Tracks through the forest

 There you are, wandering along, doing nothing in particular, no plan — and then suddenly life picks you up and takes you somewhere unexpected and completely surprising.

In March 2020 when the virus struck, what came to mind first was that people would need accessible online spiritual support. I was so fortunate to have participated in St Pixels online church, and I could see how a Facebook group could be adapted to create something similar.

Most of the worship that emerged online at the beginning of the pandemic (things broadened out as time went on and people got au fait with Zoom) was definitely a spectator sport. Priests essentially posted videos of themselves enacting liturgy, or (in the more house-church end of the spectrum) church music bands posted videos of themselves performing a song, or children's leader put up videos of action songs, or churches posted podcasts and videos of acts of worship (hymns, prayers, bible readings, sermon).

What particularly interested me was the understanding this implied about what happens at an act of worship — what it is.

For my family, a crucial aspect of going to church is the conversation in the pew. Our pew always has an ongoing sotto voce commentary about whatever is happening, augmented by exchanged glances and understood facial expressions. We have all been going to church so long that we have a massive shared memory bank of (mainly hilarious) experiences undergone together.

So, as soon as the hymn "Lo, he comes with clouds descending" is announced on Advent Sunday, everyone in our pew knows this hymn has the "dazzling body bears" in it — second cousins to Gladly the cross-eyed bear, and the cross wee flea, and the image bear, a menagerie found in hymnody and treasured forever. We sing the hymn, we don't say anything, but the person next to you will quietly nudge you with her elbow when that line approaches, or silently point to it on the page.

Church isn't church without this sub-culture of incessant interaction. So when the UK went into lockdown and chapels closed, I knew this was an aspect of attending church that absolutely had to be incorporated in new online forms.

And you can do it on Facebook.

When we created The Campfire Church, we'd set up an event for Sunday morning — just a designated page on Facebook — that only members could access (to protect privacy and discretion in intercessions and confession etc), and where only hosts could post.

So the posts on the page were like the people who stand at the front in church — the reader, the preacher, the intercession-leader. Some were text based, with an picture to add a visual and imaginative dimension, and some were links out to YouTube videos (for the reading, the sermon, sometimes a different form of prayer). But the comments for each posts enabled full participation.

Our intercessions were always a time of open prayer; the host kicked off with a written starter prayer supported by an appropriate photo, then in the comments section anyone who wanted posted their prayers.

And because of the emoticon reaction function on Facebook, it was possible to feel the affirmation of others in prayer with you — or sometimes others would reply to your prayer specifically with an "Amen" or similar.

And on the posts with the sermons, it worked exactly like church does — as they watched the video of the sermon, people made observations in the comment section of the post — saying if something especially spoke to them, or adding thoughts of their own.

Likewise in the hymns — in the comment section someone might remark on something uplifting or amusing in the video. It was just like being together in church.

Gradually, as vaccinations were rolled out, the churches began to open up once more, and it was possible for everyone to go back to where they were before. Except not everybody wanted to. The pandemic season had exposed and amplified dynamics we had striven to overlook and ignore; and the natural break of lockdown just (for some of us)  . . . extended.

Once it became possible for people to return to their churches, we suspended The Campfire Church — we didn't want to set up a rival organisation. But it became apparent that some of us didn't want to go back, couldn't find a place to settle; we had changed, and also perhaps been obliged to face up to some aspects of our experience of church we'd been trying not to see.

I and Grace (Buzzfloyd here — my daughter) began to look at ways forward for the stragglers; the people who didn't want to go back but couldn't find a way forward. We believe quite strongly in physical meeting, though we aren't over-smitten with institutions, and in the end we've settled on a physical (in the house where I live) meeting on the second Sunday morning of each month. We're calling it the Second Sunday Circle. Whenever there's a fifth Sunday in the month, we'll go back online for The Campfire Church to meet again, on Facebook.

It's been a while since I bore responsibility for a physical church group, and online it's all pictures and videos, ideas and words. 

Our Second Sunday Circle needed resourcing, in the same way as did The Universal Glue Factory, a fresh expression of church I ran about 20 years ago (the glue that holds the universe together is love, btw), and the retreats and quiet days I used to run.

So I set to, putting together the stationery and art/craft/music resources we'll need, as well as seating, coffee mugs, etc.

During the 20 years since the Universal Glue Factory ended (because I got married and moved away), I've lived in shared homes where my personal space was very restricted, so my possessions have been limited to clothes and toiletries and medications, pretty much.

I have been startled to discover such joy, such a sense of play, in getting together the materials for creative expression. It's such fun to come up with ideas, to make things and share ideas.

My idea of church is not about sitting in serried ranks listening, and reading prayers out of a book. My understanding of church is cauldron magic (the nourishment of a sharing circle), not sword magic (top-down authority where one person stands at the front and everyone else sits in rows to watch and listen). 

Some people express their souls best in music, others in prayer and healing, others in words, others in pictures. There should be possibility and entry-points for every different kind of person, and something for even the smallest child to relate to.

And hot drinks and snacks. Grace made the point (talking about café church) that when you go to a friend's house they make you a cup of tea, and it's the signal to sit down together and chat. So when you go to meet up with Jesus and his friends, it makes sense to be offered a hot drink and a snack, and get out your knitting, and sit down together to interact. Our Second Sunday Circle will be that kind of church — with songs and stories and conversation, the sharing of who we really are.

But, when I said at the beginning, "there you are, wandering along, doing nothing in particular, no plan — and then suddenly life picks you up and takes you somewhere unexpected and completely surprising", I was thinking about how surprised I've felt at my own response of excitement and joy at the thought of being allowed to play again — being allowed to have the craft materials, and join in singing, and meet together to share. Oh, my goodness, it's going to be brilliant!