by Paul Kerensa
The band stop. I just let out a ‘Laaa!’ and receive a few looks. Most don’t notice, thankfully, since they’re all bringing their lyrical offerings to a close.
The minister has taken to the stage and reads us some words of encouragement from Ephesians. I like that he’s reading it from a Bible - it unsettles me, needlessly, when I hear leaders just quote large passages verbatim. Show me the book you’re reading from. It tells me you haven’t made it up.[36]
He requests us to sit. There are some light-hearted jokes at the expense of the icy weather, and I quickly clock that this speaker is a natural when it comes to a room this size. I don’t know whether this church is charismatic, but he certainly is. He’s Barack Obama with a Midlands accent.
I can see why this congregation is so full, especially of younger people.The leadership seems very accessible, the welcomes are genuine, and according to the announcements from the front, I’ve just missed their Christmas services featuring live animals. Apparently the kids loved it; the cleaners less so. It’s never said what animals they were, so I assume it was probably a donkey and maybe a sheep. I have heard of churches having camels. For all I know though it could have been a lizard and a walrus, or maybe it was just an unplanned intrusion by a local Jack Russell. Perhaps there was just a window open and a few wasps flew in.[37]
Just as everyone’s finally found their seats, the minister calls a comfort break. I don’t think I’ve been to a church with an interval like this before (and I’ve been to a three-hour Catholic service). I turn to the neighbour to my left. I wouldn’t normally start the conversation, but one question is burning away. ‘So what animals did you have at Christmas?’
He looks confused by my question. ‘Turkey,’ he replies.
I actually meant whether the Christmas service had featured a donkey, but don’t persist in my questioning. We exchange pleasantries, and he queries how I’m so far from home, given the state of the roads.
‘I’m a stand-up comedian,’ I explain.
‘Oh, right,’ he says. It makes sense to him now why I make stupid journeys: I have a stupid job. ‘So you were performing somewhere last night?’
‘York,’ I reply. Please don’t ask anything about the gig.
‘Many in the audience on a night like it was?’
‘No, just me,’ I tell him. He looks confused and heads off for a coffee refill.
When we’re all resettled with drinks, the minister embarks on an epic sermon: forty minutes of vivacious, energetic preaching. I’m impressed at hearing a relaxed, funny talk, which keeps returning to biblical passages for support, with calls for us to transform ourselves and our society. Yet at the same time there’s no ‘us and them’.This is a church that goes out of its way to welcome everyone, and not judge. We’re reminded that we all fall short, and we all pick ourselves up. I hear the occasional ‘Amen’ ad-libbed from the crowd after particularly salient points, and by the end I’m inclined to join in. I don’t of course - it’s not written on the screen for me.
The big push at the end of the talk is for us to get right with God, that no human or church is in a position to judge - we alone need to have some one-to-one with the Almighty, and so prayer time is a big deal in this church.We spend a good twenty minutes in informal prayer, with music underneath, prayer both out loud and unspoken, and the occasional public one shared from the front.There’s a proper altar call for those who want their lives transformed, even though there’s no altar. Several people make amends with the Lord in this time, and it feels very powerful.
‘Are you going up?’ asks the man next to me.
‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ I say. Is that the right answer? It was a great sermon, but I thought he was calling up people to make a once-in-a- lifetime change to their lives. Apparently not.
‘No, I might not this week,’ he says. ‘I go up most weeks.’
‘You’re transformed every week?!’ I ask.
‘Not every week, no. It’s been a quiet few days.’
I’m genuinely not sure whether I misunderstood who the altar call was calling, or whether this man just has a wild time from Monday to Saturday and turns back to Christ every seventh day. I feel perhaps it’s somewhere between the two - maybe in this church the altar call is more akin to Catholic confession than I realised, where each week you can come and lay bare your weekly sins, rather than it being a once-in- a-blue-moon dramatic rebirth. Maybe when they turn to Christ, it’s less a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, and more just a few degrees - a turn that just puts us back on kilter. In that way, turns aren’t one-offs, but regular updates to nudge us a few degrees back on track, like a ship tweaking its steering ever so slightly. The sea looks clear, but stay on your current course and in a few hundred miles there’s a massive iceberg over that horizon.
This service ends as it began - not with a sudden start/stop, but with a fade. The band continue quietly strumming guitars and loudly strumming harps, the prayers continue, and I opt not to wait it out till the conclusion - we’ve been given our final blessing and permission to depart, so I decide to hit the road. I’ve had my post-service coffee before we started, and I’ve got three hours to drive on sodden snow.
The sun has been shining throughout, and my car and the roads are nicely defrosting. I leave the icy car park of the industrial estate with care, making some of those fractional half-a-degree turns that I was just considering in the service.
The lonely part of stand-up is the drive, but the warm welcome at places like this warehouse church make up for that, even when the gig never happened. The thought gets me mentally checking my upcoming gigs: next is Hull in a few days. Best double-check with the venue that it’s not been cancelled, because much as I like the M1, it’s no M40.
31 I know ‘warp speed’ is from Star Trek, not Star Wars, and that this may annoy purists. So, well spotted.You’ve passed the Klingon test, now accept your award from Princess Leia.
32 Anyone old enough to remember Treasure Hunt has one.
33 So bright. Why have LED bedside lamps?
34 Or sometimes we don’t tell him.
35 i.e. I can hear the harp.
36 Atheist readers may be thinking, ‘Well they did make it up ...’. To you, dear atheist reader, I say: I applaud you for getting this far. Hopefully by the end you won’t be thinking, ‘Is he going to visit another church?’ Because yes, I am.
37 Silly thoughts: there are no wasps in December.
7
Devon is a Place on Earth
Rogating with rural Anglicans
After a five minute parking session to get as close to the stone wall as possible, I pull on the handbrake. Narrow as these country lanes are, numerous tractors, 4x4s and landing craft are going boot-to-pedal up these hills, covered in dents and scratched paint. I don’t fancy bits of my car living out their days stuck to a farm vehicle in south Devon. Once again, I am in search of a church.
‘How am I going to get out?’ asks my better half Zoë, from the passenger seat.
We are in search of a church. As if I am an expert, I talk her through tips for visiting a new church, as she clambers over the handbrake.
‘Yeah, if you’re just nice to the greeters and take a seat near the back they’ll stop any staring soon enough.’
We look up and see a gaggle of churchgoers stare at us: a man dragging a woman across the front seats of a Nissan.
‘Morning!’ we both say chirpily.
We follow them in the cool, spring sunshine to a beautiful spired building we spied on day one of our holiday. It is at the centre of the village, yet still overlooking the sea thanks to the village’s hilltop placement. This is from an age where villages were built around the churches. God’s got the best views, and the vicar here’s got the second best.
The notice
board outside tells us the usual details of name of church, service times, and vicar’s phone number - the ecclesiastical equivalent of ‘The Church of England welcomes careful parishioners - please worship responsibly’. A printed A4 piece of paper has been taped on top: ‘Rogation Sunday’.
Zoë and I look at each other and shrug. Rogation Sunday is a new one on us.
Some traditional days from the Church calendar
Trinity Sunday:The Sunday after Pentecost.
Quadragesima Sunday: The Sunday after Ash Wednesday, clearly something to do with quad bikes and drag racing.
Spacehopper Club Sunday: The Sunday after the church has been used as a playgroup all summer, and the kids want to apologise for the mess.
Rogation Sunday: Pass. Hopefully we’ll find out.
‘Is it “rogation” as in “interrogation”?’ I ask Zoë.
‘Rog ... A service for people called Roger?’ she suggests.
‘“Rogare”, Latin for “to ask”?’
Zoë rolls her eyes. ‘You and your grammar school.’
‘Is it an asking service? Asking for God’s forgiveness? Blessing? Help parking? What’s an “asking service”?’
‘Maybe we should ask someone.’
We’re met at the west door by a kind-looking woman with the smile and rosy cheeks of a retired primary school teacher.
‘Grab a seat,’ she says. ‘Don’t get comfortable though.’
It’s a strangely dismissive welcome, at odds with her warm manner. Our confused look causes her to continue.
‘Oh, don’t you know?’ she says gleefully. ‘Today we’re beating the bounds.’
***
My girlfriend had surprised me with this trip. She told me we were going somewhere in the UK with potentially muddy walks. I knew nothing else, at least till the week before when I needed to go welly-shopping. The shops were lacking - you just can’t get a decent boot on the high street nowadays, and Boots don’t find it amusing when you ask in there, nor when you storm out bellowing, ‘Call yourself a shoe-shop?!’
Outside the shop, I grinned and Zoë cringed, before saying without thinking, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be able to buy wellies in Devon.’
‘In where?’
‘In heaven!’ she covered. ‘You know what they say, “wellies in heaven”.’
‘That’s “pennies from heaven”.’
So we came west, me wellyless. It would be a chance to unwind, relax, and step away from the rough and tumble of stage performance. And yet, performer to the last, I can never quite escape it.
‘... And no gigging while we’re away,’ Zoë had said when we’d booked the time off.
‘Moi? When would I ever even think of such a thing?’
‘Well, we visited your Cornish relatives, but stopped on the way for one gig, you did another in Cornwall, and I had to beg you not to take that “slight diversion” to Birmingham on the way back.’
She had a point. Just as I’m sure Lord Sugar checks his stocks while sunning himself on a yacht, my postman probably sorts the odd bit of mail in Tenerife, and Boris Johnson undoubtedly trips and lands fully- clothed in a swimming pool, so comedians find it difficult to switch off. Whole holidays can be built around where in the country - or the world - we can tell our jokes. The first comedian to Mars will be looking at doing a sneaky gig on Venus before heading home.
This trip would be different. I couldn’t promise no performing, but I could promise I’d debut a magic trick I’d been working on.
I’d always liked magic since I was a kid. The problem was I was rubbish at it, a fact especially highlighted when living with old housemate Danny: comedian and magician. Like all good magicians, he’d been doing tricks for as long as he could remember, and he was probably only just born before declaring to the midwife, ‘Ba-na!’
My attempts at cups and balls looked a little hopeless next to him plucking cards from nowhere mid-conversation. He’d make whole vases vanish before my eyes. I’d always find them again, and inevitably the back of our sofa had more sponge balls down it than you’ve ever seen in your life, but what do you expect living with a conjuror? We’d even have his magic pals round for takeaway, and they’d use phrases like ‘Zarrow shuffle’, ‘French drop’ and ‘Mercury fold’ like they were common parlance. I’d try and join in with phrases like ‘Marvin’s Magic’,‘Izzy Wizzy’ and ‘Got your nose’.
This was my chance to finally add a card trick to my repertoire. I rehearsed every chance I got,[38] bodging it each time, and cursing my uncoordinated fingers. For the first time in a long while I was nervous. Unspeakably nervous.
‘Are you all right?’ Zoë asked as I drove the first stint of our journey west. ‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘No,’ I insisted, although secretly I did, so I could practise my card- forcing. ‘Doing fine. I’ll just keep following the satnav to this “mystery destination”.’
We arrived in Devon and I faked my astonishment again. I hoped my sleight of hand was going to look more convincing than my surprise- feigning. Still, I had a day or two of holiday yet to work on it.
A genuine and pleasant surprise was the South Hams. It’s an untapped gem of England’s green and pleasant land, at least untapped as far as I was concerned. If your experience of Devon is either the A-road to get to Cornwall, or taking a right to discover Dartmoor, take a left some time and discover the South Hams: Dartmouth, Salcombe, pubs, beaches and rolling hills - just delightful.Tell them I sent you.Try the fish.
Shortly after arriving we set off to explore and found the neighbouring village of Stoke Fleming, a peaceful settlement that’s not only in an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, but also is in an area of outstanding natural beauty.[39] Like all proper villages, it had one of everything: one pub, one shop, one school, one seafood restaurant with a fantastically punny name,[40] and one church ...
***
‘Very special service this morning,’ announces the amiable vicar, a middle- aged chap with an accent more Stoke than Stoke Fleming, in shirt, trousers and dog collar rather than full robes. ‘Delighted for the good weather which means we can go ahead, and delighted you’ve all turned out for it.’
Thirty or so locals fill the pews. I presume they’re locals.They could all be holidaymakers like us, but judging from the smiles we’re getting from everyone else, we’re the only strangers.
‘So today is our Rogation. Are you ready to beat the bounds?’
There’s a surprisingly vocal ‘Yes!’ from the gathered throng, and Zoë and I join in heartily.We’re hoping that ‘bounds’ isn’t common parlance for ‘newcomers’.
‘Then let’s go!’ the vicar exclaims, and marches down the aisle. Everyone stands and follows. The kindly welcomer gathers us as she exits.
‘So you know what “beating the bounds” is?’ she asks us.
‘I’m afraid not,’ says Zoë. We both resist adding, ‘We’re not from round these parts,’ as you can only say so in a mock West Country accent that may be deemed offensive.
‘Well today is “Gangday”.’
This is getting worse.These parishioners, average age of fifty-five, are going to form a gang, blow off church and beat the bounds out of some poor chap who didn’t put enough protection money in the collection coffers last month.They worship rough round here.
‘The idea is we’re going to beat out the boundary of the village.’ That’s a relief.
We exit church with her, after only two minutes inside. It feels like the shortest service we’ve ever been to. But it’s only just begun ...
‘In practice we don’t beat the whole boundary nowadays on Gangday. We’ll drop into a few of the farmers’ fields from the village. Chance to ask for the crops to be blessed, and a bit of a nose round, see who’s having what extensions done ...’ She remembers hers
elf.‘Times were, they’d go round the parish boundary and pray for God’s protection on everything inside it.’
On second thoughts, it does sound a bit gang-ish. It’s the middle England equivalent of tribalism: standing on the edge of your parish line, asking for divine blessing for one side of it, and not for the other.
The welcomer introduces herself as Shirley, and explains more as we walk to our first stop on our village tour. Evidently this is an optional service for parishes, but some country churches like this one still like to do it. Before maps were commonplace, beating the boundary with a birch bough was a way of passing down the knowledge of parish boundaries. It was important for at least some people in each parish to know where the borders were, to show who could marry where, and ultimately who could be buried where. These boundaries still matter today, when it comes to permitting weddings in particular churches, only today you can search online and find out in a Google-boasting 0.22 seconds which parish is yours. Pre-maps, you’d have to locate the right church officials who’d know, or find the parish boundary stones, both taking an unknown amount of time, since they happened pre-stopwatch.
One key feature of the day was that the old and the young were part of the village perambulation, so that the geographical knowledge could be passed down the generations.Traditionally the boys brought along would be whipped, or even bumped violently on the boundary stones, to help them remember exactly where the parish line was.They’d then be given money, to help them forget.[41] It seems that while the practical point was to ensure everyone knew where the boundaries were, there were no such boundaries when it came to church officials beating children.