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The basic spirit of churches all over the world is pretty much the same. What makes them unique are the people that frequent them and the Reverend who leads them. In many small towns the local church is the backbone of the community, involved in almost every aspect of community life. Church buildings range from old stone or wooden chapels to large modern steel monstrosities and every variety in between. And while its not the church building that makes the church what it is, I would always prefer to go to church in an old small stone chapel with its beautiful stained glass windows because it just feels more like going to church should feel to me.
As I have said before, Queenstown is a very small town with serious small town syndrome where everyone knows everyone and everyone’s business. Unlike many small towns, however, with its high density of twenty and thirty something backpackers, its not a very religious community. Now, there are a fair few churches in town, only three of which have a designated church building. The others meet at alternating times in the gym of the local primary school and one has even taken over what used to be a legal brothel over a bar in the center of town until just a few years ago. That might be an interesting one to visit. I wonder if its still painted bordello red inside?
My choice for the past two weeks has been the local Anglican Church mostly because it was in a beautiful old building and I wanted to see inside. It is located on the aptly named church street and built on land donated to the church by none other than Mr. William G. Rees himself, the original founder of Queenstown whose giant statue complete with sheep sits down by the wharf. From the outside its a quaint small stone and wood chapel. On the wooden pews inside there are cushions of varying sizes, shapes and styles which makes for an interesting sitting experience. It was probably a good idea for the majority geriatric congregation to have some padding in order to be able to sit more comfortably and last through the entire service, but when the pews start to fill up, you don’t exactly get your whole bottom on one single cushion. My tushy spent this past Sunday morning one cheek on a thick, fluffy four inch deep cushion and the other cheek on a flat puke green cushion that probably saw its prime back in the early seventies. Needless to say, there was some serious tushy cheek envy taking place toward the end.
No one takes their own Bible to the Anglican Church because that would just make it one too many books to deal with. When you walk in, before you scope out the pews for any available comfy cushions, you are presented with two books and a bulletin. One book is the hymnal, the other is the liturgy book and the bulletin contains at least two responsive readings that are not attached to the bulletin, itself but are loose and always manage to find a way of falling under the pew in front of me. All of these things you attempt to spread out in front of you on the ledge of the back of the pew ahead so that you can flip furiously through the pages to be able to follow along with the service. I don’t think that I had this much material to organize in law school even. Because its an Anglican church, the hymns are very traditional and the old people in the congregation belt out the ancient tunes at the top of their lungs, occasionally managing to find the correct note before returning back out of key. The responsive readings are also different to any that I have ever heard. We ask God to bless the sheep and the fields and the dolphins and the trees and for the South Pacific Island on which we live (The first thought that came to me after that was “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair and send him on his way. Get the picture?” Don’t worry I didn’t actually start singing it in church) and for scientists and teachers and doctors and farmers etcetera. Interestingly, however, there is not a blessing for the lawyers. I wonder why that is? And while some churches may occasionally have a prayer in Greek or Hebrew, this church does a prayer in Maori.
At the end of the service, the Vicar picks up a basket of chocolates and hands them out to anyone in the congregation who has had a birthday or other special event during the week before leading everyone in “Happy Birthday to you” where we all try desperately to remember the name of the person or people who had a birthday. Everyone waits in line to shake the vicars hand before leaving the church and I was completely shocked that he managed to remember my name from the week before. The little eccentricities just make the whole experience that much better. But I still may try the Brothel church next week because I just don’t think I can resist.