I had my epiphany as a teenager. At a family friend’s barbecue, a shocked lady leant over and whispered: “That woman over there is snogging the vicar!” My God! She was right! And That Woman was my mum. And so Christianity entered our home.
Thank the Lord, my mother only dated the Rev briefly. I never warmed to him. He was my least favourite kind of vicar: a trendy one. He’d hang out at ours, drinking beer, chatting pseudo-philosophy, wearing smart-casual with a dog collar on, trying to be Down with the Kids. “Christ alive!” teenage me used to think pitifully. “What does he think this is — Sister Act?”
Now this kind of cool Christianity feels omnipresent, presumably fuelled by waning congregations. The last census showed Christianity sharply declining. A report claims that by 2050, less than half of Brits will identify themselves as Christian — compared with 39% saying they’re non-religious.
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