which his breathing becomes so like that of sleep that I fear I may have to gently slope off and leave him in peace, presumably to be discovered by the early shift in the morning. Out of one lengthy silence he announces the first reading and I read John’s Second Letter to nobody but myself and a sleeping cleric. One or two prayers later and, at the end of the king of all silences, he gently closes his books and gets gingerly to his feet. It’s over.

I will have to ponder what purpose was served by this oddest of encounters. It is, I expect, an example of the cathedral just going about its daily offices. It may be that John doesn’t always have an audience for his quiet, patient reflections. Either way it is more a pleasure than an oddity.

“Have you been at the cathedral a long time?” I ask.
“Always.”
I wonder. But it was good to meet you John.

Outside in the old ruins I experience the pounding world music and art soundtrack of Sun Rise. It turns out to be seventeen minutes of smoke, lights and mysterious intonings. Not all that different from what’s usually on offer back over the road, even down to the bemused but respectful onlookers. Something about the rising sun as renewal perhaps - but the crimson light, pounding noise and drifting smoke remind me of a different dawn in this very space. Reconciliation brings the chance of renewal. Thank heavens for new days and new chances.

As I pass the cathedral on my way back to the car, preparations are continuing for the next gathering - a showing of the Marx Brothers’ comedy Duck Soup on a huge inflatable screen in the middle of the nave. I kid you not. Let’s hope someone turns up.

3. St John the Baptist, Coventry. January 6, 2019

St John’s is a very imposing church inside and out. It looks a real city church occupying a commanding position which somehow manages to rival the much bigger, much bluer IKEA at the opposite end of the road. The city has grown up around it and it’s hard to get a picture which doesn’t feature some sort of high-rise development as a backdrop. City life has also given the already heavy masonry a thick coating of urban grime. It could look gloomy and off-putting. PD James would definitely place a grizzly murder here.

Inside it’s impressive too. Fabulous stained glass windows and stonework as you’d expect from one of Coventry’s oldest churches. But it’s the height that is most striking. Perhaps it’s the fairly compact horizontal measurements of the building that makes the distance to the vaults above look so great. Either way it’s a tall building to heat and, on a very cold January morning, it’s freezing.

The cold of the building is more than made up for by the warmth of the welcome from Father Dexter who comes over to shake my hand and introduce himself. Others follow. City people are generally more reluctant to greet strangers than those in small towns. The same could be said of tight village communities perhaps. That they are so welcoming here is, I would say, the central purpose of the whole exercise.

It being Epiphany, there are a number of traditions to be observed in this fairly high-church Catholic mass. Models of the Magi are brought in by procession and installed in the crib; the dates of the year’s moveable feasts are formally announced; pieces of chalk are blessed so the congregation can invoke a blessing on their homes and, in doing so, proclaim to the world that they’re Christians.

Busy times but, these being Catholics, there’s no particular sense of urgency. A most impressive - and well-played - organ keeps all the hymns at a very slow pace, there are plenty of gaps as the Priest moves from place to place and the communion queue is equally leisurely. These people have done this countless times before and there’s a real sense of comfort in its gentle, unchanging progress.

This is the most diverse congregation yet (I know it’s still early days). It’s what you’d expect in a city. There’s no village family demographic at work here. We have all ages - including a ten-month-old who leads his mother a merry crawl for the duration - and (allowing for a few suppositions) people from very different social strata. Most people seem to be single souls drawn to come to a place where they can feel part of something bigger.

Unlike village churches which celebrate and give thanks for their existing communities, the city church has as its mission trying to bring together a sense of collective belonging not naturally there. Join together, find a mutual purpose and demonstrate a commitment to loyalty. Perhaps in the filling in of mutually agreed diary dates and in the chalked front door declarations of affinity, we’re seeing precisely that at work.

2. St Mary-the-Virgin, Stoneleigh. December 30, 2018

From the pealing bells to the stone tower to the tweed-jacketed welcome it would be hard to produce anything which summed up England any more completely than this church on an overcast morning. I even take my place on a pew cushion celebrating the existence of the village cricket club.

The welcome is, without question, a sincere one. By the time I head for home, at least half a dozen people - not including the vicar and the sidespeople - have said warmly how pleased they are to see me. That’s not bad given a turnout of twenty. Christmas, as the vicar reminds us, is a very busy time for the church. It just seems that busyness translates into reasons you can’t make it. Still, the vicar - a lovely man brought out of retirement to help cover gaps when needed - exudes delight at us all being there and the whole service is uplifting far beyond its numerical clout.

From a start point of Jesus being a child prodigy whose achievements stand out because they came at such an early, measurable age, the vicar expands to a general theme of how we can only judge our success if we have a goal against which it can be placed. Without a target, he seems to be saying, we can’t know whether we’re going in the right direction. He might be alluding to Jesus’s mission statement of ridding the world of sin (tough one to quantify that) but I ponder how his words could apply to my current project.

I have no absolute goal in mind. I’m not seeking anything specific and so I can’t see how my progress toward or away from that aim could be measured. But I can imagine that keeping it going and finding myself stimulated by as-yet-unvisited places could easily be regarded as success. I conclude that, for me, it may be that the journey will bring the goal in sight - a view the vicar is happy to agree with when we chat afterwards and he shows genuine interest in my admittedly aimless quest.

If I lived in a village, this village, I’d be here every week. And I’d be able to reply with equal warmth how pleased I was to see them.