I went to church again this morning. It was another of those nice friendly services where we have about twelve to fifteen people, all of whom are there because they want to be there and most of whom make very definite contributions to the service. There’s the lady who plays the organ. She’d be the first to say that she’s not a real organist but few of us are real singers and we just “make a joyful noise unto the Lord”. There’s the lady who read the lesson. Her son has just written his autobiography which describes her vividly and although she seems a very nice quiet lady when she comes to church she must be a formidable woman. A retired teacher led the prayers and assisted at the communion. Someone made some coffee and a lovely lady welcomed everybody who came.
For me, that’s what village churches should be about. Our great cathedrals commission great artists, employ master craftsmen, attract near professional flower arrangers and have world famous choirs but our village churches are enriched by love and each person’s offering of his or her best. Even when there is no service in progress they are witness to the devotion of countless men and women over the centuries.
Here’s the Lord’s Prayer, crocheted by a village lady.
Here is a modern window, commissioned to commemorate the airmen from the nearby airfield who died in WW2.
And most intriguingly here is a three faced grotesque, not a gargoyle as it is not a water spout. What thoughts did the mediaeval craftsman have in his mind when he made this for the village church?