Martian descriptions of church ceremonies
Leasing a flat entitles you to quiet enjoyment of it. The landlord can’t barge in or disrupt life. This year, quiet enjoyment of life in general was disrupted by coronavirus. We’ve all seen that. At least it makes plain, by contrariety, the meaning of going to church.
Britain in recent times has allowed the liberty of going to a church or synagogue or mosque in a natural way. No licences were needed from any ministry of religion.
Then all the churches were closed. Fair, enough, worshippers thought. Such things happen in time of plague. But allowing church to open again introduced a process of negotiation. The boot was on the other foot: worshippers could only do things in their own churches that officials approved.
Some legal restrictions defied logic. A church could have worshippers spaced at two metres. So 100 might pray in a roomy church. But at a funeral, the law reduced the number to 30. Weddings are now limited to 15 people, as though such churchgoers were twice as dangerous as mourners, whose own tears are three times as noxious as daily worshippers’.
At his baptism, little Wilfred, the Prime Minister’s son, could have had 30 people, but, since Monday, only six have been allowed to attend, unless a “significant event” of this sort is made “an element of communal worship” – held during a service.
In the official government “guidance” (on obeying which the continuing function of a church might depend), a peculiar section reads like a Martian’s description of the rite of Holy Communion. “If it is necessary to handle consumables as a part of a faith practice,” it says, “those giving and receiving food items should wash their hands thoroughly before and after consumption, or wear gloves.”
“Other actions taken to reduce the risk of transmission should also be considered,” the guidance suggests cheerfully, “for example, foodstuffs should be pre-wrapped.” Holy Communion in sachets has not, that I know, yet been put into effect.
“Speaking, singing and chanting should not happen across uncovered consumables,” the guidance adds. So the priest can no longer say “The Body of Christ” and the recipient must not say “Amen”.
“Where music plays a big part in worship, and recordings are available, we suggest you consider using these.” That is kind, but no thanks.
“Washing rituals” are out, though where “ceremonies require water to be applied to the body, others present should move out of range”. But “where an infant is involved, a parent/guardian or other member of the infant’s regular household should hold the infant”. That’s the Martian description of Wilfred’s baptism. And don’t forget, “All individuals involved should thoroughly wash their hands before and after” (even though “washing rituals” are forbidden).
In all this, a risk assessment has to be completed by those in charge of the “venue”. In fact churches are punctilious. Out of charity, they avoid spreading disease. Between services, volunteers spend hours cleaning seats. Yet worshippers fear arbitrary diktats, by the Government or Mayor of London, to close churches again.
Morning Prayer in the Church of England (as in the Catholic Church) includes the canticle of Zacharias, John the Baptist’s father, who recalled the oath which God “sware to our forefather Abraham, that he would give us, that we being delivered out of the hand of our enemies might serve him without fear, in holiness and righteousness before him, all the days of our life”. This year we have learnt to value peaceful enjoyment of worship without fear.