When I was at vicar school we were taken to St Michael's Camden Town to look at 'ministry in an urban context'. I was captivated by its gaunt splendour, the run-down interior with its peeling plaster yet palpable sense of being loved. It was holy.
I went there recently, just to see how it was doing, with a friend, an American girl engaged to an Englishman who's just coming to terms with life in the country she's only visited briefly but always felt was home. The different styles of mainstream US and UK Christianity fascinate her as much as anything else. 'You mean you're not obsessed with the Rapture here?' she asked her fiance. 'The what?' 'And you never suffered from the Great Disappointment?' 'Well, we're English, we're always disappointed.'
St Michael's hasn't changed - it's still ruinous and lovely. My friend stroked the great door with its carved woodwork, and took off her hat, though as a girl she isn't required to. She didn't know what a font was, and stroked the stonework of that too. A lady came in to light candles at the great standing crucifix, and knelt to pray. She was barefoot.
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