A Church Not Made With Hands

Det händer att jag går i kyrkan. Bröllop,dop och begravning. Jag går dit under protest, en tyst protest som endast visar sig i att jag aldrig sjunger med i psalmerna, inte ens tyst. Jag lyssnar inte på vad prästen säger. Jag är där men ändå inte och jag försöker tänka på annat för att få tiden att gå. Jag gör absolut inget väsen av min motvilja. Protesten är bara för min egen inre frid, ingen annan ska behöva reta sig på min okristlighet. Man måste ju ofrra sig för familjen, tänker jag och ställer givetvis upp på de släktingar som tycker att kyrkan har något med deras familjebildning eller barnuppfostran att göra. Jag är med för deras skull, men jag gillar det inte.
Jag anser mig för den delen inte vara mindre troende än mina mer kyrkliga släktingar, jag är helt enkelt inte intresserad av den svenska kyrkan.
Jag är inte medlem och har inte döpt mina barn eller konfirmerat mig. Det är inte andligheten jag har problem med, snarare kyrkans stelbenthet och oförmåga att gå i takt med tiden som känns obekväm för mig. Kyrkan verkar lida brist på humanism vilket visar sig då och då.

Mitt senaste besök i Guds hus var i höstas. En begravning. En bit in i prästens tal är det plötsligt några ord som sticker ut, som känns bekanta.." Guds hus, ett hus ej byggt för/av hand ". Orden är så bekanta och som vanligt kan jag snabbt hitta dem i mitt musikminne; " Church not made by hands", första låten på Waterboys andra platta, A Pagan Place.

Jag kommer plötsligt ihåg att jag läst om titeln i andra sammanhang och att raderna faktiskt är hämtade ur Bibeln. Minns också en vacker berättelse som publicerades på ett Waterboysforum för många år sedan. Jag kopierade den då¨och den kopierde textfilen har hängt kvar genom ett otal datorbyten.
Minns ej vem som skrev den, men innehållet berörde mig och när jag läser det idag berör det än mer.
För det är väl så här kristlighet ska se ut ?

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a few days before Christmas i think it was, and i heard that one of
my neighbours had died. he was in his 50's, had Down's Syndrome, and
lived alone with his brother in a run down old house that's somewhere
up the hill from me but which i've never seen. now, to look at the
brother, you'd think he couldn't even look after himself, dirty,
unshaven, one or two teeth left, and well known for the porter and
the poitin. but i used love to see the two of them driving around,
and i met them a few times in the shop, and johnny would always make
a run for the freezer where the ice-creams were, while packie did the
shopping. everybody around had such time for the two of them, and
packie, and i suppose his parents before him, had always ensured
there was a place for johnny in the community, back in the days when
mental illness was a very feared thing in rural Ireland `touched by
the hand of God' was one phrase for it.

so on a freezing frosty Saturday morning my two aussie neighbours and
myself headed to the church in tulla for the funeral mass. and it's
rare i find myself in a church, and the things i did and saw as a
child week after week, that never struck me as strange or
otherworldly, now confront me head on as rituals from a world i have
left, and i notice every sound, word, smell, action and response.
but this time i wasn't thinking about religion and my relationship
with it, with the coffin sitting up beside the altar, and poor packie
there in his best (and i'm sure only) suit, i was thinking about
irish funerals and the huge part religion and ritual and process
plays in them. i'm sure it was all a great comfort to packie, and
the priest spoke about johnny with great warmth, and commended packie
on the care he had bestowed upon his brother through the years. and
two cousins did the readings, the first a teenage girl, and i
couldn't help but analyse her speaking voice and delivery, (me being
a former public speaking coach to secondary school students) but the
second reading was by a woman with a strong voice and clear diction,
who knew the piece well enough to cast the odd glance around the
church, which is what i do when i'm asked to read in church, not just
saying the words but telling the people, concentrating on their
meaning, forcing the audience to hear, and listen. and i heard her
say `The Second Letter of St Paul to the Corinthians' and she began

"For we know that, if our earthly house of this tabernacle were
dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.

and i'm afraid i heard no more. A house not made with hands.so
that's where it comes from, a way back, paul the convert, paul the
proselytiser, saul the former persecutor turned fervent believer and
activist, pursuer of the messiah-dream. 2000 years old, those words,
translated down the ages, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, English, with
meanings beyond the paradox, provoking thought, perhaps bringing
comfort. and of course to my mind came the song, one of those
defining songs, that illuminate a moment in your life and achieve a
significance far beyond the hearing of the music and the singing of
the words. those first wholesome, upbeat strums of acoustic guitar,
sending out a call this is no ordinary rock song this is no ooh
baby sha la la this is no self-love, or self-loathing this is no
clich,no tune to please the market this be music, listen, here's
piano joining in, listen, drum beat playing to the heart, listen, for
what's this coming indefinable, whirl of instruments, sounds, a band
of musicians hotting up, what is this? why these goosebumps? what
swirling in my head, imagination-alarm bells ringing, heart has been
notified this is something! this can only be, THE BIG MUSIC! and
voice of young singer so joyfully unleashed, no thoughts but to sing
now she walks in fresh fields, her tracks are on the land, she is
everywhere and no place! her church not made with hands! and brass
heralds triumphant chorus, blowing this hope, this belief, effort
alchemised into spirit, and somewhere in mid-song all quietens down
and piano notes never sounding so pure and full of optimism, this
music is an affirmation of life and all the goodness it has to offer,
let suffering be for another day, listen to these notes that i play,
they are for you, for now, for the joy that my gift can bring you,
and isn't that a pretty sun, setting in a pretty sky (can't you just
see it? wherever you are now, in office, at home, at night, or stuck
in traffic with this song on your tape-deck, can't you see that
sunset? isn't it pretty? and don't you respond to the generous
offer, the free moments of simplicity and pantheistic inspiration
when your friend asks) shall we stay and watch it darken? and
wouldn't you just love to stay and watch it darken?

and at service's end, my friends prompt me to join the procession
going up to shake packie's hand, my shyness holding me back, but one
of them says she thinks it would mean more to packie than the
discomfort would to me, so i walk up the aisle, shuffle along in
line, i see packie and his bloodshot face and large round eyes as he
looks up at every consoler, and he is comforted, and glad to see them
there, but when i appear in front of him and take his hand his face
lights up and he smiles his big almost toothless smile, for he knows
i'm not a churchgoer, he knows i'm not really part of this local
scene, and even in his grief he can think through these things, and
appreciate that i have made an effort for him, and we close all four
of our hands on each other, and i say `how are you packie?' and he
says `thanks for coming noel' and i put my hand on his old strong
shoulder, and we both smile. it is a tremendously humbling moment,
and as he introduces me to his extended family `this is noel, he
lives in michael moloney's old house' and they all smile and shake my
hand, it's a welcome to glendree, welcome young man to our peaceful
old valley, and i reach the end of the line and on out to the
december sun and the bitter cold.

isn't community a church not made with hands?

/ Written by "noel" from waterpeople