This magical service has been at the heart of Christmas for several generations of my family. But my conscience will no longer let me take part
Growing up, my family was what I would now describe as culturally Church of England. Ours was the scenic, zero-commitment kind of Christianity. We grew up thinking of it as utterly default, in a way I don’t think kids would any more, even in deepest Kent. My siblings and I were christened and went to CofE village schools. We learned about other religious holidays but never saw evidence of them. We were not religious – no one was. By which I mean, we only went to church at Christmas.
Specifically, we would go to Christingle, the magical service that is aimed at, and makes no sense whatsoever to, children. It happened at some enchanted hour that felt like the dead of night (I was dumbfounded to learn much later that it actually kicked off at three in the afternoon). There were a few hymns, as familiar as lullabies, and there were talky bits, during which shepherds and “wise men” would time travel around the nave, or something.