St. Bartholomew-the-Great is a bit of a bugger to find at the moment because they seem to be rebuilding the whole of London around St. Bart’s Hospital. Everything looks totally different – it’s a warren of orange boards, hard hats and scaffolding, and big stop signs directing the traffic around huge holes in the ground. But once you find the right street you will stand back and love this place the first time you see it because this church looks old.
The first thing that hits you when you creak open the door is the wonderfully thick smell of incense. It coats your throat in a religious syrup and it’s the scent of Christmas. What on earth do they burn to create such a wonderful smell? Old Bibles and prayer books? Please don’t tell me that there’s a crematorium around the back…
Everything is quiet and low and barely even there, just a few mysterious creaks from locked-off chapels. Spears of sunshine are falling through the roof but it may as well be night-time at noon. I choose a pew at the back to ponder on my little life but I’m pretty sure that no one’s listening… not to me anyway. He’s got better things to do than waste his time on a total nobody like me. But I suppose I could have a go while I’m here, what’s the harm? But I’m not religious so I haven’t got a clue what to do.
- Kneel down (I’m not doing that with my dodgy knees)
- Put your hands together into a triangle shape
- Mind meld with the Almighty (that’s the difficult bit)
I’m not praying for world peace – sod that. I’m praying for rain. Let’s keep it nice and simple seeing as it’s my very first prayer. Let’s see if he can drum up a thunderstorm on a sunny day, and then maybe I’ll start believing in him.
What a beautiful place this is. You don’t have to be a genius to see that it’s six hundred years old because some of the stonework is practically a ruin. It’s got weathered old walls and heavy velvet curtains around the balcony to muffle the organist’s coughs. The floors are full of deflated old cushions that people have been kneeling on for so long that they’ve squeezed all the air out. (That’s why I could never be a Christian – because of all that kneeling down they have to do. My knees couldn’t take it.)
I believe in God now. Forget everything that I said before – I have changed my mind in the last five minutes. I believe in God again if it means free entry into this place every Sunday. After all, it might be true… right?
Is it really so far-fetched that an omnipotent old man managed to fashion the entire universe out of nothing but dust and crumbs? He probably had lots of help anyway – he wouldn’t have done the whole universe on his own. Not in seven days – that’s just daft. That was probably an ancient typo. It’s a bit like when people ask “Who built St. Paul’s?” and we reply “Christopher Wren”. He’s the guy who gets all the credit, sure, but we all know that he didn’t do it on his own – he had lots of help. And it was like that with the universe – God probably had a whole army of priests and bishops and nuns to help him out.
He was just the foreman. He was the guv’nor, but he got the pope in as producer. The nuns did all the gardening. The choirboys did all the colouring in. The vicars just kept everyone fuelled up with tea and sandwiches.
I look at my watch and realise that I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes sitting here in the dark, thinking about God Almighty – it must be this place that gets your head ticking over.
If you enjoy this then try Brompton Oratory (take a tube journey from Barbican to South Kensington); St. Bride’s (you can walk it 10 mins) and Temple Church (walk it in 12 mins or travel from Barbican to Temple by tube)
