Seven in the morning is a grey, misty, cold affair in April. Definitely not the ideal time to start a Sunday. Thoughts such as these filtered through my addled brain as I stuffed an extra fleece into my rucksack. Why was I doing this?
Images & Words by Greg Melia
It had seemed such a good idea at the time — I had immediately talked my friend Andrew Leo into accompanying me to seven York church services in one day — as many as we could fit in. When was “the time” anyway? It was probably in the pub, whenever it was. I had to go through with it now, though. Andrew would have set off already. So, shivering, I made my semi-conscious way to Heslington Church.
Things didn’t look up when Nancy the vicar announced that for this service of Communion, we would be reading from the ‘traditional’ liturgy. I’ve never been a fan of words I can’t make sense of, and from his look, neither had Andrew. Yet, as the service got underway, I couldn’t help but admire this congregation of ten for their steadfast refusal to let their beds keep them from their God. As the sun drew (ever so slightly) higher in the sky, I came to appreciate the words, passed down for generations, of worship — worship to a God who didn’t care if they were small — He loved them. There were no hymns in this service, merely reverence, faith and respect, even from the two layabout student impostors.
The service lasted a mere half an hour, but that still left us short of time to reach our next church; St Michael le Belfrey. Almost from the moment we walked breathlessly in, though, we detected what type of event this would be. If there’s such a thing as the archetypal Anglican service, then St Michael’s in the morning is it. A piano was played, hymns were sung, we all duly recited the confession, creeds and responses, and the curate ascended the pulpit with surplice flowing. At this point, I felt my standard Anglican urge to go to sleep in the sermon, but resisted. As it was, the sermon was on John 14, which was the same passage as at Heslington, anyway. We’d receive rather excessive amounts of exegesis on this passage before the day was out.
After the service, and several interesting conversations with Pentecostal old ladies (don’t ask why they were at St Michael’s) over coffee that was both Fairtrade and real, we rushed off again in true Church Marathon style to catch the beginning of Campus Mass. I must admit that Langwith college isn’t the first place I’d think of to hold a church service but they seem to get by. As neither of us were Catholic we did hold a certain amount of apprehension, but this disappeared as soon as we walked through the door. The atmosphere was one of the warmest, most welcoming I’ve ever come across in church. After a couple of well placed jokes from Fr Damian (Apparently the new pope’s known as Papa Ratzi) the mass swung into action with aplomb, making me truly glad to be Christian. What a pity I had to leave after forty minutes for a confirmation class. Campus mass was a very different church to the last two, not only of a different denomination but with a constantly changing student population, but they evidently shared the same love of God.
The next service we visited was always going to be interesting, not least because it was in Chinese. Held in St Michael’s at 2pm, it gathered in Chinese people of all ages, shapes and styles, and even a few English people. Who knows why they were there; maybe they were on church marathons, too? I was quite curious to see what style of service it was. Were Chinese people hooked on incense, or did they take Victorian hymn sandwich for preference?
The answer came as soon as the leader picked up his guitar. This was low evanglical workship par excellence. What’s more, it was extermely long since each song was sung both in Chinese and English, and the musicians had a penchant for repeating everything four times. After thirty five minutes of singing, the two marathon churchgoers were near to hitting the pew. The prayers, sermon (in English, through a translator) and whatever else they did all took on a similarly hour munching manner, and it was nearly two hours later when we stumbled, blinking, into the afternoon sunlight outside.
Next on the list was York Salvation Army Citadel. For reasons known only to themselves (and possibly God) they had decided not to have an evening service this particular Sunday, as we found out. All was not lost, though. Just in time, we remembered Matthew 18 verse 20: “For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them”. So with a quick prayer, we held our service in record time and went home for tea.
Everything felt familiar as we crossed the doors of our penultimate church. There was the reassuring smell of countless well used copies of Hymns & Psalms, the comforting feel of brown carpet underfoot, the usual lines of little shot glasses of Ribena at the front, and even the anticipated dominance of old ladies in the congregation. Yes, you guessed it: we were in Heworth Methodist church. Of course, I wouldn’t want to mislead you; every church is unique, this one no less so. Despite a couple of hiccoughs (the minister left his throat mic on while administering communion) the service was both dignified and calming, with the sermon (John Wesley and the Make Poverty History campaign) leaving me with food for thought. I could even forgive the one lady whose shrill, warbling voice almost drowned out the other twenty five there. In fact, the very predictability of the service added something to it. Throughout our day, so many people had worshipped in so many different ways, and yet worship was the one thing that united them. In the end, though the churches bore little resemblance to each other, God remains the same yesterday, today and forever. Perhaps we should pause to remember that before we insult other traditions and theologies, I mused in my pew. I’d certainly held a few prejudices about the churches I’d visited during the day, most of which had been proved false as I witnessed them firsthand.
Still, the service overran and we were forced to almost run out of the door, with not even time for the after-service coffee, or to properly say thank you to the besuited gentleman on the door. We had a service to attend. Contained within a similar sized building — St Cuthbert’s is a smallish old Anglican church — the Visions multimedia service is a very different entity to Heworth Meth. Hurrying in, I was hit by a wall of incense and entranced by coloured projections flitting across the walls, images slowly fading into each other. Dance beats throbbed through the darkened air as I reclined on one of the beanbags strewn around the floor. I felt at home. In fact, the service reminded me more of Heslington than anywhere else. Here was a small band of believers, gathered together to celebrate the timeless and the new, in communion with each other and with their maker. As the Kyrie was sung, newspaper headlines flitted across the walls, reminding us of the very real reasons to sing with all our hearts, “Kyrie eleison — Christ have mercy”. The cup was passed round and we joined together in the ritual, making us one through that same Christ. The day was at an end.
“Go on then! Talk to each other!” — An unidentified minister, indulging in a little mid-sermon congregation-cajoling.
“La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la (x16)” — An unidentified musician, praising God with all their heart, but not quite so much of their vocabulary.
“Body of Christ, broken for me” — An unidentified minister, reminding himself why he’s taking communion.
Greg: Standing in St Michael’s with the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, listening to the Minster’s bells.
Andrew: Watching a three year old Chinese kid dance in front of the projector with a pink umbrella.
Average congregation size: 35
Average length: 63 minutes
Average communion wafers consumed: 0.66
Best refreshments: Real, Fairtrade coffee with choc chip cookies at St Michael’s.
Most Yorkshire vicar: Nancy Eckersley at Heslington Church.
Best humour: “Papa Ratzi” at Campuss Mass.
Most comfortable pews: Beanbags at Visions.