Ministere De La Parole De Foi Hackney (translates as Word of Faith Ministry) on Sandringham Road , 18.12.12

The more God’s will is translated for me the more confused I get. On my penultimate Sunday I deliberately chose a non-English speaking service so I could escape the moral contemplation of theology and indulge in the physical pleasures of worship i.e. singing, dancing and waving your arms around. One of my largest discoveries over the year has been to learn to appreciate the importance of singing, dancing and waving your arms around with a congregation of strangers. Dancing, singing and waving your arms around has become a cathartic ritual response to the blinkered moral musings of a number of sermons. However theology, morality and scripture are far more difficult to translate than the singing, dancing and waving your arms around. So when entering the Ministere De La Parole De Foi Hackney (translates as Word of Faith Ministry) on Sandringham Road I was looking forward to getting my gospel groove on and ignoring the daily dogma. In the past at the Greek and Georgian Orthodox churches I had the opportunity (due to the language barrier) of appreciating pure ritual over religious rationalizing. My hope was that the Ministere De La Parole De Foi would provide the opportunity to get lost in the music but I had forgotten that the Ministere De La Parole De Foi was a Western church and unlike Eastern Orthodox churches (who believe in the sanctity of the Holy Scripture) it was essential I understand the Lord’s Word whatever the language. 

Like most churches with lavish names in East London, Ministere De La Parole De Foi Hackney has humble surroundings. Positioned just off the Kingsland Road High Street its heavily decorated open front window stands out from the surrounding Christmas displays of Argos, Tesco and Boots. The church’s dramatic and colourful emblem is too extreme for any shop sign, peering out down the road it’s a symbol that demands attention from all, not just local shoppers.  Arriving late to a packed room, the congregation stared at this lone white faced intruder and slowly made space as they realised that I had not mistaken the ministry for the pound shops further down the road but was here to join the worship. The congregation, predominantly from Cote D’Ivore and The Congo, went across various generations and classes as illustrated by their fashion. Some dressed in African traditional clothing, others wore more expensive smart suits and long regal dresses,  while the younger generation where noticeably more casual in their attire wearing the latest designer labels. At first I could feel their eyes on me and a mixture of French and English whispers at my arrival before one of the many large mothers of the congregation came to question me. Warm and friendly she quickly adopted me and grew concerned that I needed a translator. I declined out of politeness but she reassured me she would find one. Appreciative of her charity I was yet to realise that one altruistic act was going to affect the entire service. After a quick hymn I sat unaware that my translator had taken to the stage and would devotedly attempt to articulate the minister’s rhetoric in the most dead pan pigeon English voice.

 Unintentionally my visit had prolonged the service running time all in an attempt to save me, ironically the only person that didn’t want saving. The trick of Christianity is that you can’t be cruel to people who are so kind. No matter how much I protested to the translation I would have been perceived as an ungrateful guest in need of saving. So I stayed, sat speechless and smiling in appreciation of the service and attempted to decipher the nuances of my translator’s audio commentary.

Most of the translation was unnecessary, even with my D in GCSE French could tell that “gloreux” was glorious and “benis” was bless. The congregation also seemed more interested in singing, dancing and waving their arms around with a live drummer, keyboardist, bassist and three female singers often undermining the clergy. Even the guest minister opened his sermon in song and throughout the majority of the service most of the testifying was accompanied by a gentle humming bass and slow melodic piano playing. The fusion of music and preaching coupled with my own audio commentary caused a confusing cacophony that was intoxicating but shallow. The commentary was a constant reminder that I did not fully understand the Lord’s Word and missed a morality hidden between the French and English words. My separation was not simply spiritual but essentially social. The minister would have his devotees in rapturous laughter but my translator looked lost to explain the comedic elements of The Book of Romans in French. Culturally the gulf between me and the congregation had never felt so big ironically due to the attempt to bridge an understanding between us both. I was apprehensive to draw conclusions from the unfinished sentences spoken within the sermon yet I realised projecting a personal interpretation onto open ended dogma is an essential element of religion.

From my hazy impression I took away some worryingly so called “moral truths.” The minister claimed that “It’s a sin to do nothing,” like “not have a job,” “be single “and “not supporting ones family.”  I was unaware that these mini sins were in the Bible regardless of what language it may have been written in. However I did not feel I could trust myself, let alone the church’s moral agenda as it all seemed lost in translation. Religion can be dangerous as the scriptures can lend themselves to egocentric interpretation, be it my own or the minister, or translator, or that edition of the Bible. Writing about being confused is very difficult as you attempt to articulate the unarticulable (which is not even a real word) but through the ritual of my blog I have been forced to retrospectively form opinions in an attempt to discover my own gospel.  The result is never the truth but a translation that inevitably loses the nuances, complexities and reasons behind a church’s belief. My accounts are just another layer of confusion to add to the mountain of personal delusions that masquerade as theological musings but at least you know not to trust the translator. Personally I am looking forward to not thinking so much and I will finally get a chance to cut loose to sing, dance and wave my arms.

The Newington Green Unitarian Church, Newington Green, 10.12.11

In 1967 The Beatles broadcast a performance of "All you need is love," into 26 countries watched by 400 million viewers, creating a global profile for the hippy movement of late 1960s. Long before Beatles, hippies and bad fashion it was the Christian radicals of the 1700s that pioneered such humanist values and in particular the non-conformists of Hackney.

The non-conformist movement of the 1700s was Britain’s original Christian counter culture. They believed that liberty, freedom and equality were essential values of the Bible that had been lost under the oppressive dogma of the Catholic and the Anglican churches of the time.

Visiting the Newington Unitarian Church built back in 1704 I stepped on to the grounds that were not just the longest practising non-conformist church in London but also one of the most historically important churches outside the Protestant/Catholic hegemony. In these walls the role of Christianity drastically changed from being an oppressor to a liberator and even now the current Unitarian service has developed away from the religious dogma of so many churches into a diverse community with a shared sense of spiritualism. The service did not mention God, Jesus, and The Holy Spirit but did allude to the concept of a shared higher consciousness. The congregation were not asked to simply pray to God, but were given the choice to pray, meditate or reflect on ones thoughts. We had no Bible readings or scripture heavy hymns instead non-religious fables and speculative stories were used in the sermon and the music was a collection of organ reworkings of pop classics and gospel songs focusing on the need to change society through love. How had this church become so politically correct? Was it so politically correct it was blasphemous? And had I found the first church that would accept me as a voyeuristic agnostic and not see me as a potential convert? All these questions raced through my head and led me back to the history books.

The Newington Unitarian Church only stands out because of its age, lacking the gothic architectural glamour so common in the Anglican churches of 17 hundreds. An almost square building, its modest front entrance was decorated with understated Tuscan pillars, a small pediment and low key arched windows. Inside the tiny church is a collection of wooden pews, boxes and a gallery that makes the space feel not cluttered but close; The miniature size unavoidably but pleasantly smothering you with its presence. Sitting in the boxes I found it impossible not to contemplate the legacy of the church’s past congregation.

The Newington Unitarian Church history of radicalism began in the 1700s when Newington Green was an agricultural village outside the city of London. After The Restoration of Charles II many non-Anglican church groups faced persecution. Non-conformists found refuge around Newington Green in which alternative theological and political ideas could freely circulate. Alternative education establishments were formed by Non-conformists named Dissenters Academies, creating the only alternative non-Anglican higher education. Most notably the Newington Green Academy is praised for its intellectual aristocracy and for propagating new ideas from The Enlightenment. By the late 1700s Newington Unitarian Church became the haven for political and social reform under the leadership of preacher Dr Richard Price (looking very stern in the far right). Price was a republican,
libertarian and supporter of the French and American Revolutions. Enormously influential, Price gave counsel to the founding fathers of America, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and Thomas Pain and was a mentor to Mary Wollstonecraft (a key founder of feminism). Price died before Newington Unitarian Church could practice non-Trinitarian worship publically (After the government Act of 1813) but many history books have vaguely described his beliefs as "Unitarian,” due him criticising the claim that Jesus had eternal existence. After Price’s era the church continued to propagate liberalism within society, many of the congregation were abolitionists, supporters of the suffragette movement and campaigned against the legal persecution of Jews in the1800s. I have become particularly interested in how the Unitarian Church, from its radical roots, has continued to adapt The Bible so it challenges the inequality within society instead advocating the status quo.

In recent years the church has continued to challenge institutionalised inequalities in our society by supporting gay marriage. In March 2008, Newington Green Unitarian Church became the first religious establishment in Britain to stop any weddings at all until all couples have equal marriage rights. The current incumbent minister Andrew Pakula stated that the same-sex couple "are being treated like second-class citizens when they are forbidden to celebrate their unions in a way that heterosexual couples take for granted." Andrew Pakula is sweetly small, warm and charismatic New York Jewish man who has been Minister of Newington Green since 2011, Pakula, like Price, shares a belief in equality but I wonder would Price recognize the origins of Pakula’s liberalism as his own? Unitarian faith more than any other strand of Christianity seems to have helped develop society for the better and in doing has developed itself away from the Holy scripture and towards promoting a shared social consciousness. In the development of the Unitarian faith God has not been lost but he now shares the throne of omnipotence with Buddha, Shiva, Allah and many more.

So what is Unitarianism in the modern world? The You Tube videos below give you a general impression.

A key facet I personally took from Unitarianism is the rejection of the concept of original sin and the conscious decision to not ask the congregation to believe in something they know not to be true and respect their individuality. So this Sunday was a service without communion, sharing the peace, liturgy and Bible readings and instead new rituals replaced them from the reading of a poem, lighting of a candle, shared prayer/mediation/contemplation, a sermon on the importance of hope and individuals sharing the highs and lows of the week. The general atmosphere was like a group therapy session except nobody had experienced a real trauma (to my knowledge) but that did not stop people from "sharing," and nor should it. It was refreshing that a service was dependent on the congregation’s participation and lucky that they were an affable bunch. Personal stories ranged from the touching to the slightly mundane but at least everyone felt they had something to say and more importantly people wanted to listen. Oddly this inclusive environment did leave me in limbo as I did not feel I had anything to "share."

The lack of scripture and context led to words being debated instead of parables. We were asked to contemplate the meaning of "hope," and I imagine other services may debate the importance of "tolerance," "freedom," "equality." The problem with the lack of context means the debates become hugely personalised which is good but does lead to the parishioner being unchallenged in their views. The congregation were asked to write down a subject on a postit which they had lost hope in and then decorate the nave with their reflections.  I and the incredibly warmed hearted elderly woman sitting next to me both felt we had never lost hope in anything on principle but after longer consideration I could use the exercise to cathartically express my feelings. I wrote "I hope I don’t feel guilty." I found it strange that in a church environment that did not believe in original sin and advocated the acceptance of all I would feel so guilty but I did. I felt I was not participating to the extent I should and no longer had the excuse of being unbeliever.

The reason for myself loathing is that I don’t go to church for myself, I go because I am interested in people and enjoy meeting people who hold a different theological perspective, these people fascinate me and asking to look to myself I was caught off guard. My views on spiritualism had been defined in opposition to the people I had met over the last year but when asked to form a belief without countering my experience I was lost.

The Newington Unitarian Church was built in opposition to corrupt religious institutions and continues to advocate equality but when you do feel free and have nothing to oppose, what are you left with? I have never viewed life as a struggling trial that leads to heaven and have been critical of religions that advocate this perspective but faced with spiritual freedom I can see the comfort. I would like to think "All We Need is Love," but love means many things to many people and the cost of love can be great. The highest praise I can place on The Newington Unitarian Church is that in the more modern and liberal era it continues to ask questions than provide answers and for a church that’s hugely refreshing.

Quaker Meeting, St Mary's Community Centre, Daniel Defoe Road, 4.12.11

Hi,

Oh

my names Joel (hand out)

um

this is my first time

righ

at a Quaker meeting

No, its jus

Ohh sorry!

It’s very hard to transmit absence

Personally I blame Gareth, not because I blame him for most things but because he was my Quaker chaperone. Gareth is a great friend and has Quaker ancestry. In recent ventures to Quaker meetings he has continued a family ritual that stretches several generations, symbolically and spiritually bonding with his ancestors. To my knowledge this was my family’s first Quaker service and my ignorant entrance was hopefully forgiven in keeping with the Christian spirit. Despite my presumed forgiveness my noisy introduction did haunt my one hour silent service. In particular Jonathan, the Quaker elder’s mystic explanation “It’s very hard to transmit absence” kept echoing in my mind. To people as ignorant as me let me explain the structure of a Quaker service.

Quakerism is a Christian movement which stresses the religious doctrine of priesthood for all believers.  My non theist translation is that they believe we all have a personal relationship with God and have the ability to preach the Good Lord’s Word. In comparison to the other churches they deconstruct the classic hierarchal Church system for a more democratic forum called Quaker Meetings. Quakerism dates back to late 1700s and was established by the Religious Society of Friends in England but quickly spread across the rest of the world, most famously in North America, East Africa and India. Naturally the international spread of Quakerism led to fragmented forms of worship and practices. However, often worship can be split into two distinct practices, the programmed and the unprogrammed. The majority of Quakers (predominantly outside the UK) practice programmed worship. Programmed worship consists of prearranged hymns, Bible readings, guest sermons and planned silences. The minority of Quakers (predominantly from the UK) practice unprogrammed worship. Unprogrammed worship is based in silence. The silence begins when first the person sits in the meeting and ends when one person from the group (more often an elder) shakes the hand of the person to their side leading to everyone finishing the meeting with a handshake. Such a fine and proper way to bookend the worship, you can tell the movement started in England. In silence one is supposed to communally connect with God and free their mind of all other distractions. However the group mysticism is intended to be practiced within the everyday. Quakers are most famous for their pacifism, opposition to alcohol and political activism. In comparison to other Christian groups who deliberately avoid politics unless politics infringes upon their faith it is vital for a Quaker to understand God in a modern world and not just wait for the afterlife. However the Stoke Newington Quakers of St Mary’s community centre on Daniel Defoe road camouflaged their evangelism within the silence making for my most quintessentially English service so far.

From my opening brief and awkward conversation to the long shared silence that followed, a particular type of Englishness hung in the air. A type of Englishness that belongs to the middle classes, comedy sketches, afternoon tea, the south, BBC period dramas and Gardener’s World . The only other words spoken before the meeting descended into communal quiet was when Jonathan politely hushed a fellow friend (all Quaker’s refer to each other as friend) who was making tea in the nearby kitchen warning in a stage whisper “meeting comes before tea.” The mannered telling off in the calmest voice was so brilliantly formal it could only be spoken by an Englishman.

As the group gradually entered the silence I began to see the unspoken acceptance of each other within the confines of a formal setting as a national treasure. Unlike other loud and theatrical evangelical groups or the more established dogma of Catholic and Anglican churches Quakers seemed to realise that the best way for everyone to get along was to abandon the majority of ceremony and obey a few simple rules so the individual can form a personal understanding of God within the silence. Everybody was so polite and respectful of each other’s silences that no one told the woman who continued to drift in and out of consciousness to actually wake up. Some unwritten rule seemed to be unspoken within the group which allowed the woman to snore her way through the majority of the hour undisturbed. It would just not have been the done thing to wake her and who could say she was not having a spiritual moment within her slumber. After the meeting and several cups of tea and biscuits with my new best friends I felt entirely at home. The group were your typical liberal middle class Guardian reading, Radio 4 listening, east Londoners who preferred thoughtful contemplation to impassioned prayer. At the beginning of my journey this group would have filled me with self-loathing but now with only three Sundays left of the year I felt a sense of comfort in the familiarity. No longer isolated from my non theist perspective, the Quaker meeting provided me with the opportunity to digest my relationship with God in silence, I only wish I remembered what I’d thought.

Before I could communally share the voice of God or the light (common Quaker explanation for spirit) I had to shed my surroundings. I had to not only let go of the physical world of St Mary’s small and drafty hall but also mentally clear out my thoughts to find an inner period of calm in which God/light can enter. Physical clearance proved troublesome and mental clearance almost impossible. First, the physical distractions became mental as I listed the clutter in an attempt to discard them but instead my list accentuated their existence. Oddly the absence of hymns, prayers, sermons and testimonies seemed to root me in the physical world as my list built to a rhythmic pattern in my head. The absent beat went something like this

A 30 second blast of heat that is heard more than felt and 2minutes cold to keep me awake, vase of flowers on a table with bunch of books, sound of traffic in the distance and hum of mowing from outside, why is the chair next to me smaller than the rest, another woman enters no one looks her in the eye, is the tea lady asleep?

 And another 30 second blast of heat that is heard more than felt and another 2minutes cold to keep me awake, are those flowers dying or is it for show, Bible, Quaker Bible, Qu’ran, Quaker Bible, next week could I bring my own literature? Sound of traffic is even further in the distance and the mowing has stopped, maybe the small chair is for a small child, I’d hate for a child to be better behaved than me, thinking how I do, another woman enters room, remember not to look her in the eye, I think the tea lady’s now snoring so definitely asleep.

 Again a 30 second blast of heat longer than the one before which continues to be heard more than felt and now 4 long minutes of cold to keep me awake, the flowers are definitely real so why has no one watered them? Are they are a spiritual statement I am not getting? Next week Steinbeck, Tolstoy, Hughes and Auden will lay on that table, I still can hear traffic or is it in my head maybe I am struggling because the mower is back and closer than before, the chair is not for a child or a colouring in book would be on the table, the small chair must be for someone who is not here, who is not expected to appear, at least not physically, God most likely, another man enters, we have another man entering the room, it’s no longer just me, Gareth or the older guy, no this guy is the older guy, that other guy will have to be renamed the other guy, don’t meet his eye that would be double standards, this is not the place for double standards, well she is clearly snoring and no one is going to say anything, especially me.

 Maybe this 30 second blast of heat will be quicker, maybe it will make me hotter rather than hurt my ears, the cold cannot be quick, the time quadruples under such low temperature, as four minutes stretches into 8, hot and fast offset by cold and slow, the flowers need to be changed, how can you make a statement through the symbol of something dying, should I pick up the Bible? Might get my mind back on track, it’s too late now, it would just send a clear sign I am not thinking about him, as for the Qu’ran that would just be dismissed as a desperate attempt to make a loud first impression, I would read Steinbeck, can you read atheist literature at a Quaker meeting, not just traffic but the sound of parking, parking will help me chill out, with the mower finished I am bound to drift off and hear the voice of God, I am sitting next to his chair so if he does arrive I will  have the best seat in the house regardless, however we are full now, so anyone arriving late is going to have to sit down in that incredibly small chair and look like an adult with special needs kept back at primary school, but no one is entering the room, the room is definitely spiritually full yet it only contains six women and four men but anyone adding to the collective might tip me over the edge, I mean how are you meant to forget more than ten people? Everybody needs to sit still so I can forget them and concentrate on our collective, conscious prayer, I am so glad no one can hear my thoughts, I would really ruin everyone’s experience, maybe they can sense it, no I look calm and collected, might even pass for spiritual, I feel confident I am going to look them in the eye and then  when they look into my eye they are going to see nothing because my mind is elsewhere, my mind is traveling on a different spiritual plain, yes I can just leave without moving, just don’t fall asleep like the tea woman, her snoring has really held you back, it would be inconsiderate to fall asleep not that anyone would wake me, maybe I am asleep, no I can feel the cold, need  to consider consciousness, remember your absent and present at the same time, absent and present.

 So the repetition of my thoughts built a rhythm to reach a euphoric point of silence in which I don’t remember what I was thinking but I was pretty happy. The nearest epiphany I reached was pondering my silent and strange happiness. So I decided to contextualise my experience in broad terms. First, I concluded that a society which is a literature culture writes down what makes one happy in the hope that others might understand, but the limitation of words leads to dogma and misunderstanding. In our visual culture we communicate through images so our concept of happiness is more a feeling, a recording of a moment, making our idea of happiness more fleeting and less theoretically obtainable but at least less dogmatic and dangerous. So my silent happiness, happiness at the absence of everything was an isolated sense of euphoria. A happiness which cannot be recorded with words. A happiness they can’t captured from a photograph. A happiness that many call God. A happiness that I personally find impossible to explain.

Evangelical Reformed Church, Laureston Church, 30.11.11

After 47 Sunday services my agnostic faith had begun to fatigue. Not in my mind but in my body. Inflicted with a seasonal cold and cough with aspirations to degenerate into a fever I sought solace in the Evangelical Reformed Church on Laureston Road.  After weekly witnessing devout but decrepit bodies summoning the spirit to go to church I had no choice but to leave the confines of my bed for a so called better life.  Speechless in fear of the cough within me I sat to the rear of the nave hoping to go unnoticed. Luckily, the restrained and equable congregation respectfully left me to stew in my sickly sin. Unlike the singing and dancing of previous evangelical episodes, all theatrics were reserved for the Northern Irish guest Pastor Samuel Mackay Desperate for the routine ritual to remedy my poor health I was instead treated to a sermon heavy service in which Pastor Mackay provided a lesson in the power and poetry of religious language. My vulnerable state became enslaved to Pastor Mackay, who at the height of his power almost exorcized the sickly and sinful ailments that plagued my body. Physically drained I felt spiritually vulnerable, easy prey for Pastor Mackay, passion to bully me into belief.

Pastor Mackay was not a handsome man. Youth looked forever absent from his face. Pale, balding, portly, bespectacled, he had no physical reasons to be confident. The charisma, the charm and passion were clearly sent from his great Lord.  Preaching to a predominantly black congregation, Pastor Mackay’s rough Belfast accent crackled across the nave. Fire and brimstone rhetoric of the old homeland clogged up his throat and transported his followers from South Hackney to Northern Ireland. It was not just God’s Bible that had given grace to his gruff voice but the church created an environment so his words would echo across the hall with glorious gravitas.  The church’s exterior suited his small but commanding stature: the late Victorian modestly sized building reached for the heavens with small but defined architectural features.  Two extremely pointy spires stabbed the sky with spiritual importance while a large arched front window opened itself to public and potential converts. Originally built by Congregationalists in the 1800s the church has sustained a still feeling of suspense when entering the nave. It was an unknowing suspense like waiting for something intangible, ethereal or predictably something God like. The atmosphere did not transport you back in time like older churches but more created a feeling of stasis outside time which could only come from a building that has been undisturbed from renovation. Waiting filled the anteroom, the belfry, the cloisters, the nave, the surrounding gallery, the sanctuary, and any unseen room or crevice.  Amongst this wait came Pastor Mackay standing firm in the pulpit surrounded by a collection of dark varnished wooden pews, stairs, tables, chairs and Holy folly.  Pastor Mackay was a king overseeing his kingdom or somebody more prophetic, regardless of the title he was a great orator. Very few priests actually use the pulpit but Pastor Mackay had a traditional and conservative personality that was entirely comfortable with being placed on such a high pedestal. Standing only just below the large but fairly quiet antique organ his voice could not be dwarfed by anyone except God.

A great speaker can get you so lost in the language that you become so impressed you don’t really care about the speaker’s point. TV personalities, politicians and Priests are all guilty of speaking with style to disguise their lack of substance. Not that all TV personalities, politicians and Priests are great speakers, most are sound bite bores but a chosen few have an elegance of elocution that provoke great reaction by saying very little. Pastor Mackay was not only a great speaker but perpetuated the cultural legacy of the Holy Irish man.  A religious figure of Old Testament testosterone he mixed words taken from the scripture with out dated language to create a non-existent nostalgic grace. In describing early passages from the Book of Joshua he used some stereotypical but no less powerful religious phrases: “Righteous Wrath of God,” “Calvary Cross,” “The Blood That Cleansed The Blind,” and my personal favourite “The Tale The Tongue Cannot Tell.” These words wore me out and wrapped themselves around my ears that I became so enraptured at the poetry of his performance leading me to completely forget about the Book of Joshua.  Despite the overt violence of his words these strangely opaque but didactic statements are to be cherished, just maybe not worshipped. But I fully understand how such powerful imagery from one man’s mouth could inspire such worship. I would be a fully-fledged fan of Pastor Mackay’s passionate poetry if I could discover its source: The Book of Joshua, Jesus or God. Predictably Pastor Mackay’s powerful imagery did not provoke my spiritual side but instead stoked my cynicism. 

The Book of Joshua is mainly concerned with the history of the creation of Israel and documenting some pretty savage tribal politics but Pastor Mackay managed to centre on the more palatable opening verses of God’s instructions to Joshua instead of the familiar Middle Eastern conflict.  Leaving the more factually grounded history for universal spiritualism is essential for any priest yet often the priest will use the language of the Bible to create phoney authenticity to his words. The very specific struggle of the Israelites became comparable to the everyday struggle of the congregation so that the romantic rhetoric enriched the dull drudgery of modern day life. Amongst all the energy, eloquence and entertaining theatrics Pastor Mackay just wanted everyone “To let Jesus into our hearts,” without even telling us who, why or where. Preaching to the converted naturally breeds complacency but within the predictable praise my body had a violent reaction. The overpowering word play, the suspenseful atmosphere, the calm congregation, something tickled my throat and my cough erupted. Hoarse heckling from the back of my larynx bounced back off the walls of the nave and caused a non-protest to the weekly dogma. As Pastor Mackay encouraged us to get close to Jesus I was wheezing between my knees hoping my badly behaved body was caused by infection and not some unknown demon hidden within me. I tried as best I could not to distract others from Pastor Mackay’s words but charitable Christians are forever looking for a cause. Handkerchiefs, water, Bibles were passed to me but I could not stand the embarrassment and had to leave. Despite the kindness of strangers the word of God did not fill me with pride but persecution and my sickness felt like a strange pagan karma. I did not deserve such charity because I was not one of them I had not let Jesus into my heart and as result I had the flu.

Retired and rested I realised I did not need the kindness of strangers as it did not fulfil my narrative. Much as I had appreciated Pastor Mackay’s word play, the church’s subtle and suspenseful atmosphere and calming congregation that filled it, I desired the role of the outsider. Like the Pastor Mackay I use language to create my own world. However Pastor Mackay wants you to join him in his world for one giant liturgy while my world wants to create the image of an outsider looking into another world he feels he does not belong to. His language continues a tradition of colourful conformity and dramatic dogma while my language is limited in so many ways it can only come from my dyslexic brain. Opposition is where I feel most comfortable despite Pastor Mackay’s promises of eternal salvation. My problem is that I have yet to know from what I need to be saved except the common cold that plagues my body.