St Annes, Underwood Road, Tower Hamlets, 23.10.11

We are all starving African children in need of spiritual nourishment according to the Reverend of St Anne’s Roman Catholic Church. Inspired by the latest Oxfam poster campaign with its images of impoverished children our Reverend drew an unintentionally offensive and grossly insensitive comparison to the real famines within the developing world and the plague of atheism in our own. I like a creative metaphor or an exaggerated analogy but the Reverend’s use of Oxfam’s startling images of poverty to sell his God instead of raising funds was beyond opportunistic and verging on the exploitative. Should I expect better from the Catholic Church? They did manage to colonise half the world in the name of charity. I think my shock came when it was declared that this Sunday was Mission Sunday but the service lacked any clear charitable aspirations. The only form of social outreach advocated by the Reverend was that members of the congregation should invite a stranger to church. The Catholic church seemed to think that as long as everyone repents we will not need to raise money to fight the famines, floods and plagues of Armageddon because we will all be safe in heaven. Christianity is so entwined with charity it can be hard to distinguish the churches who really want to help and those who actually need help (i.e more recruits).

Christians want to save people but also many outreach programmes are not interested with ramming God down ones throat instead are wisely more concerned with force feeding the needy with something more essential, like hot food. Fine examples of Christian outreaches in East London that do more practicing than preaching are: The Whitechapel Mission Church established in 1876 as a soup kitchen for destitute lads but has developed into a Methodist outreach programme that provides domestic facilities for the homeless; showers, clothes, counselling, postal address, legal advice, everything but a home.  Similarly Acorn House is a rehab centre run in the grounds of and by the parishioners of St Leonards of Shoreditch. Also St John at Hackney turns the church’s the grand oval nave into a winter night shelter from October to April. I have been less impressed by the Alpha Course or Street Pastor programmes which are not geared to a specific local community or church but alternatively run on a more corporate level with cost charges for their volunteers. The larger corporate outreach programmes seem to focus on the needs of the volunteers over the needs of the client and therefore appear tokenistic not fulfilling a Jesus Christ level of masochism. It’s essential that Christians give back to society but it seems a never-ending debate on what is the most appropriate form of charity. Catholics have obviously decided that the only thing we need to give is the word of God and here lies the accusations of corruption, greed, and hypocrisy.

A Catholic service is an exercise in obedience but also a charitable act. When the congregation pray for forgiveness and receive the Holy Sacrament the congregation are playing a well-rehearsed role of guilty sinner seeking mercy and love from The Almighty. The ritual cannot be changed as it determines the relationship of power. Unlike the more celebratory evangelical services that raise the Holy Spirit, the Eucharist’s set formula creates a clear separation between God and his followers. Catholics hold the most rigid of church services and clearly see the body of Christ as all the food you need to eat on this Earth which would be admirable if the Roman Catholic Church was not the richest in the world. Not that you need to travel to the Vatican to see the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church even in the low, run down areas of London’s East End, you can see wealth peppered around the antique like architectural beauty of St Anne’s of Bethnal Green.  

I counted 38 stone statue angels in varying sizes within the nave, 24 rogue heads overlooking the arched windows, approximately 12 Marys carved from the finest stones, 44 candle sticks, 36 golden and 8 iron, a blinding number of lights, 14 potted plants, a marble gothic altar of saints and angels and a hoard of adornments so luxurious I could not imagine their names. All of these treasures were contained in a 1850s chapel made out of Kentish rag stone with a large rose window over the rustic wooden front door. Every brick and piece of stone inside and out you wanted to smash to see if it was filled with gold. The buildings collection of timeless religious paraphernalia made it feel outside clear modern economic distinctions. Call it age, maturity, history, the church’s opulence felt priceless or is it? A listed building with various antique decorations gave the impression of something greater than grandeur, a place of divine spiritual significance however that’s what the Catholic want you to believe when in reality the church and its many treasures could be used to raise funds for more worthwhile causes.

The Reverend seemed to forget that Jesus did not require followers by preaching that he was the son of God but by performing acts of charity that provided for others and did not benefit him. Arguably the wealth of a church depends on the faith of its followers and despite the grandeur and glamour of Catholicism its money is non-transferable to charity, yet there is no larger or more powerful religious institution in the world. I find it sad that in the poorest areas of the world many will swallow the word of God because they are hungry for food but in the richer society we eat the poor as if they are food in the hope it will bring us closer to God. We eat them as news stories for our papers and TV programmes, as charitable causes for our outreach programmes, and as illustrative victims for our own agenda. We never eat them for who they are but for who we want them to be.

St Peters of Bethnal Green, St Peters Avenue, 16.10.11,

This week I have not had the time for God or God’s not had the time for me, therefore I decided to attend a short but sweet Anglican service at St Peters of Bethnal Green. The Anglican Church specialises in keeping God alive in the lives of people who would normally not have much time for him. Forever modernising to keep their traditions current, the Anglican Church contains some of the most progressive thinkers but also the most dwindling number of followers.  In contrast to the more recently formed American Pentecostal church who specialise in conservative rhetoric and raising the Holy Spirit, the Anglican Church offer liberal contemplation with a modern makeover. A key facet of being a modern liberal Christian is seeing God in everything you believe to be good. God does not simply exist in the scriptures but also in all of life itself; it takes effort to justify this perspective, an effort I just don’t have the time for. Christians take God from The Bible and relate him to their lives and in doing so they contribute to his creation and development, this is not blasphemous because The Bible and the Anglican Church wants them to do this. 

Reverend Adam Atkinson constantly switched from appearing sincere to smarmy so that you expected he was a politician in a previous life. An Average looking, white, short, male with glasses he was so physically unassuming you were shocked at his lucid and easy going public speaking manner, he was the quintessential priest next door, the good neighbour. Eager to promote a God that can be the be all and end all for his entire congregation, his sermon took the first Bible reading from the book of Isaiah chapter 45.  This verse has liberal emphasise on God existing in all things, being the creator of good and bad instead of separating morality into two distinctions of the devil and God himself.

⁷ I form the light and create darkness,
   I bring prosperity and create disaster;
   I, the LORD, do all these things.
Book of Isaiah, Chapter 45, Verse 7.

The congregation of St Peters appeared to have found god in all things and achieved Atkinson’s mission to contemporise Christianity. The service begun with a few Christian pop hymns led by a young resident singer song writer, had an interval which consisted of a Facebook montage celebrating a year of Atkinson’s leadership set to a ska soundtrack and concluded with a Bible reading from the stylish all black cover of the New International Version Bible. The covers only text was a black letter acronym “N.I.V” that looked more at home in the Death Metal section of HMV than in the house of God. Disregarding all the fads and fashions that were incorporated into the Sunday worship, the most impressive monument to God was the building itself.

Nestled on St Peter’s Avenue, the church is surrounded by small flats and a school placed in the centre of the square. Its modest flint exterior is powerful for its unusual location and is an understated but confident structure. Unlike Hawksmoor’s baroque churches that demand your attention or the post WW2 churches that look to a new egalitarian Christian building, St Peters was built in the 1800s but defies its origins. St Peter’s would be more fittingly placed on the rural broads of East Anglia than in the centre of multicultural East London. The building has had many renovations but no restoration, like the congregation the building attempts to combine the old traditions with a modern slant. The triangular peak to the spire is so basic but executed so well it does not need the architectural complications of other churches. I cannot see god in the trendy bible covers, Christian pop hymns or Facebook montages but I can appreciate the longevity of God’s people in the unique architecture of St Peters.

Reverend Atkinson was not merely interested in appropriating Facebook, pop songs, and trendy book covers or even celebrating the church’s architectural history, his reading of the Book of Isaiah was asking for the congregation to find God in other areas of their own lives. An important facet of Christianity is it offers individuals the opportunities to personalise God to their own interests thus taking part in his creation and here lies my problem.

  I am currently in the middle of the London Film Festival working as a Box Office manager working for 10 to 13 hours a day, thirteen days straight. Most of my job is dealing with the mass selling of tickets but the few upset individuals who are unhappy with my service will be the people I remember. I do not want to find God in my work, amongst ticket requests, full inboxes, pointless meetings, customer complaints, technical difficulties, disgruntled colleagues, unnecessary stress and general monotony. I like my job but it’s not a religion and I do it for the money not the love of cinema (which I have always had).  I am resigned that I will never find God in church but Atkinson did make me realise that I can find my God in what I do. I can find a spiritual sense of self and integrity by exploring my own interests and through these interest I can feel closer to life, predictably for an agnostic these moments are fleeting and therefore more resonant.

So this is my week’s montage of flickers of godliness: Unfinished sentences that make sense in my head but I cannot read from the page, cycling through the park on a cold crisp sunny October day, singing along to a brass band cover version of Sexual Healing while still in my dressing gown, watching old regulars at work fall asleep on the foyer’s sofas as life continues around them, only awake for cinema but  asleep during real life, the hundreds of epiphanies I have between my head touching the pillow and falling asleep (not that I can remember them), a nice cup of tea, dancing in the shower to Funky Good Time, laughing and not being able recall the joke.

God is created by people and that is why he is powerful but I will not be limited by the belief in one God. The book of Isaiah wants you to think of all the infinite possibilities God has created but ironically one of those possibilities is a world without Bible, the Church and even him. 

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.