I'ts Sunday

Subject: It's Sunday

It's strange how the weekend, especially Sunday has a feel about it setting it apart from other days. Back then Sunday was special especially so for Christians who's call to worship was the sound of church bells tolling their cheerful message, we are open, come and visit, it's free.   
In those days the whole tenor of the day was different. Shops were closed to ensure that staff had at least one day off from work and we the consumers were free to do other things. Just imagine it, no place to shop, today's society would go into melt down so addicted we have become to buying things as part of our 'off work' therapy. 
Five days working to earn enough to spend, two days to spend it. We profess our concern about the things science does to animals but never a thought about the mind games we play with our fellow humans. 


The traditions of the Morning Service, or if you had had a late night on Saturday, Evensong, were repeated throughout the land especially in the villages were a close watch was kept on the community and you gained Brownie points for the weekly routine of passing through the church yard, passed the silent grave stones, and into the church with its serene atmosphere, a sort of lull in life's activities where you were afforded a moment or two with your maker. The hard pews and the cushion for kneeling, the hymn books and the organ playing quietly, cushioning the silence as we awaited the vicar. He ascended the pulpit his garments billowing around him, setting us aside, only his scruffy shoes and socks revealing his ordinariness. His voice plush with certitude was posh (unlike in the Catholic Church were he was inevitably Irish) an educated man called to the pulpit by a desire to save souls. 
The hymns were announced and the congregation sung with a rewarding gusto, 'Onward Christian Solders', as if the words were enough to ensure you at least had a chance of heaven. The highlight, for the vicar at least, was the sermon, that religious philosophical homely in which his intent was to weave together the lives of his congregation and a higher aspiration, their service to god.
As we broke once more out into the daylight, standing amongst the stones of those departed who no doubt had trod the same path each Sunday. We exclaimed pleasantries with others, whilst not friends they had become co-conspirators for a little while in this village ritual.
Mums with their sons and daughters, fulfilling their obligation not only to god but to the Mothers in the Institute and the loose talk around the post office. Status was everything and it took a strong head not to care.
Many husbands were also there alongside their families in this weekly show of religious and matrimonial strength but many were not. For them the daily ritual began at midday with the opening of the pub, a limited affair back then, closing time 3am on every day of the week to encourage at least some 'change' to filter into the household kitty. The talk was not of religious issues but of yesterday's game or the shenanigans brought on by drink the night before. Not for them the soul searching only the banter which a pint or four could ensue.
The bells would ring again at 6pm calling those who had slept in, a repeat of the morning session, a plea to forget the rough incidence of reality, for the joy of knowing.