19/02/2026
WALK OF WITNESS
(A Cautionary Tale)
by Fr Fred Hassleton SCP (Ret’d, still theoretically mobile)
My dear friends,
It has come to my attention that certain bright-eyed enthusiasts are once again murmuring about “reviving” or “reimagining” our annual Walk of Witness this Good Friday.
Allow me, as one who has walked before you—literally and metaphorically—to offer a gentle word of caution.
It begins, as all great ecumenical enterprises do, not with prayer, but with email.
Around mid-Lent, one unsuspecting minister presses “Reply All,” and thus the chain is born. Within forty-eight hours there are seventeen messages, two accidental attachments of last year’s rota, and one plaintive cry: “Who is doing the service sheet?”
No one, it transpires, wishes to do the service sheet. It involves fonts. And copyright. And the possibility of someone noticing that the second verse of “When I Survey” has been printed twice.
Then comes the annual liturgical negotiation. “Do we HAVE to have ‘Make Way, Make Way’ again?” asks someone brave enough to articulate what we are all thinking. “It’s traditional,” replies another, with the weariness of a veteran. I suggest “O Sacred Head Sore Wounded” and am quietly ignored.
There is also the small matter of public liability insurance. “Has anyone thought about stewards in yellow jackets?” someone asks, as though the Kingdom of God itself hangs upon high-visibility polyester. “Does anyone know where they are?” No one does. They are rumoured to be in a cupboard in the Methodist Hall, last seen in 2009 beneath a box of dried up Christingle oranges.
Then the route.
Ah yes. The route.
You would think we were redrawing the boundaries of Europe. It must, of course, pass every participating church building. No congregation must feel slighted. The Baptists must be seen. The Pentecostals must be heard. We Anglo-Catholics must at least process past something faintly Gothic.
But Mrs Prendergast can only manage 300 yards. And Mr Singh requires a bench halfway through. And the St Faithfu's youth group refuse to go anywhere near the skate park for “reasons of credibility.”
The result is a serpentine pilgrimage of theological compromise, doubling back upon itself like a mildly disoriented Via Dolorosa.
And where, you may ask, do we always end up?
Outside St Faithful’s.
Why? Because we are Church of England and geographically nearest the shops. This, apparently, confers upon us a gravitational pull. It is suggested that we might conclude elsewhere. There is a brief silence. Someone mutters something about “tradition,” and thus we find ourselves once more beneath St Faithful's noticeboard, reading about a Bring & Buy Sale.
The procession itself is a sight to behold.
The lame and the lithe. Sandalled and stoutly booted. Hooded, cassocked, t-shirted, and one memorable year, inexplicably, in Lycra. Each congregation parades its banner as though this were less a witness to Christ and more an embroidery competition at the county show.
We advance upon the High Street with solemn purpose.
Motorists, alas, do not share our solemnity.
They are on urgent supermarket missions. They have freezer space to consider. And yet they must wait while a line of earnest Christians, clutching laminated orders of service, crosses in slow formation. One driver’s expression suggested he had been promised deliverance from traffic, not an encounter with it.
And then—the climax.
We gather outside St Faithful’s. We form a circle. And in what must have appeared to the casual observer as a defensive manoeuvre not unlike Custer’s Last Stand, we turn inwards.
Inwards.
We sing “The Old Rugged Cross” with moist eyes and commendable gusto—staring lovingly into one another’s faces—while presenting to the watching world an impregnable wall of backs and bottoms.
It was less “witness to the nations” and more “members only.”
Closed shop.
I do not doubt the sincerity. I commend the zeal. I admire the stamina. But I confess that, in forty-five years of town Walks of Witness, I have yet to hear of a single passer-by who, struck by our formation and fondness for verse three, fell to their knees between Boots and Greggs.
Which leads me, reluctantly, to wonder whether the Holy Spirit’s preferred method of outreach might not be something rather quieter. A conversation. A kindness. A cup of tea. A life lived with mercy and courage when no one is parading.
So yes—by all means, walk if you must. Draft the emails. Locate the yellow jackets. Argue about “Make Way, Make Way.”
But do so knowing that the truest witness may not be found in a slow procession down the High Street, but in the daily, unseen procession of love.
And if we do insist on forming a circle at the end, might I humbly suggest we face outwards?
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Disclaimer
St Faithful’s is fictional. The affection is real.
Books by Canon Tom Kennar (including 'The Parish Life' - about St Faithful's) are available in print and e-book. Merchandise lurks online. See https://tomkennar.blogspot.com/p/st-faithfuls-authors-resources.html for more details.
AI may assist. The responsibility is entirely human.
