I go to my local church. But not my very local church. There’s a Pentecostal church, a plain building used mostly by worshipers from the Caribbean, on my very road. Happy music sometimes spills out and I have often seen smartly dressed worshippers outside.
When I told my wife that I planned to go to a service, and maybe write about it, she advised against. It would be intrusive, she said. It’s not your culture. If you wrote about it, you’d sound partronising, sneery. But I’m a religion writer, I replied, and it would be remiss of me to overlook a church in my actual street. And I’m a Christian, and so are they, so surely nervousness about cultural difference should not put me off. And I sound sneery about everything, so that’s irrelevant.
Now I’m rather glad that it’s there, that the only non-residential building in my street, apart from the corner-shop, is devoted to the praise of God
The notice board said that Sunday worship was from 11 to 1.15. A misprint surely – or maybe the timing included an hour for coffee. I wouldn’t let this put me off. I arrived on the dot and the service already seemed to be underway – in fact Sunday School was ending. I sat down (plush red velvety chairs – not very Anglican), and was met by a couple of bemused but friendly-enough nods. An old guy – surprisingly in a dog-collar – was talking about Moses being found in the water as a baby. He was sort of acting it out, playing it for laughs, like a stand-up. There were just a few kids, and about ten adults – another ten or 15 turned up gradually.
An old man sitting near me said hello. I said where I normally went to church and he said he’d recently met my vicar at a funeral. This little connection put us at ease. He was smartly dressed, as everyone was. I was the only man not wearing a tie. The women wore white, or mostly white, and their heads were covered either by fancy white hats or tight turban-like coverings.
A boy in a smart suit came round holding an upturned tambourine, on which people placed coins. Luckily I had a few – I was planning to buy some milk on the way home. Three women stood at the front, each behind a mic, and led us in some songs. This was the best bit of the service. A guy on a drum-kit produced a loud mechanical beat, fast like a human beat box. The jokey minister plucked at an electric guitar. A languorous dude, who turned up late, played a keyboard. A lot of tambourines joined in. There was a rousing song about what a mighty God we have, then one telling Satan to get thee behind us. There were no hymn books or words on a screen, but I soon got wind of the chorus and joined in. One of the women shouted out extra phrases in the gaps between lines of the song, creating a sort of dialogue feel, and a sense of drama. I was getting into the groove.
Soon there was some welcome-chat from the jokey minister. He welcomed me, and I replied, saying that I lived in the street, normally worshipped elsewhere, and was curious to see how they worshipped. ‘You know what they say about curiosity – it killed the cat!’ This raised a laugh. The comment could be interpreted in different ways, but I felt welcomed.
There was a reading from an epistle. My neighbour shared his large-print Bible with me, so I could follow. ‘King James version’, he said proudly. There followed some testimonies, including one long account of a difficult hospital appointment. The older members were addressed as ‘mother’ or ‘father’: ‘Father Cyril, would you like to bless the church?’ – the phrase for testifying. One testimony elicited some amens and hallelujahs from the congregation, delivered in the same stern tone of voice as heckles.
I was expecting the actual sermon to be similarly rousing but instead one of the old guys spoke in such a sober manner that the comfort of my seat briefly got the better of me. Then there was a relaxed version of holy communion: a plate of crisp bread was passed round and then, accompanied by a hymn about being saved by the blood of Jesus, a tray of plastic sip-glasses with wine in.
There were some notices. It was one of the old guys’ birthday, so some gifts were presented to him. It was a nice community atmosphere. The noticeboard had not lied: two hours and twenty minutes had elapsed before we said our goodbyes. If I had to make a criticism, it might be that it feels a bit cut off from the world. For example there weren’t any prayers about world conflicts or even the local school or hospital. But there was mention of the food-bank they run.
I’m glad I went. Before my visit I was vaguely uncertain: maybe there’s something dubious about such a church, maybe they do weird things, maybe they’d be hostile to someone like me dropping in. It feels wrong for Christian communities to be standoffish with each other, nervous of mixing, especially if there’s a strong ethnic minority element. (Or ethnic majority element: I’m uneasy among an all-white congregation in London.)
But now I’m rather glad that it’s there, that the only non-residential building in my street, apart from the corner-shop, is devoted to the praise of God. It’s not quite my tradition of God-praise, but there’s common ground, scope for dialogue, maybe collaboration. One week I mean to try the evening service, which is only two hours.
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