Getting high in a church.
The spiritual healing of a long church service
It occurred to me while driving to Norfolk from London through a storm of biblical rainfall that it’s poor form to die on the way to a funeral, particularly with your mother in the car. We found ourselves in the Eye of the storm, a joke the residents of Eye probably have a swear box for. Eye is a market town with houses packed around narrow streets, presumably sheltering from the interminable easterly winds relentlessly buffeting that coast. Its church, of St Peter and St Paul, is so impressive that it was named twice.
It dates from the C14th and is considered one of the finest churches in the country. The spire alone appears to have got lost on the way to a cathedral meet-up. In keeping with the venerable surroundings, the funeral service was to be held in the high church tradition. On arrival we were informed by the undertaker that the service would be ‘quite high church’, and that she hoped we had brought sandwiches.
I paled, recalling having once accidentally attending an interminable high church Christmas service that involved no carols; it was more Talk Radio in latin than Greatest Hits Radio. We left before the end, if it ever had one. The undertaker corrected herself. ‘It’s actually very high church.’ And boy was she right. It was a ninety minute service that it was advisable not to arrive early for. In reverence to the Anglo-catholic tradition of the Church of England, the high church means that if anything can be elongated, or changed to Latin, it will be; perhaps reflecting the longevity of eternal life and certainly challenging the comfort of oak church pews.
The high church is a movement within the CofE that stresses continuity with Catholic Christendom, the authority of bishops and the importance of sacraments, rituals and ceremonies. It probably disapproves of abbreviations like CofE, and its services involve a considerable amount of the clergy nodding to one another, along with a dangling thurible (yes, I googled ‘what is that swinging smoke thing in church?’) which is dangled on chains by one of the priests to emit incense smoke on the bible, the clergymen, the choir, and indeed anything else that is deemed worthy; even the congregation at one point. Presumably the priesthood either take turns to play with it or compete in a particularly fraught game of rock, scissors, paper.
The high church seems to take its lead from a similar sartorial rulebook as the Greek and Russian orthodox, and I assume still considers the invention of stirrups as unnecessary newfangled nonsense. Despite the service sheet running to 12 pages, the turnout is good. The leading churchmen are wearing some pretty impressive clergy clobber, but from the nave they are followed by new levels of paraphernalia. It’s like seeing the crimson armour and gowns of the Emperor’s royal guard in Return of the Jedi for the first time. The head honchos are all white robes, tall crosses and the swinging thurible. They wear those black hats associated with tired and intense looking Russian clerics perched high on their heads. They’re called Birettas, and with their pom pom verge upon cheerful were they not so jet-black. Their three folds are to enable the constant doffing and replacing required throughout the service. And there’s so much of this bowing, kneeling, nodding and hat removing that any job specification is likely to deter potential applicants.
The constant messing around with hats probably breaks up the long service, as anything that can be sung is sung, making one grateful there are no terms and conditions being belted out by the choir. However, there was one disturbing moment amongst such faith when a hand sanitiser, a ritualistic item of the covid era appeared before communion, presented by an otherwise sweet bird-like woman. It was like someone singing Bryan Adams during the 2 minute silence of Remembrance Day; incongruous and unholy.
Nonetheless, the entire experience was unexpectedly enriching in a way that 90 mins spent doing pretty much anything else generally isn’t. Some guests had never been severed from their smart phones for so long. God feels closer when you have little else to do but stare blankly at Sanctus & Benedictus wondering why your life is so lacking in the ecclesiastical. And as the nave filled with smoke, the congregation became shadowy shapes swaying with stultification, and sunlight caught the golden Jesus above the rood screen, the Rev’d glugged water in the pulpit and it was easy to imagine it is holy water and that he might see into the very souls that the congregation were forced to be considering themselves.
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This is wonderful, and has actually cheered me up a little which in current times is itself an almost sacred achievement. I can’t recall reading anything so beautifully and precisely English for a long time.
You are such a natural writer. This piece was so evocative. I feel like I was there with you- at that holy , very particular church service in a special part of the world.