Victoria Park Baptist Church, Grove Road,

Blessed are Amazon Kindles, praise to the Adobe Acrobat reader, and thank Jesus for podcasts, projectors and power point presentations. This week the Baptist Victoria Park church on Grove Road taught me that God loves all forms of modern technology and even the worldwide web (despite its primary use as the world’s main provider of pornography).  The Victoria Park Baptists put their faith in a God that is the omnipotent force behind the Google search engine countering the more Luddite, traditionalist and ritualistic Gods of past Sundays. In the service everything was praised to God from technological innovations and scientific discoveries to the emerging social and political changes such as the recent emerging democracy in Sudan and the imminent arrival of the Olympics in east London. Baptists’ mixing of modern social issues and recent technologies with Bible teachings was comparable to the Mission of Christ Faith Gospel Church’s creative use of the Holy Scripture. The Mission related Bible parables to the modern immigrant experiences of its entirely black congregation where as the predominantly white Baptists had an emphasis on being modern professionals whilst also bringing the country back to God. The two culturally different churches had two contrasting concerns; the Mission felt under threat by the immigration cap compared to the current Baptist congregation's desire to expand and find new converts.

Baptists are opposed to infant baptism instead favouring believers’ baptism, marking a clear theological distinction that Baptist’s fundamentally believe in Christianity as a choice.  A belief in choice always reminds me of the opening monologue from the film Trainspotting.

Choose a Christian band, Choose three female singers with wobbly voices, Choose a drummer with an AC/DC T shirt, Choose Acoustic and Electric guitar and any guitar that someone can  play, Choose a single Recorder, Choose not to discriminate, Choose anyone who thinks they can sing, Choose to be chosen.

 Choose not to hand out the Bible, Choose to supply all information from a projector, Choose modern hymns with Karaoke text, Choose sermons in the form of power point presentations, Choose Times New Roman Font,  Choose bullet points not numbers, Choose Watermark Blue instead of Ethereal Green, Choose everything the computer will allow you

Choose to have a crèche in the corner for young parents, Choose tea and biscuits for the elderly, Choose to run an Alpha course for the young, Choose to recruit Street Pastors to help care for drunks on a Friday and a Saturday night, Choose Christianity as an expanding community not a lone church.

Choosing to treat Christianity like a consumer lifestyle makes me see Baptists not as Christians reborn but more rebranded, spreading Christianity into the community through more modern methods.   The Reverend Jane Thorington-Hassell is a perfect example of a modern day preacher; her sermons are available as podcasts and her notes available for download from www.vpbc.org.uk/. Plus you can regularly visit her blog entitled Following Jesus in East London at http://www.blogspot.com/. The reason behind my cynicism was not the appallingly dull Christian band, the placid use of technology or the patronising community outreach, all of these elements are good natured and well-intentioned but it was the content of the sermon that made me look upon the church with suspicion.

Reverend Jane Thornington-"Hassle" was easily the most articulate, intelligent and candid preacher I have had the privilege to witness and she scared the crap out of me. Dressed like  the head mistress of a village primary school her country clothes were out of place in urban east London but entirely justified by the air of authority in her character.It was not her stern old battle-axe manner, the judging tone of the voice or the sheer emotional gravitas of her silences that made me worried but the words that came out of her mouth.  Jane focused on the book of Colossians in which the apostle Paul when under house arrest made a request to the Colossians to pray for the opportunity to proclaim the mystery of Christ. The key passage Jane focused upon was “Withall praying also for us, that God would open unto us a door of utterance, to speak the mystery of Christ,” which she felt outlined the need for the congregation to pray for the opportunity to tell non-believers about the power of Christ. The explicit sermon on conversion made me feel like a double agent witness to a sinster conspiracy with the exception that my conspiritors wanted nothing kept secret.

I don’t know why I was so shocked to hear a sermon on gaining converts but the previous churches had never been so explicit and I naively presumed most churches had given up. Jane was clearly on a mission as she, in her own words, “thanked god that she had been given the lucky position to sometimes have the amazing opportunity of having a captive audience to tell about the glory of Christ,” giving funerals as her perfect example. Personally I feel funerals are for the dead or more importantly the living’s remembrance of the dead.  Jane’s candid attitude made me so angry as I thought of how many moments of grief she had hijacked, with her holy scripture in hand, in the name of Christian opportunism.  To justify such behaviour it seemed Jane needed to draw a wild comparison from London 2011 to Collosse AD 55. To quote the modern day prophet she outlined that “Colosse AD 55 so in London AD 2011 – there are religions and philosophies from the East about cosmic powers and forces. As in Colosse so in London people were used to mixing religions buffet style.” Obviously I am eating from a different plate of the Christian buffet every Sunday and I felt personally hurt that my interest was being attacked by this self-important spiritual dinner lady. At least she did not predictably attack isolationist Muslims but the more broad foreign subjects such as Buddhism, Yoga and maybe even the local curry houses. To be fair to the Reverend her main concern was that new age spiritualism had replaced all spirituality linked to Christianity, but her anger seemed to come from a feeling that governments and churches had let the country/Christ down and it was now for true followers of Christ to seize the opportunity (I am sure the same sentiments are shared by the English Defense League not that she would agree with them).

The belief in praying for an opportunity was a self-fulfilling prophecy as she moved onto how the church was to run as a recreational centre during the Olympics providing a private and quiet space for “new comers,” wanting to chill out from the hectic environment. The Olympics seemed to be a star to hang the dreams of a new Christian movement and the need to find opportunities to enlist new recruits undercuts all the good work within the community that the church does. Crèche facilities for toddlers, tea and biscuits for the elderly, Alpha courses for the young, Street Pastors for the weekend drunks; all of the Church’s outreach programmes sense of worth now seemed to be measured by the number of converts. Rating a programme's success by the numbers of converts is upsettingly superficial and more importantly spiritually lacking. However in the context of Cameron’s big society in which all front line public services are being destroyed, the congregation of Victoria Park Baptist Church are in an ideal position to pick up the vulnerable. I don’t mean to criticise the good work the outreach programmes achieve but if Reverend Jane chooses to view the rise in new age spirituality as mixing religions "buffet style," I equate the Baptist outreach programmes to giving food to the hungry and the homeless, where the vulnerable will eat anything as they don’t have a choice. The Victoria Park Baptist church chooses and succeeds in promoting itself as a modern and contemporary institution but when it comes to new recruits its techniques are older than the church itself.

All Christians in Britain live in one of the most modern societies in the world, statistically they are more likely to have IPhones than not, the majority will have Facebook profiles and a lot of them probably tweet daily. To my knowledge no Christians in the East End live in caves (but if they do please contact me) and the majority of Christians enjoy all the benefits of modern technology without considering the implications to their faith. My main concern for the Baptist Church is that in an attempt to be desperately modern they become victim to the insecurities of the modern world and therefore become compromised.  A facet to all the churches I have visited is I can always find at least one member of the congregation who has such unflinching faith in his eyes that it makes me sad at its absence from my own. This faith does not need converts, this faith does not need projected power point sermons, this faith does not need karaoke hymns, this faith does not need a live band, this faith only needs a bible and reader and sadly it does not even need a church. If Victoria Park Baptist Church wants to sell itself as a modern church for the modern age then that’s great but it should never forget that the Baptist church has been around since the 17th century and the timeless qualities of all religion has been faith. Faith is not judged by the number of followers or popularity as a social trend but to be judged by its own existence (how’s that for a soundbite of new age spiritual bullshit).

Our Lady of the Assumption Bethnal Green, Victoria Park Square, 13.02.10

Forgive me reader for once again I have sinned, this week I attended church on Saturday evening instead of a regular Sunday service. Work commitments that dictate my heathen existence committed me to hard labour on the traditional day of rest forcing me to find spiritual solace at a time when the majority of Christians are in the pub. Oddly for a non-religious church goer I felt guilty, but a guilt that stemmed from my own disappointment and not from disobeying some omnipotent creator. Surprisingly my sin is so common that I found a church which actually replicates the same Sunday service three times at the weekend. Our Lady of the Assumption Bethnal Green holds their Sunday service on Saturday at 6.30 in the evening and twice on Sunday at 9.30 and 11.30 in the morning. Trust the Catholics to franchise their Sunday service and utilise its potential congregation. The Lady of the Assumption’s business/spiritual model is the Parish Mass Book which is available in 6 parts (2 books for each year of the lectionary cycle) and has condensed the Bible into more manageable chunks for every Sunday over a three year calendar. Each service outlines two readings and subsequent interpretations, a quick religious summary, three prayers and four hymns.  Attending a service dictated by the Parish Mass Book is like watching piece of Shakespeare in which actors read from the study guide instead of the play.  For an agnostic, yearning for some spiritual mysticism the service last Saturday (but written for the Sunday) was a disappointing exercise in religious dogma.  A dogma that dictates that the congregation are treated like children instead of being given the confidence to think for themselves.

Not that the congregation were complaining. The racially diverse congregation appeared reminiscent of the congregations of other Anglican and Catholic churches. I find it ironic that the congregations of east London that once appeared to me to be refreshingly multicultural have become so quickly recognisable. When visiting an Anglican or Catholic congregation in Tower Hamlets and Hackney I expect to see a few women predominantly black directing at least two children (or father if she’s lucky or unlucky) , a prominent gaggle of old ladies who natter away during certain elements of the service but shush others , a scattering of suited elderly gentleman who don’t seem to recognise the rest of the congregation and appear to be spiritually daydreaming, the occasional lone young woman looking very pensive who talks to no one,  adolescents reluctantly on altar duty often watched by mum, large immigrant men who intimidate you through the intensity of their prayer and finally the busy bodies assisting the service who transcend all gender, race and culture but are instantly recognisable by the joy and excitement in their eyes. The routine ritual of the Parish Mass Book seemed not to bother this diverse group, if anything the dogma was a connection and comfort to the congregation. Only the children and one particular child seemed as bored as me.

How do you interest children in Christ, last week clowns and magicians almost seemed to trick children into Christian worship by masquerading religion as entertainment.  Not that every church can employ clowns and magicians for every Sunday worship instead the majority of Christian society rely on illustrative books on Jesus. Despite my lack of a religious upbringing I do remember the countless dull illustrated books depicting the life of Christ that filled my primary school’s shelves. The very placid drawings were no contest for the more zany and surreal designs of The Hungry Caterpillar or Where the Wild Things Are.  The reason behind the lack of imagination surrounding religious illustrated books was that the stories should not appear too comic as they are intended to be taken as the truth. Outside the life of Jesus Christ the most prominent religious story adapted for children is Noah’s Ark; this is most likely because the story features elements that were more suited for children. The story is simple in structure but extravagant in scale; yet vaguely educational in the respect that it features animals and a geographical natural disaster which children can recognise (not to mention some vivid apocalyptic images to scare little ones into listening). Noah is an exception to the rule in that the majority of books in the Bible cannot be put in to pictures and is not intended to be taken so literally.

A child like tedium crept over me during the service, tired of the traditions I fell into my old habit of gazing at architecture and looking down the aisles up at the tall windows and across to the altar my inspiration was absent. The early 1900 building had no intrigue, the Catholics who had built this church were too anglicised, had the church had been built by Italians, Spaniards or South Americans they would have produced a more romantic building fitting for the Roman Catholic faith. Disappointed by the lack of Romanesque, Gothic and Byzantine decorative designs to add a sense of spiritualism to the ritual my service was saved by another restless child, called Antoine.  Arriving mid service little Antoine’s late entrance answered my prayers. Dragging his mother with an innocent air of authority that only a child can command, he was driven by uncontrollable excitement that disregarded everyone around him. Maybe as young as two he was fat in the head but not in the body, all his movement was face first as he unashamedly invaded anyone’s space who dare stand in front of him. Like many young children he the gave impression that he learnt to run before he could walk and would occasionally fall into a crawl. Such young innocent energy cannot be contained by any church and as I witnessed Little Antoine disrupt the service I took comfort in his unintentional rebellion (providing a tonic to my empty obedience).

 To a non-believer church ritual can seem like a dogma of don’ts. Don’t shout, Don’t talk, Don’t whisper, Don’t run, Don’t walk, Don’t move, Don’t stand up, Don’t sit down, Don’t look up, Don’t look down, Don’t stare, Don’t look bored, Don’t question,  Don’t enquire, Don’t think just follow. The many degrees of don’ts remind the non-believer to be respectful, but unintentionally it can create a repressed mannered form of rudeness.  Adherences to a culture’s customs do not always show respect and understanding and can make you appear disingenuous. I don’t have these apprehensions in less formalised churches and I associate my insecurities with the more routine ritual of the Catholic Church. The dirge of don’ts applies to me so that I know what is expected of my behaviour but how can they apply that to a small a child yet to develop a degree of self-awareness. It’s especially hard to be critical of little Antoine’s disturbance when his entire motivation was his love for Father Tom.

 Little Antoine ran into the nave down the aisle and to the feet of man he called “Faffa Tom.”  Sweetly the reverend picked up the little boy and kissed him on the cheek before returning him to his mother at the back of the hall. Antoine’s entrance should have been a warning of his ability to overwhelm the service but the ritual went on. Hearing the parental struggle behind me,  Antoine slowly set himself free from his Mother’s clutches and quickly passed between the feet of the congregation as they stood still, unflinchingly observing the service. Not that anyone in the congregation could not be distracted by Antoine, other mothers and children pretended to look shocked, old ladies’ hands itched at the idea of stroking or smacking him, suited old men appeared to have been awoken from their self-absorbed spiritual slumber, the lone young woman seem to be surprised by her own smile when faced with Antoine, while the prayers of the large immigrant men  appeared less important and the adolescents on altar duty became interested, giggling as a group at the stunning independence of this individual infant.  Seizing the moment with a captive audience watching his every move Little Antoine went for a run crawl in to the holy sanctuary as Faffa Tom, prepared for communion.  Watching Little Antoine run around the altar tugging at Faffa Tom’s leg should not have been overtly funny however the congregation and reverend’s decision to ignore him made the situation a comedy of manners. Faffa Tom, clearly did not want to interrupt the Holy ritual so therefore none of the congregation would attempt stop little Antoine for fear it would interrupt the service. Leaving Little Antoine free reign to attempt to explore the holy sanctuary (a dream of mine) when he was not bothering “Faffa Tom” he attempted to jump on the table and use a couple of large crosses as a climbing frame. Eventually as he walked too close to the cloisters his mother prised him away from the altar, the congregation responding with a cathartic release of breath. Antoine was escorted outside where coincidently he shook everyone’s hand with Faffa Tom as they exited.

Church does not always accommodate children especially a service with no Sunday school to rescue the parents from public embarrassments.  Perhaps I lack the maturity for a Catholic service and I would be better outside with all the other heathen children. Sadly what stops me from running down the aisle, jumping on the table and using the crucifix as a climbing frame is my tiny sense of respect and self-awareness, if only I was little bit more innocent and had some faith and then maybe I would be able to get away with such outrageous behaviour.  Such impromptu behaviour is important as it makes the service unique, I would have been disappointed if I had visited the following morning to discover that Antoine’s antics had now been incorporated into the Parish Mass Bible and that rebellion had been formalised into another routine ritual.

 

The United Benefice of Holy Trinity Dalston, Beech Wood Road, 06.02.11

When I tell people that I visit a different church every Sunday I often get a look of suspicion as If I am telling a joke but unfortunately for my audience the punch line never comes. Clearly my appearance is unchristian as very few people presume I am a genuine believer.  When I explain the reasons behind my non-religious hobby people’s reactions are varied but more often than not they find my decision odd perhaps funny like an a lone clown with no audience. But this week I was surrounded by clowns, I suspect I was also surrounded by fellow agnostics and atheists and was definitely surrounded by loud children. The reason for such an eclectic mix of people within the congregation was because I was attending The Clowns 65^th Annual Memorial Service held on the first Sunday of February at The United Benefice of Holy Trinity on Beechwood Road.

The United Benefice of Holy Trinity Church has hosted the memorial service for 65 years as it is the resting place of Joseph Grimaldi (thought to be the greatest British Pantomime clown) who lived from 1778 -1837 and was lucky enough for Charles Dickens to ghost write his memoirs. The memorial service I am told is a vital pilgrimage for all clowns but the reality of the service on Sunday was a media frenzy, I would estimate one camera to every three clowns. The size of the event meant that my group (so popular an event that even had 5 of my friends decided to join me) were placed in the church hall to watch a projected live feed of the service.   When I was first told of this unique service in November of last year I expected a niche affair but during week prior to the service I had seen articles in The Guardian and various local websites and quickly realised that any sound of light chuckles on the day would be drowned out by the clicking of cameras.  Not to say that the service did not have plenty of aspects to laugh, my funny bone was particularly tickled by how a Christian service would adapt to such a high media presence. Therefore my three favourite clowns were not Mr Mudge with his classic mime make up, or the giant figure of Eek with his pirate plaited beard and tiny bowler hat and as much as I smiled at the Reverend Roly Bain’s combination of dog collar and Biretta offset by his painted tears and redder than red frown, no one amused me as much as the clowns out of costume.  No it was the members of the service who were not dressed in red noses, painted faces or overly large colourful clothes that made me laugh. My three favourite clowns were the resident vicar Reverend Rose Hudson –Wilkin , the Right Honourable John Bercow and Mark Harrington (A member of the fellowship of Christian Magicans & President of Wolverhampton Circle of Magicians) who led an address to the congregation.

It’s a comedy cliché that comic double acts are dependent on the dynamic of the funny man and the straight man. Without the seriousness and conventional manner of the straight man the funny man’s jokes lack a context to rebel against. Reverend Rose Hudson-Wilkin was our straight man; well actually, she was a British West Indian female priest (none on comedy circuit to my knowledge).  Like any good straight man she had our sympathies, it can’t be easy share a conventional church service with a bunch of clowns who are unconventional by nature. On stage Reverend Rose Hudson – Wilkin was a calming presence to the hectic world around her, her deep and slow voice was never raised and she concisely reminded everyone to be respectful of church traditions, commanding an air of authority without appearing aggressive or defensive.  Sadly when off stage her microphone remained centre stage, it provided a door into the complexities of her situation, hurriedly commanding children, inaccurately singing hymns and directing the clergy in a bit of panic. The microphone did not reveal her to be a religious hypocrite but instead made her seem more human than she would like to appear.  One tiny microphone typically demonstrated the power of the media and modern technology to unintentionally extrapolate and magnify one person’s experience upon the congregation. Cynics may say that is the entire point of religion and it was ironic that a tecky taboo had made the unaware Reverend more commanding than ever. To Reverend Rose Hudson – Wilkin's credit she appeared endearing when held up to media scrutiny and like any good straight man she still came across as very likeable.

 I have never associated the words likeable with John Bercow, maybe it’s my innate dislike of all politicians or my leftist parenting that puts me in such strong opposition to a man I have never met.  John Bercow may not be likeable but he is funny. His surname is funny as you can almost spell Berk(if you swap the K for a C). Like any good clown his silly name is complimented by an even sillier long title, The Right Honourable John Bercow speaker of the House of Commons. Plus he always reminds me of the clichéd comic stereotype of the short, self-important, angry man who is looking for a fight (please You Tube the footage of the honourable Berk’s spat at a journalist last year). Unlike Reverend Rose Hudson –Wilkin  media scrutiny has not made John Berk more likeable but more professional. The manner he conducted himself during the reading, posing for photographs with his family and letting his hair down with the clown congregation was polite and professional which made him no less funny and surreal. The reason I treat his appearance with such cynicism is I thought he was a resident of Buckingham not Hackney and his appearance did come at the end of a week in which MPs had criticised his wife’s semi clad photo shoot for the Evening Standard. Maybe I am wrong to judge and snidely laugh at him and maybe the honourable Berk had always planned to attend the service and this was not a simple and crass PR stunt. But without doubt in the eyes of the media circus he was the biggest clown on display.

The next non costumed clown was Mark Harrington who I found scary but the majority of the congregation found loveable and entertaining. Magician Mark Harrington performed three elaborate magic tricks while addressing the congregation on the importance of God. Suited and booted, bald with glasses and school teacher smile (professional but sincere) he looked far less anarchic than the clown congregation he addressed.  Maybe it was his smart dress sense that made his tricks appear real and therefore scary, more preacher than pantomime.  The mixing of magic tricks and religion made me feel uncomfortable and the more others laughed the more uncomfortable I felt. Call me old fashioned but I feel more at ease with the traditional medieval dichotomy of the church accusing magicians of witch craft and dunking their heads under water to see if they float rather than watching magic tricks being used as visual metaphors to explain religious faith to children. Also Mark Harrington had a born again glint in his eyes and an assertive sense of faith which I personally found difficult when put in front of the impressionable minds of children. The final elaborate trick was Harrington describing how one might travel to heaven with a newspaper as a prop: First making a paper airplane, then a rocket out of the same paper, then tearing the paper into a cross only then to destroy the paper to illustrate a world without faith/God and then re-joining the entire paper to symbolise how God makes you see the bigger picture.  Maybe children are not innocent vessels and maybe they can separate the entertainers trick from a spiritual belief in God but combining these two worlds seems to devalue both. All magic tricks are explainable but should remain unexplained to have any worth, in contrast religious faith is unexplainable but worthless without the attempt of an explanation.  Sadly I lack innocence and adopt cynicism as a comfort when presented with religion as light entertainment, perhaps my dislike of Harrington had more to with my personal pilgrimage being undermined by another.

This week no one tried to convert me, no one was shocked to see me attend the service, no one cared why I was there, I did not get bored by the routine rituals, I had no need for architectural musings to occupy my mind, I entirely understood the service, yet I felt my holy sanctuary was disrupted by a world I recognise oh too well. I don’t know how many people attend The United Benefice of Holy Trinity every Sunday but even minus the number of clowns and cameras I still think a huge portion of the congregation were fellow agnostic voyeurs like me. Perhaps I go to church to feel isolated and escape a feeling of self-loathing. Ironically I attribute my own self-loathing as symptomatic of being too media conscious. So when media encounters the church it holds up a mirror in which I don’t want to see the reflection.  Churches are only an interest to the media if they create controversy or have a novelty value I hope my blog means more.  Luckily for me I predict my own voyeurism will not be mirrored again in the remaining 50 churches I plan to visit. I am sure like any good Anglicans the regular congregation of The United Benefice of Holy Trinity enjoyed the influx of people to share their weekly Christian celebrations but I am unsure if the Catholics and Evangelicals would be quite so forgiving. My lack of involvement and enjoyment of the service really highlights my overly serious self-importance when faced with such fun and like any good straight man I can see the joke this week was very much on me. 

PS

Not even going to make excuses about the lack of photographs, I recommend to type the below link into address bar to get The Guardian pictures of the service

   http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/gallery/2011/feb/07/clowns-dalston-joseph-grimaldi-service?INTCMP=SRCH#/?picture=371487627&index=0

The Greek Orthodox Church of St John The Theologian on Mare Street, 30.01.10

 

Now attending my sixth Sunday service my arrogance has grown from embarrassed and adherent agnostic to a more confident church connoisseur (not that I have found any faith to show for it). Before this Sunday the routine rituals had lost a mystique and I had come to expect that every service contain an opening hymn, the morning greeting, absolution, followed by a few readings from the congregation, another hymn, the sermon, more specific prayers from the congregation with regard to topical news, some practical announcements on church activities for the week, then a quick recital of the Lord’s prayer followed by the sharing of the peace, preceded by another hymn for the collection plate to be passed, leading into the communion or an alternative blessing, ending with a quick post communion prayer and a final hymn which would play out the service. Obviously no church service I have attended has strictly followed the ritual pattern I have outlined but all aspects I have listed have been present within the small number of churches I have visited. Such experience has lead me to be complacent in my observations and therefore this week I sought after a more obscure service and found it in the form of The Greek Orthodox Church of St John The Theologian on Mare Street.

Besides the desire to test ones knowledge and tolerance by attending a three hour church service in a foreign language my other motivation was to get peek inside the late 1800 building all kitted out with Greek ceremonial trimmings. The church was originally Roman Catholic but given to the Greek Orthodox Church in 1966, you can tell the church is not Greek in its conception due to the architectural lack of  Basilica features like a dome or pillars (not that these features are not present in the Catholic church in other areas of the world). The interior had clearly segregated spaces to separate any visiting agnostics in the large mural covered nave from the resident deities who frequented the sanctuary with its hidden thrones, altars and icons. Separating the nave from the sanctuary was the iconostasis, a large screen covered with detailed pictures of religious icons with three mini doors. One door to the left and one door to the right remained closed guarded by depictions of the angels Michael and Gabriel. The central door is traditionally known as the Beautiful Gate and remained open providing a tantalizing view into the sanctuary, this peep hole created a sense of spiritual aspiration and exclusivity within the smallest of spaces.




The most overridingly visual aspect inside the church was the wall to wall gallery of golden portraits of a seemingly endless selection of saints. From the back of the nave where I was sitting I could see 58 different portraits, however as I moved around the church I realized it was impossible to stand in one area of the building and see all the divine on display. Searching for meaning and interest in a three hour service my eyes frequently looked to the open pale angelic eyes of the saints that surrounded me. Not finding spiritual comfort my imagination used the portraits as a platform for my own religious fantasy, creating fake backstories to their canonizations. Despite these daydreams my most vivid image from the service was the huge portion of elderly but sturdy Greek women who circled the church interior to kiss their own personal selection of saints. Their childlike kisses were so innocent and sincere that I could imagine the same women performed the timeless ritual on Pop album covers of 60s heart throbs. Despite the sweet kisses of old ladies being lodged in my mind it was hard to separate the seamless sets of rituals that made up the service due to the style in which the service was conducted.

 Last week I commended the choir of St Michaels and commented how the congregation would be happy for the choir to sing the entire service, with regards to St John the entire service was sung/chanted but not from a choir. The only exception to singing was the homily (Greek for sermon) which was still spoken in Greek and easily the longest 10 minutes of my life.  Instead of a choir the Greek chanters were a small selection of men, including the forgetful granddad like personality of Father Sotiris. The two main chanters were men dressed in black cassocks who impressively lead a dialogue of chanting throughout the entire service, judging by their dress my research told me they were cantors. The cantors were accompanied by a younger priest who provided a harmony for what I presume were important parts of prayer. Occasionally two men smartly dressed in suits did a few guest spots, providing the cantors with well-earned breaks. The chanting was predictably very Middle Eastern and beautifully foreign in comparison to the past services. Despite the high immigrant population of the congregations of east London the majority of foreign aspects within the service have felt indebted to Britain’s colonial legacy however The Greek Orthodox Church is an exception. The great schism that separated the Eastern Church from Western Church in 1065 means the Greek Church in England is a rare breed in that it is a religious organization separate from Britain’s colonial past. The combination of differences in language, culture and chanting mixed up the entire routine of rituals I had come to expect. The entire service felt like a continual ritual of the repetition of ritualistic acts, like the chanting itself it was simplistic but confusing.

To recall the service from start to finish I can only think in a chanted inventory of minor details which no doubt would culminate into the ritual equivalents of sharing the peace or Holy Communion

Attendance low, programs given, money paid, candles lit, kissing of saints, young priest blesses congregation, blesses the front, blesses the back,  blesses to the left, blesses to the right, Father is seen in sanctuary, incense is burned, shook to the front, shook to the back, shook to the left, burned to the right, everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves, everyone sits, Father appears to dress in the sanctuary, young priest accompanies chanting, everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves, everyone sits, father displays himself from sanctuary, he makes offering from sanctuary, he burns incense from sanctuary, he leaves the sanctuary, everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves, everyone sits, one cantor solos while other rests, other cantor solos and the other rests, Holy book held by father, held to the front, held to the back, held to the left held to the right, everyone crosses themselves, incense burns, shook to the front, shook to back, shook to the left, shook to right  everyone crosses themselves, book is carried to the end of church, everyone crosses, and back to altar, everyone crosses themselves, attendance grows, programs given, more money paid, candles replaced, more kisses for saints, everyone crosses themselves, Father welcomes offering to Saint John, food is presented, food is taken, food is blessed, everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves, everyone sits, all four chant together, priest solo chant, father solo chant, cantor solo cant, second cantor solo chant, all four chant together, new holy book is held by father, held to the front, held to the back, held to the  left, held to the right, everyone crosses themselves, incense burns, shook to the front, shook to the back, shook to the left, shook to the right everyone crosses themselves, book is carried the end of the church, everyone crosses, and back to altar, everyone crosses themselves, more cantors contribute, everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves, everyone sits, men come forward with placards and flags,  men are blessed, placards are blessed, flags are blessed, everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves, everyone sits.
Chanting stops, sermon starts, longest 10 minutes in living memory, long for chanting to begin again and then it does and then I long for it to end.
Everyone stands, everyone crosses themselves and everyone sits and on and on its goes.

Hopefully the above passage highlights how amazingly repetitive yet unexplainable a Greek service is to a non-Greek and non-believer. More importantly I have spared the reader various other food blessings, more kissing of saints and the inclusion of a ceremony that looks like Holy Communion but only for a select few guests. To be honest what the hell did I expect, this was always going to be tough. After the sermon I had to rush to work but later in the week I did start to make some research to help form some answers to the ritual I had witnessed.

Calling the St John Theologian Church I did get some useful rehearsed information on the building’s history but the language barrier proved to be too troublesome to gather information on the church service. The conversation had a few long anxious (I don’t understand what you are saying but I will not admit it) pauses that may have been solved if I had met someone in person. Sadly the service was a pure ritual and I did not find the opportunity over the three hours to have a natter with an old Greek lady (despite there being loads). My unanswered questions lead me to the ever unreliable but always obtainable Wikipedia as my detective source. My three key questions are

Question 1: How many Holy Books Do the Greeks Need?

Turns out the Bible is not enough, the Greeks have a few spin off books which are also holy. They are theGreek Septuagin (one of the oldest of the old testaments), the Deueterocanocal books (ten books which protestanst don’t recognize as part of the old testament) ,the Typicon (book on liturgy on Eastern Orthodox service). Despite listing the books I still do not have a clue which was applicable to the church service.

Question 2:  Who was the food for?

Greeks love a feast. So it might have just been a weekly offering to St John but the nearest important date in the Greek religious calendar was 2^nd February with the presentation of Jesus at the temple. Oddly I did not see enough pictures of Jesus in the church to draw this conclusion; I guess I was too distracted by the saints.

Question 3: What were the placards and flags for?

Still don’t have clue. Need to work on my Greek.

The Greek service taught me the importance of ritual, by not meeting my expectations of a ritualistic church service. I could not take comfort in the recognizing the religious trends and techniques but instead became lost in my own imagination. Perhaps the exotic chanting lead my imagination into more magnificent mysteries but ironically my research does support my ignorance. The orthodox theology believes in the mystic union of man and God, the orthodox claim that God is all powerful but he prefers to use material objects in rituals to help man get closer to him. How this process works the Greeks claim is a “Mystery,” and cannot be defined in human terms. The faith in “Mystery” through ritual is a too spiritual a notion for my church cynicism but it does seem to answer my own problem with understanding the importance of religious ritual. Without belief I may be able to expertly identify church customs (not that I can) but I will never be able to recognize God himself.

PS

Any week now I will have my own picutres