There can be few more tranquil settings than the peace and quiet of an
English country church on a bright spring morning. Dappled sunlight flooding
through the stained-glass windows, settling on empty pews. Sadly, all too
frequent, if falling church attendance is anything to go by. Once at the heart
of the community, the presence of the church in our daily lives has now largely
been side-lined by our worship at the altar of consumerism. We are all too busy
being busy, except when the chips are down. It is then that we turn, almost as
a last resort, to God in the hope that he will sort it all out.
Whilst I have been a ‘regular’ church goer for some years now, I freely
admit to taking a pick and mix approach to my own attendance; variety is after
all the spice of life. I particularly enjoy those ‘special’ services held at
certain times of the year, expanding the concept of faith and belief beyond the
usual boundaries of prayer and worship.
Thus it was that over the Bank Holiday weekend, I found myself part of a
bustling group of 70 or so from the surrounding villages, gathered together at
Cudworth church. All of us milling around with bacon or sausage baps in hand,
gearing ourselves up for what proved to be rather a long walk, for me at least.
I was surrounded by people of all age groups, from tiny tots to
tottering oldies, landed gentry and local farming folk, newcomers and old
stalwarts, and everything in between. We are all equal in the eye of God. There
was a very fetching line in walking sticks, walking boots and wellies, with
khaki being the colour of the day, along with a Heinz variety of well-behaved
pooches in tow. Not your average church service then.
Many of this merry bunch, including me, had been transported, by horse
trailer, packed in like sardines, perched precariously on haybales (Health and
safety? What health and safety? More fun than a fairground ride) from nearby
Chillington to take part in the annual bluebell wood walk across the fields of
neighbouring farms.
But first the serious stuff, a short (very short) Rogation service
conducted by the affable Rector, Rev. Geoff Wade., as we gave thanks for all of
the good things that the soil, with a little help from nature, nurtures us
with. It was standing room only; barely space for the wagging of doggy tails in
time to ‘Morning Has Broken’ and ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’.
As I observed my fellow congregants, the thought occurred to me that
yes, organising such activities takes up a lot of time and energy, and is
reliant upon a willing band of volunteers to bring it all together. But, if
this is what it takes to fill our churches, then bring it on.
As we trooped off into the countryside, across the verdant undulating
landscape, avoiding the odd muddy puddle (note to self, wear wellies next time),
with nothing but the bleating of sheep to interrupt our thoughts, I felt
refreshed and uplifted. A feeling no doubt aided by the unaccustomed exercise.
Unused to anything but the most gentle form of exertion, I did avail
myself of the trailer for some of the return journey, noting that my fellow
occupants were almost exclusively youngsters. Clearly the younger generation is
without the stamina of the octogenarians, who ploughed on gallantly, unhindered
by aching hips and knees.
Homemade cake was our reward on arriving at Chillington, which along
with the raffle raised several hundred pounds; not to be sniffed at.
A townie by birth, living in Somerset, still largely a rural county, I
treasured this opportunity to reflect upon this brief interlude. A moment of
tranquillity and collective harmony in an otherwise troubled world is something
that we can, and should, all give our heartfelt thanks for.
Linda Piggott-Vijeh
Combe St. Nicholas
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