Somewhere in the midst of the hurly-burly antics and preoccupations of life, I think maybe, I’m probably a Christian. Not the type who sings in church with his eyes shut, but an extremely moderate, unthinking Anglican for whom the prospect of the existence of nothing is too painful for words.
That makes me the sort of Anglican who starts to pray once the 747 has been in freefall for six seconds or more over the Atlantic, or the type that looks heavenward when Harry Kane is about to take the most important penalty in the recent history of English football.
As a result, the Great Being plays precious little part in my day-to-day life; I fear I’m essentially Godless. I go to church about five times a year, usually for events that don’t form part of the liturgical calendar – weddings, funerals and sometimes baptisms.
But I do still classify myself as an Anglican, unlike the vast majority of the country – just 12 per cent of us are C of E now, according to the latest census, while less than half, just 48 per cent, are Christian of any kind. The proportion who have no religion has tripled in 20 years to 37 per cent.
I would say that’s fine, but you don’t have to be the supreme being to see that this rampant atheism might not be doing us all that much good. I mean, what’s God done for us?
Go, sit there, and contemplate the world, the universe and your tiny place in it, away from the Sunday morning trials of shopping centres, life or the number of steps you’re hoping to achieve
The problem is, no matter how many £3.99 T-shirts you buy from Primark, no matter how many times you fill your already distended gut to breaking point with cheap, ‘gourmet’ two-for-one pizzas, no matter how many pairs of knees you wear out on the treadmill, you won’t find the answer you’re looking for. It will always be one more jumpsuit, KFC bucket or 5k away.
Perhaps your preference is to drink yourself into existential oblivion – or to smoke weed to dull the cerebellum? Perhaps your plan is simply to connect the dots between now and the inevitable by keeping busy and never looking down? Perhaps you’re one of these people who strokes crystals in the middle of the night?
If retail therapy, actual therapy, over-eating, over-drinking, drug abuse, violent computer games, pornography addiction, online gambling, workaholicism, obsessive do-gooding or depression-engendered sloth is your plan, well, I’m not going to knock it. It’s horses for courses.
But just look at how well it’s working. While Christian belief has been collapsing, life expectancy has gone into reverse (for men it’s back down to where it was before 2012 at 79.04 years) and, as you can see for yourself, folk are happier than ever – aren’t they?
So, dare I ask: have you been to church recently, for anything apart from a birth, death or marriage? Have you?
I have, and it’s strange experience, Anglicanism in the 21st century. Once upon a time churches were draughty if not outright cold, with narrow pews and dusty hymnals – the sort you could throw quite accurately in the playground and that would make an impressive noise on impact. In those days, vicars had a sense of moral and spiritual purpose and may or may not strut importantly with quasi-Victorian robes gushing behind them. They could also be inspiring.
Now, much of it is very different. Take my last local church in west London: it still had pews (praise be!) but at the Christmas service the vicar wore a Santa jumper, Father Christmas hat and sang while strumming an electric guitar. Ronald McDonald imitators have more dignity than that. And instead of hymnals the words were relayed over large flat screens and quite a number in the congregation swayed – hands aloft – when they sang. Not for the first time it occurred to me that electricity and wall-to-wall carpeting have probably done more harm to the Anglicanism in this country than the General Synod, and that’s saying something.
When it came to sermons, the emphasis was on love, not theology, which is a shame since these can at least be intellectually interesting. But I was moved by it, and that surprised me.
Probably the worst thing, though, is the modern versions of the Bible – they have none of the rhythm, mystery or cultural authority of the King James version. Listening to the Gospels now in your local parish church is like hearing Shakespeare performed by Google Translate.
But if you can overlook all of this, plus the faintly municipal chairs that have all too often replaced the pews, then I exhort you. Go. God is out there, waiting for you. I appreciate this sounds a bit highfalutin, especially from the mouth of a lapsed Anglican, which isn’t saying much. (As a former colleague on the Daily Telegraph used to say, back in the days of free speech, the Church of England is the British Leyland of religions.)
But go. Not only are churches warmer than you’ll remember, but the people there will be desperately grateful to see you. More than that, it’s worth listening – even if you think it’s bunkum. It’s worth gazing up at the high windows, taking in that light peering through the Victorian lens; it’ll do you at least as much good as the light scouring your flesh in the Maldives or Costa del Sol, but at a fraction of the cost of time or money.
Go, sit there, and contemplate the world, the universe and your tiny place in it, away from the Sunday morning trials of Laura Kuenssberg, shopping centres, life or the number of steps you’re hoping to achieve. Take that moment of peace, and run with it. (At the very least it’ll be an hour-long digital detox.) Yes, the likes of Richard Dawkins will always win the argument, but what if there’s more to the world than the strictly rational? And how do you know if you haven’t tried since the 1980s or 1990s?
So my advice this Christmas is to go to church: make that a present to yourself. Endure the central heating, the comfort of the new seats and the unusual friendliness of people around you. Endure that modern translation of the Bible, which though joyless is far easier to understand; suffer the sheer humanity and the smiles. Go and celebrate the birth of Christ among people for whom it is a big deal, not simply a retail opportunity. Do this for yourself and those you love.
Yes, it might be a waste of time. But you never know, the kernel of something greater might awake within you. That’s why I’ll be giving it a try again this year, and if the vicar is wearing a Father Christmas hat and strumming an electric guitar, so be it. I’m not shutting my eyes, nor will I sway, but I’ll be there.
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