It’s really not unusual these days to hear, either in a
newspaper article, on the radio or even over a pint, that the general opinion
is that the church is dead. That the Church of England has had it. That
congregations are dwindling, churches falling into decline and that, in
reality, it’s only a matter of a few years before parish churches will be
closing their doors for the last time. Well, I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t
the case with some churches. There are East Anglian church buildings out there
that have a congregation of two or three, are used for services only once every
few months and remain locked and desolate for the rest of the time. However,
they simply aren’t the norm. The Church of England that I come across tends to
be vibrant, enthusiastic and pretty pro-active for much of the time (a little
too pro-active when it comes to lime-wash upon occasion). Many of the churches
that I visit are full of book sales, coffee mornings and children’s activity corners
– where colouring and neighbourliness are as important as prayer and ritual.
They are, in short, full of life.
This isn’t the result of any great groundswell of belief
within the East Anglian church, but is simply down to one thing – the people.
It’s the result of local vicars that care about their buildings, young mums who
want a safe place for their kids to meet, retired people wanting a place to
chat and drink coffee. Above all, it’s down to the churchwardens. Those
individuals who give up hours of their time to look after these buildings,
ensure that they are open, welcoming and as clean of bat droppings as is humanly
possible. Doing what I do I have come across many dozens of these selfless and
dedicated individuals. They may be a little reserved when we first turn up (“You
won’t find any graffiti in our church”),
but are soon enthusiastic supporters of the project that will do just about
anything to help. They’ll turn up late in the evening to open a church for a
night survey, go and borrow a ladder from a neighbour or simply turn up on a
cold morning with a flask of coffee. They are the real treasures of the Church
of England.
And
then I met the churchwarden from hell….
It
happened a few weeks ago when I was spending a day scoping churches in south
Norfolk. All this really entails is me wandering vaguely around half a dozen
or so churches, torch and camera in hand, carrying out an initial inspection
to try and determine where all the good graffiti might be found. If a church
comes up without any graffiti (a rarity) then it can get crossed off the list. If
there is a bit present then it can be scheduled for a quick few hours one
afternoon. If, as often happens, you find a church packed with early graffiti –
then you just know that you aren’t going to make it to the pub for a few weeks.
It
had been a good day really. A couple of churches I had visited had been real
gems. The doors flung open, books for sale in the porch, happy ladies arranging
flowers for a wedding, teenagers snogging and smoking behind the war memorial
where they thought nobody could see them – and there had been a few good bits of
graffiti too. Then I headed south to a church that I had been looking forward
to visiting for some time. A big and often referred to Gothic structure slap
bang in the middle of a big village south of Swaffham. The church is in all the
guidebooks, famous for its medieval glass, magnificent tower and stunning
memorial brasses, and from the photographs I’d seen the piers looked as though
they could be hiding some really good graffiti. In short, it had potential. I
arrived to find it magnificently situated in the middle of the village, rising
like a great stone dragon above the surrounding houses, grabbed my survey bag
and headed for the porch.
Then
I saw it. As I entered the porch the main door was secured by a thick iron
chain, held firmly in place with a padlock about the size of small melon. It
really wouldn’t have been out of place securing the gates to a top secret
military installation, scrap metal dealers yard or investment bankers pension
fund. It was, whichever way you looked at it, a little excessive. Houdini had
escaped from lesser fetters. This was certainly unusual as far as I was
concerned. Most of the churches in Norfolk these days tend to be open and
welcoming, particularly ones situated in the middle of villages, where dozen of
local eyes can keep a wary lookout in case someone tries to run off with the
hymn books. However, closer inspection revealed a polite notice stating that,
if I should wish to gain access all I had to do was ring one of the
churchwardens. All was not lost!
So
I rang the first number on the list and, despite it being a weekday afternoon,
the phone was answered almost immediately by a well spoken gentleman. I asked
politely if it was possible to get access to the church that afternoon? I was
answered by what can only be described as an extended version of the children’s
game 20 questions. Who was I? Where was I from? Why did I want to visit the
church? Had I made an appointment? Did I come from a good family? What was my
favourite cheese? And I hadn’t parked on the grass had I? Assuming that I was
talking to the churchwarden I went into some detail concerning my intentions
towards his church (all entirely honourable – unless there was a particularly
sexy rood screen) and outlined the aims of the graffiti survey. After about ten
minutes of this he seemed satisfied that, as a grammar school boy and former
blackboard monitor, I could be trusted to proceed further with the vetting
process. “I’ll see if I can find the churchwarden for you then”.
He,
apparently, wasn’t actually the churchwarden after all. I have to assume he was
married to said churchwarden, and began to wonder if he always referred to his
wife in such a manner (“Mrs churchwarden and I made it to the Maldives last
Summer, don’t yer know. Lovely local natives, but damn all in the way of decent
Anglican churches!”) - unless of course he was part of some hitherto
un-encountered churchwarden security system being trialed in south west Norfolk.
These things I pondered as I heard him stomping along through the house in
search of the elusive Mrs Churchwarden. Indeed, it was taking so long I was beginning
to wonder if he did indeed have her stashed in the attic, or in some remote
outbuilding on a distant part of his estate. Finally, I heard him talking
again, hand obviously muffling the receiver in the hope of not being heard, “Some
chap wants to look around the church”, he said, “Not really convenient is it”.
Finally
I was passed across to the elusive Mrs Churchwarden. The long and the short of
it was that we had to go through the whole 20 questions thing again (“Favourite
cheese – a good stilton”, “No, I hadn’t parked on the grass”, “I drive a
Renault”, “Yes I am aware that it’s not a British car – but the Aston Martin is
being serviced”, etc, etc). “The church”, explained Mrs C. eventually, “had
recently been subject to an attempted break in, hence the need for the massive
chains and padlock. In fact”, she went on, “they really didn’t like to
encourage people to just turn up and view the church, and would far rather make
it by appointment only. Today was all rather inconvenient actually and it would
be far better if I went away and made an appointment”. Could I make an
appointment I asked? “Not today”, was the reply, “as it was rather inconvenient”.
It
was at this point that I made my fatal mistake…
Being
a little stupid at the best of times, I made the mistake of pointing out to Mrs
C, ever so politely, that locked churches tended to suffer more heritage crime
than open ones. It is, after all, an established fact. Open churches have
people keeping an eye on them, popping in and out all day, generally caring for
them. Closed churches are the places where thieves can pretty much guarantee
that they won’t be disturbed. That did it!
I was then informed that Mrs C. really didn’t welcome preachers at her
church. Indeed, she had decided some time ago that “they weren’t going to open
the church at all except for services”. Visitors simply weren’t convenient.
As
I subsequently learnt, the padlock and chain has been in place since at least
as far back as 2008. Visitors are firmly discouraged. Rumour has it that they
might enjoy themselves a little too much and lighten the air of desolation that
surrounds the locked and barred church.
So,
here’s the thing Mrs C. You have taken one of the most beautiful things in
Norfolk and locked and chained it against all those who would care for it. You have
taken a place that could be full of people, laughter, happiness and joy and
turned it into something that is cold, dark and empty. Your church, Mrs C, is
broken – and I don’t just mean the lock. I do not doubt that you truly love
your church. However, sometimes we all make the wrong decision, even if for the
right reasons. Your church is surrounded by people, in the middle of the
village, and yet you apparently have alienated even the neighbours – to the
extent that they won’t (or haven’t been allowed) take an active role in
securing it for the future – and themselves. If you really do love something,
then you must also be prepared to let it go. Mrs C, it really is time to hand
on the keys - to someone who can heal what has been broken, make better that
which is failing and give life back to the place that has been the centre of
your community for nearly a thousand years. If you love something – let it go. Sometimes it's for its own good.
Obviously, I'd never be crass enough to mention the village by name - but do keep an eye out if travelling through the villages to the south east of Swaffham. As
it is, the graffiti survey will now be surveying 649 churches in Norfolk rather
than 650…
No comments:
Post a Comment