All Saints' Church, Pittville

I called at All Saints' Church in Pittville, a rather posh part of Cheltenham (which doesn't really distinguish it). I was surprised to find the doors open, so in I went. One of the wardens quietly walked over to explain that a ‘Mass’ was taking place in the Lady Chapel but that I might join them for coffee afterwards, which I thought rather generous. Although the church is unashamedly Anglo-Catholic (in a town of decidedly evangelical Anglican parishes) I enjoyed admiring its features and talking with the worshippers, including the said church warden and its priest, a Father David. Although he understood that my churchmanship would fall off the lower end of the scale by comparison, I saluted his stance on ‘inclusive’ ministry and his association with alternative episcopal provision to that offered by Gloucester’s lady bishop. Curiously, his was the first of two Anglican churches I managed to walk into, mid-service, that morning. The second was rather more consistent with my own theology and worship style, but I noted that Father David made more time to talk and share fellowship than his busier, low-church colleague, who dressed in blazer and chinos for his service of communion.

The building is high Victoriana, with decoration enlivening every corner and crevice, and colours and carvings enriching the feel. The Rags of Rome might not be something I wish to see in my own chapel, but one cannot deny their prettiness. If High Church worship can teach the fervent protestant one thing, it is the need for solemnity and respect as we approach God, rather than some gum-chewing, hands-in-pockets flippancy and carelessness with which some engage the Triune God. I have been to some churches in which the service begins with “Hey guys”, the opening prayer with “Err, yeah, err God, we err, really wanna say that you’re, err, really great….” When the reading begins, the congregants are instructed to “grab your Bibles”. I suspect that all the saints of Pittville hear no such sloppy language.

I was grateful for the cup of tea and the warm welcome, despite inhabiting a different ecclesial world. Someone remarked that the building lacked a spire, which is surprising for a church designed and constructed with the help of deep pockets and motivated by a harking back to a medieval golden age. That same commentator expressed relief that such a feature was never realised, bemoaning the likely cost of maintaining it. Indeed! May our worship not be showy and impressive to mortal eyes, but sincere and genuine, for it is surely scrutinised by eyes divine.

And unto the angel of the church in Thyatira write; These things saith the Son of God, who hath his eyes like unto a flame of fire, and his feet are like fine brass; I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy patience, and thy works; and the last to be more than the first. Rev 2:18-19

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