I go to my local church. But not my very local church. There’s a Pentecostal church, a plain building used mostly by worshipers from the Caribbean, on my very road. Happy music sometimes spills out and I have often seen smartly dressed worshippers outside.
When I told my wife that I planned to go to a service, and maybe write about it, she advised against. It would be intrusive, she said. It’s not your culture. If you wrote about it, you’d sound partronising, sneery. But I’m a religion writer, I replied, and it would be remiss of me to overlook a church in my actual street. And I’m a Christian, and so are they, so surely nervousness about cultural difference should not put me off. And I sound sneery about everything, so that’s irrelevant.
Now I’m rather glad that it’s there, that the only non-residential building in my street, apart from the corner-shop, is devoted to the praise of God
The notice board said that Sunday worship was from 11 to 1.15.
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