by Paul Kerensa
So I recline on my bed and hold my own self-generated church service - a worship song or two, a talk from US speaker Tony Campolo, a read on the phone of some Bible quotes he uses and a few prayers of my own. It’s all just for me and direct to my ears; it’s an iChurch.
It feels very in touch with the digital age, but is it the future of Christianity? I hope not: it’s very lonely. Communion’s just not the same when you’re faced with Garibaldi biscuits to cover both the bread and the wine. But it does go to show that just because a church is unavailable, you can still find some dedicated time if you seek it out.
All good services end with tea and something to entertain the kids, so I click on both the miniature kettle and channel 50. Madagascar 2 is good medicine. I’m feeling better for the first time this trip, until I see a hippo singing ‘I Like to Move It (Move It)’, and the boat lurches to the right.
46 This is a guess. No one was looking at his face.
47 Not that sort of two-piece.
48 Now I don’t know where I am.
10
Pent Up
Praying with Pentecostals
As soon as I landed on sunny Guernsey, I could sense the island abuzz about the top comedian bringing them a show. Unfortunately that comedian wasn’t me. While a top TV name was playing the thousand- seater hall, I’d be playing to a smaller audience as part of the same festival. Smaller in number but also in stature - it was a comedy club for kids.
It was bittersweet to see little five- and six-year-olds being walked up to the function room for my show. Part of me was panicking about the ensuing gig - what could I do that would entertain them? I didn’t even know balloon-modelling.
The other part of me wept inside. I’d always known I’d have problems having kids, thanks to all sorts of medical nonsense since birth. I had been upfront with Zoë about it, but she’d married me anyway. I’d always passed the buck and changed the subject though, until now. Married and unpacked, we both turned our thoughts to the future.We’d keep trying, but with my dodgy innards, the docs reckoned our best bet was going to be IVF, adoption or dressing up a spaniel. I think he thought that would get a laugh from us, but there’s a time and a place, mate.
IVF is expensive, so I had started taking every gig going, whether to grown-ups or littl’uns, or spaniels in drag. If it paid a wage, you could bet I’d give it a go. In confronting those issues at home though, it had the knock-on effect of a little broodiness out and about, especially when sweet angelic primary schoolers like these waddled on up to the venue.
In terms of show content, I made my peace with it: I’d entertain the parents and occasionally pull a silly face at the kids, plus I’d bought some Play-Doh. But they walked straight past my venue and into the neighbouring playground, causing me to wonder where my audience was? Then the noise hit me. Over the horizon, fifty marauding eleven-year-olds wreaked Godzilla-like havoc. I wanted a child, yes, but one that stopped at a cute age. I didn’t want one of these monsters, currently charging into every car door in the car park. At least it took my mind off the IVF.
The show was a riot, almost literally. The parents at the edge of the room shook their heads in pity. Nothing was predictable. Jokes that I thought had a chance fell on stony ground. Set-ups that have never even tried to be funny suddenly earned gales of laughter because they mentioned words like ‘cheese’ or ‘ferret’, or best of all, ‘cheese- ferret’.
I made them cheer for random things: cheer if you’re a boy, cheer if you’re Guernsian, cheer if you like biscuits, no I don’t have any biscuits, no I’m not going to go and buy you some biscuits, no I can’t bake you a biscuit, no I can’t magic one from my nose, no I don’t want one of your ‘nose-biscuits’, oh ... cheese-ferret.
I tried crowbarring in regular material, and even just mentioning I had a wife caused the mob to shout, ‘Divorce her! Divorce her!’ More pitying looks came from parents, and I quietly sent back judging looks that they’d brought them here and brought them up to chant about divorce.
In the bar after the show, I nursed a two-in-the-afternoon stiff whisky, glasses hanging off my head, Play-Doh in my hair. It was so rare to finish a gig this early, so I planned the rest of my day. I’d swing by the show of the top TV name (who we’ll call Buzz Hubbub, after all the commotion and general murmuring taking place on the island), to see what it’s like when grown-ups laugh, but that left me with an afternoon. So I left the island.
I didn’t go far, both geographically and in terms of my career, but I’d heard good things about the neighbouring island of Herm. It’s tiny, you can walk around it in an hour or two, and I’ve always liked islands ever since I persisted with TV series Lost. Even six seasons of that didn’t put me off.
I took the boat from Guernsey’s balmy St Peter Port, and a short chug later stepped onto Herm’s dock. The sun greeted us, and most tourists instantly hugged the coastline to sample the beaches. Some went straight for the island’s only pub to sample the ale. I opted to go straight over the island’s steep hill to sample a stitch and sunstroke. I began to regret the whisky.
Atop the island’s centre, I found a tiny chapel dedicated to St Tugual. I wasn’t familiar with him, but then I’d list my three most familiar saints as St Ivel, St Etienne and St John’s Ambulance.
The chapel dates back a millennium, to when the Channel Islands were populated by priests, pacing the fields in their familiar brown coats.[49] Herm remains largely unchanged and unspoilt.There’s one hotel, with no telephones, televisions or clocks. There’s so little here that if you Google ‘Things to do in Herm’, the number one thing listed is ‘Take a daytrip to Guernsey’.Yet that’s the appeal.
I strode down to the other side of the island, a mere half-mile from where we’d docked. A sign read ‘Belvoir Bay’, and I felt as if I’d stepped through a portal into the Caribbean. Perhaps St Tugual was patron saint of Quantum Leap.
The cove at the base of the hill had everything: sun-kissed sand, crystal blue sea, the biggest yacht I’ve seen since Howard’s Way ... and now me. I reclined on the sand, admired the view, continued to regret that whisky, and closed my eyes ...
I maintain that I never really slept - it’s far too bright and I didn’t have my eye mask. You wouldn’t wear one on a beach anyway due to tan lines, or in my case, burn lines. I’d avoided the lines but alas not the burn. I really should have brought my ginger-only suncream. It was probably a good job that I wasn’t onstage that night - I don’t think my complexion could take the stage lights.
***
I slurped my iced water and felt it cool my face, as the intro announcement blared: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Misterrrrrrrrr Buzz Hubbub!’
I thought it was for me for a split-second, till I heard the name, and relaxed.
Buzz bounded onto the giant stage and I joined the thousand- strong audience in showing our appreciation. I maybe clapped a little more lightly, only because my hands still felt like they were on a barbecue.
I had heard chat about the show all day. When I went to buy some aftersun[50] in St Peter Port’s pharmacy, the man queuing behind me was on the phone trying to get tickets.When I was rehydrating with buckets of ice at dinner, the show was all neighbouring couples could talk about. I was fairly sure even 999 was diverting to voicemail tonight.
Now they were here, witnessing that guy from the telly, not him, you know, the other one. And he was delivering. Gag, local reference, gag, banter with front row, outrageous comment, gag, topical reference, mockery of people who didn’t put suncream on today ... It was textbook.
‘So.There is no god.’
I wouldn’t have got away with that at the kids’ show.
His set-up was out there, and the audience waited on tenterhooks.A punchline didn’t come immediately. Instead he repeated,‘There is no god.’ We waited again.The tenterhooks became
uncomfortable.
Not only that, he told us, but all those who believe in a god, a soul, or any form of life after death, should stop wasting their time.
Something definitely changed among the audience.There was shifting in seats. Many were laughing along, but a nerve had been touched. Around me, I saw several couples with the general theme being the men continuing to chortle while the women weren’t so sure.
As for me, I blushed. Or it could have been the sunburn.
As a Christian, I disagree. As a comedian, I’m used to hearing a wide range of opinions from the microphone: some true, some just for a laugh. I’m sure I’ve said countless things that people listening have disagreed with. And I know he’s just telling us a joke, even if it is one that reflects his beliefs.
I’m often asked about where the line is in comedy, but I think the question is more: Is there a line? Is anything off-limits? In theory, a good comic likes to think they can tackle anything if there’s wit and intellect involved. In practice, some subjects are more difficult than others. And above all, comedy has to come first.
Is it funny? That should be the overriding benchmark of any gag. There may be an opinion in the joke as well, whether it’s a criticism of the Tory party, or of religion, or of a chicken’s road-crossing tactics. But funny first, please.
Just like offensiveness though, funniness is subjective. So a comedian just has to do what they find funny, and hope the audience agrees. Over time, a touring comedian will attract and detract punters, meaning they whittle down their audience to like-minded fans. You won’t get many people at an Eddie Izzard show who don’t like surreal flights of fancy, and if you go to a Tim Vine gig and don’t like one-liners, you’re an idiot.[51]
Buzz continued his onstage onslaught, and laughs came, but not as big as they could have been, and I’m sure not as big as they had been elsewhere. I had the sense that any discomfort wasn’t just from churchgoers, but perhaps also from those on the fence. In that sense, at least Buzz’s choice of subject matter may have helped, in some tiny way, push one or two people into an opinion.
Perhaps since the monks roamed the fields a thousand years ago, something of the spiritual has stuck in Guernsey. There are ten parish churches, plus buildings for every Christian denomination from Quakers to Catholics, to a geographically confusing Church of Scotland. There’s even a gathering of Jehovah’s Witnesses, who must find it tricky on the island: most people know each other so you’d probably recognise them coming up the drive: ‘It’s Malcolm again - turn the lights off ...’
There’s no mosque or temple, and planning and space issues on the island mean there’s unlikely to be either one. But Indian restaurants and Turkish kebaberies mean that employees with a faith need somewhere to pray, so there is a Muslim prayer room.
By the time Buzz had left the stage, he’d won many punters back, largely by moving on from religion. I had no problem with the subject matter, but if you don’t agree with the set-up, then the punchline had better be pretty good. It’s the same reason that I don’t profess onstage, mid-routine, that there definitely is a God. The atheists in the room might get their hackles up, and then their heckles, and not much is funny after that. At least the believers in the audience tonight just stayed quiet, although I’m sure they were shouting prayers in their heads.
As I meandered back to the hotel, it’s fair to say my face ached - partly through laughter, but largely as a reminder to pack suncream.
***
‘Have you seen the sun?’
Wow, even for a Pentecostal church, asking on the way in if I’ve seen Jesus seems forward.
‘Yes,’ another woman chimes in. ‘It was a scorcher yesterday, wasn’t it?’
I realise that the only thing being evangelised about is factor 50, and make my way inside.
It’s my first time in a Pentecostal church, and like some churchgoers at last night’s show, this is a little outside of my comfort zone. I’ve had Guernsey’s many churches to choose from, including the reputedly smallest chapel in the world, decorated entirely with broken china.
Or there was the simply-named ‘Town Church’, which claims to hold the odd record of being ‘the UK’s nearest church to a pub’. One of the church gargoyles apparently hangs suspiciously close to the gutter of the pub roof, like the gargoyle has his tongue out, trying in vain to lap up a bit of rogue ale that’s somehow travelled up a drainpipe. It’s a thankless task, thanks to gravity and being set in stone.
So, tempting as it was, proximity to booze sounded like the wrong reason to go to a church. Instead I’ve found myself here, for three main reasons:
Last night’s comedy prompts me not to huddle in with people of my own exact belief with my head in the sand, but to attempt openness with others, elsewhere in the faith.
This church was nearest.
My diary tells me that today is the seventh Sunday after Easter, aka the tenth day after Ascension Thursday, aka Whitsun, aka Pentecost.
Today is the birthday of the Church. Pentecost commemorates the Holy Spirit falling upon the disciples. It’s the starting point of Christian believers spiritually meeting together, and is a day celebrated throughout the world in different ways:
In France, they blow trumpets as the ‘blowing of a violent wind’ that accompanied the Spirit (Acts 2:2).
In Italy, they scatter rose petals to signify the ‘tongues of fire’ (Acts 2:3).
In England, we dress up with bells on our feet, bang sticks together and roll cheese down hills, maybe because of a few verses later: ‘Some made fun of them and said, “They have had too much wine.”’ (Acts 2:13).
Here in the Pentecostal church, it looks like business as usual - a nearly-full meeting of families, all cheery and all cheery and sun- drenched. I’m a little broody again, till some more pre-teen ogres come tearing in.
The building itself looks like a modern take on a traditional church: one stained-glass window, a slightly raised stage area, a vaulted ceiling. Yet everything feels stripped down. Other churches would be tempted to fill the walls with posters, banners and Bible verses, but here there’s more wall-space, and more focus.There’s the merest hint of Ikea.
I’m instantly spotted as new; not a surprise on an island such as this. They must have reached the point where new blood doesn’t so much come from brand new Christians, as people defecting from the Church of Scotland up the road.
I browse the bookshelf near the back, hoping to gain some quick last-minute insights into the Pentecostal way.A leaf through tells me that although traditions here may be different to my church, many of the customs have been making their way to Anglican churches for years ...
Pentecostals and friends - a handy guide
aka A Colossal Glossary of Glossolalia
Gifts of the Spirit: These aren’t general ‘gifts from God’ (‘Ooh, the way he kicks a football/sculpts ice/folds napkins into swans - it’s a gift from God ...’).These are words of wisdom, prophecies, the ability to speak in tongues, and various other divine gifts outlined in 1 Corinthians 12. It goes on to say that the greatest gift is love, in the familiar ‘Love is patient, love is kind’ reading heard at weddings (where you’ll also find napkins folded into swans). It’s the only time gifts and weddings are so closely thought of without the gifts including a set of bath towels and a sandwich toaster.
Glossolalia: Speaking in tongues. It may sound like babbling to the uninitiated, but glossolalists see their words as a gift from the Spirit, either to be interpreted, or to be left untranslated in its pure form. Saying the word ‘glossolalists’ is not an example of speaking in tongues, though can sound like it.
Cessationists/Continuationists: ‘Will wonders never cease?’ Well yes, cessationists think they mostly have ceased. Continuation- ists, such as Pentecostals, charismatics and neo-charismatics, think they carry on.
&n
bsp; Pentecostalism: A church that emphasises baptism in the Holy Spirit as a crucial part of a relationship with God, separate from conversion itself. With this spiritual baptism come the gifts of the Spirit, as opposed to a water baptism where the gift is normally a Bible or book tokens.
Charismatic movement: The movement of some mainstream churches to more Pentecostal practices. Born (or born again) in the 1960s, charismatics wanted to practise what the Pentecostals had seen as spiritual gifts, but remain part of a mainstream church. Unlike Pentecostalism, charismatics wanted to use these gifts to renew their own churches, rather than break off and start anew. The Protestant Church had its charismatic revival in the early 1960s, and the Catholic Church in the late 1960s, but the Evangelical Church held off until 1985, when the evangelical/charismatic mix became known as ...
Neo-charismatics: Nothing to do with Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. Not quite Pentecostals (the First Wave), not quite charismatic (the Second Wave), yet today the Third Wave is bigger than both combined. Their services are full of prophecy, speaking in tongues, and laying-on of hands. The difference from the pentes and charismos is less stress on being baptised in the Spirit to receive these gifts. It’s much more ‘in the moment’ than being prepared for that moment with spiritual baptism. So you can just turn up and immerse yourself. These churches are relatively new, in new buildings, with little or no tradition, so don’t expect church organs, dog collars or stained-glass windows. Do expect doughnuts.
‘Good morning!’ thunders a man from behind me. Any impression of a library-like atmosphere is now gone.The resonating voice causes a book to wobble and fall off its shelf.