Church Going

Once I am sure there’s nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new –
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don’t.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
‘Here endeth’ much more loudly than I’d meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation – marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these – for which was built
This special shell? For, though I’ve no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Philip Larkin (1922 - 1985)

I have broken this poem into seven parts for discussion, I am not sure whether Philip Larkin intended to have such a breakdown.

Part 1 …
First I will say this is something I did as a teenager. I cycled around the local rural area and if I came to a church and there was nothing happening I ventured in to have a look around. Musty is so apt as a choice in words. And brewed God over many centuries. And the silence is indeed unignorable. It is always a still space for solitude. One thing I appreciated was that many of the churches had unlocked doors to allow a wandering cyclist to enter. The doors are usually very heavy with beautiful wood so it was always a time to admire the architecture and the craftsmanship. Cycle helmets were not in use in those days, so the removal of cycle clips was equivalent to hat removal – in a sort of relevance.

Part 2 …
Philip Larkin was rather game to step into the lectern and read a few verses. Lucky that no one was around at the time to witness his short sermon! He thinks he has wasted his time with this church so a meaningful donation is out of the question. An Irish Sixpence is a good luck token.

Part 3 …
Why does he continually go into churches? What is he searching for?  And then he thinks to the future when many of these buildings might fall into ruin and become derelict. The weather and sheep might dictate rent free. More likely to be sold off though.

Part 4 …
The Church building because of its sacred nature might encourage those to seek miracles based on superstition. Dubious people suggest a shift from the original spiritual significance. And to use the church more mundane purposes – to pick simples, herbs. The practical uses for a former religious space, symbolizing the only use and the declining relevance of the church and its traditions in a secular world. 

Part 5 …
Who will be the last to use the Church for what it was built for. A shape les recognizable, representing the decline of congregation. But is this representative of the decline in spiritual awareness independent of Christianity? The last line – will He be my representative.

Part 6 …
True, churches are often only used for key social events – marriage, and death in the main seemingly needing some kind of Church sanction. Often attendees never come to other services. In that sense only a shell. But surviving over so many years while new housing estates are spilt upon the land with little architectural merit. Churches increase in land value as well as holding testimony to the Christian message. Approproate interpretation of that message is another matter. It is hard to value in anyway the worth in keeping such buildings on our landscape.

Part 7 …
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet … always a place to seek understanding of life … purpose … the spirit within in that implores us for an understanding of our existence … and what a peaceful still place to grow wise in … unfortunately so many are dead around the Church … the living dead who don’t understand.

There is a wonderful You Tube video of a conversation between Philip Larkin and John Betjeman in which he describes his Hull (UK) life, and in this 1964 video he reads his Church Going poem.

Here is the link – https://jmarriott.substack.com/p/a-youtube-education … you will have to scroll down to reach the video,

Philip Larkin on Wikipedia