The Salvation Army Citadel, Lower Clapton Road, 20.03.11

I have very fond memories of the Sally Army from my teenage years not that I ever attended a church service. During my adolescence I was not even aware that the Salvation Army had a church but instead associated the organisation with a cluster of charity shops I frequented for cheap retro clothing along with Cancer Research, Peta, Marie Curie, Oxfam, Christian Aid, and Save the Children.  When I think of the Salvation Army I am tickled by nostalgia of my sixth form years, racing my friends to raid the clothing rack, laughing at the terrifyingly tedious tat that redefined bad taste, telling a girl she looks fetching in a Granny styled bonnet, and amusing the old ladies behind the counter at our wonder at the unwanted junk that filled the shop.  I still wear clothes bought from the Sally Army, and I visit their stores when I can find them hidden amongst the various unvarying chain brand shops that occupy the high street. My other overriding memories of the Salvation Army are the brass bands that would musically adorn school jumble sales, summer fetes and Lord Mayor Processions. In London my only memory of the Sally Army’s brass bands is the sound hymns played lightly underneath the Tannoy announcements in Paddington station.  The Salvation Army bands were like granddad rock; dressed in military regalia and consisting of membership with an average age of 60, they provided a warm sentimental feeling in my stomach. The band’s shy sound was quintessentially British in its reserved manner, playing so softly you presumed they felt it impolite to be too loud. The restrained and august personality of the Paddington brass band was not an accurate impression of the congregation that met at the Salvation Army citadel on Lower Clapton road.

Instead of the mannered and sentimental image of the Salvation Army, I was confronted with a more conventional evangelical church community which I had come to expect from an east end Sunday service. It’s sad that as my expedition continues I have grown so used to the kindness of strangers that the warm welcome from Salvation Army was expected. Lower Clapton’s Salvation Army had all the key attributes: firm and friendly welcomes that scare you with their sincerity, communal and private prayers in which you feel you have spiritually eavesdropped on everyone, a children’s crèche in the corner that spills over into the service whenever a hymn is sung or a parent is distracted, light Christian rock tunes are sung well by women but undermined by a lone male mutter , some communal emotional outpouring (that you would never find in the more rigid Anglican and Catholic services), modern news stories shoehorned into bible passage comparisons, and a general celebration towards the brilliance of God and his followers in  the most banal of settings. My list reads offensively but it’s not my intention as everyone was so warm and welcoming but I feel it’s important to be honest that kindness is not a rare thing and can easily become boring.

Not that I wanted to feel unwelcome but I was looking for another form of worship or one that would inspire me or rekindle some adolescent nostalgia. As my eyes wandered across the floor mid hymn between the swaying and the hand flapping of the congregation I spotted two rigid and regal figures standing at the back of the hall and realised my prayers had been answered. The name of my salvation was Evelyn and John who where a married couple who had been members of the church for over 70 years (John said his first service was as a boy in the 1930s and Evelyn had later joined the church in 1940s), so far back they remember London Olympics 1948.

 John was pristine, in his uniform more squadron leader than Boy Scout, he sat firm and upright, with a posture that would scare the average teenager. Still with a full head of white hair which he neatly combed as a side parting his appearance was so classic it may have been unchanged from the war years. Stiff and slow in manner you did not know if it was his old age or sense of authority that ailed him in conversation but his calm consideration and polite temperament made you presume the latter. Born in Homerton, only a short walk from Lower Clapton he remembered the original church and how the army had moved to the more modern citadel in the 1970s. When I asked him how modern Christian pop anthems compared to hymns of yesteryear he informed me that the congregation in Lower Clapton once had a 30 piece brass band and choir and it was a very “different,” experience. No unkind bitterness or at least no unchristian words were going to leave John’s mouth but in his pause he implied the sheer unspoken amazement of the 70 years he had shared with the Sally Army.  Pleasantries were as far as I could quiz John but with Evelyn I did find more revealing information on the changing face of the Salvation Army of Lower Clapton and the east end in general.

If John looked like the World War Two soldier he never was then Evelyn was very much dressed like women from the home front who would most likely have aided her as a child. From her smart black heels to the brooch that did up her collar, her appearance neatly reordered the meaning of smart.  Evelyn must share the elixir of life with John as she also had a great thick shoulder length head of hair or her bonnet was keeping hold a luscious wig. Wearing glasses that appeared to open up her eyes to you it was easy to keep the conversations flowing. On the subject of seeing the community change Evelyn went through the many different migrants who had made the area their home. I must admit I did feel apprehensive touching on the subject of immigration with an elderly lady dressed in military regalia but never once did Evelyn appear to be racist.

 As a pupil at the school on Linscott street (currently Clapton Girls Technology College) which is still situated round the corner, she was one of four other Christian girls and the rest were Jewish refugees from the war. Next she mentioned the nice but poor Indian boys who used to come to the service and how they also were adherents to the Sally Army but forced to leave by the priest as they would not swear sole allegiance to the church. And finally she commented on how I may think that all the black people within the congregation are “the same,” but actually some were from the West Indies and the others from Africa. At this point I was glad that my presumption that Evelyn was racist and ignorant was mirrored in her lack of faith in my cultural knowledge. Evelyn went on to state that on Sundays the majority of the non-white congregation are African but if I had come on Tuesday most of the non-white congregation would have been from the West Indies (who visited their other churches on Sunday). The migration history of the congregation of lower Clapton’s Salvation Army did fascinate me and especially the unanswered question “Can you be a member of two churches but just not two faiths.” From how Evelyn explained the Indian boys predicament I wanted to ask why the Salvation Army were happy for the West Indians to visit other churches on Sunday. Let’s not forget that all racially motivated speculation was taken from a gossiping granny in a church hall so perhaps I should presume that both stories have far more elaborative details. Regardless of the total accuracy of Evelyn’s claims, her faith and love for a good natter was thrilling in comparison to the regular church theatrics.

As the final hymn was sung I did take pleasure that my lack of singing, clapping and swaying did not necessarily demonstrate a lack of faith (though it did) as I looked across at John and Evelyn who had had two lifetimes of faith and remained stiffly standing tall like the king and queen of Lower Clapton road as they had stood year after year. But the Sally Army is not embodied in John and Evelyn, it does not belong to my adolescent nostalgia, it’s not some community group for the elderly. The Sally Army is one of the largest Christian organisations in the world: in 1994 The Salvation Army was ranked as the 4th "most popular charity/non-profit in America" of over 100 charities researched. The Salvation Army is not just a church but a massive Christian outreach programme and charitable organisation (important to separate the two) and continues to expand from its humble roots in east London. Visiting the Wikipedia page of the Salvation Army the vast confusing collection of information made the Sally Army appear more intriguing and frightening. Instead of hurting my head I still prefer to think of the Salvation Army as a collection of second hand shop owners who occasionally play as a brass band in city centres on weekends and public holidays.  Forget the now I prefer nostalgia.

PS


I now have photos, finally caught up with technology. Please look back at previous blogs to make sense of my architectual musings.

Upper Clapton Reformed Church, Upper Clapton Road, 13.03.11

From the outside Upper Clapton United Reformed Church looks beyond average. It has just enough brown bricks to make the roof seem more pronounced than the local neighbouring terraces. An arch window above the church door is the buildings most religious and decorative feature, yet it lacks stained glass or any decorative designs to make the local Londoner notice its nondescript entrance. You would be easily fooled into thinking that the congregation is small; dying away, like so many churches within the area, however appearances can be deceptive. In full attendance the Upper Clapton Reformed Church had easily a hundred people filling their aisles, my largest congregation by a long way. Clearly the congregation do not come for the architectural design and the shabby poorly kept garden, the main attraction for these followers hides inside the building.

Walking into a brightly lit nave the room was bursting with a stinging glow from the morning light reflecting off the whiter than white walls, meanwhile my ears were confronted with the sound of the booming gospel choir. In these conditions I had no choice but to wake up from the drab exteriors and my own hangover to the voice of God. Luckily this Sunday God’s voice was great, I did not agree with everything he had to say but the sound of his choir I could listen to all day. The choir was clearly the crown jewel that brought the crowds and I am sure God does not mind sharing some limelight with such an amazing company of singers. In past instalments I have raved about the sublime singing from various Church choirs and I guess this comes from not being aware of what is the expected standard of church choirs in the east London area. In Upper Clapton United Reformed Church choir I discovered the gospel pinnacle from which other choirs should be measured by. Besides the brightness of the walls and the sound of singing the Tardis sized church (smaller on the outside bigger on the inside) had no special architectural qualities. All the notable features within the nave had a direct relation to the choir, wide plasma screens on both sides of the sanctuary provided the hymns’ lyrics and grandiose inter titles, a live three piece band of bass, guitar and keyboard gave musical support and a sound desk made the entire visit an audio visual experience. I was not going to church I was going to a concert.

Evangelicals love to party and pray and more often than not they will be doing both at the same time. I have never prayed in my life and if I do party it’s often under the influence of some unholy substance therefore I was at sea with this large crowd of church goers.  Like any large concert you might find at the O2 arena the crowd like to do a lot of swaying, opening their hands in the air, clapping, banging the seats, dancing in the aisles, singing, whooping, whaling, praising, testifying and spontaneously fainting all of which made me feel like I was watching a Westlife concert with a large group of hormonal adolescent girls. Instead I was mainly surrounded by black women (appeared to be mixture of African and West Indian across all age groups), a large amount families, a few lone dapper looking black gentleman and a white elderly couple who stuck out from the crowd more than me (I have got dark hair and a fading tan and I have been told I could pass as a Turk).  I did not feel threatened by the fever of the crowds but I did feel like I might be bringing bad agnostic vibes to God’s party and felt guilty for perhaps messing with everyone’s Christian mojo.  As much as I clapped, sung and occasionally swayed to the choir I was never going to feign enough interest to be carried off into the corner because I was speaking tongues. You can’t fake tongues, I have tried.

My biggest embarrassment was during the group prayer exercise (luckily no partying was included) in which every member of the congregation held hands with the person sitting on both sides of them. Our group’s chain linked three rows crossing at least three ethnicities, many generations and a lot of different nationalities; it would have made a brilliant T-Mobile advert if we had all been better looking. After our hands were tied we were told to recite the priest’s prayer while gazing into the eyes of the person to our left.  Her name was Ariel and I hope she forgives me. I told her the reason for my visit but only after we shared the prayer. I felt like a spiritual adulterer when I confessed my flirting with atheism. For a sense of clarity I have written her a letter that she is very unlikely to read.

Dear Ariel

 If you are reading this and did write down the web address please accept my apology. It would have been more honest to recite the prayer with my eyes closed and my mouth shut but I was too much of a coward. I think you could hear the forgery in my voice and see the lies in my eyes but you were too polite to confront me. Apologies again, I have learned from my experience and next time I will make sure I find a blind and deaf person to hold my hand.

Yours Faithfully

Joel

In all seriousness I don’t know what the correct behaviour is in such a situation. You can adopt customs to make your host feel comfortable but ultimately you may mislead another into blasphemy (not that I am worried but they might be). In my defence the shame I felt was an intentional tactic by the evangelical church. If I who has never believed in God felt guilty during the group prayer how is a person who once believed in God and is now struggling with his or her faith going to feel. As much as the atmosphere can be euphoric surely it has the capacity to feel the same intensity but in a negative effect, a bullying effect. The man in charge of the show’s ambience was the stage compere or Priest as they are called in Evangelical concerts.

Reverend John Macaulay was one of God’s best showmen. From the sound of his West African baritone voice (I would guess he was Nigerian or Ghanaian) he had a wide range of deep tones. Dressed in a grey striped three piece suit he belonged to the new type of 20^th century Priest. The name Preacher seemed more fitting than Reverend with a large cross and swagger, not a dog collar or cape marking out his importance. Like any good showman he started slowly with a soft prayer put to a live keyboard melody as he did his best Barry White impression but by the end of his sermon he was dancing on his toes like James Brown and testifying to the lord at such a high pitch all the dogs in the area could hear.  It was an impressive performance that you would imagine many would pay to see and many people do. According to the Upper Clapton United Reform Church newsletter the last Sunday’s attendance was 149 and the offering totalled at £1,146.96, that’s just under £7.70 per person. I am fine with churches making money as long as paying is never compulsory but you would think they could have at least spent the money on some stained glass. Naturally that’s a joke and I hope the money does go to more worthy causes and not my worst fear that it funds another three piece suit for the honourable Reverend. The Reverend had such an impressive choir behind him that his histrionics seemed entirely justified, he significantly contributed to orchestrating such a euphoric atmosphere but he was merely the face to a larger plan.

Evangelicalism is great at selling itself, it may feel like a pop concert inside the church but the preparation for such drama begins in the marketing.  Outside the church a bright yellow poster laid out the themes for each service of the month, below I have listed the themes for all four Sundays of March.

March 6^th Theme: Wise or foolish journey?

March 13^th  Lent 1 Theme: Who are we you really?

March 20^th Lent 2 Theme: Can I understand?

March 27^th Lent 3 Theme: Are you talking to me?

The list of open questions could also be titles to pop songs, so prevalent and vague their meaning they can be easily acculturated like any good form of mass communication. As much as the themes relate to Lent and personal sacrifice before Pentecost they are part of a larger structure. The Upper Clapton United Reformed Church has a 2011 theme entitled “Evangelism Arise and Go.” My flatmate joked that the year before it was “Arise Evangelism and Go,” and the year before that it was “ Arise and Go Evangelism.” So uniform are the titles that their desire to speak to everyone makes them empty to cynical snobs like me and my friends. The crass nature of the church’s marketing is given more substance when attending a sermon but some of the content is more worrying than the church’s publicity campaign.

In-between the hallelujahs and praise the Lords, Reverend Macaulay delivered a sermon focusing on passages from the bible that featured the theme temptation. From the Old Testament he drew from the book of Genesis and in which the serpent tempting Eve in the Garden of Eden and from the New Testament he drew from the book of Mathew and the last temptation of Christ. Careful to sidestep biblical controversy Reverend Macaulay managed to defend the latent misogyny of Eve’s fall from grace by stating her fall was not due to her sex and that men are equal victims to the  sins of the flesh. Reverend Macaulay’s sexual politics were modern but then one of the oldest of religious hatreds reared its ugly head during in his sermon (or did it). When listing the many false idols of modern day consumerism that tempt Christians away from God he called for an attack on modern the modern media run by sorcerers, witches and “jew jew,” men. I had never heard that specific anti-Semitic term in my life but I have still got an overriding hatred of the word. Shocked at Macaulay’s casual and ancient racism I began to worry about the congregation that surrounded me, however I should have been worried about the prejudice inside of me.

Talking to my mother she asked could “jew jew,” men actually mean “ju ju,” men. The Ju Ju religion is followed by Yoruba speaking people of Nigeria, it has similarities with Santeria, Palo Mayombe, and Abaqa (found mostly in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Miami), Macumba, and Quimbanda (found   mostly in Brazil) as well sharing gods and goddesses with Voodoo. In the context of the sermon my mum’s interpretation seemed more accurate but it does not make the sentiments less offensive. Surely real Ju Ju people should equally not be persecuted but for some reason I did feel relieved that the Reverend was not anti-Semitic but was more focused on local prejudices.  I was so quick to disregard the joyful concert for appearing to have Nuremberg undertones as it reinforced my outsider superiority but really I was looking for pigeon holes to understand or reject the church’s faith. Ironic that my own prejudice led to me miss the church’s real prejudice.

 Appearances are deceptive but they are also indefinite, forever changing from your first impression. Meaning and intentions always seem to be lost within the euphoria when visiting Evangelicals. The whole experience gave me the impression of visiting a pop concert in which the crowd may sing along to the lyrics but without necessarily understanding their meaning. It seems a fitting failure of understanding that the words used for this Sunday service’s theme asked its congregation “Who Are We Really?” I am still waiting to find out.

St Mary Old Church, Church Street, Stoke Newington, 06.03.11

This week I was forced again by heathen commitments to work on the Sabbath instead of enjoying the company of another local Christian community. My plan was to go to Christ Apostles Church on Dalston Lane for a late night Friday service (10.00pm to 03.00 am) with the intriguing title “Victory Night.” Arriving at 10.00pm the lights were on and the doors were open but the small office building recently turned into a church appeared empty. Calling out into a room empty of people, only inhabited by lines of chairs I felt spooked. No victory to be had I left the building and returned at 11.00PM aware that not all services (especially evangelicals) start at the advertised time. When I returned to the office/church the building was completely locked up and I came to accept that God was not willing to welcome me into his house/office/church this evening. Naturally I was angry (it does not take much) but I had to think fast and decide on which evensong to visit in two days. Luckily my random selection led to a spiritual surprise.

Arriving at St Marys Old Church on Church Street in the heart of Stoke Newington I thought it strange how you can never predict the circumstances and the subjects that are raised each Sunday. Truth be told, when attending the first service before Lent I should have predicted the sermon would feature the biblical prophecy of Jesus’s forthcoming sacrifice at Easter. In my defence, knowing the religious calendar does not always help you understand the Priest’s interpretation of the Bible and the reaction it might generate in the congregation.  A multitude of factors and coincidences had led me to this service on one of the oldest grounds of Christian worship in London.  Not only was my visit brought upon by the lack faith of another church but other agents had inspired my choice. I had chosen the church out of convenience that the 341 bus went straight from my work to Stoke Newington.  Also I had chosen the church as it was the only service I could remember, fresh from my mind on Thursday afternoon when I photographed prospective churches.  My choice was also motivated by the church’s exclusivity, the church stood out because the service was only held on the first Sunday of the month due to the fragile size of the building. All these factors and other unknown influences shaped my decision to attend St Marys Old Church on Church Street.

In the above maze of reasons I attribute to my visit the main conscious motivation being its ancient architecture and the rarity of its service. St Marys Old Church is situated in the shadow of its taller daughter St Marys New Church. Further away from the main road than its offspring the Old Church is nestled in the corner of Clissold Park; its small size reflects a time when Stoke Newington was a neighbouring farming town to the City of London. St Marys New Church is not that new (erected in the 1850s in response to the growth in the population) but the New Church is significantly younger in comparison to is architectural ancestor positioned directly across the road. St Marys New Church may have all the grandeur and glamour but St Marys Old Church has the history. The Old church has been a Christian ground for worship since 1086 but the present “Old,” church was built by Sir William Pattern in 1563 and thought to be the only Elizabethan Church left in London.  Anglican throughout its entire history unlike the majority of churches in London, St Marys never flirted with other faiths remaining as pure as its namesake. Throughout the years many additions feature on the current site most notably the Victorian pew boxes and wooden panelling in the sanctuary and the large spire, placed on the top of an ancient square tower by Sir Charles Barry. As well as the architectural additions the church has made numerous repairs especially when it had an extensive restoration after certain areas were damaged from World War 2. The Church of England’s desire to maintain the site indicates its commitment to heritage and how its history is valuable to its own self-importance.
Entering the beautiful village sized nave I had goosebumps at the still atmosphere, entering a space between histories linked by some old ritual involving a guy named Jesus.  Not that I was there for Jesus and not that the other twelve members of the congregation were all there for Jesus. I got the feeling that amongst the small sets of couples and fewer individuals I was not the only one enjoying the architecture and atmosphere more than the word of God. My assumptions had no foundation but on reflection I felt the lack of volume in the singing by certain individuals might demonstrate a lack of familiarity and interest in the singing material.  However the church had enough devout attendees in full song and I tried my hardest to sound like the weekly faithful, attempting to summon the Holy Spirit from out of my lungs. The songs did not suffer from the lack of a choir as the organ had such a rich sound surrounded by such history. To be fair this is the Church of England and they are not famous for their feverish devotional singing but are instead known for their well-mannered spiritual reflection. Theological reflection was the order of the day/night and Reverend Rector Jonathan Clark did not disappoint.

The service reflected the architectural duality of the parish as it featured one reading from the Old Testament and one from the New Testament. The reading from the Old Testament was taken from Book of Kings and the reading from the New Testament was taken from Mathew. In the book of Kings Elijah waits with Elisha (his son) for God to take him away and in Mathew Jesus's sacrefice is foretold by God. Both readings featured the subject of prophecy and death Reverend Jonathan Clark wanted to focus on how prophecy was simply the will of God and not intended to be known to the living. Clark argued that Jesus stopped his disciples from informing others he was the son of God and his decision not to prevent his forthcoming death demonstrated God's desire for man to have free will no matter how tragic the consequences. Similarly Elijah and Elisha accepts their fate instead of attempting to learn details to God's plan or stop their seperation. The theological argument is simple: if the living have been given free will by God they cannot be adherent to prophecy as they would undermine God’s desire for the living to have free will, therefore prophecy is key facet to the mystery God. Clark claims prophecy ia only known to the living tin retrospect and related his interpretation of free will and prophecy to his work as a counsellor to congregational members - touched by how many people say that they surprise themselves when faced by personal tragedies. Clark believes that the strength of these individuals comes from not knowing the tragedy that is going to befall them and that the individual’s ability to cope with tragic situations empowers their own free will and the will of God. In short, our free will and decisions lead us to heaven which is when Gods intentions are entirely revealed. The belief in the unknown intentions of God struck a chord in my cynically spiritual heart but not by leading me to believe in God’s intentions just leading me to be content with the unknown.  Clark’s argument was too neat and needed that intangible element called faith.  Surrounding me I had all my reasons for enjoying the unpredictability of humankind that needs no prophecy, just chance.

Who could predict a 27 year old agnostic would spend his Sunday evening visiting one of the oldest Christian grounds in London to sing hymns badly as an elderly West Indian woman scowls at his eyes wandering away from his hymn book towards the architecture of this Christian tomb. As 16th century stone arches morph into 20th century bricks lit by 21st century lights I continued to stare from my Victorian booth at the antique wood panelling and began to think who could of prophesised such a beautiful building. No architect can create such history and no God could plan such details. The unique atmosphere is not created by the history I know, but all of the history I don’t and can’t know. It’s a feeling of unfamiliarity that stills the atmosphere and makes you reflect that the grounds entire development has been slowed down in the name of God so that areas in the building hold an unknown mysterious quality as a result. Unlike Reverend Clark I believe this mystery is not created by God but is created by people, the unknown numbers of people who have come before and unknown numbers who are still to come. Will the grounds be a church in another 925 years? I doubt it, but then did the congregation of 1086 have such a strong sense of faith to make such a wild and correct prediction?

The Dalston Methodist Church, Richmond Road, 27.02.11

How do you spot a Christian in a crowd? Growing up in rural Norwich in the 1990s Christians were subtly identifiable by their appalling dress sense. When attempting to dress smart they would be more often recognisable by their cheap fitting attire; combinations of smart black trousers with ankle swingers, large white shirts with crooked collars and ties tied too short. Dressed casually a Christian would be harder to pick out from the crowd; a few key clues would be the lack of brand name clothing, crap trainers from a local discount store and a genuine desire to dress for comfort over coolness. Now living in a more fashion conscious era and in multicultural east London my Christian brothers and sisters are far harder to recognise in comparison to the devout Muslims of Bethnal Green and the orthodox Jews of Stamford Hill. The one group of Christians to stand out from the crowd on a Sunday morning in east London are the black queens and their children dressed like weekend religious royalty. Amongst the highly diverse congregations of east London, black women are the only demographic to feature in every service I have witnessed, without their contribution the majority of church attendances would crumble and this was never more clearly stated than when Ivisited The Dalston Methodist Church on Richmond road.

 The Dalston Methodist Church is nestled in quiet road situated next to a bridge overlooking the new east London line; its position off the main road provides an atmosphere of exclusive cosiness.  When arriving on a cold sharp Sunday morning to this snuggly solace of a church I was greeted by a congregation of predominantly black women all dressed in their finery and very thankful for my visit. In the small but well lit hall I counted three to four black women to every black male, with the occasional white blip being me and two other ladies. The importance of the ladies of Dalston Methodist church was accentuated when it became clear that in the absence of the priest it was the women who were relied upon to direct the service not the men.

After explaining the intentions of my visit the women felt the need to apologise that I had picked the wrong Sunday service as the reverend was away ill and that the service was to be held by Sister Clarence.  Some suggested I come again when a man closer to God was present but in my eyes Sister Clarence appeared to be a suitable modern day saint. Braving illness and in her 70s but extremely articulate you could hear Caribbean twang, ill health and life experience in the back of her throat. The gravitas to her voice could make a shopping list sound like the Holy Scripture.  Sister Clarence was a tall elderly West Indian woman with magisterial long grey hair and a fine handsome face, her chin was held high and her inquisitive eyes seemed to reach past the frames of her glasses to welcome you. Wearing a salmon pink dress and jacket with a large matching hat of such enormous height it laid on her head like a crown. Sister Clarence’s appearance and manner was like a friendly distant Caribbean member of the royal family, mannered but sincere.

The head matriarch would tour the church aristocracy who were ranked by age and recognisable by their smarter more conservative attire. Younger women appeared to be not dressed in the traditional Sunday best but in their daily wears of the week unlike the older generation who dressed like a group of Cheltenham ladies going to Notting Hill carnival.  Caught by a clutch of kind Christian women I was mug mothered; anything I said was treated with the amusement a parent has to a child, lots of instinctive nods and patronising smiles but never fully understood. Despite a lack of understanding I do love being mothered and enjoyed watching an almost entirely female driven service but when the women were not calling the shots in the name of the lord it was in the name of the children.

The service had the regular prayers, readings and hymns but the sermon did seem to have little structure with the exception of a focus on “the Children.” Sister Clarence insisted on directly addressing the mini congregation of 5 children. She first apologised for the lack of Sunday school and then publically tested the kids on their Bible knowledge. Watching the sermon was like watching an episode of “Kids Say the Funniest Things,” when asked questions about Christ. The congregation were a chorus of ahhhs, light chuckles and belated breaths as each child sweetly stumbled over every answer. In previous installments I had commented on the antics of a certain Little Antoine’s disruption of a Catholic service when visiting Our Lady of Assumption in Bethnal Green. Little Antoine would have been easily quelled by this congregation of surrogate mothers. The 6 children attempted to run riot but were quickly picked from the aisles and placed on the lap of the nearest matriarch.  In a service in which a large number of women would mother muzzle the small group of children it was ironic that the little congregation seemed to come from the one mother. The real mother (not the surrogates) gave an impassioned speech during the sharing of prayer in which the congregation asked for thanks and help from God.  Her concern was that “the children,” are moving away from God and the need to return the family to the order of the church and therefore away from “gangs, drugs and crime.” The real mother’s paranoid and passionate prayer felt scary due to the love and sincerity of her concern. The clapping reaction from the congregation clearly indicated a shared sense of truth and burden surrounding a generational abandonment. 

The shared prayer was a revealing and rewarding addition to the service as it informed you of the church community pushing the personal into the congregation’s prayers.  Catholic’s would not have tolerated such openness detracting from the ritual and Anglican’s would prefer to focus on larger issues with a more mannered attitude to personal problems but the shared prayer did feature in the less formal and more emotive churches of Baptists, Evangelicals and Pentecostals. The shared prayer of The Dalston Methodist church was highly interesting as the majority of prayers came from the women and nearly all of them concerned people not in attendance at the church. “The children,” seemed to be in the forefront of the congregation’s minds despite their absence but I felt the unspoken consensus of opinion that the absent family and community were still protected by god as long as a one person represented their people on a Sunday morning. Could all these women be visiting church for the benefit of their absent children, husbands, family and friends? The church was not just keeping a feeling of God alive but within the congregation it was keeping the essence of community and family alive. Such faith was admirable and inaccessible to my cynicism yet I felt comforted that I soon would be in their prayers. The women of Dalston Methodist Church worship to thank God but also to keep a tradition alive, a tradition which they feel does not just connect with communities of the past but also protects the communities of the future.