Springing out the vestry like a whippet from a starting block, the white-haired woman striding towards me looking flushed and indignant.
‘You can’t park here,’ she boomed. ‘This space is for church users only.’
I knew that. In need of a little spiritual solace – that’s what had brought me here on a quiet Saturday afternoon, but she seemed unconvinced.
‘There’s a public car park at the other end of the town,’ she said, adding: ‘Nearer the shops and cafes.’
To this self-appointed guard dog my face didn’t fit. In her eyes I was a shopper looking for free parking rather than the reality – a potential congregant trying to reconnect with a lapsed faith. Even as I headed through the church entrance her suspicions didn’t seem to lift.
So, what was the issue? My ripped jeans or being under the age 60? Who knows? But as the only visitor to an otherwise empty church, a welcome rather than a rebuke wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Sadly, tetchy and territorial church stalwarts can be an all-too-common fixture in rural towns and villages.
Elderly, mostly female and partial to a padded gilet, they’re the ones really running the show – not the resident vicar. They prop up every village raffle and church fundraiser and can knock out a moist Victoria sponge or flower display on demand. In their minds, and to many others, they make a valuable contribution and perhaps in some ways they do.
But at a time of religious decline and global rise in atheism, I have another take. Aren’t these tight cliques with their old-fashioned snap judgments stunting the church’s broader appeal within the community?
In my village in West Sussex, the church may still be a pillar of village life but its undoubtedly playing to a very select crowd.
A church-going acquaintance has tried to tempt me to the Sunday service which is usually followed by the ‘chat and cuppa social’ but I’m unconvinced.
Forced chit chat with the usual do-gooders discussing the grandkids and their latest cruise holiday doesn’t appeal – especially because they are the very ones who otherwise blank you at the village show or shop.
At best, they make you feel only politely tolerated as if it’s just another extension of their duties like delivering the village magazine. And that’s on a good day.
It’s at specific events when the power-crazed pettiness really kicks in – such as when the church played host to a recent book festival.
Pouncing on unsuspecting members of the public, the church ladies demanded £5 to borrow a cushion to sit on – (on top of the £20 event fee) and exchanged disapproving looks if anyone declined.
During the interval, they cut larger slices of lemon drizzle for their cronies and took offence when asked if they could fill the tea mug of tea to the top rather than halfway.
And expect some comeback if you don’t subscribe to their particular worldview.
Tellingly, it was these same women who became very frosty with me in the local shop after I’d dared to voice a not uncommon observation that village life tends to be skewed towards to families rather than single people.
Yes, having lived in their bucolic bubble for many years any alternative viewpoint or constructive criticism of their community is always seen as blasphemy.
Meanwhile, its little surprise the church report in the village magazine feels more like a throwback to the 1950s featuring ‘village mums’ sharing recipes or their latest cross stitch project.
I want to feel inspired by faith – not suffocated by stalwart stuffiness.
For me, it’s part of the Church of England’s wider image problem. The Bible society may have claimed a church-going revival amongst younger people but let’s get real. Against the rise and rise of Islam, the Christian faith has been declining for years among the British public.
Many churches sit closed amongst broken gravestones and overgrown weeds, tired shadows of their former shelves like a deserted high street and failing pubs. For many, it’s only the festive season or weddings when they really come alive.
Still reeling from several abuse scandals, the church has never needed to connect and resonate more meaningfully with a wider mix of people and attitudes.
Recent years has seen a modernisation mission with a focus on updating the language in the bible and prayers but the bigger problem is the dated disciples dominating their local parish.
It’s the reason why I currently eschew collective worship. Instead of the regular services I’ll sometimes drop by on a weekday afternoon when I usually have the place to myself.
Once through the gothic, studded door I find peace and calm in simple space with impact breathing in the familiar musty scent of the aged wood.
It’s a reminder that I can still find comfort in the physical church itself; it’s just a shame that parts of the congregation leave me cold.
