Somewhere in the midst of the hurly-burly antics and preoccupations of life, I think maybe, I’m probably a Christian. Not the type who sings in church with his eyes shut, but an extremely moderate, unthinking Anglican for whom the prospect of the existence of nothing is too painful for words.
That makes me the sort of Anglican who starts to pray once the 747 has been in freefall for six seconds or more over the Atlantic, or the type that looks heavenward when Harry Kane is about to take the most important penalty in the recent history of English football.
As a result, the Great Being plays precious little part in my day-to-day life; I fear I’m essentially Godless. I go to church about five times a year, usually for events that don’t form part of the liturgical calendar – weddings, funerals and sometimes baptisms.
But I do still classify myself as an Anglican, unlike the vast majority of the country – just 12 per cent of us are C of E now, according to the latest census, while less than half, just 48 per cent, are Christian of any kind.
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