Nice change, the Service of Silence.
No words, no books, no print-outs, no folders of liturgy, no OHPs, no gonks, no sin-shredders, no plasticine, no tea lights, no giant pile of pews in the shape of Etna, no organ, no guitars with a string missing, no tambourines, no zithers, no recorders. And again, most of all, no words.
Just a period of silence. A time with our own thoughts. A time to pray, or think, or contemplate. Or hear, afar off, the rumble of the M1.
Spoiled at the end, I'm afraid, when Burton announced that we were holding it in honour of John Cage's birthday.
Wrong Cage. Should have been Nicholas.
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