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.

40. Abbey Hill United Reformed Church, Kenilworth

This weekend has been the 50th anniversary of the moment when man first set foot on the moon. It’s been hard to get away from. Most TV stations have been showing documentaries about the Apollo missions and their astronauts and the papers have reprinted their coverage from 1969.

That’s all been fine by me. I’ve been rediscovering the fascination I had for space and the moon landings I had fifty years ago. I recall being woken in the small hours of the morning to gaze at a grainy image I still can’t fully work out, as the first man on the moon came down the ladder. Like many at the time, I was caught up in the saga and, though I could not claim to have grasped the enormity of the task, or the complexities of the politics behind the whole thing, I followed each development keenly.

At school I remember moonscape pictures and cardboard rockets. I even dimly recall a song performed in front of the school radio which counted down ‘5-4-3-2-1’ and ended with us all whooshing like the giant Saturn V on the launchpad. 

We were promised so much from the conquest of the moon. By the time I reached 40, I was told, we’d have people living on the moon and we’d be zooming back and forth with no greater upheaval than hopping on a bus. Mars and the other planets were already being lined up.

Ah well. Big dreams. There is always a practical gap between the dream and the reality and that’s something on my mind this morning.

The United Reformed Church is a bright and open church, small but with a genuine welcome. There’s even a few faces I recognise and I’m glad to see. Like so many churches it has a battle to find younger people, but there’s a decent turnout considering the food festival is already in full swing filling the town with temptations and clogging the streets with diverted traffic.

This morning’s main focus is the story of Martha and Mary, the one a constant and diligent worker, the other reluctant to give up her place at Jesus’s feet and help out with the chores. When the ever-busy Martha appeals to their guest to help get Mary to pull her weight around the house, Jesus replies that Mary, in choosing to listen to his teachings, has chosen the more important path and that she’s to be lauded for that.

There were deep thinkers aplenty in the Apollo missions. Some pondered what would happen when we went out into what previous civilisations had considered the heavens only to find them empty. If we could conquer space, what need would we have of God? It’s interesting to note that almost the opposite happened, particularly among those who went. 

Seeing the Earth from the perspective of its creator made a huge impression on those who saw the view either first hand or through the breathtaking pictures. Apollo 8’s crew were even moved by their trip to the beyond to make a Christmas Day broadcast of the opening verses of Genesis. 

I’ve often idly wondered what would have happened if someone other than fervently Christian America had got there first. Given the growth of the new economic powers in China and India (who launched another rocket just this week), there’s every chance we’ll be seeing the eventual conquest of Mars through a rather different perspective. They certainly have the Marthas to make it happen.

I’ve never found Mary and Martha the easiest story to reconcile. Perhaps it’s because in modern times we’ve educated ourselves NOT to regard all domestic tasks as being Martha’s responsibility, that we feel Mary could and should pitch in a bit. These days we feel it’s not too much to ask everyone to do their bit. We’ve become conditioned to acknowledging and praising the work of behind-the-scenes people in every walk of life. The evidence is there in the church’s own newsletter which invites people to spare an hour from their busy schedules to do their bit by welcoming people to a forthcoming exhibition.

Praising the tireless efforts of those who make things happen is not to deny that the world needs Marys too. We could all benefit from taking time to prioritise the important things in life, but without people doing the spadework, where would those dreamers, those thinkers be?

That may be a slightly skewed reading of the story, but it’s one which springs to mind when I think of the tens if not hundreds of thousands of people it took to complete the project to put those men on the moon and bring them home. 

Like so many significant human achievements, it was based on the hard work and willingness of the many leading to those at the apex of the pyramid being able to hit the target on behalf of all of us. Mary might dream of an everlasting state of praise and understanding, but I have a feeling it’s Martha who’s going to make it happen.

39. Warwick Hospital Chapel

The walk through the vast site of Warwick Hospital, and then down the long corridor through its sprawling building leads me past departments, wards, clinics and rooms ready to deal will most of the challenges a human body can face. Each area is marked by the same hospital sign carrying a long, medical word. Some I recognise but there are many I can only guess at. The one I’m heading for though is unique. It’s the small chapel and it’s the only ward in the hospital which treats the soul.

It’s one of the functions of faith that it should be there when we need it. Whenever we come across a problem or are confronted by a situation which leaves us wondering how to react, we should be able to call on whatever we believe in - and that doesn’t have to be religious in nature - to help provide a guide for us.

Hospitals are, in some ways, like scaled down versions of the life beyond their walls only with the drama and emotion turned up higher. Life-threatening crises happen on a daily basis here. People come in for help at a time when they and their family or friend are desperate for things to work out well. Even on the brief walk from where I parked I’ve passed people being taken from ward to ward with whom I would not care to change places. I’m aware too that the chapel is only a few joyful, exultant strides from the maternity unit and all the emotion and thanks that brings.

Sometimes all that’s needed is the opportunity to take the briefest of breaks from the pressure. To sit and quietly collect your thoughts and sort out in your own mind what’s happening, what’s likely to happen and how you’re going to feel about that. The chapel - and the little gem of a garden in a courtyard outside - provides that opportunity. Like any church’s clergy or staff, the chaplaincy team here must arrive at work not knowing what they will encounter each day but probably knowing it will be something.

But all the contrasting emotions and needs of the patients whatever they may be, is only half the picture. Because the chapel has to cater for the equally-deserving needs of its marginally more permanent community - the staff. And if the patients are a diverse lot, then so are the staff. That’s why I’m in the chapel this lunchtime with about thirty assorted members of staff to observe Friday prayers.

Through its stained glass entrance way, the chapel is modern and light. There’s plenty of colour in the form of some splendid Christian tapestries and hangings behind a small altar. The simple chairs make it a place which can be quickly reconfigured to meet differing uses. 

And it gets a lightning-quick reconfiguring before my eyes now. The chairs are pushed aside to create a central space as a curtain sweeps across to screen off the altar end. Two men swiftly unroll long sheets printed with prayer mat designs and set them out to face east. 

Over the next few minutes, as prayers are given individually, the room fills to capacity with a great range of the hospital’s staff. There are some clearly just off the wards still in hospital blue, some from admin, some in the kind of suit only consultants would wear. As the shoes come off so do the lanyards, phones and stethoscopes. 

Today’s talk is all about the requirements of praying five times a day and that those prayers must be offered at the correct times and in the correct place to meet that requirement. 

As the moment for the collective prayer approaches, the doors continue to open as another and then another nip in to join just in time and I can’t help but wonder about the situations they’ve come from in order to be here. We’re all busy people, I know, but the pressure on some people’s time must be greater than others mustn’t it? Religious observance carries commitment certainly, but when what you’re doing from moment to moment could be life or death to another, that commitment has to expect to be blurred from time to time.

The Friday prayer being solemnly observed, it’s all over and the doors open a final time to let this busy group of people out to rejoin whatever ongoing drama they briefly escaped from. And, with a speed and efficiency any professional theatre would be proud of, the sheets are folded, the curtains re-opened and the chairs painstakingly returned to their neat rows ready for whatever spiritual need this chapel is next required to meet. 

Passing through the busy corridor on the way back through the building, I’m acutely aware of the fact that all the people I pass, patient or staff, will have something going on in their minds from which a moment of quiet escape would probably help, and - not for the first time in a hospital - I’m silently thankful that the sign I’m looking for is the one marked EXIT.

38. Holy Trinity RC Church, Sutton Coldfield

We’re always making promises. So says an advert currently cropping up all the time on TV. The paint company behind the ad is attempting to compare the hollow assurances we give others over so many things in life with the certainty it offers of full satisfaction when you stand back and admire your re-decorated room. There’s even an element of getting your money back if you’re not absolutely blown over. 

Life frequently offers moments when we have to place our trust in others in the hope and belief they will be true to their promise and not let us down. In many cases those situations arise because we are helpless to act for ourselves - the first years of our life being an obvious example. 

This Sunday I’m privileged to be at a christening. It’s a practical example of how we make our promise to look after someone and how we also choose to record that promise in the sight of others we trust. Both are important and both carry a great deal of responsibility.

Christenings, in common with weddings and funerals, are an occasion where the pews are often temporarily filled with many who wouldn’t otherwise be seen in a church. Having recently been to many largely unfamiliar churches  and places of worship, it’s strangely pleasing not to be the only one unsure of when to sit or stand, what to say out loud or when it’s permissible to point the camera. The family and close friends - particularly those being called on to be Godparents - rise to the challenge well and the service has a buoyant, joyful character. 

It’s at these times in our lives when we’re most aware of the need to have people around us. Family support would be our first wish, but there’s a wider network among friends and colleagues. And there’s also the broader sense of the church as a family and I hope, as we all do today, that this young lady growing up will come to feel she’s backed up by any or all of these families. 

Welcoming a new person to our family - whether that be a metaphor or not - is something all cultures seem to do. The exact details of the ritual may change from religion to religion but the basic vows are the same; we promise to look after the new arrival in a physical, practical sense but also in terms of spiritual and emotional support. In this case it’s a Catholic christening and so we’re focussed on the font and the blessed candles.

Christenings are wonderful examples of metaphors and symbols at work. The water used to draw a cross on the baby’s head represents all that water stands for in the process of creating and supporting life. Its role in nourishing our earthly life is also strongly remembered.

And there’s light too, in the candles lit and held by those supporting the child. Light symbolises so many things, not least keeping darkness, and through it threat, at bay.

It’s symbolism of a fairly straightforward nature admittedly, but it comforts and underlines the very straightforward things we all feel for our children.

When all’s said and done the christening is a memorable occasion for everyone there apart from the most important person who will, of course,  have no memory of the gathering and its meaning whatsoever - even more so having had the good grace to sleep through much of the proceedings. But as long as those charged with looking after her keep the memory of what they promised safe in their minds, that won’t be any problem at all.

37. St Mary Magdalene, Taunton

With God on our side we will win; he will defeat our enemies. The words come from Psalm 108 and have formed the sticking point to any number of debates theological or otherwise down the years.

The idea of enlisting the almighty to wade in on your behalf has been used by every army that ever fought - more often than not as a salve to their own side that they shouldn’t fear death and opt to run off before the event. 

It’s perhaps a slightly quirky view of mere mortals’ relationship with the omnipotent that WE should come up with the plan and then enlist HIM to do the necessary - much of Christian teaching tends to have matters the other way round.

It’s also used as a justification for whatever dirty business the combatants want doing. Turning weapons on others when there’s no overwhelming reason for doing so can be made to feel all the more justifiable if it’s been cleared by Heaven. Bob Dylan famously confronted this avenue of thought in a song which ended up angering the military-minded as much as any armed enemy had previously managed.

Getting your deity to pick up arms on your behalf made some sense, I suppose, when you had a different God or gods from those of your enemies - It becomes a version of ‘my dad’s bigger than your dad’. But when you and your opponents both pay homage to the same God, it all gets a bit complicated.

We all make individual, plaintive deals with whoever we believe in. Frequently at moments when we feel the helping hand from on high would help to turn a fairly evenly-balanced issue in our favour.

It’s still before 8.00 on a bright Sunday morning and I’ve already put in two and a half hours of driving to arrive in Taunton for a much-anticipated day at the cricket. Somerset have made a hugely promising start in their endless quest to win the county championship for the first time in their long history, but the intercession of the almighty on their behalf would surely help things along.

But I’m not here just to pray for James Hildreth to bat well and for Hampshire to drop every catch that comes their way. St Mary Magdalene, together with St James just up the road, have always played a big part in Somerset’s history. There can’t be many pictures taken of the ground - mine included - which don’t feature the two towers looming over the boundary. Sports fans are known for having lucky routines on the way to each game - a lucky place to meet, a lucky pub for a lucky drink on the way to the match. So why not a lucky communion service?

If it is a workable idea, it hasn’t been taken up by many. There are something like eight people in St Mary Magdalene this morning. They’re dotted around the pews as if they all have a favourite place to sit and will make for that however sparse that might make things appear. I’ve chosen St Mary over St James mainly because of timings - St James has a family service starting about the same time as the first over in the cricket thus making it slightly inconvenient and increasing the chances of being felled by a heartily-smote cricket ball while wandering in the churchyard.

St Mary’s is a beautiful church inside and out - ornate and packed with features to tempt the eye. The service is short and the readings are focussed on the rather apt subject of remaining steadfast in the face of difficult challenges. I find myself wondering if someone, somewhere has taken note of Somerset’s recent tendency to cave in before even reaching the first batting point. We need to show a flinty face, we are told, and stay true to our convictions when others may be throwing difficult questions our way. I instantly resolve to look flinty beneath my Somerset sunhat whatever setbacks the pre-lunch session may throw at us.

Back out into the early morning sunshine in this fine town and I join the many-more-than-eight making their way into the ground aiming for their own favourite vantage points carrying with them perhaps a few prayers as well as the generous hampers. I try to sit somewhere where I can at least see the towers watching over the immaculate grass and the gentle passage of the day’s play.

As Hildreth reached his century and later as Somerset passed the significant 400 mark, I wondered if God had indeed answered my prayers or whether it was just the home batsmen coming into form with perfect timing for my visit. It should be noted however, that I saw no evidence of any Hampshire hats being worn among the eight people who put in the early shift.

36. Liverpool’s Cathedrals

Way back in the 1980s I was a bit of a record collector. I would be quite happy browsing the racks of whichever record shop I was in, checking on albums I’d long desired in case of a bargain, and thumbing through what they’d got by my favourite bands in the hope of finding an unexpected rarity. 

Like many record buyers I was drawn to the allure of the megastore. These massive, warehouse size record shops sprung up all over the place - my favourite was in Oxford Street in London where the racks went on for miles and there were whole rooms for different music styles. Bigger, you’d be led to believe, was automatically, demonstrably better.

When it comes to megastores of the Christian world, Liverpool is better off than most. Not only does it have one huge cathedral, it has two. And they’re both magnificent. I’ve been to Liverpool for a day out many times and, no matter what other attractions the city might offer - from the docks to the Tate Gallery to the Cavern Club and so on - it’s these two beautiful examples of architectural vision and unswerving faith which always pull me in.

The Metropolitan Cathedral Church of Christ the King is the Catholic focal point of the north and a genuine icon in its own right. It’s still-modern spiky hat  can be seen for miles around and the occasional brutality of some of the exterior gives way inside to a feeling of colour and space which always impresses. On this brilliantly sunny day the light pouring through the stained glass is throwing huge patches of red, blue and green into the giant arena under the soaring conical roof. The scale of the plain walls allows or some monster big tapestries and banners and each of the many chapels round the perimeter boasts a design worthy of exploring.

I’ve come for a lunchtime mass but it won’t be in this fabulous space. It’s tucked away in the crypt chapel, and I’m directed back out of the main entrance and round to a subterranean side door. I’d be tempted to think it a bit much that worship has to make way for the selfie-brigade snapping away at the undoubted highlights, but the crypt chapel with its vaulted brickwork and mysterious alcoves is still a fabulous space.

Mass is held for a small congregation many of whom look like they’re just taking an hour out from a busy day. There’s no concession to this being an obvious tourist spot, it’s just a normal service regardless of its noteworthy setting.

If you head down the cathedral’s stadium-like front steps and walk down the aptly-named Hope Street, your way will soon be blocked by the unbelievably massive bulk of Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral. Any superlatives lavished on the Catholic cathedral can, in my view, be doubled here. This building is simply the biggest thing I’ve ever seen. Of course there’s statistics to back that up. The tourist leaflet runs through them all; the UK’s biggest cathedral, the highest tower, the tallest Gothic arches, the heaviest bells, the largest organ in the nation and so on.

And the feeling inside really does reflect this. The gothic styling is huge and the fact that it was built with relatively modern building techniques just meant they could scale it up even more. It’s like someone has lined Cheddar Gorge with bricks and then upended the whole thing. The height and length is just stunning.

I’m in the choir stalls at the very eastern extremity of the interior. On one hand I’m overshadowed by the enormous gold carvings behind the high altar, in the other direction the nave disappears off into the distance and the vast stained glass window above the western entrance about three miles away. Of course that’s an exaggeration, but I can’t be the first to wonder at an indoor expanse not even Chris Gayle could outhit. 

Evensong is held pretty much after the cathedral has closed for the day so the congregation in the choir is fewer than a dozen with a clutch of late-stayers halfway down the nave enjoying the acoustics. The service, however, is not small for all its meagre attendance. The choir are magnificent and the reverb from the endless, towering walls utterly beguiling. The organ’s lowest pipes are disconcertingly visceral and the whole spectacle is worthy of its setting. 

So is what’s offered at these two flagships of the faith equally scaled-up? Well no, not really. I found myself talking to a woman fortunate to be working as a canon in the Anglican ‘megastore’. She told me it was easy to become lost in the sheer majesty of the place. It was important, she said, to take the time to push all the statistics and the visual glories to one side and remember that, huge as they are, they’re still churches performing the function that all churches do. There’s nothing different solely as a result of being huge. 

I’m reminded that, even in Oxford Street’s vast vinyl paradise, The Clash by then had only produced a trio of albums, there were just more copies on the racks. A lot more copies; not different, not better, just more.

These massive cathedrals make a massive statement, but it’s the same statement made by every parish church. But their size is still part of their appeal. They’re a testament to what can be done when a whole city gets behind a project. The scale of their presence is more to do with the pride this city has always had in itself than anything else. 

35. The Forest Hermitage, near Warwick

How far are you prepared to go? It’s a question which occurs to me as I drive slowly down a narrow lane heading deep into the Warwickshire countryside. Farm entrances, gates into fields and even the odd splendidly secluded house all offer the chance to turn the car round and head back home to the undoubted attractions of the women’s world cup. But I decide to go on and it strikes me that this is a decision anyone exploring religion must regularly face.

At the far end of this fine country lane is The Forest Hermitage, a Buddhist retreat offering the chance to join an evening meditation session. It’s in a  beautiful setting surrounded by woods and fields, perfect for the seclusion and harmony with nature anyone heading for a retreat would be seeking. 

I’ve taken quite a few ad-hoc meditation classes over the years; at a huge retreat near Hemel Hempstead, at a Buddhist centre and world cafe in Leicester, as part of a mindfulness meditation group in a church in Warwick and once even in Hong Kong. And in many ways, that spread of try-out taster sessions all over the place rather makes the point I’m pondering. I seem to like the idea on the surface but could I ever really claim to be committed to going any deeper?

It’s a point made very well back at the Elim church a couple of weeks ago by a Pastor literally standing ankle deep in water to illustrate how, when it comes to fully immersive religious commitment, many of us seem happy to stay pretty much in the shallows.

Buddhism’s shallows are, to many in these frenetic times, blissfully attractive. There’s a series of moral rules we’d all like to adhere to; no killing, no lying, no stealing, no drugs and so on, and there’s the promise to live your life without giving any harm to others. All this backed up by a regime of spending hours in silent contemplation while the world and its many frustrations and shortcomings simply recedes into the distance leaving you cleansed, content and serene. No wonder the current self-help book generation latches onto it with such immediate alacrity.

But Buddhism is much more than that and to get at the truths beneath you have to go very deep indeed. The art of proper meditation is a case in point. The idea is simple to grasp, rather like the instructions for playing the harp - you just pluck the strings and the music will come out.

Tonight’s session is in a small temple to the side of this fine cottage. It’s led by a monk and numbers some residential students and a few arriving by car among the dozen in the room. It starts with chanting and prayers and then moves into a full breathing meditation exercise. And it’s here my problems always start. 

The practice of sitting on the ground and the concept of achieving a state of calm repose are, for me, mutually exclusive. I have never been able to sit cross-legged; it’s as much a structural problem as it is one of poor fitness and lack of practice. Constantly having to shift position and use my hands to brace my collapsing posture is anathema to the idea of any settled contemplative state. 

Practice may perhaps make perfect, but a complete lack of practice is equally certain to highlight fairly fatal imperfections. Like the would-be harpist, the simplest instructions belie the need for some real expertise. Gaining even basic proficiency takes aptitude and application in equal measure.

Following the exercise, the monk offers a gentle but inspiring reminder of the Dharma - the goals for living set out for Buddhists to strive for, attain and then adhere to. He speaks softly, patiently and not without humour. It’s a very compelling example. Why would you NOT want to live a life like that when the evidence of the million failings of modern life are so abundantly on show around us?

I love the idea of meditation and I dearly want to find myself progressing to the next echelon of ruminative study, but my limitations leave me struggling for either comfort or concentration. I have taken to inventing my own form of meditation. I get comfortable with the completely shameless use of a chair and I use my own choice of musical soundtrack to help transport my thoughts away from the here and now. It works but, given the absolute lack of comfort-denial and the obvious absence of anything remotely resembling a challenge, is it the real thing or just a gentle stroll through the shallowest of shallows.

So how far DO I want to go? And what might make me suddenly decide that any particular faith was the one for me to hurl myself into body and soul? 

I can’t answer that question at the moment. But I know that whenever I do get round to giving it the thought it deserves, I’d quite like not to be in abject discomfort and pain while that contemplation is taking place.