69.St Laurence, Ludlow

Many of the churches and places of worship I’ve visited have left an impression one way or another. Most, it must be said, have left a favourable impression either through their architecture or their welcome; some through the slightly closed nature of what they offer have left a less favourable impression.

The impression left by this visit to the depths of Shropshire will stay with me like no other for wholly unexpected and rather ghastly reasons.

Ludlow’s parish church of St Laurence is a real beauty capping this town on a hill and visible from miles around. Close up it’s less easy to see being snookered from many approaches by a labyrinth of buildings and lanes.

Inside, the church should be a glorious high, open space known for its superb windows, historic organ and for being the resting place of poet AE Housman. But today the interior is cluttered and darkened by the remnants of what looks like a major production of Becket finishing the night before. A vast stage and dangling crown, banks of scaffolding and temporary curtains masking props tables with replica swords and costume rails of historic robes - all of this must be negotiated in an effort to find a way through to the chancel and choral matins. It looks like the set of Midsomer Murders and is the horribly suitable setting for what happened next.

Moments after choosing a seat in the choir the quiet of the church was shattered by a piercing scream and the cries of a woman in obvious distress and pain somewhere back in the nave. At first I feared someone was being attacked or had plummeted from a high gallery. With others I hurried through to discover an older woman who had slipped on the stone floor and, in falling, had fairly evidently broken her hip or her leg. Her agony was obvious and awful and, given the position she was holding her leg, not likely to go away. We tried to calm her and keep her warm. 

An ambulance was called and a consultant who happened to be in the choir ( a stroke of fortune that!) arrived to give the opinion that paramedics were needed and she was best left where she was. Draped under robes from the costume rail she remained in acute pain as, I felt surprisingly, the service carried on further down the church. Just for the record, not a word was said and the poor women didn’t even merit an ad hoc intercession to the Almighty to send some sort of relief right away.

Many things can distract those at a church service from concentrating on the singing or the words being spoken, but I defy anyone to follow a psalm (however beautifully sung by a choir featuring a hospital consultant) or mutter the words of a creed when the whole building reverberates to the sound of someone in evident, vocal distress. By the time I left some fifty minutes later, the ambulance had arrived and some sort of stretcher was being assembled.

If I’m ever back in Ludlow I’d like to visit again on a less dramatic day in every sense. As it was I allowed myself to be ushered out a different way and went on to spend the day with friends watching rugby and then the Super Bowl and inwardly wincing with every crunching collision.

68. St Charles Borromeo, Hampton on the Hill

One of the motives for starting this blog in the first place (and for keeping it going) has been the excuse for going inside buildings I’ve not been in before. I’ve driven past this church on my way home through Hampton on the Hill many times and always take the opportunity to glance over the wall and see the unique picture.

St Charles Borromeo is an odd, but thoroughly pleasing sight. The church is built on the side of the house, or should that be the other way round? Google for yourself if it’s dates you’re after, the appearance in most appealing however it came into being. The house is now the Presbytery meaning the current incumbent Canon has a very short journey to work and no problem with the regular 9.00am start.

Inside is ample justification for the practice of opening doors you’ve never previously pushed. A small but light T-shaped church with a fabulously ornate altar and surround, it’s an attractive and welcoming space.

And there’s a fair few people here. Over this weekend I’ve been to the Pump Rooms for chamber music and stood behind the goal at St Andrews for songs of an entirely different kind. Both those mutually-exclusive audiences completely suited their respective event. It would be almost impossible not to look at someone and know which event he or she should be at. Here is a third audience and I find myself wondering what Catholics ‘should’ look like and how you’d go about drawing a Venn diagram to display the groupings. Uniquely, I’d guess, I was at all three which either means I belong everywhere or essentially nowhere. Fine thoughts for a Sunday morning.

The mass itself is standard and only two points raise a slight eyebrow. One is the complete absence of musical accompaniment to the hymns, and the other is that in singing hymn numbers 934, 872 and 865 I’m pondering if this is the highest aggregate number ever. There’s bound to be an app, if only I had a smart enough phone.

Tomorrow being Holocaust Memorial Day the homily inevitably touches on thoughts of those unimaginably dark times. Turning our attentions to the establishing of a ghetto in Rome in far earlier times, Canon Stewart urges worshippers to remember that Christians certainly predated and arguably trumped the Nazis in their shameful treatment of the Jewish people. He noted that when the offer was made to Jews living there to remove historic art over-zealously pressing Jews to recognise Christ, the community’s leaders declined. Such forcible attempts to impose one set of beliefs over another were, they said, part of their faith’s history and their removal would lessen our chances of understanding that history and learning its vital lessons. In a world where we’re constantly trying to revise history to suit often short-sighted attempts to ‘move on’ and improve, it’s a thought well worth bearing in mind.

67. Chichester Cathedral

A couple of the boy choristers are struggling to hide yawns. Immaculately pressed and with perfectly-combed hair they’re failing to hide that it’s an early start this morning. I wonder if anyone else had to scrape the car at -4 before driving the two and a half hours to get here. Still it was a relatively easy drive and I’m rewarded with one of those winter early mornings when the air seems clearer than ever and the low sun makes buildings like this sharpen and glow. 

Some cathedrals - Ely, Guildford, Lincoln, Liverpool - can be seen for miles around dominating the landscape. Others - Truro, Leicester, Exeter - tend to creep up on you and, depending on which way you approach, can be almost hidden from view until the last moment. Working my way from the car park to the entrance here is much like that, but the sudden appearance round the corner is still stunning. 

As a collector of cathedrals I always experience a sense of excitement when I come to a new one on my list. I expect pilgrims in the early years felt much the same way although their concerns on the journey were probably different from my worries about the never-ending nature of the roadworks on the M27.

Mattins this morning is well-attended given that it’s the relatively intimate setting of the choir which needs to be filled. It being January and an early start, it’s a gathering more of regulars than tourists. 

There’s superb singing to be enjoyed - matins (however you choose to spell it) is a service requiring little of the worshipper other than attentiveness. Chichester’s organ is also fabulous, quartered in a sort of towering wooden house of its own, sitting detached within the majestic stonework all round. It’s hard at times to concentrate on what’s being said or sung when you’re trying to count the seconds of the phenomenal reverb the cathedral offers. I make a point of trying to track down CDs recorded here if the shop is open.

Following a sermon on the gospels that was more academic than inspirational we have one hymn and we’re done. There’s a chance to look round briefly, although I’m conscious of steering clear of the stewards setting up for the next set of arrivals. I’ve always been more interested in seeing (an crucially hearing) a cathedral at work than standing in front of a set of highlights. It’s the atmosphere that I try to absorb rather than the history or the connections to great figures. Those sort of things I can get from books; the feeling that this is a light, open space still very much at the heart of this place only comes from a visit while it’s in action.

As I leave through the side door, there are plenty of people arriving at the main entrance for the communion service which follows on. The choir look like they’re grabbing a quick break and there’s a hasty re-positioning of a few chairs and guide ropes as the larger family service will be in the main body of the cathedral. It has all the visible efficiency of a roll-on-roll-off ferry operation.   Clearly a cathedral very much at work and, pleasingly, having to cope with a good volume of worshippers, whatever their state of wakefulness. 

66. St Peter’s, Leamington

A second year of visits starts with a church I always thought would be in the first ten. Strangely I’ve never been inside St Peter’s in Leamington although it’s been a background and landmark to so many years. 

The telling of the story of Epiphany takes me right back to the same time a year ago. I’m glad to be keeping up the pilgrimage - there are so many places I’d really like to visit and the curiosity is still there. 

Other than being the start of the second year, there’s not a lot to note about this communion service. St Peter’s is spectacular inside. It’s very light and very large despite not being blessed with massive windows. The service is well attended and features quite the most resolutely flat singing of a psalm I’ve yet encountered. Perhaps it’s too early in the year and things need to warm up.

65. St Barnabas, Christmas Day

Christmas Day and I’m back where I started this blog a year ago. It was while pondering a very sparse turnout for the Christmas morning service that I fell to wondering where I might find better-attended places of worship. Where were all the people going (if not here) and what was driving them to go. I decided to take a look round what I could find and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my wanderings. Just for the record very little has changed in a year’s turning. 

The church is marvelously light on this bright morning. The windows have all been replaced during the course of the year. The church had been the target of vandalism with the old mullioned windows smashed by a few stones. I’m quite proud to say that Romany Pie played our part after spotting the reports in the paper and holding a benefit evening. I can’t help remembering that we filled the pews on that evening - perhaps one of the bright new windows is down to us. Anyway, it looks fine and should last for a good many years to come. I just wonder how many people will be here to look out through them.

I thought for a while this morning we’d be in single figures but a late surge of worshippers bumped us up to the mid teens, clergy included. There was nobody on duty at the piano when the curate made a start, explaining that we’d be getting retired minister at some point who would be authorised to perform the sermon and the communion. And so we launched into Once in Royal David’s City unaccompanied and, as it turned out, arbitrarily shorn of a few verses. 

After twenty minutes or so, the curate’s increasingly plaintive glances to the back of the church were rewarded when the latch was lifted and in came the minister I normally expect to see. Spotting the vacant piano stool and noticing we were about to stumble into another carol, he sat at the keys without even the time to take his coat off and even chipped in with a decent vocal. He spent the rest of the hour racing from keyboard to lectern to altar - whatever Christmas dinner awaited him at the conclusion of such multi-tasking, he certainly earned it. 

* * * * *

It’s a quiet conclusion to the year but a homely one for all that. The experiences and encounters my last Christmas Day visit to St Barnabas inspired have been both fun and enlightening. I’ve joined services and gatherings in 65 very different places, all of which - through their nature and the way they go about spreading whatever message they bring - inspired thoughts in me and gave me plenty to write about. I’ve met lots of good people who I’d certainly visit again and learned a lot about what makes people attend the places they do week in week out. I’m by no means an expert on the religious spectrum as a result of my pilgrimage but I’ve enjoyed going into places I’ve never been and filling in some of the many gaps in my understanding of what goes on inside these buildings we walk past every day. There’s a recurring pattern of familiarity and community, reaffirming your beliefs and values, recognising change while at the same time valuing stability - all of which adds up to a palpable sense of belonging.

I’ve thought a lot about whether there’s a place to me in this process. I’m sad but perhaps relieved to report that there have been no celestial thunderbolts; at no stage has the sky parted to reveal a vision of heaven. No religious epiphany, no vision while meditating beneath a tree. But I suppose this was never about finding God, any god. It was more about finding the people who go along to meet their god and about the fascinating things they do. And they still hold a fascination. So I will carry on going - not because I’ve been convinced by any single community or theism but because the curiosity which got me started is still there. I’ll just write a lot less.

64. Bristol Cathedral

I once came to evensong in Bristol’s fantastic cathedral in the company of fewer than a dozen other visitors. Then, we were marginally outnumbered by the choir; today we would have been comfortably outnumbered by shepherds. While the rest of the city takes advantage of free parking and extended Sunday shopping hours the cathedral is packed - the most packed I’ve seen any church (let alone a cathedral of this majestic size) throughout my year’s visitations. 

It’s the family telling of the Christmas story and blessing of the crib and there’s not even standing room. I’m put in mind of one of those Rocky Horror or Sound of Music singalong screenings because everyone seems to have come as something. There are dozens of angels and shepherds - not all of them children it should be noted - and the dress code seems to be Christmas jumpers rather than Sunday best.

We start with instructions from the vicar on our expected role - to baa at every mention of sheep, swoosh when the angels appear and clip clop the donkey. We must also boo Herod in true pantomime fashion - I suppose that’s what you deserve for being the architect of child genocide.

The noise is incredible. Like many a carol service we start with a solo voice singing Once in Royal David’s City but it’s drowned out to most of the body of the congregation by the babble of children and the shushing of their parents.

Thankfully the din subsides enough to avoid spooking the beautifully turned-out donkey which is paraded round the vast interior as we all sing Little Donkey. Just as dramatic is the appearance of the star high overhead - lit by the cunning ruse of asking parents to use the lights on their phones - which is then zip-wired along to lead the wise men and the shepherds to the stable. The conventional telling of the story has a trio of wise men and a similar number of shepherds. Here, their ranks are swollen by anyone in suitable costume joining the procession. It’s fun, a trifle chaotic but probably hugely memorable to those taking part.

Watching as parents and families juggle the demands of straightening angel wings, attaching tea cloth head-dresses and rescuing dropped toys and coats while holding crying babies and trying to follow the service, I wonder if my familiar comments about the church being an oasis of calm away from the bustle of life are entirely true. Some of these mums and dads look like they’d be less stressed pushing the family round the maelstrom of final weekend Wilko. Interesting to note, though, how many of us (and I include myself after handing over my order of service to prevent a sibling incident in the row behind me) actually know the words anyway. Out come the familiar phrases of the carols and the Lord’s Prayer. That alone must be something of a reason for celebration should the clergy spot it.

Despite the informality of the presentation and the inattentiveness of the audience, this was still a church service. There’s still a story to hear, a divine intervention to be thankful for, prayers to recite and responses to be given. Over the course of their young lives all these children will have the chance to decide whether this can form a part of their life outside the Christmas context. It would be interesting - perhaps a little depressing for some though - to be able to look into the future and see how many of these angels, shepherds and wise men next set foot in this magnificent cathedral only when lifting children of their own to see the donkey.

Sliding out of the cathedral door thankfully ahead of the carnage as 200 parents try to find which of the hundred parked buggies is theirs, I’m met by winter darkness, a steadily-worsening drizzle and an odd gathering on the far side of College Green. Today is the first day of Hanukkah and the city’s combined Jewish community is holding an outdoor lighting of the giant Menorah. Bristol’s Lady Mayoress is there, complete with fine scarlet robes and tricorn hat, sheltering under a huge city council branded umbrella.

There are traditional snacks and free coffee and a chance to hold candles to spread the light as the festival gets under way with blessings from the Rabbi. There’s a clear theme in what’s said by all the civic and Chabad leaders of the Jewish community reaching out to be an integral part of this modern diverse city. Given the numerous unanswered emails I’ve tried, not to mention being flatly refused by  the central Synagogue in London and stopped at the door in Birmingham, I’m a little envious of this openness and I’m happy to ignore the rain and hold my candle. 

63. Queen's Road Baptist Church, Coventry

It’s only a couple of weeks to Christmas and my visit to this fine looking church right on Coventry’s noisy ring road coincides with that most traditional of offerings, the Nativity play. 

Queen’s Road Baptist Church has fitted its performance in with its normal Sunday family service so there’s a mixture of parents and those for whom dressing gowns, tea towel head-dresses and donkey masks are a a fairly distant memory. On the way in a welcomer warns me of the change in the usual schedule and promises that everything will probably go wrong. In the event, though, it all goes well - as these things invariably do.

This is a straightforward telling of the story but with the added fun of just a bit of irreverent humour in the dialogue. Joseph expresses his initial shock at the news, the parents-to-be complain about the distance the donkey trek to Bethlehem will take and the innkeeper is caught between being overworked by the arrival of so many people and just revelling in the extra cash.

Youngsters of all ages take the parts - and the microphones - and there are some splendid costumes on show. Music comes in the form of a few charming songs and some brilliant modern, reinvented handbells.  At the end there’s applause and chocolates for all.

A lot is said about the advantages and pitfalls of religion in education. Many schools these days (if not most) opt for a Christmas offering. Gone are the shepherds, wise men, angels and so on and there’s no manger and no Jesus. If nothing else, the Christmas play is a lot of youngsters’ first introduction to working together to produce something to be proud of. The messages are just as hopeful, just as moral, but in these times of cultural and religious diversity no one religion is promoted above others. 

I can understand that but I do think the idea of not offending other faiths is becoming a bit outdated now. In my early school days we were still doing scripture and learning bible stories. We then had Religious Education - almost exclusively Christian and still focussed on singing the praises of our overseas missionaries.

That became Religious Studies and then Comparative Religious Studies by the time my children went through school. Christianity (and the nativity story) takes its place in a process allowing us all to learn about others and be learned about in our turn. Most schools I come into contact with seem to take diversity in their stride. I’ve seen Diwali projects, Eid celebrations and bits and bobs representing the whole world of culture and faith. Nobody was offended and plenty was learned

I remember my own debut in the local nativity play. It was held in a very dark, imposing church and it was the day I learned what the word ‘haunted’ meant. Someone a bit older than me said the ghost of a frightening woman could be seen at the top of a wooden staircase we had to pass to reach the stage and I spent the whole time in complete terror. It wasn’t the threat of ghost which led me to tears though.  As one of the three kings we were given presents to present to the baby Jesus. Mine was a well-wrapped but palpably empty box and I remember being terrified at how such a blatant bit of cheating. 

Those are the only memories I have and I wonder what some of today’s performers will recall a lifetime from now. Whatever those memories may be it would be good to think that they’re triggered by watching another generation of youngsters taking part in the same tradition.