Last week I told my son the story of the day the vicar came to our house. It was almost 16 years ago, and my heart still burns with the fury of it. It was not a happy day, and it has influenced the way I feel about vicars in a bad way, although perhaps some might argue that he was only doing his job.
It all began with the birth of my youngest daughter L. My older children were both christened at St Matthews Church in Northampton, known locally as Phipps’ Fire Escape. The Phipps family owned the brewery and atoned for their sins, so the story goes, by paying for the church to be built. I was christened there, went to the Sunday school under extreme duress (how I hated it), and Mr C and I were married there in 1987. I was not especially religious, and Sunday School aside, only visited the church for christenings, marriages and funerals at a push. But I would still say that St Matthews was my church. When H was born, it seemed important that he was christened there. We did not live in the parish, but were granted permission because the closest church to us had been demolished. By the time T was born, we had moved closer to the church, which is in a nice area and so she was christened there too. And when L came along, we had moved up the hill to Moulton. When I contacted the vicar of St Matthews to make arrangements, he said that we needed consent from our local vicar. I tried to do it by telephone, but he was keen to come to visit us at home. I don’t remember his name, or what he looked like, but I remember his words and his actions. My husband at the time was happy for L to be christened, but did not feel strongly about it one way or the other. So it was left to me to sort it out.
The vicar arrived and was offered a cup of tea. He began by asking me why I wanted L to be christened. I said I wanted her to have a good start, and felt that she would be protected. He was not happy with this. He asked me if I was a Christian and when I nodded, he questioned how. I told him that I thought I was Christian in how I treated others, in the way I behaved, and that I said prayers before I went to sleep.
He said that in order to be considered a Christian, I needed to engage in collective worship, and in the daily life of the church. I asked how that would be, and he gave examples of going to services regularly, and not just the Christingle or weddings. And to volunteer, perhaps by doing the flowers in the church or something similar. I felt a little affronted that my efforts were being dismissed. I quoted something I remembered from an RE lesson, which I hoped was from the bible, about finding a quiet place to pray, not somewhere for all to see. He wasn’t impressed. He wondered why I really wanted L christened if I didn’t go to church regularly.
I could see that I wasn’t going to get the answer I hoped for, and I was starting to lose my shit. My beautiful baby girl being rejected by the church; this was how I saw it. He asked why I didn’t go to church. I said I didn’t like churches. I didn’t like the smell, and they were too dark. He looked serene and untroubled. Bad move! I told him I didn’t like Christians. I thought that they weren’t inclusive and looked down their nose on people who weren’t Christians, and that they weren’t very nice people. And I didn’t want to be that sort of Christian. It was at that point that he told me that I was a heathen.
I was fuming. He had come to my house, rejected my angelic baby girl, and called me and my husband heathens. And then he asked if he could pray for us, say a prayer for us right now, sitting on my sofa. I was crying, which to my horror, I often do when raging; tears were rolling down my face and I could barely speak. But I could still have said no. I should have said no. I should have sent him away, kicking him up the arse before slamming the door behind him. And this is my only regret. I was crying so hard, that it was easier just to nod. So he said his prayer, but I didn’t join in, didn’t put my hands together or close my eyes, and I definitely didn’t say 'amen'. And then he left. And from that day, I ceased to engage in any acts pertaining to Christianity.
Instead of a christening for the heathen child, I invited all of our friends and family to a fabulous naming day for L at the town hall. I read a poem, which I wrote for the occasion, called ‘Ten Reasons Why I Love Her’, inspired by a fabulous song, ‘12 Reasons Why I Love Her’ by My Life Story. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fz1W9EWTdVY I absolutely love this song, but today is the first time I have seen the video. It is magnificent and makes me love it even more.
Mid ceremony, I stood to read my poem aloud, with shaking hands and tremoring voice, trying desperately not to sound like Pam Ayres (impossible once your mind has travelled down that road), but at least this helped to divert my brain from the tears which were in danger of cascading Niagara like.
We played ‘it’s All About You’ by McFly and ‘She’s So Lovely’ by Scouting For Girls, and it was the most beautiful day, just as I had wanted; a true celebration for a very special little girl. We had fairy godmothers, and a big party afterwards, and every year for many years, we celebrated the anniversary of this wonderful day with more parties and presents (because her birthday was at the end of December, and July was a much better time to celebrate.)
And although I am still very cross with that vicar and his rejection, and dismissing us as heathens, I am also glad that it happened. Because I stopped saying prayers, which I realised were nothing more than a ritual which I felt compelled to say, for fear that something bad might happen. I no longer felt obliged to join in with hymns, which made me miserable and reminded me of school assemblies when the teachers watching us to make sure we were singing. Singapore Sal, Beccles Bec and I always mimed the words when they looked at us. Such rebels!
I didn’t want to join in then, and now I don’t have to, I am under no obligation. However, as much as I bite my lip and refuse to sing, my damned brain, after so many years of ingrained torture, still remembers every single line, and the words appear automatically in my head as soon as the music begins, whether I want them to or not.
For many people, faith is really important, a blessing and a force for good. And I am happy for those people, if it makes them happy. It wasn’t like that for me; it was tied up with guilt and made me miserable, and it was wrong. And now I don’t have to go along with it any more. I am a proud heathen, and when my children came home from school asking about God and Jesus, I did not try to influence them one way or the other. I told them it was a story, and that many people believed in it, and many others didn’t, and it was up to them to decide for themselves. Tolerance, understanding and acceptance of differences is important, but being told what to think and how to behave, or that there is only one way to live, and anyone who does not conform is not welcome, is not ok. I am certain that most Christians would be appalled by that vicar’s behaviour, and I know they are not all bad. Certainly Reverend Richard Coles is really rather lovely. But I would rather live as a heathen than feel obliged to take part in rituals and do things that make me feel uncomfortable and unhappy.
Sometimes what may seem like the end of the world at the time, will open up your heart for a better life. That hateful man did me a favour and set me free. However, I still regret not saying ‘no, you can’t say a prayer’ and I wish I had kicked him up the arse when I'd had the chance.
