That Girl from Derwent has learned a few more things about prejudice since moving up North.
That Girl From Derwent reckons if you're going to be offensive, you should find a better reason.
That Girl from Derwent considers why it is that some words have wider implications than others.
That Girl from Derwent is having a few difficulties facing up to the facts of her looming graduation.
In a draft of this blog, my finger slipped on the keyboard and declared I had attended the Advent service at the ‘Monster’ last Sunday.
I changed it as soon as I noticed, of course, but it got me thinking. ’Monster’ is possibly not the most inaccurate word I could have used to describe the Minster. Yes, it is an astonishingly beautiful building, but consider why that beauty and general ’epicness’ was so important - in order to inspire the fear of God into the people of York and keep them firmly under the elaborately decorated, but no less crushing, heel of the Church.
This reason (coupled with the absolutely boring sermons the local vicar used to deliver) had always made me wary of attending too many church services. As a child, my mother used to have to keep me well supplied with Smarties to keep me quiet during a sermon, and I have a distinct memory of rebuking any effort of my Godmother to get me to church at Easter. I decided I would rather play Age of Empires. No doubt she considered me a bit of a devil-child.
Just lately though, I have arrived at a greater appreciation of religion in general. Reading an interview with a victim of Hurricane Katrina who had been totally screwed over by the United States Government (Abdulrahmen Zeitoun if you’re interested), I marvelled over the sense of forgiveness the man had, and the apparent inner peace. He is a devout Muslim. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, there is something in this whole religion business.
Last Sunday, I was having the worst day in the world. It was horrible. Everything that could have gone wrong, it seemed would go wrong. I felt oppressed and frustrated and, well, mean, after I ranted to my housemate about it. Where did I turn? Well, I went along to the Minster for the Advent service.
Let me tell you now, those seats in the Minster are some of the most uncomfortable seats I have ever encountered (matched only by the floor of the Sport’s Tent on which I am sat writing this). Despite this, sat in that hallowed hall, with the centuries-old arches stretching above you and the choral music all around, I have rarely felt more at peace.
Most of my life I have droned on about how, if I were to have any kind of spiritual experience, it would be in the open spaces of the moors, or on a cliff overlooking the wild British seas… Sitting there in the darkness, amongst hundreds of candle-bearing pilgrims like myself, I was forced to eat my words.
There was something special about that moment. I looked up and there was some Saint or other looking down at me from the stained glass window - and I actually found it reassuring. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to turn into one of those ‘happy-clappy’ people who are on first name terms with Jesus and consider God to have an active hand in their lives. But I could get some perspective. Life was good. What did I need that I didn’t already have? What did I want that I couldn’t get with hard work and application?
There is something about the image of the candle in the darkness. Simple, but beautiful. Maybe it isn’t about religion, or God; maybe it’s just all about the hope that in the darkest of night’s there will always be a flame burning. Forget all the doctrine and dogma, maybe that’s what God is.
This year I’m going home earlier than planned simply so I can attend the church service in the village, boring vicar or no. I have also acquiesced to attend the local Cathedral carol service.
I think I’ll have been in churches more times this Advent than in the last four years put together.
For yesterday's Advent Calendar article, click here
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