St Michaels and All Angels, Lansdowne Drive, London Fields, 23.01.11

This Sunday all religions are welcome because this week I visited the Anglican Church. St Michaels and All Angels of London Fields is currently looking for a priest and they will accept anyone who accepts everyone. Forget your Anglican splinter sects running off to the Roman Catholics for some conservative order, the congregation of St Michaels are a utopian dream of a multicultural church integrated under Christ.

Christ comes in many forms as we learn each week but unlike the majority of churches’ who claim their depiction of Jesus is the definitive messiah, St Michaels seems happy to celebrate the diversity of Jesus’ image. In the sermon our stand in female priest portrayed Jesus as a counter cultural figure who in the book of Mark persuades Simon-Peter and Andrew to break from their conventional jobs as fishermen and join his gang of peace loving beatniks to each become a fisher of men.  The priest continued to list the unconventional nature of Jesus’ life not celebrating his almighty power but his acceptance of all social outcasts, lepers, prostitutes and even his own murderers. Merciful Jesus was a nice tonic to the Missions more vengeful second coming.

Such hippy sentiments were later given more social context as a congregational member read a long list of international contemporary causes for prayer. The list contained a message of good will for the elections in Sudan, the need to eradicate homophobia from the church, concerns over the floods in Brazil, hope that the violence in Tunisia would stop and condolences of other tragic events I ashamedly had not heard of. No topic seemed to be excluded and some topics seemed to me to be invented.  The congregation’s genuine if slightly patronising acceptance and awareness of the larger world was strongly informed by the building.

St Michael’s congregation dates as far back as the mid 1800s however the current church was built between 1959 and 1961 after the previous building was destroyed in the blitz in 1945. It was designed by the architect Nugent F. Cachmaille-Day (1896-1976) who was the Architect-Surveyor of the Hackney Archdeaconry and responsible for restoring several other bomb-damaged churches in the area. It is a fine example of the influence of the Liturgical Movement on mid-twentieth century church art and architecture. The Liturgical Movement aimed to draw the congregation into the worship and liturgy, and drew on early church designs and art for inspiration. Thus the church has many ‘Byzantine’ features. For example, the main body of the building is square rather than rectangular, and has an elegant copper covered concrete shell dome. It has a free-standing altar which allows the priest to face the congregation during the Eucharist in an act of inclusiveness.

The invisible but the most present feature of St Michaels’ architecture is its acoustics. The choral singing was a noticeable improvement on the satisfying but stretched voices of past services. The choir’s confidence really travelled into the singing smiles that filled the nave and it was clear that in the absence of a minister it was the choir that provided the congregation with its voice. Any excuse to formally introduce singing into the service and the choir would oblige. Never a fan of parroting prayers the choir managed to inject some soul into the service by singing the more traditional prayers. I got the impression that if the Choir could sing the entire service the congregation would let them. Like any good performers the choir left the best till last with a leftfield choice for the closing sung Eucharist.  Instead of choral singing the racially diverse choir switched to an African hymn with live drumming. Its painfully clichéd to admit but the fusion of choral and African traditional singing was so inspiring that you imagined it would be used in a  Colours of Benetton advert.

 The choir’s musical range demonstrated the Anglican Church’s openness to adapt to modern times and embrace a new identity. The church’s desire to contemporize Christianity is ironically an Anglican tradition. Unlike the more traditional Catholic services or the more culturally defined smaller churches, the Anglican church seemed happy to take inspiration from a wider cultural spectrum in their celebration of god, again St Michaels architecture illustrates my point.  The church may have been built by Nugent F. Cachmaille-Day but it’s the work of the  artist John Hayward which catches the eye.  The church artist John Hayward (1929-2007) is now most famous for his distinctive stained glass windows such as the Great West Window in Sherborne Abbey, Dorset. In the early 1960s, Hayward was interested in creating ‘whole interiors’ of the church, including wall paintings, furnishings and stained glass. St. Michael’s is one of the few churches where Hayward had an opportunity to do this. His art is integral to the fabric of the building in the basilican style, and includes the Apostles’ Windows on the east side of the church and nine murals. Hayward also designed an aluminium sculpture of St. Michael slaying the dragon at the entrance of the church and the Christus Rex hanging over the altar.                                                               

Despite my praise of the service, architecture and the congregation of St Michaels it is not some religious utopia. Like all the churches I have visited since December St Michaels suffers from a lack of youth. Arguably if the Anglican Church is to survive the exodus of conservative congregational members leaving for more ritual of the Catholic Church or more righteousness of new emerging African churches then the Anglican Church must adapt to a younger audience. In hope for a more tolerant church to prosper in a far more conservative time I would recommend the below youth oriented schemes.

Bible Bashing: Alternative to happy slapping. Encourage youth to film themselves attacking unaware non-believers by reciting passages from the bible.    

Christ’s mob: Mobile phones and social network sites orchestrate impromptu public demonstrations of divine worship in public spaces to praise the lord (actually this happens outside Kingsland shopping centre every day in Hackney but I don’t think they are on face book).

Gods Graffiti: Inspire the young to tag consecrated ground, combating gang culture through their own means (picture below is a genuine example (more technical faults mean it will be retrospectively fitted).

Scriptext: Riffing on the OMG (Oh my God) craze we can adapt common scripture into text, making the bible more visual and accessible for a gold fish memory generation.

As my piss poor attempt to technologically re-brand religious worship proves it is not easy to engage with the youth market without coming across as patronising and crass. Maybe the best way to attract the young into religion is to deny it from their upbringing. Cut out token Christenings, shun Sunday school, burn all the Gideon Bibles and the children will come flocking. Keep religion away from God at an early age and then in a moment of rebellion the youth may return to church defying convention like apostles Simon-Peter and Andrew.  

PS

Still can't get my pictures uploaded, hence the lateness of this post. I took much better pictures than the ones presnet but my camera hates me. Fingers crossed and I have pictures next week.

 Many cite the rareness of John Hayward’s murals but I was most impressed by the aluminium sculpture of St Michael slaying the dragon. The colours of the metal and the striking shape of the shards really stand out from the drab brick exterior. The image is quintessentially British but not overtly religious and startlingly modern. My main interest in Hayward’s art is it appears to be influenced by contemporary art rather than a church tradition. Hayward cites post-impressionist Georges Pierre Seurat and cubist Georges Braque as major influences. Be it the present choir or John Hayward’s 1960s art, the churches artistic fusion illustrates the melting pot philosophy of church and its congregation.

The Mission of Faith Christ Gospel Ministries, Dalston Lane, 16.01.11,

What makes a Church? The Oxford English Dictionary provides a standard but broad definition.

Church.  Noun. 1. A building used for public Christian worship. 2. A particular Christian organization. 3. Organized Christian religion as a political and social force.  

In contrast the forever evolving definitions of Wikipedia offer 5 subcategories of the use of the word.  1. Religion 2. Name of people 3. Name of places  4. Popular music  5 .Other.  The word church despite its overriding religious meaning has been adopted and used to describe a wide range of subjects in the ever expanding world of Wikipedia, from an Australian cricketer to a fictional character from a Stephen King novel. Religious and non-religious churches are always being created, which leads us to this Sunday’s church, The Mission of Faith Christ Gospel Ministries situated on Dalston Lane.

The Mission of Faith Christ Gospel Ministries sounds like a made up church. The name contains too many nouns; its convoluted title is so long that you have forgotten the name as soon as it leaves your lips. Such a grandiose name merely hints at its own insecurity and sadly undermines the faith of its overtly friendly congregation.  For the sake of my word count I will rebrand the Mission of Faith Christ Gospel Ministries with a trendy acronym MFCGM, which is still too long for an acronym and sounds more like the latest NHS ward disease than a place of worship. The unintentional negative connotations of the church’s long name does also indicate the more positive attributes of its ministry, the ambitious name has a genuine innocence and passionate belief which is present in the congregation.  Unlike more established churches the MFCGM are interested in forging a new religious identity for its predominately Nigerian émigré congregation. The MFCGM’s Nigerian émigré perspective provides a unique mixture of Old and New Testament scripture with political and social messages.

In tone and structure the MFCGM’s service was more similar to the passionate Pentecostalists than the more formal Anglicans and Catholics but unlike the Pentecostalists who preached “pure spiritual worship no strings attached,” the MFCGM’s sermon had more fire and brimstone to balance the euphoric hymns, parroting prayers and occasional tongues that made up the service.  MFCGM used the bible in a very creative way to relate to a modern émigré perspective, a good example was the minister’s use of a passage from the Book of Obadiah.

And saviours shall come up on mount Zion to judge the mount of Esau ; and the kingdom shall be the lords.

Obadiah, passage 21. 

 The minister drew comparisons to God’s judgement of Edom (a mountain dwelling nation) and its founder Esau’s unjust behaviour to outsiders with the coalition government’s recent introduction of an immigration cap. Focusing on the rhetoric of one kingdom under God he called for the end of all principalities and preached that the Lord would rise again to correct the inequality caused by national borders. I guess the minister did not mention God ending all war, famine and poverty as that would be too clichéd. Other creative uses of scripture during the service was to compare Jesus’s strife to the stigma of illegality,  the inability to find a job during the financial crisis or just not being able to afford a Mazda MX -5 (I later learnt that was a type of car). The modern comparisons marked out the route of social acceptance for the recently arrived Christian émigré, starting with the predicaments of fresh off the boat illegality to the fast car dreaming of a model citizen. Complementing the creative use of scripture was an adoption of biblical language and phrase, the minister frequently referred to “to defeating ones enemies” and “accepting the Lord.”  The lack of detail as to who were the congregation’s enemies and who was not accepting the Lord (besides me) did create a more paranoid and defiant atmosphere, luckily offset by some joyous singing.

The participatory nature of MFCGM made the Pentcostalists seem tame. All prayers were recited standing and then repeated again and again until the congregation were in a frenzy that occasionally might spill into tongues.  It was not just important that you vocalised your prayer with the full breath of your larynx but that you also physically displayed your faith so God cannot help but see you as well as hear you. I felt fairly trapped by the congregation’s faith with shouting prayers suffocating all other thoughts and the fierce hand movements invading my space. Despite the aggressive nature of worship everyone was unbelievable friendly and the tiny congregation (30-40) welcomed me with open arms. I not only got an introductory blessing but also a chaperone in the form of Sister Blessing (she declined to tell me her maiden name claiming this was the name on her passport). Sister Blessing was a beautiful middle aged woman dressed in smart black; her whole body seemed to smile at the glory of god, from her large mouth of pearly teeth, past her mothering chest, all the way down to the defined curves of her hips. She was my personal hymn book and would mouth the songs and prayers to me so I would not have the option to be silent in polite ignorance. Instead her large eyes were forever watching me on behalf of her god in the hope that my inhibitions would disappear into them so I could fully dedicate myself to the ceremony.   

The soft love of Sister Blessing was matched by the hard love of the headmaster styled minister. Dressed in pin striped Sunday best with a more measured and restrained style than the younger minister; his baritone voice did not need to be raised to be heard. The Headminister was a cool customer but like the church’s title he seemed too self-important and therefore too insecure. Often telling the congregation he was disappointed in their prayer, the Headminister on occasion would refer to “someone in this room,” to indirectly criticise the congregation. For example

“Someone in this room needs to accept God and if they accept him now they will be happier then they could ever believe”

“Someone in this room needs to believe before they pray.”

  “Someone in this room needs to be closer to God.”

Naturally being the uninvited, lone, white agnostic I thought the “someone in the room,” was me. I think most of the congregation if asked to name someone other than themselves they would also have pointed the finger at me, but am I being victim of my own ego? The rhetoric the minister employed was deliberately vague not out of politeness to myself but vague so any individual who may doubt their faith would feel guilty. The unconscious guilt trip would lead any doubters amongst the congregation to presume that the great holy and omnipotent Headminister could see that their faith was faltering.

The unconscious insecurities of the sermon, the louder than loud prayers, the church’s convoluted name, the relating of scripture to British immigration policy all outlined the infancy of the ministry. The most clear example of the church’s youth was the building itself.  Number 83 Dalston Lane was not built as a church, in contrast to the previous weeks architectural musings the noticeable features were the generic office woodchip ceilings and an open window door entrance more commonly found in shops. The space could be rented to any commercial venture but it just happens to be a Church. Like any small business the church is still getting its feet on the ground but it remains legitimate. Despite the lack of a steeple or cloisters the MFCGM demonstrated all the definitions of the Oxford English Dictionary of what defines a Church.  Unlike the Pentecostalists, Anglicans and Catholics, the MFCGM was not lost in ritual but explicitly demonstrated itself as an “Organized Christian religion as a political and social force. “    The politics and social beliefs of MFCGM may be limited by its diaspora perspective but the use of its church to help construct a community identity after displacement is impressive. MFCGM highlighted the durability of the Bible not just as a sacred text but as a text that can be used for modern situations and dilemmas.  I struggle to find how the  Bible relates to my everyday existence, put it in my hands I would most likely use it as a door stop, put in the hands of a member of the  MFCGM congregation and it becomes an essential survivors guide to a foreign land.

PS

Still struggling with technology, hope to have photos for next week’s post.

Faith Tabernacle Church of God on Ritson Road, Pentecostal Church, Sunday 9.01.11.

For the start of this weeks post I would like open with a quote from last week's sermon to give thanks to The Holy Spirit which inhabits the Faith Tabernacle Church of God on Ritson Road

Thanks to OUR

LORD Praise

LORD

Hallelujah

YES Sir

can you feel it in here

Yeah

We are bringin him back

Hallelujah

Praise him

Yes Si

Lord is with us

Amen

We brought him to this room

Amen

Hallelujah

I am so glad the Lord is with us today

Praise

Yess

Hallelujah

can you feel him

yes, yes

Hallelujah

ye ye ye y y y

Amen

y y y yyyyy

No tongues till the end of sermon now

yyyyyy

Praise Lord

A cacophony of praise, blessings and hallelujahs surrounded me as I entered the nave of the church. Pulling back a red curtain that preceded the door I expected to interrupt the church's Sunday School (as advertised by the placard outside), instead I was greeted by a group of gyrating geriatric Jamaicans who were dancing and singing mid verse from The Redemption Song book. My late attempt at an early arrival was motivated by the need to formally introduce myself to the church parishioners, such needs were quickly forgotten as I received a welcome barrage from my hosts. Unlike the mannered ritualistic etiquette of previous weeks I was in the company of the highly inclusive, participatory, and overtly friendly world of the Pentecostal Church.

No formal introductions were needed as my appearance announced my presence to the entire congregation. I was the only white male in his late twenties in a congregation made up entirely from first and second generation Caribbean Brits, who were predominantly over the age of 60. In contrast to last week's guilt for masquerading as a Catholic this week I was given a warm welcome as the local outsider. During the service I was asked to stand and introduce myself for which I was given a blessing and after the service the priest told me to bring my friends next time with the message “Pure Spiritual Worship No strings Attached.”

The service was not concerned with specifics of scripture or introducing social responsibilities into the sermon but was entirely devoted to raising the Holy Spirit. The lack of reflection and set ritual did not bother me as I was seduced by the community atmosphere and caught in speculation as to whether the service had any structure or was it a collection of impromptu speeches, singing and prayers about the greatness of God. The priest was only leading the congregation in name, he was assisted if not upstaged by three shouting male seniors in equally loud suits, a three piece band who would burst into song if there was a minute of silence and a chorus of crowned women dressed in their Sunday best.

The absence of routine reflection, ritual readings and a clear figure head made the service far more accessible to a non believer like myself. The Redemption Song book definitely had hymns with more soul and swing than The New English Hymnal. So enraptured by the singing I pathetically nodded my way through the afternoon like a true white man with no rhythm past their neck. The celebratory style of the sermon through communal worship created a more visceral and direct appeal in comparison to the High Anglican and Catholic services. The Pentecostal Church has many denomination but unlike the Anglican and Catholic Churches, it appears to be growing with various new faith groups calling themselves Pentecostal. Wikipedia currently lists 250 million adherents to the Pentecostal Church which must reflect the churches ability to sell/spread The Holy Spirit in comparison to their more traditional spiritual competitors.

The Pentecostal Church is so expansive its chased me across the globe. In a previous life I worked as a volunteer in Ghana and one Sunday I was bullied into going to Church by a local boy from my guest house. The Pentecostal service was held in an empty classroom (it was Sunday), spoken entirely in Twi (an indigenous West African language) and featured far poorer worshippers (yet still impeccably dressed in their Sunday best). Both services had a celebratory atmosphere and cathartic worship which did eclipse the lack of scripture and social comment. In the ill built and hot classroom I could not escape the day to day poverty of northern Ghana but in the picturesque grounds and refined Victorian building I was able to escape into more pleasant spiritual illusions. The two contrasting experiences where shaped by the diversity of the buildings and their settings, the irony being that neither were built for The Pentecostal church.

The Faith Tabernacle Church of God was originally called Hamburg Lutheran Church, explaining its grandiose Victorian architecture but with German styling. Built in 1876 the Church was built for the high number of German immigrants who also received free medical care in the neighbouring German Hospital. The church changed hands after World War 2 when the then current Revd Schononberg (a fervent Nazi) fled to Germany. Credit to the Pentecostalists for keeping such a rare building intact and used for the same purpose over hundred years from when it was built. The church steeple has a particular majesty and local omnipotence which can be viewed from top of Kingsland Road and Mare Street. The Lutherans no doubt would not approve of the high energy spiritual worship of The Pentecostal Church but there is a romantic connection in both churches being foreign in origin and providing a community space in east London for two very different minority immigrant cultures. Lutherans believed in spreading the word of God through translating the Bible into the common language of everyman, arguably the growth of The Pentecostal Church and their all inclusive celebratory services                                               a continuation of same Holy Spirit.

Celebrating Christ in a cathartic song and dance at the end of a long week makes more sense to me than the more ritual dogma of more establish churches. Why should a church not be for Christians, as a football match is for football fans, or illegal parties for ravers, or even Take That Concerts for middle age mothers. The reason a church cannot be a cathartic pursuit is because it claims to be more important and is more politically powerful than your average leisure pursuit. The power of Christian faith always motivates me to be more critical but this rhetoric tires. Criticism does not always create understanding and the congregation have no care for my judgement instead they would remind me of the priests words to come and enjoy

                                      “Pure Spiritual Worship No strings Attached.”

PS

I have taken some rubbish pictures of the incredable architecture of Faith Tabernacle Church but sadly technology is not my forte and therefore you will have to wait till I have (up or down) loaded the pictures onto my near dead lap top.

St John The Baptitst, Roman Catholic, 3 King Edwards Road. 2.01.11

Forgive me father (mine not ours) for I have sinned. Dad had a few concerns about last weeks post, he felt that certain sections romanticised the truth. So in the name of democracy, freedom and blandness I though it best to list the sections that he found contentious.

1. “Fuming with anger and alcohol”Dad would like to state for the record that he was not drunk but had been drinking. Personally as a general rule I believe when a person has a drink its not for them to judge if they are sober but for those who have to bear that individual's company.

2. “Eight years on and for the first time I'm in church with my dad and we are not attending a funeral.” Dad has informed me that in my early infancy I did attend church when visiting my grandparents. Proof that your own blog can teach you stuff about yourself you did not know to be true.
3. “Some parents teach their kids the Bible, some the Qu'ran, my Dad taught me punk rock.” Dad would like to make the additional point that he also introduced me to Jazz with such great artists like Miles Davis and John Coltrane and more conventional rock acts like The Beatles and Elvis Presley. You might guess he is a musical snob.

When beginning my blog it was not my intention to create an online family soap opera. In future instalments I will refrain from publicising my family's disagreements because it makes me feel like a middle class, less famous, wannabe Katie Price.

The need to appease my Dad after unintentionally offending him leads us to the subject of this weeks sermon “How does a Non believer go to Church and not offend anyone.” In Islam a non believer is often provided with clear rules when entering a Mosque. Similarly when I visited Buddhist and Hindu temples outside the UK I was instructed by people or placards on the correct manner in which to conduct oneself. Most likely it is the the eastern origins of these religions and their integration into Western civilisation that has led to a formalisation of the correct etiquette when an outsider attends their place of worship. Christianity is far more complicated as it is perceived as a Western creation and has multiple denominations. I could not decide if it was the arrogance or the acceptance of Christianity that led to nobody questioning me on my faith. I quickly realised that my personal faith and the individual beliefs of the congregation were to be eclipsed by the ritual of the service.

The congregation of St John the Baptist Catholic Church are very mannered and private. The highly formal social interaction made me self conscious of my inexperience. Uneasy more than unnerved. I felt like the black sheep of the Christian flock rather than a wolf in sheep's clothing. For the sake of not causing offence I would like to state that the sheep analogy is in regards to “the Lord is my shepherd” (Psalm 23) and not a reference to any modern critique on the conformity of religion. More importantly I don't think my personality is worthy of a wolf comparison. I am definitely a chicken, because despite my complaint at the congregation's indifference to my attendance I did not have the guts to speak to them. Its not my desire to have a theological debate with a different priest each Sunday but I was shocked that nobody asked me my name or shared any pleasantries, perhaps I appeared too dedicated to my prayer.

My inability to start a dialogue with the congregation meant that I had failed in my aspiration from last week to meet the people who form the church. Another of last week's unfulfilled aspirations was to choose an ugly church, sadly St John The Baptist Catholic Church's boring exterior was undermined by its pleasant interior. The building was built in1960s and has no outstanding exterior features. In stark comparison to the cold dark brick exterior was the warm glow of the interior. The morning light maximised the yellow, white and beige colours that decorated the hall which created a sense of renewal and freshness from the ill lit city streets of Hackney in January. The roof's perpendicular arch appears bigger on the inside due to the bright colours. The shape of the roof formed an egg like dome which contributed to a sense of paternal comfort. These pleasant surroundings were slightly offset by the plain church ceiling which had an omnipotent character due to CCTV cameras sadly not a mural of God. St John the Baptist lacked the architectural history of St John's of Hackney but the building appeared to be more aligned with the congregations needs. Last week the church's history distracted me from service but this week I was more overwhelmed by how the church building forced me to be part of the service.

Entering the church I was struck with the fear of “being told off” (personally, theologically or philosophically), combined with a desire to conform and please my unaware hosts. Before entering the nave I was faced by Holy Water and was highly embarrassed not to cleanse myself from the outside. As an old lady watched me not take the Holy Water I felt like I had exposed myself as the spawn of Satan. Similarly I felt compelled to bow at the cross, to cross myself during the end of prayer and even found myself on my knees praying out of social obligation. Irrationally scared that the congregation would view me as a bad catholic I constantly wanted to take part in the rituals so I did not feel ostracised. Oh God! And how the Catholics love rituals. From the entrance antiphon to the communion I was schizophrenically shattered. The impulsive side of my personality would initially join the ritual celebrations only to be quickly regulated by a more self aware facet of my consciousness, that would stop my behaviour from blaspheming through inaccurate and fraudulent religious worship. All this ritual made me so tired I had no time to think let alone ponder my spiritual relationship with God.

The service left me with two clear memories of ritual celebration that summed up my experience. First, the singing despite sounding awful was a joy and awoke me to the community of strangers that surrounded me. I have attended protest marches when passionate for the cause, I have chanted at football matches when my team have been top of the league but nothing compares to the sense of togetherness I got from singing hymns badly to a God I did not believe in. I guess protests and football matches are based on opposition but singing like all music is an all inclusive celebration. Unlike a concert, gig or club this music was so accessible it was devoid of any artistic merit yet uniquely enjoyable. If the appalling singing made me want to believe in God then the frequent mumbling prayers scared the bee jessus out of me. The communal prayers were laid out in the programme and are to be recited during certain parts of the service, not that you would recognise them from the inarticulate thunderous mumble that is barely spoken but more grunted by the congregation. From an outsider's perspective nothing demonstrated the antiquated dogma of Christianity better than the communal prayers that reduced the beautiful linguistics of the Bible into an unrecognisable mass drone. The only sign of life in these group recitals was the stopping for breath at the end of every line. In retrospect my praise of singing and criticism of prayer may be purely based on aesthetics. The singing sounded terrible but its use of pentatonic scale forced the congregation into stretching their voice which brought forth their various personalities. In contrast to the mono tone prayer which asked nothing of the participants voices and therefore made the congregation appear indoctrinated instead of individualistic.

Again as a non believer I seem bound to read meaning into the superficial aspects of the ritual worship instead of directly looking at the congregations faith in God. Only time will tell if I can lose my British manners and personal apprehension and directly communicate with the congregation on the reasons behind their faith. To enter into a discussion about faith I must first overcome my fear of offending the congregation so I can eventually understand them better.

St John at Hackney, Midnight Mass 2010

Our father who art in heaven

hallow be thy name

Thy kingdom come

thy will be done as it is in heaearr earth

as it is in heaven

Give us thus dailyyyy ooour daily bread

And forgive us our debts,

I mean the WRONGS we have done

as we forgive those who wrong us

And lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil

For mmmthine is the kingdom and the power and glory for heavenever ever

Arrmen

Lords Prayer

Garbled translation by Joel Pullin

24.12.10

Inaccurately mumbling the most famous prayer in the world is pretty embarrassing, but if you are ever going to pretend to recite the Lord's prayer like you say it everyday then midnight mass is the best church service to attend. The number of non regular believers is far higher than a regular church service and therefore my inexperience was well hidden. As I begun to mime speak the opening line “our father,” I was tickled by a sense of irony that it was my father (who accompanied me this evening) who was the main influence as to why I did not know the words of our father. Annoyingly the motivation for my project fits the ageless narrative trope of the young man attempting to rebel but also follow in his father's footsteps

Dad (father was too old fashioned for our family) was the son of a preacher man. Raised at Christ's Hospital in West Sussex and later moving to Midhurst he lived in a vicarage for the first 18 years of his life. The picture perfect church village existence drove him crazy as a teen of the late 60s and early 70s. Leaving home in the 1970s he abandoned any faith that may not have been indoctrinated into him and decided to live a more urban, liberal, heathen existence. Subsequently my sister and I were raised strict agnostics (that's perhaps an oxymoron), with the one anti authoritarian mantra “to question everything.”

The very few memories I have of Jesus Christ in our home was him upsetting my dad. My most vivid memory was when he (dad not Jesus) returned from midnight mass fuming with anger and alcohol, damming the dogma of the service and himself for his lack of faith. Eight years on and for the first time I'm in church with my dad and we are not attending a funeral of a loved one. Despite the lack of a recently deceased relative I was still worried that the priest may say something that might upset my dad and reawaken some spiritual conflict that I do not understand.

As cruel luck would have it the priests were too boring to upset anyone, their predictable but forgettable sermons were easily a side show to the spectacle and occasion of the mass. What did I expect! This was Christmas after all. The timeless story of the birth of Christ is naturally going to get tiresome after two thousand years. No matter how charismatic and charming the clergy conduct the Christmas service, its ritual and traditions were always going eclipse any originality or wit.

So the service left me staring to the heavens, not for God but to appreciate the large tomb like ceiling. St John's at Hackney is a High Anglican Church which meant we had all the Christmas trimmings. Incense, candle light and a sung Eucharist adorned a beautifully large amphitheatre styled hall. The church felt baroque lite, an industrialized model based on the more artisan halls of Hawksmoor and Wren. Its foundations were laid between 1792 to 1795 to replace the neighbouring medieval church of St Augustine's (rededicated to St John The Baptist in 1660), yet the tower of the current building was not complete till 1816. Such great history did get in the way of the present day church service.

From when we begun our icy moonlit walk through the grounds of the church I had already become distracted by the imposing size of St Augustine's Tower (see picture below). St Augustine's Tower dates back to the 13th Century and Wikipedia informs me it was founded by the Knights Templar. Regardless of the accuracy of Wikipedia its safe to say that the church grounds are and will continue to be unspoilt by the area's commercial developments for a very very long time. So long that time feels frozen (the extremely cold weather probably also contributed to this feeling) when cutting across Mare Street into Clapton through the grounds. However St Augustine's Tower is still a meeting point for the residents of Hackney. It marks the beginning of the high street, nestled between train and bus connections and the latest pop up shop. It is a constant in an area that is constantly in flux. Walking or skating as the conditions dictated from the 13^th century tower to the 19^th century church in the space of a few minutes filled me with a sense of time travel. The quiet cold dark helped me quickly disappear from London, going back to an ageless tradition that exists only in my mind. First exhilarated I then felt hollow as I entered the church and realised I had no experience to be nostalgic about. I had never been to midnight mass let alone been aware of the Knight Templar..


Lack of faith in the service had left me bewitched by the building, my imagination preferred to create a fake history than to listen to one of the oldest stories ever told. I peered at the rainbow shadows that decorated the ceiling from the beautifully arched windows, too distracted to notice the priests or the entire congregation. These sins came to fruition when I burnt myself during sharing the peace. A lovely elderly lady awoke me from myself by offering her hand and some Christmas wishes, which surprised me so much I spilt the hot wax from my candle down my arm and onto my new fragile friend. I could hear God laughing at my embarrassment beyond his beautiful ceiling and wonderful windows. After that experience I did try to wake up to the people around me.

Besides a few lone worshippers the majority of the crowd were families. I was disappointed by the lack of drunken heathens looking for some Christmas entertainment after the pubs had closed, but I think pissed bored youth attendance to midnight mass is more a rural tradition and not so common in the cosmopolitan areas of London. The spectrum of belief of the congregation was clearly indicated during communion. The initial flood of people I presumed were regulars, but I regarded the parents who were later dragged by their children for a Christmas blessing as holidaying. All of my musing on the congregation was unconfirmed speculation. The atmosphere felt too traditional to break bread with a stranger, which is ironic for Christmas.

My favourite family was a large West Indian group to my left who begun the service with three members and ended with twenty. The growth of the family typified the influx of latecomers to the congregation, starting with 50 attendees at the beginning of the service but finishing with approximately 100 ( icy conditions most likely caused late arrivals ).The family had an instantly recognisable social dynamic which revealed their different attitudes to Christmas . As the older brother recited the the entire readings word for word his little sister was busy playing on her Nintendo DS (most likely last year's Christmas present), the mother would only stop her rogue child for the carols and communion. The congregation made me realise that despite their varied levels of belief it was family and friends that formed the core foundation of the church not the historic architecture with which I had fallen in love.

Next week I will go to an ugly church, one which will force me to meet the people and pay better attention to the service. However I already feel that the nature of my project means I will forever be seeing parts of a service rather being part of the service.

Will visiting church communities make me feel lonely? That would be a cruel irony. But I was not alone during the service as I had my father (not ours) supporting me during my moment of rebellion. A child playing a computer console during a christmas church service is a more expected image of rebellion than a man in his late twenties deciding to visit the house of god which was absent from his childhood, however both instances do share a defiance to their elders. More importantly in both instances the parents choose to ignore the conflict created by their child's behaviour and instead they respect their child's interest wether it be Super Mario or God.

As I sung carols as badly as I recited the Lord's prayer I was reminded of another memory of my Dad. Back in my adolescence when I was in love with the explicit lyrics of Snoop Dog and Cyprus Hill it was my old man who won me some creditability with my friends when he played me God Save Queen by the Sex Pistols. He explained the intricacies of each vulgar lyric, pointed out the swear words, provided a political context and even put forward a cultural argument that hip hop was indebted to punk. Its a memory I treasure which makes up for any missed Sunday school classes or choir practices. Some parents teach their kids the bible, some the Qu'ran, my dad taught me punk rock.

And with that I wish you a

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

PS

Despite my lack of interest in the service. St John's at Hackney do provide a lot of care in the community. They are currently turning their church into a night shelter during the cold month of January. If you are interested in contributing please find the details from their website (see below).

http://stjohnathackney.org.uk/home.html