Though we are many…


I have written this in response to Peter Anthony’s YouTube video in which he argues against virtual communion (Link here). Part of his argument is that virtual communion would be exclusive as it excludes those without easy access to the internet.  I have assumed from this that he sees inclusivity as part of the fundamental nature of the Eucharist. (This is also implied by the congregational response in the communion service: “though we are many, we are one body because we all share in the one bread.”)   

We are about two thirds of the way through the baptism service and there is a surprising feeling of unity amongst this very disparate congregation.  Most of those here today are connected to the baptism family and haven’t been in church since the wedding.  The usual congregation is feeling a bit overwhelmed but pleased to see the church so full.

Together we have sung “Morning has broken” and “All things bright and beautiful” (chosen by the baptism family.) We have listened and reflected on the priest’s short talk on the significance of being called by name and laughed at the humorous anecdote concerning their own name.  We have watched the baptism and smiled at the baby’s reaction to the water.  The children have shared the baptism cards they have made for the baby and there has been almost silence during the prayers for the world, the church, the community, the sick and ourselves.  Most have joined in saying the Lord’s Prayer. Sharing the peace has given us a chance to welcome and connect with the baptism party and for them to welcome and connect with each other.

“We break this bread to share in the body of Christ.”

“Though we are many we are one body, because we all share in the one bread” the congregation respond, including all those have not realised the implications of what this might look like in practice.

All this togetherness is about to change.

The priest has reached the end of the Eucharistic prayer and we are about to be divided into sheep, lambs, llamas and goats.

The sheep are the straightforward ones.  They are the people who take communion either here or in their own churches.  They are invited to come and take communion, to share in the one bread.

Next the llamas.  The priest invites all those who would like a blessing to come up with the communicants.  As we make our way up to the altar rail it is easy to distinguish between sheep and llamas because the llamas have been asked to bring the service sheet with them to show they won’t be taking communion.  (Why make it so obvious who is included and who is excluded?  Why not just ask people to hold their hands together at the altar rail?)  *

I think the priest is hopeful that all the baptism party will be llamas but apart from the baby’s immediate family most of them choose to be goats and stay sitting in the pews.   They sit in fidgety embarrassment as the rest of us file past on our way to communion, rereading the weekly pew sheet, chasing their children around the church or guiltily moving seats to chat to their friends.

No one has made any suggestions as to how they might use this time when they are excluded from this part of the worship.  This is something they just have to sit through. Unlike the oil, the water, the candle and the promises there has been no explanation of the significance of communion – perhaps the priest thinks this is covered by the Eucharistic prayer but I’m not sure it is.

The priest may be scarcely aware of the goats as they are physically distant from the altar and the priest’s focus is on the giving of communion and blessing those at the altar rail.

It is different for the laity as we have to walk past them both going and coming back.  (How do we walk back past those who have not taken communion?  Do we walk in some kind of sacred bubble, staring fixedly forward towards the back of the church where the loo is?  Or do we smile and attempt eye contact, while trying not to give off “look how I’ve been transformed by taking communion” vibes that create an unbreachable gap between those who are included and those who are not?)

And the lambs?  Churches differ widely on the lambs, both theologically and in practice.  In some the bread of life is offered to all baptised lambs with sufficient teeth to eat it safely.  Many churches offer it to church lambs who have reached a certain level of reasoning (generally assumed to be achieved about seven years old) and have undergone a preparation course.  Others seem barely aware that the lambs exist except as an added nuisance to the sheep they accompany.   But this is a different discussion…

“Almighty God, we thank you for feeding us with the body and blood of your Son Jesus Christ. Through him we offer you our souls and bodies to be a living sacrifice…” begins the post communion prayer, said together (in theory) by the congregation, whether they have been fed or not.

Baptisms often highlight how exclusive the Eucharist can be as we are more aware of who is included and who is excluded.  But most Eucharists I go to include at least one goat or llama and even at times a few stray lambs.  I accept that this may be through choice, but where else in our lives do we experience this clear division of people into those who are excluded and those who are not?

Livestreaming and videoing of services have at least taken this away; sitting in front of our screens we are far less aware of who is “in” and who is not.

I am still thinking through the ideas around a virtual Eucharist and I think Peter Anthony may have a point about the need for physical presence.  But I would not choose the idea of the Eucharist as inclusive as a key argument.  It is hard to attend a communion service without being aware just how exclusive the Eucharist is in current practice.  While there may be theological reasons for this, I do not think it is right to assume the Eucharist is inclusive when experience indicates that it is not.

*  I do know some priests who offer an open table, especially for christenings and at Christmas.

Invisible children


A couple of years back I went along to a service in a charismatic church, which was somewhat outside my usual experience of Anglican Holy Communion.

We began with a time of worship songs, accompanied by a band of guitars, drums and keyboard.  People sang, prayed (possibly in tongues), waved their arms and participated with emotion and enthusiasm for about forty five minutes.

Meanwhile what about the children?

Near the front sat three boys who spent the time in that kind of jostling, shoving, mock fighting usually reserved for long journeys in the back of the car. “He pushed me!” “He banged my elbow!” “Stop him!”

Further back a boy of about 10 or 11 spent the time on his ipad. Next to me the 12 year  old girl tried to amuse her 3 year old sister while their mother took part in the praise and prayer. A smaller child paid about six visits to the loo…

Were these children invisible to the congregation? They had been welcomed on entry but after that no one seemed to be aware they were there – until the end of the praise session when they were sent off to groups.

The previous week I had been in a community church where the praise session lasted about half an hour.  The children sat on the back row, kicking their legs, doing puzzle books and holding conversations about dinosaurs. They too appeared invisible to the worshipping congregation.

I wondered if these churches saw this time of praise as a coming together of the whole church family. But although the children were physically present they were absent in all other respects.  I saw no child taking part in these times of praise.

It would be good to be able to say that things are different in middle of the road Anglican churches. Mostly they are not.  Words to the hymns and songs are either in hymn books or projected onto screens.  They need a reading age of at least seven years old which takes out most of the younger children and any child who is dyslexic. These children stand ignored, fidgeting in boredom, while the adults sing around them.  Occasionally a token action song is included.

It doesn’t have to be like this.

The other week I saw a four year old joining in enthusiastically with the hymns, playing an assortment of musical instruments.  Although this was almost her only participation in the entire hour long service, she was recognised and visible for these brief moments of time.

If a church’s musical standard is too high for pre-schooler percussion there are the quieter options of flags, ribbons and banners to wave.  I have seen an evangelical church where four children came forward to wave long streamers during the praise time (and mini versions for all the children would have been even better).  Some songs (for example Taize) can be signed. There are art projects that could add another dimension to a time of praise.

For I just don’t get it.  If we are truly listening to God how can we be so unaware of the children in our midst, who are always visible to him?




The Penelope principle: worship is for all


“I’ve spoken to the baptism family” says our new vicar at coffee time, “and I’ve told them all about your service for toddlers.  I suggested that once Danielle is three they might like to bring her along.”

And she goes cheerfully on her way, completely unaware that I am standing there open mouthed.

Three? Three?  What can I have said that has given her the impression that a child needs to be three to come along to the toddler service?

Or perhaps it isn’t anything I’ve said.  Perhaps it is the idea that Christianity needs cognition; that there is no point in introducing faith or worship to someone who cannot understand it?

Several years back now I wrote a guest post on the blog “Explore and Express” called “A Year with Penelope”:

In it I wrote about baby Penelope’s first experiences of church – from starring as baby Samuel at 8 weeks old to watching Godly Play stories intently at 12 months.

Looking back at it now, it seems to me that this sentence is key: “We can never tell how close a person is to God, but it seems unlikely that the God we worship does not come close to small, wordless children simply because they cannot speak.”

If God indeed comes close to small children and babies, then they should be with us as part of the worshipping community from birth.   No one is too young.

Recently Mary Hawes (the Church of England’s national children and youth adviser) asked a follow up question:  “I’d love to know the next part of the story – is Penelope still part of the worshiping community? Was she welcomed with 2 year old tantrums, 3 year old determination…”

The simple answer to this question is that sadly this particular worshipping community no longer exists but while it did exist (in various formats) there was never a time when Penelope was not welcomed.

But there is a further aspect to this.  Even as a nine month old baby, Penelope was someone who loved to be involved, and this continued during her toddler and pre-school years.  This made it easy for her to be part of this small worshiping community, where there were many opportunities for her to take an active role.

But what about the other small children?  The wandering toddler, the two year old in a temper, the independent three year old?

When we first began (before Penelope was born), the time before the service was spent with us rushing round trying to get everything sorted while our two and three year olds rolled over and over each other in a heap on the floor.  The service usually began with us separating out the children and restoring them to their families while the leader began, “Welcome to our all age service.”

For despite the chaos, they were welcome. We might have envisaged a service where the children sat quietly beside their parents, waiting patiently for us to begin; it wasn’t what we got.  We worked at it. We put down toys to engage the children before the service began and looked for ways (such as taking a prayer leaf or a candle to a chosen place in the church) to involve them in getting ready for worship.

And somehow an ethos of welcome developed at this service.  It extended not just to the babies and the tricky two year olds but also to the adult with dementia, the person with learning difficulties, the autistic older child…

If we believe that no one is too young to take part in worship, then it follows that no one is too different or too difficult either…   Worship is for all…

Welcome: The community church, getting it right…


“Is it your first time here?”

When I reply that it is, the person on the door explains that the worship is upstairs and will be starting in 10 minutes.  He is not pushy, and seem genuinely pleased to see me.

In the foyer, someone else approaches me and asks if I have been told where the loos are and that coffee will be served afterwards.

I am accompanied up the stairs by Eric, an elderly man who has had a stroke. I find it almost impossible to make out what he is saying. But there is no mistaking his deep joy, his attention and the warmth of his smile.  Here is someone who knows that he is loved and valued by God and does not let himself be defined by his disabilities.  It is still important for him to welcome people and so he does.

At the end of the service I go down for coffee.  Several different people come up and chat and I am introduced to the pastor.

As I leave, I think that it would be good to go again, even though it isn’t really my style of worship.

This church seems to see welcoming as the responsibility of everyone, even though there were people with specific roles like greeting and dispensing coffee.

Instead of settling into the comfort of friendship groups at coffee time, there is an awareness of those who are on their own and might not know anyone.  I didn’t have to stand around looking lost and feeling excluded; probably six or seven people spoke to me at different times. Their initial questions were neutral – leaving me free to set the pace and share as much or as little as I wanted.

But perhaps the most important thing was that this church saw me as a real person and did not label me as a potential punter. I felt this most strongly talking to Eric going up the stairs.  He knew that here he is accepted as himself. I knew that I could be too.

Welcome: for extroverts


I’m visiting a suburban evangelical church and have scarcely got through the door before someone has stepped forward to welcome me. She asks my name, where I am from and whether I am just visiting.  Another person gives me books and shows me where to sit. She also asks my name, where I am from and whether I am just visiting.

As I sit down the lady behind me smiles, asks my name and where I am from; her friend sitting next to her asks me if I am just visiting…

I hope for a quiet pause to gather my thoughts before the service but I am out of luck.  The lady sitting across the aisle leaps up, comes over and yes, you’ve guessed it, she asks my name, where I am from and if I am just visiting.  I am thankful when the service begins.

If I were an extrovert, I think I would feel really welcome in this church.  The people are interested in me (if a little predictable) and their welcome feels genuine. I would have enjoyed the opportunity to talk about why I had come.

But for an introvert it has been overwhelming.  If the congregation are this welcoming before the service, what will coffee time be like? It is a relief when the service overruns and I can excuse myself quickly in order to meet my friend for lunch.

Welcome: The evangelical city church


I am welcomed at the door by Denise.  I know this because she is wearing a badge that says: “Denise, Welcomer.”

This is an evangelical church with two large congregations each Sunday morning plus a lot of weekday activities.  Denise shows me a good place to sit – towards the back, but not so far back that I am unable to see or take part. She makes sure that I have the weekly pew sheet and tells me that the words of the hymns and the Bible readings will be on the screen.  She then leaves me and returns to the door.

For some time I am on my own but then a young girl comes and sits next to me.  When the service starts we are invited to introduce ourselves to our neighbours.  Pollyanna tells me that she is a student at the university and that she is looking for a church to belong to.  This is her first visit here.

After the service we are instructed to stay in our places and coffee will be brought to us.  Denise, the welcomer, reappears and tells Pollyanna and me that she will fetch coffee for us. There is no time in this gap between services for us to mingle with other members of the congregation, no time to make contact with anyone in the church except for Denise.  Pollyanna and I make each other welcome, she tells me about her very charismatic home church. This one isn’t quite the same, she is planning to try a different church next week.

Denise returns with the coffee.  She asks me how I found the service and I tell her it was very interesting (this has become my catch all phrase).  I ask her how long she has been coming (12 years) and what it is that keeps her coming here (the teaching). She ask me if I will come again and I make a vague reply.

Denise has done a good job of welcoming me. She has been smiling and friendly. She has shown me where to sit, told me about the service beforehand, reappeared at critical moments, brought coffee and stayed to chat.

But she has left me feeling exactly that: I am her job.  Although she has completed all the tick lists I leave feeling that my real welcome at this church came from Pollyanna the visiting student.

Welcoming: The city church

meristem 1

I have spoken to no one since I arrived in this church; even the hymnbooks were given out with a smile rather than words. Now it is coffee time; I collect my cup and sit next to the woman who shared my pew. So far, we have had no contact except for a brief sharing of the peace. Now we sit next to each other, staring forward into space.  No one comes to speak to us.  We neither speak nor look at each other.  I wonder which of us will crack first.

Eventually I turn to her and ask if she comes here often (!)   She doesn’t. She is church searching and this church was recommended to her. This is her second visit; she likes it and may well come again when she is in the city.  We chat for several minutes before she has to leave to catch her train.

Now three members of the church approach me. They are friendly and welcoming.  We talk easily. By chatting to the woman next to me, I seem to have become visible to the people of this church. But what if I hadn’t?  Would I have left without speaking to anyone?