The Holy Name

It's easy to believe in God when you sit in a church. For one, it's cool on a hot, sweltering day. And then there is the calm atmosphere. No-one runs or shouts. No phones, computers or business. People walk slowly or stand or sit quietly. And there is peace in sitting doing nothing. No distractions. And then you look around. It's beautiful whether it's a plain church or ornate like The Holy Name on Oxford Road in Manchester.
Last Monday, August 1st we sat in a pew attending a funeral, the traditional funeral mass, entirely in latin.
The alter, backed by intricate high carvings, backed by a tall stained glass window and a roofed walkway set the stage for the ceremony. Candles glowed. Two dark suited sons and four other men carried in the coffin, straining, followed by close family. The emotion at the sight of them overwhelms. There seems no control over the sudden surge of sadness. Breathe. I'd taken four pieces of kitchen roll. Used the first. Calm down. Is it empathy? Memories of other funerals? Sadness for someone dying too young and the family left behind?
The service leaflet, printed with Mick's face, date of birth and death, translated the latin for us. I didn't read it, but listened without understanding. It didn't matter. I watched the Priests carry out the service and listened to the male voices singing from the organ loft behind. And looked at the stained glass windows and the high, high vaulted roof and a woman in front dabbing her eyes and the row of young men, obviously school friends of one of the sons, smart in their suits, some more comfortable than others and one in black plimsols, the nearest to black shoes.
Three Priests bobbed to the alter in unison.
You can believe in a force greater than us when you hear voices pitch perfect and clear and sunlight streaming through coloured glass forming softer echoes on stone and feel the cool of an ancient building soothe away the city's heat and unite with a large group of people over a common reason.