Our Lady Immaculate Catholic Church, Limehouse, Commercial Road, 9.10.11.

Comedians love to take the piss out of the Catholic Church. Catholicism is one of the oldest comedic targets. Only Judaism has sourced more comedy (yet most Jewish jokes are made by Jewish comedians and are often in relation to their race rather than faith). Not that the Catholic Church would give three Hail Marys for the humorous views of a bunch of heretics. The Catholic Church has survived many reformations, sectarian violence and religious wars so a few jokes are not going to hurt them. When you are as old as the Catholic Church it must be hard not to laugh at the criticism and controversy you cause. History has taught the Catholic Church to never take its persecutors seriously and remain defiant of all political attacks. It’s not the rich, beautiful, Baroque buildings of Italy that tempt atheist tourism that have kept the Catholic Church popular it’s the blind faith of its internationally poor and impoverished followers. Doug Stanhope’s joke takes two stereotypes and merely indicates the hypocrisy of history written by the victor that mirrors my own reactionary views towards the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church might not care about their past but atheists and agnostics do, and history not faith has fuelled a divide between the two. Regular readers will have noticed I am more a fan of the jubilant services of the politically right wing Pentecostalists than the routine ritual and religious dogma of a Catholic service. If I am going to worship with groups I politically disagree with I would rather sing and dance than reluctantly join a chorus of whispers disguised as prayers.  Aware I should leave my conservative comfort zone this Sunday I visited Our Lady Immaculate Catholic Church on Commercial Road.

I may not be fan of the Catholic Church but arriving at the service I was shocked at the large, culturally and ethnically diverse congregation. Our Lady Immaculate was a very popular woman and I had to sit in the balcony to get any view of the service. The narrow building had unbelievable depth once inside, that its tall exterior hid from the outsider’s eye. Built in 1934 the church appeared like a giant chimney on the busy main road but inside the sparkling candle lit nave was most heavily adorned by people of all colour.  As we all trawled through the routine prayers and hymns which I could surprising mime correctly without looking at the pamphlet, my eyes were distracted by the congregation. Chinese, Punjabi, Tamil, Italian, Polish, Peruvian, South American, West Indian, Nigerian, Ghanaian, Irish, Philippinoes and cockneys. This was a proper East End congregation, migrants from all over the globe united by Europe’s most popular religious export. The more liberal minded Anglican Church would be envious of such diversity; Stanhope had correctly stated the Catholic Church “is more popular than ever.” The global cross section of the congregation was neatly explained by Reverend’s sermon based on the reading of Jesus’s parable from the Book of Mathew Chapter 22.

In the parable a “certain king” made a supper to celebrate the marriage of his son and invited many to come. Sadly the “certain king” was not that popular so his invitation was rejected by some and his servants beaten by others (the Biblical era was far more brutal than the simple online world of Facebook).  Angered, the “certain king” retaliated on his rude invitees but also instructed his servants to invite everyone across the land to come, calling for the “the good and the bad” to attend. At the wedding banquet the King discovered one man not wearing the traditional wedding garment as was the custom; unconvinced of the man’s excuses he banished the man from the wedding. Jesus ends the parable with the warning that “many are called but few are chosen” (Mathew 22.4) which adds a lot of gravitas to a really shit story. The parable is very a simple story to highlight that God welcomes everyone but one will only be accepted into heaven by following God through the teachings of Jesus Christ. In the Bible Jesus uses the parable to have a dig at the Jews who will later betray him but the Reverend was using the parable in a larger modern context.

The Reverend reminded the congregation that all are welcome but some of us are just “sleep walking” through the service. I am unsure what the Reverend wanted from his congregation, the diverse group all found Christ in different ways and are unified through the church but what does he see as an adequate understanding of Jesus Christ. Catholic services provide a ritual unison but I have yet to experience a sermon which actually specifically questions ones existence towards God (which is so common in the Anglican Church). The sermon seemed to merely prey on the fears of the congregation that they are not Christian enough without indicating what it is to be Christian.  If the Reverend wanted the congregation to awake to spiritual investigation he needs to find better parables. I am not “sleep walking” I would actually describe my experience as attempting not to daydream of God by battling with the rhythmic rituals that bombard you throughout the service. I think the lack of depth of the sermon was typical of the church’s need to appeal to such a wide audience but what the sermon lacked in spiritual depth the ritual enriched.

Rituals can be seductive; it’s so easy to be a slave to the sacrament rather than question the repetition and routine. Conformity is a comfort and the group prayers that I once found scared me I now find a hugely reassuring feature to my week. It is easier to sleep walk in a crowd at a Sunday service than it is during a mid-week lone confession. Looking over the large congregation from the balcony it was touching to see the same text spoken so many ways, some mime the words, others are brave enough to mutter, rare solitary shouters lead the service, mothers are often too busy orchestrating their children and some singletons blindly smile as they speak the text in their head.  Despite the ritual attempt to build unity no ritual can ever be the same and are forever different but they do legitimise the ridiculous. Staring into the sanctuary I was amazed at the grotesque grandeur and glamour. Black and white marble squared floor separated the masses from the holy area. The white and egg shell marble altar had three levels; the top level burned in hope of the heavens with six candle sticks; a congested central level consisted of two candle sticks separated by four potted plants and a heavily adorned holy box; while the lowest level was decorated with shimmering tea lights. The sanctuary shone with wealth like a nouveaux rich house except this brick had been bought by some seriously old money. The grandeur of the sanctuary and the mutters of the mass ritual are instantly recognisable but that does not make it any less ridiculous.

The Catholic Church’s success has been built on conformity. As long as the majority don’t see hypocrisy in the Sistine Chapel and hilarity in the Holy Communion it will remain a social norm and comedic target. I can’t help being the comedian (despite how unfunny I am) it’s an essential default when faced by such mass approval so as to demonstrate your own individualism. My comfort are the jokes that attack such powerful establishments, comedy is essential in highlighting the silliness and corruption of institutions and Doug Stanhope’s brash manner might have attacked the political hypocrisy of the church but you can equally laugh at the ritual. In contrast to Stanhope I have posted a Dave Allen sketch which is 30 years older. The sketch appears very innocent but at the time it was far more mainstream and controversial than Stanhope. What like the sketch it is a comment on religious ritual, except this ritual is simple to understand and therefore far less ridiculous.

Christ Apostolic Church, Mount Bethel, Kingsland Road, 2.10.11

When attending church I am always looking to connect with another member of the congregation but often find myself projecting my emotions onto the innocence of children. Children are blank canvases on which adults can paint the gaudiest sentimental portraits and I often seek solace in their vulnerability in the hope that it mirrors my own. Everything seems new to a child and every week a church is another new experience for myself. Arriving at Mount Bethel on the Kingsland Road I was ignorant as to the history of the large brown brick church complex and the cultural history of Christ Apostolic Church, so in some respects my initial impressions were as innocent as that of a child.

To my naive eyes the CAC seemed a highly privileged congregation in comparison to the other Western African evangelists of east London but I was yet to learn that the building’s grandeur was a product of over thirty years of hard work and determination. I had yet to read how the CAC UK branch had been founded in January 1974 by (church declared apostle) Ayo Omideyi in a Finsbury Park bedsit. From these humble beginnings the congregation moved to 52 Priory Street before they rented Campsbourne Baptist Church in 1976 until the congregation grew in size and wealth so that they could own their own building on Haringey Road and finally buy, renovate and refurbish Mount Bethel on Kingsland Road in 1980.  The building and refurbishment is very impressive and was not fully completed till 1989, pictures of the renovation can be found on the website (http://www.cacbethel.org/). My other blind spot was that the church founder Apostle Ayo Omideyi had died earlier in the week. Throughout the service the congregation spoke of their love for “Papa,” (who I now realise was Omideyi) and his enormous power, so powerful that I mistook their memorial testimonies as prayers for salvation to The Almighty. Only after the service did I learn the reason for the very long emotional outpouring of the congregation. Not that the service was all doom and gloom, it did feature the amazing Bethel Gospel Choir, some less amazing karaoke African hymn singing and a lot of dancing. Only during the testimonies was I alienated by the intensity of the hysteria (that I now know to be grief) and took refuge in the unimpressed, uninterested and unamused children of the congregation. Some of the children even took refuge in me.

Walking down the central aisle of the large nave that separated the congregation into male and female it was startling to see the left hand side filled with rows of women stretching to the back of the building and the right hand side containing about 8 rows of predominantly young boys and the occasional male chaperone. Maybe it was the constant prayers for “Papa” but the congregation was clearly missing father figures and two sweetly spiritless boys’ sick of the predominantly female singing celebrations took an interest in me. Tired and doe eyed they moved close fast, travelling three rows by the end of one hymn with the prime purpose to stare at the young white intruder. The innocence of their inquisitive looks was caught in the depths of their eyes but they carried an apprehension to talk to me directly. Not wanting to break any etiquette or code I continued to attempt to partake in the service. They stared at me as I sung, stared at me as I danced, stared at me listening, stared at me staring. The most magical moment was during the final prayer in which with my head down I opened my eyes only to be peek a booed by my young tormentors. The tables had been turned. Bored with their own Sunday worship the two had taken voyeuristic interest in the uninvited documentarian. For once my connection with the children of the congregation was not built on my own projections but common and mutual intrigue with each other born out of boredom with the service. Ironic that their constant observation led me to try harder in prayer, singing and getting closer to God in comparison to them distancing and distracting themselves from their families, friends and God. Not all children are caught in a general malaise towards God some really go for it and therefore they are a little less interested in me, especially the young men who have father figures who forever hang over their shoulders.

My shadows were dressed in replica England football shirts and appeared parentless within the male contingent and with no Sunday school they had made the church their playground. In comparison an extremely smartly dress boy stood forever at the front, suited and booted in his lavish Sunday best he was the only replica of the father who stood over him. Dressed in a black pin striped waist coat to match his jacket and trousers the boy was overly adorned and had to remove his three pieces as his dancing grew more erratic. When the boy ran the risk of getting over excited his father would offer his hand to hold, so he could guide the youngster to a more stable and accepted rhythm and channel his high spirits in the correct manner. The older generation bonding without the use of bible but through dance had created a more primal, physical and ethereal legacy of which only the initiated would understand. Oddly the boy’s celebration was not without criticism as during end of a hymn and the start of a testimony the boy had some trouble with silencing his tambourine. The general glares and mimed shshing produced such a collective invisible punch that the child’s expression was like he had been slapped across the face. Like me he seemed hurt by the hypocrisy that one minute he had been told to wobble and wail with all the spirit in his soul and next minute he had been told to stay still and shut up. Soon that anger turned on itself and the boy looked guilty as the group had decided he was, the episode was a tough lesson in religious education. Only the innocence of a baby can be forgiven for such disruptive behaviour but in the context of the congregation’s joyous singing of you could hardly hear them cry.

The male contingent of the congregation was a flock of young boys with a few old shepherds but on the other side of the congregation was a sea of women with babies strapped to their bellies, breasts, bottoms and anything that hangs out. Women out wailed, whooped and worshipped their offspring who seemed muted by the noise their mothers generated. At one point two ladies contested the lyrics to a Cameroonian traditional song and almost came to blows for the ownership of a lone microphone, in this all female face off one lady had an oblivious baby strapped to her back peacefully disinterested during the entire argument. Eventually the pastor had to calm both women down by saying in English but in the thickest West African accent “Behave.” The congregation treated the altercation like a scene from a panto, laughing at the drama and mockingly taking sides but I was more fascinated by the baby who seemed to not notice the fuss. Quiet, during an all chanting Christian conga across the nave, silent, as the women competed for a microphone during a karaoke hymn sing along and asleep during the loud but incoherent sermon.  All my inability to engage fully with the service seemed to be reflected in the small bundle of boredom attached to the loud lady’s back.

It got me wondering when does a child begin to realise the morality of Christianity? Surely if you’re born into a church going family the religious dogma and strange celebrations will be your first impression! I can’t help but imagine that you would be scared of God throughout your childhood until you were able to reach your own adult understanding of Christianity, even then when your faith has matured your religion would still hold the secret to your nightmares. The fire and brimstone, the crucifixion, the concept of hell are the nightmares of adults but they are seeded within us as children. I felt I was encouraged to be discouraged away from religion; my father particularly did not want me to suffer the conscience-stricken he felt Christianity instilled within him as a child. Children will never be the key to understanding religion but they will always be a way of connecting with the congregation, my ignorance gaining acceptance through their innocence.

St Paul and St Jude Parish, Mildmay Grove, 25/09/11

Every week I commit sins and cause offence, this can be an intentional or an unintentional act, the only difference this week is that I broke one of my very few rules by mistaking an Islington church for Hackney parish. St Jude and St Paul is a gorgeous late 1800s church with Kentish ragstone rubble, Bath Stone and a roof of Welsh slate forming an exterior that nestles on the quiet corner intersection of Mildmay Grove. A little lavish construction with a particularly stunning spire: in retrospect the building screams Islington for its understated wealth and not to be mistaken for the larger churches of Hackney. My pschogeographical senses should have served me better but boundary maps are never clear as definitions in your mind. Ironically I learned far more about the personal lives of this small Islington congregation than I had of the many local Hackney residents I had visited in over the past few months. The reason I was able to familiarise myself with the congregation was that I had stumbled across St Jude and St Paul’s Back to God Sunday Breakfast. Back to God Sunday Breakfast was an opportunity for regular church members to invite friends and family back (or for the first time) to church by sitting down at tables and eating breakfast interspersed with some Bible readings and hymns. For once my agnostic ignorance was in a forum in which it was instantly forgiven.

The only person disappointed for mistaking Islington for Hackney was I as it exposed my ignorance but in the past I have often disappointed others without even making mistakes. My naïve agnostic ramblings have a tendency to cause offence (in a couple of weeks I will compile a list of some of criticism I have received) but as early as February I had fears that my blog could be misinterpreted. Reverend Jane Thorington Hassell at Victoria Park Baptist church outlined this fear when she described her frustration at the rise of new age spirituality mixing religions “buffet style.”Hassell’s criticism of other religions seemed to relate to my own worst fear that my blog merely reduced the churches I visited into consumerist products. The only way to tackle such a fear is to deal with it head on and this week’s service provided the opportunity to write the remainder as a culinary review of St Jude and St Paul’s Back to God Sunday Breakfast.

The majority of the congregation were eating food that looked like themselves, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, nieces, nephews, uncles and aunties.  The tables appeared to be segregated into friends and family which left me on a table of a random collection of individual cuisine not atypical to the entire congregation, however all tables were joined in feasting on the largest meal of the morning, Reverend Justus. A mandatory dish, Reverend Justus was the meal that no member of the congregation could turn down or even ignore. His stature was as large as his name but behind his huge round belly and glowing black face was a very soft and sweet voiced personality. Everyone enjoyed eating Reverend Justus because he was so well cooked judging by his sweating brow and stains across his shirt. Justus rushed around the nave conducting hymns, greeting members, listening to testimonies and orchestratingBible reading. I have never seen somebody large be shared so quickly amongst the congregation. After a bite of Justus you could not help but feel satisfied that you had just tasted a fine long standing St Paul and St Jude staple. Perhaps he was a little too much to chew on and could have been little less bland but like any good carbohydrate dish his dense texture was the foundation to a larger meal and his presence gave you a huge amount of energy for the remaining service. Justus for one Sunday morning had become the sacramental wine and bread that the entire congregation shared. 

The sharing of Justus brought a ritual unison to the congregation but my own personal menu choice was a rare and exotic dish named Abraham. The origin of Abraham’s distinct flavouring is hard to place! On the surface he appears like a regular black male in his 30s dressed in an ill-fitting but smart suit for Sunday worship. Only after playing with my food and talking to Abraham did I learn that he was born in Sierre Leone (unlike anyone else in the congregation), raised in Liverpool and commuting to London visit his Muslim mother but yet following in the spiritual footsteps of his dead Christian father. The more I gnawed away at Abraham the more I learned about his culturally rich life; now working in music PR but also helping church music get off the ground, he was a 21^st century Christian entrepreneur. At times his spice was too overwhelming and you had to take a few seconds to digest before you could enjoy Abraham’s company. An endearing image was his lone swaying and singing to pop church anthems that left the majority of the congregation comatose. Abraham was that rare meal that you are conscious you may never have again so you bask in the enjoyment so much more. A childlike enthusiasm trapped in a 30 year old body he left an infectious aftertaste in your mouth, wet and wanting more.

The palette can get too overwhelmed when visiting church, for all the intoxicating and rich flavour of Abraham it’s important to have a sober tonic to bring balance to ones meal. My palette cleanser came in the form of Nick and Shell, individually they may have more zest, smack, bang or kick to their personalities but together they nullified my spiritual taste buds. Nick and Shell should have been the culinary equivalent of a hot comforting Shepherd’s Pie because they were getting married in the very church we sat in but it was apparent they were not regular members or Christians and looked slightly horrified at the idea of meeting other congregational members at the Back to God Breakfast Sunday celebrations. I do appreciate the dedication of people who want church weddings but are not Christians yet are prepared to jump through certain hoops but this Anglican ritual would not be found in the more evangelical Baptist, Methodist and Pentecostal churches.  Arguably they might have been equally unimpressed by me, as I fully explained my project they seemed to understand the purpose but not the point. I, like them could not provide any spiritual nourishment instead our familiarity bred contempt.  Nick and Shell acted as a lemon garnish to my main meal, providing a bitter punch that complimented the more exciting dish.

My final course at the St Paul and St Jude café was an old favourite, a traditional meal that might have been forgotten with the influx of new and exciting foreign tastes but Maureen was old fashioned cockney cuisine. More fish and chips than eels and mash, this parish was Islington not East London after all. Maureen had been coming to St Paul and St Jude’s since the 80s and was incredibly knowledgeable of the area and its local churches. The conversation was overly familiar as we listed the Christian tourist sites of Christ Church Spitalfields, Stoke Newington’s long running non-conformist church, St Leonard’s musical productions and spoke of the history of migration of the East End from the 17^th century Hugenots to the modern Bangladeshi community. The conversation was ideal comfort food, like warm cod and chips the taste was a reassuring experience and one to be repeated.

Maureen was the most satisfying meal of the morning but at the end of the service I was inexplicably touched by the announcement that Susan a congregational member had passed away last Tuesday in Homerton hospital. Looking across the nave I saw mainly blank faces but amongst them you could spot a the trickling of tears fall down a select number of elderly faces and no face shone more from the reflection of wet face of Maureen standing beside me. I almost choked on what I had eaten, to see the emotional concern on her face I felt sick with sadness. It was not my intention to come and feast on the emotion and honesty of others when I began my pilgrimage but it would be dishonest to not admit that every week my voyeuristic, parasitic tendencies feed off the spirituality of others because I lack the belief to create my own.

Clapton Park United Reformed Church, The Round Chapel, Glennarm Road, 25/08/11

Some churches in the East End dominate the imagination; they cannot be ignored and are an essential motivation for my agnostic pilgrimage. The Round Chapel of Lower Clapton is one of those churches. Built in 1869 by Henry Fuller, the building is the architectural crown to the non-conformist churches of the East End. The exterior has Romanesque styling with round arched windows and octagonal towers on each side, yet inside the large interior is designed like a Victorian theatre with tall iron arches framing the surrounding aisles. Like the non-conformist movement the Round Chapel is a mishmash of styles, the foundations undermine the hierarchal structures of traditional church architecture.  The horse shoe shaped front entrance merges the nave with the sanctuary and forms a coliseum styled auditorium. Hackney Christian history is full of non-conformist celebrities Daniel Defoe, Issac Watts, Mary Wollstonecraft all worshipped in Hackney and the borough is home to the non-conformist burial grounds of Bunhill Fields and Abney Park Cemetery. The Round Chapel along with the beautiful Union Chapel (sadly in Islington) are both the most grandiose non-conformist churches in London but now seem destined as music and theatre venues. So I was deeply saddened to discover the large Round Chapel was empty on my arrival.
The gardener informed me that the Nigerian church that had been using the chapel had been kicked out for not paying the rent despite the collection plate being full every Sunday. Not wanting to be deterred by the gardener’s cynical explanation I investigated the side entrance and was pleasantly surprised to discover a small but very welcoming congregation belonging in the Unitarian Church housed in one of the side rooms to the chapel. The Unitarian Church seemed not bothered by the grandeur and decorations of the Round Chapel and had instead chosen the more intimate surroundings for this very diverse family orientated congregation. At first I was disappointed but I soon realised that the diverse ages, races and backgrounds of the congregation actually created a very informal Christian community that entirely continued the progressive forms of worship of Hackney non-conformists of old.
The atmosphere that the congregation generated was not as aggressive as Pentecostal services but was equally life affirming. The entire congregation appeared peacefully calm but not insular and glowed with warm smiles. Church has a habit of creating the most welcoming strangers but this congregation seemed genuinely at peace with their faith and less concerned with saving my soul. Many factors contribute to create a good communal atmosphere. The warmth of strangers is an essential element to an inclusive atmosphere but it is little aspects that make your heart rise. The rustling of children in the aisles, the spiritual sincerity of the singing, the soft and contemplative voice of Reverend Elizabeth Welch’s sermon, an incorrect Bible reading that caused communal  laughter instead of embarrassment, the understanding and accepting smiles on hearing about my project. All of these small aspects contributed to one of the most enjoyable services I have attended since I started my journey in January.  The congregation seemed to have abandoned the dogma and dread found in some services for a spirituality based on empathy and a love for life. For once I did not stare at any architecture or clap enthusiastically to the Redemption Hymnal to have a good time instead I was intrigued by the structural foundations of this informal worship.
 The Non-conformist movement of the late 1600’s has changed a lot to keep its independence which is typically ironic given the movements name. The Unitarian Church is the result of a union between the Presbyterian Church of England and the Congregational Church in England and Wales in 1972 and has formed subsequent unions with other non-conformist groups but not the more established Methodists, Baptists or the Sally Army. The union of the churches represents a less hierarchical system to Anglican and Catholic churches and the structure enables various churches to remain independently run following the traditions of Presbyterian and Congregationalist churches. Presbyterianism is traditionally run by church elders and Congregationalists have the most democratic of religious structures. The informal and inclusive feel of the service did seem to indicate that every member was involved and took pride in the running of the church, the parishioners seemed more active than passive. The structure dictates that the congregation are essential to the decision making and therefore more involved in the form of worship. The hymns felt like a mishmash of Christian cultures and the personalities within the congregation did not seem dampened by the structure of the service but enhanced. One gentleman with a rich voice sounded like Pete Seeger singing an African Traditional.  The more democratic structure seemed to accommodate many aspects of the Christian faith but coincidentally the sermon focused on a guest speaker who was actually from another inter-denominational church group known as the Street Pastors.
Street Pastors is an inter-denominational Christian group who voluntarily patrol the streets with the aim to respond to “urban problems.”  I don’t know what an “urban problem,” is but I presume that the majority of urban problems is drunken behaviour and attending to people alone in vulnerable situations.  The organisation was formed in London in 2003 by Reverend Les Isaac, Director of the Ascension Trust as a way of tackling crime by building relationships with the community that the police were unable to build. There is now over 150 Street Pastor projects in Britain and over a dozen international schemes. To enrol as a street pastor you must be a Christian, receive extensive training and pay £300 fee. Some of my left leaning Christian friends would say you do not have to pay to do God’s work but that is not to diminish the work the Street Pastors do.

Street Pastors were introduced into the context of the service as a possible solution to the Hackney riots. Talking to the very happy clappy congregation who did not seem to have a single aggressive bone in their collective body I was concerned that sending these sweetest of Christians out onto the East End high streets of Booze Britain was like sending lambs to their slaughter. My initial apprehensions were slightly quelled when the Street Pastors spokesman outlined the actual work they do across the night. They claim statistics have shown that their mere presence has decreased crime. Street Pastors most common activities is collecting bottles or broken glass, handing out flip flops to barefooted ladies and attending to drunken casualties. No doubt they are a positive force and being an inter-denominational church group I cannot see the organisation being used for Christian recruitment. Instead the organisation seemed to provide the opportunity for the more masochistic Christian personality to outwardly pursue caring for one’s neighbour. Personally I don’t think you can beat a soup kitchen, hospices and the night shelter as the most useful forms of charity; however Street Pastors appear to be a more sexy form of Christian outreach appealing to the more action man personality than the Florence Nightingale wannabe.  Disregarding my petty criticism it was touching to hear accounts of a Street Pastor’s night’s work. I just could not imagine any of the congregation on the streets at night.

The most pleasant aspect of the Round Chapel congregation was their infectious passive enthusiasm that I felt would be tainted by drunken abuse if they took the form of Street Pastors. Street Pastors are a crusade orientated Christian venture that has been designed to provide a practical solution to anxious Christians in need of saving someone but the Unitarian congregation did not seem to have any anxiety or fear within their faith. After stumbling across this small Christian community I wanted to protect their innocence but then who am I to protect anyone? I am sure the Round Chapel congregation would battle vigilantly with East End nightlife with hugs and kisses, prayers of forgiveness and beautiful renditions of cum-bay-ah but did not feel in the spirit of the Unitarians. Caring for one’s community is essential to leading a Christian lifestyle but it cannot simply determine ones faith because surely faith must be self-sufficient.  The current congregation have moved away from the showy nave of the Round Chapel and have collectively created a unique church community that is not defined by the opinions of people outside the church walls but those within it and far better for it.

St James The Less, St James Avenue, 11.09.11

Church can often be predictable as it’s a routine exercise in a weekly ritual. At many services I look to the sermon for variation and difference but this Sunday was different; predictably different because this Sunday was the tenth anniversary of World Trade Centre terrorist attacks. So even the sermon was predictable but ironically the ritual was not.

I am not a fan of the media’s recent fascination for nostalgic trauma surrounding its coverage of the 9/11 anniversary. It’s not healthy to give one day so much historical significance as it makes all the other days, weeks, months of the last ten years less important. The criticism I will level towards Christianity’s reaction to the 9/11 anniversary is symptomatic of a larger cultural problem. I am not so much Christian bashing but culture bashing.

I was seventeen when the attacks took place and ever since that historical day the shadow of the World Trade Centre was cast over my generation as a symbol that we would never be as lucky as our parents. According to politicians, the media and religious groups our innocence had been lost.  The World Trade Centre attacks were a tragedy but it was made to mushroom and symbolise a tragic decade not just one morning. Thank god for the financial crisis in 2008 which was at least a genuine global crisis caused by the greed of millions of people and not a bunch of plane hijackers forcing their religious ideologues onto an unsuspecting world. The global financial meltdown could not compete with the spectacle of the 9/11 blockbuster despite directly affecting far more people across the globe.  My anger is that 9/11 was as important as the West made it and they made it into the event that defined my generation without even asking. 9/11 heralded not only the theoretically unwinnable war on terror but a template for 24 hour event news coverage, the slow disintegration of civil liberties, the halting of global migration, a rebirth of political apathy for another generation, international polices that were based on fears not facts, the rise of islamphobia, the expansion of surveillance culture and the decline of multiculturalism. All these currents were not created by 9/11 but were given political credibility and cultural legitimacy. I feel fraudulent in taking part in any ritual surrounding 9/11 as the ritual perpetuates the myth that this event was more tragic than any other international crisis including the wars it unintentionally helped create. Why be so hung up on such trivial ceremonies I hear you ask? My main reason is that church has taught me that ritual is far more powerful than we like to think.

Despite my cultural apprehensions towards the remembrance of 9/11 I had made the romantically contrived decision to visit St James the Less on St James Avenue just next to Victoria Park. St James was a C of E church with a very polite and respectful congregation, typically full of passive smiles that were friendly but not intrusive. The site was ideal for the act of remembrance as it not only once housed a large wooden war memorial for the Great War 1914-1918 (which was moved to Sewardstone Road) but also had been reconstructed after damage during the blitz in 1944.  Unlike ground zero the church site had been saved and rebuilt yet only the grand 1840 tower remained. Similar to St George of the East but less magical, St James gave the impression of existing in two time zones. The ability to link the past with present is the central crux of remembrance making the building apt for this week’s Sunday Service; the architecture providing a larger unspoken context to the sermon. Surrounded by such history I felt the effects of 9/11 should be refreshingly lost amongst so much historical tragedy but the service bowed to the societal obligation to galvanise the anniversary in a Christian context.

In the wake of 9/11 George Bush Junior did a lot of damage to the international reputation of Christianity, his war mongering was unfortunately full of crusader imagery and his jingoism firmly based on the American religious right’s international perspective that Americans are God’s true people. Not all blame can be lodged at the American Christian right in recent years it has been revealed that Tony Blair also used God to absolve himself of the sins he committed post 9/11. To the Anglican Church’s credit they never stood in favour of the War on Terror and have never been caught in the religious hatred spouted by other churches that openly attack Islam. Anglican priests seem well versed in providing a sober Christian voice when faced by international and sectarian disputes. Always quick to dispel any vengeful or righteous religious language found in the Old Testament in favour of Jesus’s belief in the power of forgiveness.  The sermon predictably provided personal accounts of victims of September 11^th but the soft voice of Reverend Logan was careful to pray for the remembrance for all that had been killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. Reverend Logan’s words reminded me of the newspaper articles I had been avoiding all month. The impassioned but mannered speech was a crowning moment for a cathartic closure to anyone who had lived the last ten years like they had been trapped by events of one single day or anyone who had been reading the newspapers for the last month. The planned hysteria was given a refreshing twist with the remembrance service replacing the Holy Communion.

Entering St James the Less I was given the option of a stick or a stone as I collected my Bible and hymn sheet. It was not explained if the materials would be used for violent heckling or religious ceremony but I presumed the later. As we reached the end of the service Reverend Logan asked every member to come forward with their stick and stone and light a candle and place the item by the altar. The stick or the stone should represent a person you have not yet forgiven who you would like to, personalising the theme of forgiveness from the sermon into the ritual. I was impressed by this postmodern approach merging the personal with the political through the doctrines of Christ. I am sure some atheist critics would pettily argue that comparing the forgiveness of a terrorist from 9/11 to forgiving a teenage daughter for not cleaning up her room represented a skewed morality but I am even more cynical. I could not think of anyone to forgive, all I could think is who would forgive me for the empty gesture of placing a rock by the altar with no one in mind.

I don’t forgive anyone because I don’t know any better. I don’t have a belief that creates a dynamic in which people need to be forgiven. I see forgiveness as an emotional response not a social, political, theological or spiritual act. If you forgive everyone you forgive no one. Why not pride myself on having integrity and the ability to have empathy so you can understand people and their decisions. No one knows the exact reasons why Mohammed Atta decided to crash a plane into the World Trade Centre but we can attempt to understand by placing ourselves in his situation. Just like many people claim to understand (not agree) why George Bush launched a so called moral crusade on terrorism. Understanding is not forgiveness as it does not offer a conclusion; instead it’s an on-going process that hopes to dissolve such power dichotomies. I feel guilt for not caring enough about 9/11 or other global crises, guilt is always a feature when visiting church or writing my blog but do I want forgiveness or do I want to be understood?

Shoreditch Baptists, Hackney Road, 4.09.11.

Sitting on the central aisle in a non-descript nave which is modestly decorated with neutral colours and a collection of crucifixes I listen to a middle aged, slightly balding man strum away at an acoustic guitar. The gentleman was sweetly lost in the moment as he led the morning hymn aided by a projector, a few zealous singers and the obliged mutters of the remaining congregation. The Shoreditch Baptist Church’s hymns were not to my taste, the congregation and the general mood was similar to the diverse congregation and placid hymns of Victoria Park Baptist Church and in contrast to the more joyous less structured hymns of the predominantly Ghanaian congregation of the Open Doors Baptist Church. Some Baptists know how to boogie and get their gospel groove on while others prefer to sway to Christian pop anthems. Housed in a modest building, the Shoreditch Baptists are planning to move to a larger church in the New Year but their temporary building had an understated charm. My favourite feature is the high antenna placed above the entrance with a crucifix positioned on top, this understated adornment had a tokenistic quality in its feeble attempt to compete with the city's skyline and rise to the heavens. The building and music may not have brought out the Holy Spirit within me but it did get my mind working (not all churches have achieved this). I didn’t find God but I did have an epiphany (maybe for Christians all epiphanies are sent by God) but I imagine their God would not have approved of my epiphany. I realised that for me to personally find God the superficial reception of worship does matter. It’s a general preconception that obtaining a religious or spiritual experience is rising above the material world and experiencing a bigger state of consciousness, yet surely our environment does matter or we would have never created church.

I don’t like modern Christian hymns! I cannot think of anything more off putting to becoming a Christian with the exception of more serious deterrents such as religious sectarianism, institutionalised homophobia and general right wing rhetoric. Besides the key disgraces of Christianity peppered throughout history my modern pet hate is the pop tinged Christian hymns that take a lyrical inspiration from The Bible and apply it to the melody of a below par Beatles song. My dislike is merely a superficial prejudice that has no moral agenda but I could attempt to create one such is my hatred. I do like hymns. After leaving many Pentecostal services I have been ecstatic with joy at the singing and the dancing of the service which has even led me to buy gospel music and read the Redemption Hymnal in solitude. The passion I have for Pentecostal hymns by comparison to Baptist pop anthems is purely cultural. Caribbean Pentecostalists are my favourite singers; the music seems sparser lending itself to more varied rhythm and experimental vocal range similar to genres of Reggae, Soul and the Blues. In comparison to my passion for the Redemption Hymnal I have fostered a hatred for Christian pop hymns influenced by mass culture's stadium pop market of Take That, West life and reality TV stars. In conclusion the material worlds of my musical tastes have an enormous influence on how close I feel to God and it also produces a lot of guilt. Guilt as the congregation of Shoreditch Baptist Church was no less welcoming than the Pentecostal congregations I had visited. Forward and friendly with smiling faces from a wide variety of East End society I felt like I would love to contribute more to the celebrations but I could not get my Godly groove on. Luckily the service seemed to address our superficial barriers towards God with its advocacy of The Alpha Course.

The entire service was dedicated to the selling of The Alpha Course as a tool to recruit new members to the church, to renew interest in lapsed church members and to cultivate the Holy Spirit in its current congregation. This week's Bible readings and Sunday sermon were put on hold, so guest speakers from Victoria Park Baptist Church could sing the praises of The Alpha Course.  So what is The Alpha Course? Personally I feel its Christianity’s attempt to rebrand itself away from the material criticism I previously mentioned. Like all so called progressive Christian movements it’s interested in modernising Christianity so it paradoxically remains the same but also relevant to the everyday. I think it’s important I differentiate how the speakers described the Alpha course, how Alpha sells itself, and then provide my own humble opinion but before all that let’s have some facts from Wikipedia.

The Alpha Course was founded in the 80s and fully formed in the early 90s at the Holy Trinity Church Brompton, Rev Charles Marnham, Rev John Irvine, Rev Nicky Gumbel and Rev Sandy Millar all played pivotal roles in developing and revising a 10 weekly session course to evangelise non-believers. By 2008 over 33,500 courses were offered in 163 countries by Anglican, Presbyterian, Lutheran, Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, New Church Movement and Orthodox churches, even Roman Catholic Churches. The course aim was to find a universal way of teaching about God that did not exclude any Christian doctrine but brought them all together. Despite not including Baptism or Communion The Alpha Course does not discourage these forms of worship. The courses 10 weekly structure are based around an “Alpha Meal,” held in the evening from which group's discuss various issues surrounding Christianity. Each week has a topic, talk and perhaps a DVD viewing. Sample titles from Alpha Course are

How Can I fill myself with Holy Spirit?

How Can I Resist Evil?

Why and How Should I tell Others?

The titles are predictably vague and all-encompassing but not your regular light evening dinner conversation. The Alpha Course has developed into a brand and now specialises in certain target groups offering courses for Youth Alpha, Student Alpha, Senior Alpha, Alpha in the Workplace, Alpha in the Forces, Alpha in Prisons. Alpha has drawn criticism from far right evangelical groups claiming it’s not clear enough in its definitions of sin and disapproval from less evangelical Christians upset by the Charismatic slant of the course which advocates speaking in tongues and healing through prayer. Regardless of the criticism the Alpha course is unquestionably successful. I don’t want to personally criticise a course I have not taken part in but I was interested in the disparity between the flashy website and our guest's pitch.  

The three guests were all very friendly, articulate and passionate in their praise of the Alpha Course but they did not have perfect teeth, dressed like they were in a catalogue, or in aged their twenties unlike the below advertisement.

Our guest speakers provided a lot more information and did not seem to forget to mention God, Jesus, The Holy Spirit and Christianity which is oddly absent from the above video. Rebranding often means to target a product at a younger market. When targeting one of the oldest texts in the world you think it would be wise not to leave out The Holy Trinity? Or at least include Jesus Christ. But these words bring up past associations that Alpha does not want to colour its young audience’s minds. Instead of the crucifixtion hanging above your head in an old nave the advert's church is presented like a late night canteen styled as a high class night club. At least the flashy advert informed you of the Alpha structure of a free dinner and discussion as well as indicating that an informal conversation about the bigger questions of life can be as placid and boring as the most trivial table talk. Predictably the advert misses the personal stories that the visiting advocates chose to share. The church's guests all talked on the key experiences they have gained from doing the Alpha Course. One middle age gentleman spoke of the joy he felt when he convinced and bared witnessed to a non-believer's spiritual awakening and another young lady from Italy talked about how the weekly meal provided a structure and community when moving to an unknown and uncaring London. A sense of togetherness was clearly the key attribute of the Alpha Course’s success, a success I attribute to the dinner table.

The Alpha Course takes two key timeless features of human life which have been the foundation of society long before Christianity, the contemplation of our existence and people coming together to sit down for a good meal. Add a Christian agenda to this old paradigm and advertise the course as a new and modern lifestyle choice and you have the unintentionally ironic Alpha Course. I am not criticising its content but merely the structured style of its presentation. Naturally sceptical I have concerns that the so called informal structure that consists of first timers, regular members and then organisers arguably forms a hierarchal dynamic in an unassuming environment. I am not interested in criticising the inner workings of the Alpha Course but I am interested in how the course reflects how self-conscious Christianity has become.

The incredibly warm and welcoming Reverend Georgina said it was important that non-believers "do not perceive us Christians as geeks,” and another guest talker said she regretted evangelising with a microphone outside a supermarket because she appeared like a nutter (her words) and that she was now grateful for the Alpha course as it gave her the opportunity to evangelise through a more socially acceptable forum. I like geeks and I like nutters much more than I like people in adverts with shiny teeth as I feel a geek and a nutter carry more truth and sincerity. I am not going to condemn the Alpha course as mass culture's answer to Christianity. After all Christianity strives to be the mass culture of the lord however people do not want to belong to a mass culture. People like to pride themselves on their difference. I have a feeling that like the hymns from Shoreditch Baptist church the Alpha course would leave me numb and unable to move closer to God. Christianity will continue to rebrand itself in a hope to reach a greater audience but I am not interested in that God, instead the God I seek is romantically hidden in the fragmented sub cultures of our consumer led society. Not to be found on a supermarket shelf but outside being rejoiced by a nutter and a Geek in the store's car park.

Lost Pilgrimage, 28.08.11-02.08.11,

Last week I said I wanted the journey without the destination but after only one week I already regret those words. This week has been one long journey with no destination in sight. I did not even find a church that would be open to be a suitable destination instead I was met by metaphorically and physically closed doors on several attempts. Reduced to spiritually scavenging I have been desperate to find an occasion to embellish and canonize, but this week's events have been too worthy of such exaggerated platitudes or too obscure to document. So how did I get so lost….

On Sunday I set out on my weekly quest to discover another unique East End Sunday Service, this morning I was particularly excited to have a sneak inside the German Roman Catholic Church in Whitechapel. Ever since my first visit to Whitechapel road I had been caught in the shadow of the large bell tower that hovers over the road’s only park. The tower carves a uniquely sharp shape into the skyline. Its narrow design houses three large bells, stacked above one another in single file. The modern blocked bricks and long escalation always reminded me of a large factory chimney converted into a belfry, a post-industrial church. When I discovered the church was German it confirmed the tower's efficient elegance. The tower has a striking starkness but up-close the texture of the building is really intriguing. The blocked bricks have a computer cubed design with coloured stone tinting that adds some decorative character to an abrupt, firm, modern building. The large wooden carved entrance has an unnecessarily blocked cross pattern which  hangs above the door creating an impression of unknown historical era; an age that combines futuristic and medieval design. The church entrance seems old and new at once, like a past age's concept of the future but not a future that belonges to the present. A more romantic future! Romantic because this concept of the future is so far away it lives in the past.

As you can tell by my wild waffling, I was very excited to look inside the German Roman Catholic Church and see what other old futuristic adornments I might discover inside the church’s nave. I had been so careful not to miss the service that I had translated the lone sign outside the church with the help of (the atheist's God) Google. The sign clearly stipulates that the service is held at 11 AM on Sunday of the 2^nd, 4^th and 5^th week of the month (and it was the 4^th). So when I discovered the doors to be shut I panicked because my agnostic pilgrimage was not my only commitment on that day. Later in the early afternoon I had to commit the sin of going to work on the Sabbath, so with two hours  before the start of my shift I had very little time to rectify the situation. Sweating and cycling while wearing a suit I made a dash to the nearest churches in a hope of a short but spiritually uplifting Sunday service. My first would be destination was St Peters, a sweet village style church nestled in the centre of a ringroad of small towerblockes but when I arrived the congregation were taking communion, ironically the only part of the Eucharist I don’t partake in. Back on my bike I rode to St John on Bethnal Green but had to circle the scaffolding only to arrive at the hidden side entrance and see parishioners sit down for tea and biscuits. Theatrically renouncing my godly commitments I accepted defeat but romantically returned to the German Roman Catholic church in hope of some answers. My answers came in the form of a sweetly smiling, meticulously dressed German family of four who reassured me I had correctly translated the sign. I was too angry to call the telephone number provided as I felt my agnostic woes had already been predetermined and I would have to consolidate myself with a weekly evening prayer meeting. Like the sweetly smilng, meticulously dressed German family I had been victim of my own casual commitment to church.

Church does a great job of loading you with blame even when you don’t go. Yet some of my friends who are Christians don’t go to church but clearly feel akin to church more than I. The answer is, as it is every week, faith. My friends with faith don’t go to church as they don’t seem to care about missing the ritual of the service, because they already have an instilled notion of belief within them. As for me I don't have it so easy. I am just letting myself down, my friends could be letting down the Almighty but naturally He would forgive them, yet I will not forgive myself. The agnostic church goer can’t help but see a Sunday Service as a duty and I am sure I am not the first church goer to feel this. Church is another commitment, along with work, blogging and any other activity you pursue to make your life more interesting than it is or hopefully was. I need my Sunday Service far more than non-church going believers, maybe that’s why everyone goes to church because they don’t feel Christian without going. In comparison to me who does not feel like an agnostic until I do go to church.

On Sunday night I was no longer worried as I had several spiritual ventures floating around my head. The first suggestion struck me when I was cycling down a grotty alley and saw a poster so unique to my interests it was like it had been delivered by God. The cheap religious imagery and the text was divine material for the blog. The text starts with large letter heading “Singles Prayer Seminar.” The smaller text is listed below in snippets was full of the most intriguing dilemmas facing Christians love

Have you been single for too long?

Is your marriage failing?

Have you been separated from your spouse or partner?

Do you experience disappoints in your relationships?

Do strange beings appear in your bed to have sex with you?

Then you need this programme without fail.

The poster is like any other dating agency advert with the exception that it has more of a focus on the negative aspects of realtionships and sells itself not as an enterprise but as a counselling service. Despite not having a girlfriend I thought this was a step too far in my secular exploration of Christian lifestyles. Cowardly I reassured myself that it would be misleading to any Christian I met male or female at “Singles Prayer Seminar,” not because I was not single but they might think I have a rescue complex. Not that the event was too Christian or too secular to warrant a blog entry but it was out of keeping with my interests. Instead of looking at the benefits of a Christian dating agency I looked to the more famous Christian enterprise, the soup kitchen.

The Whitechapel Mission Church is not simply a soup kitchen but was established in 1876, overseen by Methodist preacher Thomas Jackson , its aim was to clothe orphan and destitute lads but has developed over time into a outreach community project. Whitechapel Mission provides breakfast, showers, post office for the homeless, benefit advice and counselling, the organisation is an archetype for Christian charity. Observing the breakfast it felt intrusive unless I was to take part and volunteer, which again I could not do due to my work commitments. After a brief chat with a volunteer I felt despite the name of charity being Christian it was not a church. I had just glimpsed into a world which actually practiced the words of Jesus but did not overtly preach them. The subjects were not all Christians and it was not fair to write and comment on a non-devout congregation, instead I was watching a cast of unknowns act out  the morality of the new testament. I feel guilt when I go to church but nothing in comparison to the guilt I felt leaving Whitechapel Mission Church, as I made my exit I was so ashamed I said goodbye to no one. 

So I decided to console myself with a morning mass at St Annes and was not as frustrated as I had been five days earlier when I was greeted by closed doors. Arriving at another unwilling destination it seemed clear that no matter how expansive my study of Christian life may grow it was ultimately limited by me. Not due to a lack of faith just due to a lack of time. No one has the time to fully explore the diversity of what it means to be Christian in the modern world. Nor is it adequate to reduce Christianity to merely going to church. Church is a comfort, an environment in which you can feel closer to God and reassurance to me that you I don’t need him.