The Seven Rules of Minster Survival

York, United Kingdom

For reasons that escape me, today I went to York Minster. Outside, it was raining, while seated indoors and around me were 1500 worthies. Take note - I do not class myself as worthy because shamefully I am not in any great way religious. Yet this was something called a Sung Eucharist, a term I Googled to death beforehand but, as I took my wobbly metal seat in the South Transept of York Minster, still had no idea what to expect.

Normally I attend weddings, should they invite me, funerals, too many in recent times, and the occasional holy festival if I feel the urge. I have been known to light a candle in some overseas chapel when times are grim. Anyway, today was Easter Sunday and, what the Hell, why not give it a go? In fact, with so much of my life spent in the Middle East, courtesy of man’s inhumanity to man, I have probably been in more mosques than churches. That does not make me an atheist as I happen to believe there is an entity out there that one day will give me grief for misbehaviour. I have my arguments ready for the occasion. However, it has also made me feel that religion is a private thing. It should never be in-your-face persuasion.

York is a perfect choice for a Minster, a word that was once used interchangeably with monastery. The city is so tidy it would make an operating theatre feel dirty. It is historic, too and somewhere you feel…might I say holy? Surprising, when you consider how rebellious the locals have been over the centuries.

Two thousand years ago York was home for the Brigantes tribe, from whom the word ‘brigand’ was obtained. That rather set the scene for the city as the Brigantes were a nightmare for the Romans. Hot on their heels came the Vikings, albeit more than a thousand years ago, the Danish Vikings to be exact, and led by the superbly named Ivar the Boneless. It was they who christened the place Jórvik and from which today’s name of York was derived. Yet the city did not rest there when it came to dissent and violence. There was the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, in which York played a major part, while one of the early Pilgrim Fathers, Daniel Brewster, had once worked for the Archbishop of York, before heading for America via Holland on the Mayflower in 1620. York was clearly a place for the restless.

The city was also the birthplace of Guy Fawkes. Oh dear, Guy Fawkes. Should you not be from the United Kingdom, Fawkes was implicated in a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605. He ended up being sentenced to death for his efforts. Each year up to 20 million Brits attend firework displays on November 5th to celebrate this event, a terrible demonstration to history that crime and terrorism can lead both to notoriety and celebration.

Such violence is strange for a city with a wide reputation for hospitality and tolerance of strangers, and whose fame and fortune has hinged on chocolate for nearly 300 years. Ever eaten a Yorkie bar? That was originally made by then city-based Rowntree’s. How about Kit-Kat, Aero, Smarties, Rolo and Quality Street? They were all Rowntree’s, until bought out by Nestlé in 1988. The Yorkie is a definite must-have and was first produced as an energy boost for outdoors roughie-toughies. First-off called Rations, then Trek and now Yorkie, I have guzzled it by the ton.

During World War Two, chocolate took a tumble and York returned to its warlike ways. Rowntree’s, by then the fourth biggest confectionery company in the world, turned its cream production into a munitions factory, its gum department made secret fuses under the cover name of County Industries while Terry’s chocolate, also York based, decided to make propeller blades. No wonder a Yorkshireman says it as it is. York is a place where locals call a spade, forgive me, a bloody shovel.

That goes for churches, too, the Minster especially. The religious folk who work there, and there are at least 300, may look peaceful but I sense are revolutionaries at heart and not to be pushed around. How can they be relaxed when you realise that the current Minster started life as a tiny wooden hovel to christen a king in 627AD and is now on its fourth reincarnation?

Strife continues. Six months ago, the Archbishop of York, John Sentamu, dismissed the Minster’s 30-strong team of bell-ringers in one go. That could not have been easy. The bells lay silent thereafter, apart from on three occasions. Today, Easter Sunday 2017, was the third. I have now seen Sentamu in action and, take it from me, he is one cool dude. Who else would play “We gotta get out of this place” by The Animals as introduction to a sermon? He did. Ever seen 1500 churchgoers tapping their feet in unison? I have. And who else would achieve a standing ovation for his choir at the end of the service by calling them “amazing”? Sentamu of course. Definitely, a cool customer that Archbishop.

But there are problems with churchgoing, too, Archbishop or no Archbishop. Here then is my irregular churchgoer’s guide to the worthies, the seven rules of Minster survival.

Rule number one and top of my list? Never sit behind a couple with a young baby. The same applies to budget flights. Okay, I know he was a gurgly little boy, a few months old, who would have charmed the Devil, I know the parents were besotted, and I know granny was on hand. Yet how many adults does it really take to control a neonate? The young child, whom I instantly christened Gurgly Junior, was a battle for the harassed mother, a struggle for the semi-obedient father and a fascination for the besotted granny. Each spent the Eucharist gazing into Gurgly’s eyes or disappearing into a side chapel to keep him quiet. Meanwhile Gurgly would only occasionally gaze back. Mostly his eyes searched everywhere other than for his family.

As if three family members were insufficient, a lady verger was employed during communion to cuddle him - Gurgly loved that - so the parents might have a nanosecond of peace. His dummy spent more time on the floor than in his mouth, no doubt being contaminated with holy germs, before being popped back into Gurgly to encourage brief silence. I spent much of the service wondering why the parents had brought Gurgly at all.

Before the service started, I thought I had positioned myself perfectly, tactics in mind, and ready for a rapid escape should boredom or bladder take over. The Minster’s South Transept was right next to an exit and I could have sneaked away without anyone noticing. Yet I wondered why no one joined me when I first took my seat. For a while I thought I had leprosy. But 20 minutes in to the 100-minute service I understood. Gurgly Junior was one thing, the pillar was another and leads to rule number two. Avoid sitting behind a pillar. Well not one pillar but several in my case, which separated me from the action. By action I mean the choir. In fact, I mean just about anything that was taking place - prayers, readings, singalongs, the lot. For sure, the choir was amazing, just as the Archbishop said, but I can tell you nothing about their faces. Thanks to the 100-foot stone pillar positioned directly before me, all I could see were the tops of the choristers’ heads. I did glimpse an occasional shoulder when the choir hit a high note. Apparently, there is a tendency for singers to stand on their toes when hitting highs. Some places recommend it.

Rule number three is easy. You may wish to avoid the incense, depending on your views of health and safety. The stuff is used by religions the world over and admittedly gives off a delicious smell. It is joss sticks all over again. The clergyman responsible for burning it is a thurifer, the dangly thing he holds is the thurible, while the smoke symbolises prayers rising to Heaven. There are plenty of symbols in the Minster. This process of censing is said by some to cause cancer, while others disagree. It can definitely alleviate depression, if research using mice is considered. Come to think of it, I did feel like skipping when I eventually exited the Minster.

Maybe incense is how the clergy avoid stress. It cannot be easy, directing godly activities in 21st Century Britain. The clergy I saw in the Minster largely carried an earnest expression, although I did see a Deacon grin at Gurgly on one occasion, who took it in his non-existent baby stride. The lady clergy do also appear to talk a lot. Ten-to-the-dozen, in fact. I have seen them do it and perhaps that is how they relieve stress. Forget the incense, just get chatting. Meanwhile the boys remain confined to a typically masculine, single grunt and a quick whiff of the smoky stuff. Both genders, however, walked the paved stone floors of York Minster looking sombre, nay serious, their hands clasped before them, fingers intertwined, red cassocks hemmed with gold flapping wildly as they strode. Few looked left or right. Rule number four is for the clergy. Remember to take time to smile.

Which leads to my rule number five. Keep your lolly ready and do not let difficulty stand in your way. You see, today’s collection did not appear to work. Before arriving, I had got myself well prepared. A fiver seemed a reasonable donation, particularly when entrance was for free. But the modern, plasticised, five-pound note does not have the same panache as ten fifty-pence pieces dropped noisily into a metal salver. So, when the Offertory came I was poised, jiggling up and down, cash clanking noisily in my pocket, showing off loudly that I was armed and ready to give. Maybe a hundred heads turned in my direction. The Offertory is that part of the service where the choir breaks into song, their heads bob up and down, some stand on tiptoe, and you are expected to part with your life savings. Yet nothing came. There were plenty of salvers, plenty of baskets, but not one near me. So how much did I give? Sorry, York Minster, but not a sausage. Nothing. Nada. Rien. One salver-laden clergyman passed me by; I deserved not even a fleeting glance. The cash was well spent, however, as café latte, moments after the service was complete. York Minster’s loss was a nearby café’s gain. Next time I will be more assertive.

Rule number six is keep your ears open for our Maker. I have certainly heard him speak, thanks to the Minster’s crackly intercom. Sat at the back of the South Transept, behind several pillars and Gurgly Junior, it was essentially impossible to work out what anyone was saying. It was not all thanks to Gurgly. The printed Order of Service was my salvation. At least that allowed me to read the goings on. Yet whenever a clergyman spoke, be that the Archbishop or someone more junior, the crackly speakers echoed from the very top of the 100-foot Nave. The Minster echoes; big time. After all, it is the second largest holy place in Europe, second only to Notre-Dame. You try and work out what the bigwigs are saying. Their words bounce around ceiling and walls like a squash ball. They could have been speaking Uzbek for all I knew. But it could have been our Maker, too.

So, enter my seventh and final rule of Minster survival. You misbehave at your peril. The Minster has its own police force, notable by its presence. The York Minster Police is one of only a few religious constabularies on the planet and has an elite staff of eight. It is said that Robert Peel took the idea of a nationwide police force for Britain from York Minster after paying a brief visit to the city. One of the Minster Police positioned himself throughout the service 20 feet from where I was sitting, earpiece in place, eyes flashing this way and that, although mostly I felt at me. Maybe I look shifty, my friends say I do, or maybe I have a guilty conscience. After all, who else would take longhand notes during a Minster Easter service, save an author intent on writing?