This blog doesn’t shy away from the big philosophical questions, not even the ones raised at the pub.

The question, are you a Goddy, was asked at a recent impromptu reunion of drinking buds from the late nineties/early naughties, at a rail served pub of mutual convenience in response to an unexpected revelation.

Several pints in, the topic of weekend plans came up and my plans had been thwarted by the weather, so clearing the church carpark jungle was cancelled.

“Church?” “What church?” “Your church?” They said.

“Yes” I said. I had expected some incredulity, naturally, something along the lines of “Church? You? Fuck off!” and then a prompt return to the discussion of food, chips deep fried in bear fat or whatever it was, but no. They were thoroughly tickled by the whole thing and weren’t letting it go.

“Aren’t your kids doing their GCSEs? You’ve left it a bit late if you want to get in to a good school” Scoffed one.

“But why would you go if you’re not getting anything out of it?” Asked another, genuinely baffled.

Its a fair question, I suppose. At the Christmas Soiree at the Vicarage last year, the vicar spotted me admiring his bookcases and asked me if I read. I said yes, and he handed me a copy of Why Go to Church by Archbishop Rowan Williams. I haven’t read it yet. It went straight in to my overnight bag with the expectation that I would read it on the many train journeys to London and back, and the many hotels I would be staying in. I didn’t. Truth is, I like to stare out of the window when I travel, and when away for work, there is always someone that fancies a quick pint after work, and by the time I get back to my room I am already asleep. Shame really, I might have made my replies here significantly better. Oh well.

“Why go to church?” I said, hyperthetically, before erupting in to song: “Because. The Angel of the Lord brought tidings to Mary…”

And the whole pub stopped what it was doing to join me in singing. “And she conceived by the Holy Ghost…”

I skipped ahead to the next bit to sing “And the word was made flesh…”

And the whole pub responded in song “…and dwelt among us…”

And then we all sang heartily: “Mary Mother of God, Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death, amen…”

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I’m not sure, my life isn’t a Richard Curtis movie, and pubs don’t actually burst in to song to help illustrate my point, and if it was, it wouldn’t use jokes that only a Catholic might apprciate. So, obviously, that didn’t actually happen, and I wasn’t actually given the opportunity to explain my testimony. Every time I spoke, I was talked over or laughed over, which is fair enough I suppose, we were there for beer. Shits and giggles. Not a theology lecture, but they did ask, and it got me wondering.

“Am I a Goddy?”

I’m not sure that I even know what that means, but I presume it means God Botherer, so yes, I am a Goddy. Since my decision to begin attending church just under a year ago, which itself has a mildly amusing story behind it, my life has changed beyond all recognition. Its not just the being welcomed in to a community of thoroughly nice and supportive people, which is reason enough to go of itself, but it has also reordered my life around the liturgical calender. My days, weeks, months and years are now centred on my relationship with God, as are my hours, minutes, seconds.

Sundays used to be just another day of the week, albeit one that I didn’t work, for money. It was a housework day, a shopping day, a stay in bed doomscrolling for half of the day day and then a hectic dash to get everything ready for the week ahead day. It was anything but a day of rest. Now, I get up with the alarm, complete my daily devotional, for which there is an app, while I wait for the kettle to boil, it takes ages, then I’m showered and shaved, suited and booted, ready to go, before 9am. Just one year ago, this itself was inconceivable for me.

At church, we have a bit of a sing, worship, focus our thoughts on the needs of others, we pray, we contribute, we receive God’s blessing. Not the Eurcharist though, I’m not yet confirmed so have yet to take my first communion, but I’m told its transformational. After that we have a cup of tea, a biscuit, and a bit of a natter, before returning home with the rest of our day to relax as we please.

Taking the Holy day seriously means that not only do we get the guilt-free physical and spiritual rest that we need and crave, but knowing that we don’t have Sunday to get stuff done, we focus our efforts on getting everything done during the week. We take our time and our domestic chores more seriously. That doesn’t mean I don’t lift a finger on a Sunday, I can still run the strimmer round the back garden if the sun happens to come out for long enough, and Sunday Dinner requires a couple of hours of graft in the hot hot kitchen, prepping the meat, peeling veg, reducing the homemade gravy to rich perfection is work, but it is a labour of love and gratitude. I give thanks to God not just that I have the means to provide for my family, but also for the family that I have the joy of feeding. I also get to spend some time to myself listening to Podcasts about ancient civilisations or the mysteries of the brain and perception or whatever. Its not all work work work.

Sundays, also, are a day for bible classes. I recently completed a course on the Bread of Life at the church, massively furthering my understanding. And at 6pm we have Evensong, my favourite thing about Sunday, even after the greatness that is the sunday roast, and the quiet time I enjoy reading; Evensong brings us peace, and we begin by singing the Angelus. I return home with a natural rested mellow, ready to face the Monday morning that follows with grace.

This time last year, my diary, outside of work, was mostly empty. I have friends in the North for curry, I have friends in the South for curry, and we meet every couple of months and put the world to rights, but that was about it. It is difficult to make friends in adulthood, everyone has their routines and habituals, and the strong friends of our youth disperse across the land and beyond, they become preoccupied with their careers, relationships, and raising their families, as did I, but the children soon grow and they need us for less and less as time goes on. We find ourselves with more time on our hands at just the right time that we have something to give back to society. The Liturgical calendar fills the diary with meaningful occupation. Easter is a joyous time of rebirth, with services, vigils, traditions and ceremonies. Chrism Mass where the water is blessed, along with the elements, and the oil annointed. This year we attended Chrism Mass at Blackburn, it was beautiful. The choir sang Oh Love, and Ave Maria, and I heard the Angelus for the first time. We just had Harvest Festival, an opportunity to give to the community, and the induction ceremony of our new Vicar that packed out the aisles; the post communion hymn was sung before we even left our pew to queue for our blessing. After that there was a celebration. Lots of cake, cheese, crackers and deli meats, washed down with wine. Lots of it. The occassion also served as a farewell to a retiring priest. He later sent a heartfelt thankyou letter you to the congregation for all they had done for him over the years. Being part of that is infinitely better than not being part of that, and is definitely very high on my list of reasons for going to church.

Spring and summer had many fundraisers. Music at the church, sunny garden parties with excellent food, where I picked up a couple of new recipies, including one for a delicious savory cheese sandwich, and of course more booze. I definitely picked the wrong denomination to quit drinking. Cheese tasting night was an absolute hit, we’ll be doing that again, and maybe even a beer festival next year, with pies, who knows. We have a murder mystery night coming up soon that should be a blast, and of course, Advent.

Last year was my first Christmas as a church going Christian. Previous festivities were centred on my favourite vice, gluttony. Staff night out, work Christmas Meal, visit family and friends for more gluttony, winter play at secular primary school, Pantomime, xmas jumpers, Dr WHo Christmas special, and of course, last minute christmas shopping. Silly stuff. Now, its about the advent, and the celebration of the birth of Jesus, and we do that with a healthy balance of comtemplative prayer and reflection, and hearty cheerful carols by candlelight. Last Christmas, we had to get up early enough to get the Turkey prepped and stuffed and wrapped in bacon and shoved in the oven before we went to Mass. Cooking the turkey was always at the centre of Christmas day, now it took second place to God. Christmas dinner is still special, but its not the most important thing.

After Christmas Mass, and obligatory glass of Presecco, the first drink of the day, we walk home and return to the kitchen aromas of a Turkey two hours cooked and teenagers wondering whats for breakfast and asking when they can open their presents, and the whole Liturgical cycle rolls on in to the new year. After attending church so many times in the run up to Easter and Christmas, you really miss it when we return to ordinary time and only go once or twice a week.

I am not by any means saying that attending Church makes me or anyone a better person than someone that doesn’t attend Church, but I am all the better for attending church, and thats good enough for me. We go to church for the communion with God, but in doing so, enriches our material lives too. The question was asked, and thats my honest response, and I do get something from it, very much so. And thats without quoting scripture or even mentioning the mysteries of faith, the resurrection, repentance, grace or the life eternal. I’ll save that for another day.