So no, i don't think that most British Christians are in mourning for times past. And though i write this book to try to extricate for people, from the misleading ruins of half-memory, what Christianity feels like from the inside, i don't expect my religion ever to be any less ramshackle, in my time, where i live. And that's all right. For sure, i would be be if people weren't quite so rude. It would be nice if they didn't brandish crude cartoons of nineteenth century thought and expect you to reel back, dazzled. It would be nice not to be patronised by nitwits. It would be nice if people were to understand that science is a special exercise in perceiving the world without metaphor, and that, powerful as it is, it doesn't function as a guide to those very large parts of experience that can't be perceived except through metaphor. It would be nice if people saw that the world can not be disenchanted, and that the choice before us is really choice of enchantments.
It would be nice. But it isn't necessary. Because the churches are open, doing their ancient and necessary business, and they will be open tomorrow, and the day after that, and that, onwards into far time, in some form or another. And it doesn't really matter what form, much though we may love the form they have now. They will still be offering a hush in which we can bear to find out what we're like. Christ will still be looking at us from the middle of the angry crowd. God will still be there, shining.
Unapologetic. Francis Spufford, Pp 221-222
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