12/05/2026
Funny and true - beautiful
THE DINOSAUR WHO CAME TO CHURCH
Services at St Faithful's commence at ten forty-five. No-one is quite sure why. Nevertheless, by half past ten, Havnot's parish church had acquired the particular atmosphere of a church service which was not so much beginning as assembling itself from whatever parts could be found.
The heating had come on, but only spiritually. One radiator in the north aisle was making a noise like a disappointed sheep. The microphone had developed a cough. The altar candles were refusing to light because, according to Mrs Rivers, “the matches have gone modern.” Maureen Clapperton and her Band of ringers up in the tower were hauling on ropes with all their might, while local neighbours did much the same with the pillows over their ears. And somewhere in the vestry, Judith Crowther was saying, with the calm of a woman attempting not to become a headline, “Where is the intercessions folder?”
“It was here,” said Sandy Lintel.
Judith looked at her.
“I mean,” said Sandy, “it was somewhere. In the building. Theoretically, at least.”
Outside, the rain came down with unnecessary confidence.
Tim stood by the lectern holding three sheets of paper, none of which belonged to the service. One was last week’s notice sheet, one was a funeral address from 2022, and one appeared to be a list for the summer fair, including a note in Judith's hand that said “do not let Horse supervise electrical items.”
Dobbs emerged from the vestry holding a taper, a box of matches and the expression of a man facing liturgical betrayal.
“Cheap,” he said.
“The matches?” asked Mrs Rivers.
“Everything,” said Dobbs.
At that moment the west door opened and Harold Keen, Tim's Dad, entered slowly, leaning on his walking frame while simultaneously gripping a carrier bag that swung from the cross bar like a punching bag.
“I’ve brought biscuits,” he announced.
Barbara, Tim's Mum, followed, removing her hood and looking around with the alert suspicion of someone who had been married long enough to know that biscuits were never just biscuits.
“Harold found them in the Vicarage cupboard,” she said. “They may be old.”
“Church biscuits are never old,” said Dobbs gravely. “They are seasoned.”
Then Kevin Keen appeared behind them, soaked through at the shoulders, with Horse Palmer beside him carrying a toolbox.
“I told him not to bring tools,” said Kevin.
“Never know,” said Horse. “Something always wants doing.”
“Not during worship,” said Judith.
Horse looked around at the candles, microphone, radiator and Tim’s papers.
“No,” he said kindly. “Course not.”
By ten thirty-five, Faithful Harmony, the junior choir, had arrived in a cluster of wet coats, bright faces and that holy mixture of confidence and terror which belongs only to children about to sing in public. June Mosse shepherded them towards the choir stalls, checking for trailing laces, missing music and one boy who had brought a dinosaur in his pocket “for support”.
Lionel Hargreaves sat at the organ with a face suggesting that the morning had been personally composed to frustrate him. The church choir had been advised to take a break this week. Officially this was to allow Faithful Harmony the space to be glorious. But, it was also because Lionel worried that exposure to some of the regular choir members might put Faithful Harmony off singing for life.
Leslie Griffin came in with the missing intercessions folder, holding it triumphantly aloft.
“It was on the photocopier,” he said.
Judith closed her eyes.
“Why?”
Leslie paused.
“The photocopier didn't know.”
And then, somehow, the service began.
Not smoothly. The first hymn started before Tim had quite announced it. The microphone worked only when Tim leaned away from it. The radiator continued its sheep impression through the collect. Maureen and one other bell-ringer decided to delay thirsting after righteousness and had sat at the rear of the church with the expressions of people very used to things going comical, and quietly hoping for a re-occurrence. Sandy lit the second candle from the first with such visible relief that several people felt moved to forgive her recent prayer station initiative.
And yet.
Here's the thing.
They were there.
Tim noticed it during the first reading. Not in a grand way. There was no shaft of light, unless one counted the security light in the north aisle which, despite his best efforts, Dobbs could not turn off. But as Acts became Romans, or possibly Corinthians — the reader had lost his place but pressed on with apostolic confidence — Tim looked out and saw them.
Barbara, holding Harold’s hand under the pew, as if neither of them had noticed.
Kevin, sitting slightly too near the aisle in case escape became necessary, but still there. Not full of faith, except in his love for Horse who needed to be here.
Horse, enormous and damp, with the toolbox at his feet like an offering.
Judith, holding the whole thing internally lest the Church of England might fall into the sea.
Mrs Rivers, watching the candles, and the tiny acolytes with professional vigilance.
June, crouched near Faithful Harmony, mouthing the words with extravagant facial movements.
Lionel, occupying the organ like a man prepared to suffer for civilisation.
Leslie, who had alphabetised the intercessions.
And the children themselves, who did not know that the heating was poor, or the rota fragile, or the parish finances alarming, or the Church’s future uncertain. They only knew that, in a few minutes, they were going to sing, and that grown-ups had gathered to listen.
Tim felt suddenly, inconveniently moved.
He had spent much of the week worrying about numbers, income, visibility, mission strategy, and whether the Church was shrinking, failing, forgetting how to speak, or simply talking too much.
And then there they were.
The people who turned up.
Not the heroic people. Not the brochure people. Not the people who made faith look effortless and parish life look like an advert for sustainable jam. Just these people. Cold, late, damp, muddled, faithful, sceptical, weary, hopeful, irritated, carrying biscuits, folders, tools, children, grief, memories, awkward love and one small dinosaur.
Faithful Harmony stood.
Lionel sighed and played the introduction.
For one terrible second, nobody came in.
Then a single child sang the first note, quite alone, clear as a bell and a little too brave for the size of the building.
The others joined. Not perfectly. One voice ran ahead. Another hovered shyly below the tune. But it gathered. It became something. The sound rose into the cold rafters, past the damp coats and flickering candles, past Dobbs’s suspicion and Lionel’s standards, past even Judith’s list of outstanding actions.
And Tim thought: this is it.
Not because everything was right.
Because everybody had come anyway. Faith, he suddenly realised, was rather like football. You can practise ball skills on your own for ever. But until you've played in a match, you'll never understand the beauty of the game. Deciding, on very little evidence, that the thought was divinely inspired, Tim discarded his sermon and talked off the cuff on the theology of turning up. Faithful Harmony's members loved the football story, anyway.
After the blessing, as people moved towards biscuits of uncertain age (possibly Victorian) Horse bent down to inspect the radiator.
“Airlock,” he said.
“Do not touch the heating system,” said Judith.
Horse looked at Kevin.
Kevin looked at Horse.
Horse removed one spanner from the toolbox with the solemnity of a priest lifting a chalice.
“Just turning up,” he said.
Tim laughed then, properly. So did Barbara. So did Sandy. Even Judith’s mouth twitched, though she would later deny it utterly.
And somewhere near the front, the boy with the dinosaur placed it carefully on the altar step.
“He's turning up,” he explained.
Mrs Rivers considered this. Then she nodded.
“Fair enough,” she said. “Churches need turner-uppers. Even dinosaurs.
"And, to be honest, he'll probably find he isn't the only one here.”
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Enjoyed your visit to Havnot?
St Faithful’s is fictional. The affection is real. The meetings, regrettably, are plausible.
If you would like more parish life, more Dobbs, more Judith, more theology, more books, more chaos, or a mug that quietly suggests you have survived a PCC meeting, everything begins here:
https://tinyurl.com/4k9jtpbe
That link will take you to Canon Tom’s books, e-books, audiobook, merchandise and Substack, all gathered together in one slightly alarming but useful place.
Print books are also available — in person only — from St Faith’s Charity Shop, 4 North Street, Havant.
A note on AI: ChatGPT (we call him Artie Fischal) is often deployed to add editorial and image value to these posts. The drafting and publishing responsibility is entirely human.
