With Day 19 being a Sunday - one which followed a particularly messy and debauched Saturday night - I decided it was time to amend my ways and devote some time to the Almighty. That’s right. I went to Church.
Having been raised in your traditional God-fearing family, any old Church would hardly have been a new experience. With the goal to discover something different, I set out to Glory House (yes, the pun is easy but most likely unintentional), one of London’s largest and most popular Evangelical Gospel Churches. Praise the Lord!
After taking numerous tube lines all the way out to Canning Town (the road to redemption is evidently a long one, spanning several boroughs), I arrived at Glory House. Wow. “Sore Thumb” does not even begin to describe it. First off, I was the only Caucasian in the building. I felt like Julia Stiles in “Save the Last Dance”, just with fewer family issues and better hair. However, in addition to the racial elephant in the room, I had also committed a big fashion faux pas. It turns out that Evangelical Christians strictly follow the “Sunday Best” rule, as all my fellow Churchgoers were completely suited and booted. I, on the other hand, was in typical hangover attire: baggy jumper, tracksuit bottoms, dark shades and Uggs (Yes, I wear Uggs. Don’t be hatin’). I have never felt more out of place. Fortunately, these Christians weren’t the judgemental type, and welcomed me with open arms.
After discreetly sneaking into one of the seats at the back of the worship hall, I started to think my arrival had gone unnoticed. Not the case. Almost immediately, a smiley verger came to usher me towards the front, and suddenly I was being sandwiched into the second row. How did this happen?! Soon enough, the worship itself kicked off: a ten-man gospel band singing in five-part harmony being led by a woman with pipes to challenge any chart-topping songstress. The Vicar of Dibley this was not...
Singing done, it was time for the sermon. My plan to observe quietly then became less and less possible, as the Preacher began by asking if there were any new folk in the house. Stupidly, I raised my hand. Before I knew it, I was on my feet being prayed for, a welcome pack thrust into my hands. My initiation ended with the whole congregation uniting to say “We love you and want to see you again!” Now, I’ve had some whirlwind relationships in the past, but I always wait at least 3 hours before using the L-word. This was on another level. As soon as I could, I took my seat, wondering how I had got into this situation. Luckily, the Pastor’s talk began, and I appeared to have been forgotten. I’ll admit, I can’t remember much of what was said for the next ninety minutes, but there was a lot of shouting and many cries of “Can I get an Amen?!” I kid you not.
When it was home time, I took swift exit from the Church. My hangover hadn’t eased, and I was worried about further declarations of love. It was only on the way back to the tube - when I noticed a vague scent of gin wafting around me - that I worked out why I had been so popular. I clearly looked in dire need of salvation. Maybe next time, after a better night’s sleep...
Day Nineteen: Spend some quality time with the Big Man and his followers. AMEN!
Peace & Love,
Rich xx
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