TOWARDS the end of last term, our sixth years devised, planned and executed a joint Catholic-Islamic prayer service in the school chapel. They felt it was positive expression of their concern and support in the aftermath of the events of September 11.
Our denominational secondary has pupils of many religions and of none, bound together by an acceptance of the school’s ethos of respect for others. At the service, there were readings from the Catholic Creed of belief and the biblical Beatitudes, featuring “Blessed be the peacemakers”. For many, though, the soul of the service came when one of our Islamic senior pupils placed her prayer shawl on her head and, before commencing her reading, stated simply and movingly: “The gift of Islam is the gift of peace.”
Another pupil produced a drawing of a “House of Religion”, often used by the Sikh community. She pointed out there were many windows through which to look, and doors through which to enter, but the belief inside was the same, however you got there.
Our pupils continually surprise us by their sophisticated and caring view of the world. It was a lesson that we should never underestimate them. Hopefully it also challenges the often suggested but seldom substantiated contention that denominational education is a force for sectarianism.
But it really doesn’t do to get too high falutin’ in this respect, and fate has a habit of chopping you down to size if you become too pious.
I suppose I was still overflowing with the milk of human kindness when I visited Winchester over Hogmanay. Centre of King Alfred’s kingdom of Wessex, and in the middle of rural Hampshire, it’s difficult to imagine anywhere more quintessentially English and well heeled than this ancient city. However, I always try hard not to be too stereotypical in my judgments when I visit.
This time I spied two ladies in the calendar section of a bookshop in the city centre. They looked as if they might well be delegates from a countryside organisation, but I was in non-judgmental mood as I browsed the shelves next to them.
They were looking at animal calendars, and one turned to the other and said in worried tones: “It’s so embarrassing having to choose a dog calendar, given that Abel is a mongrel.”
Given my own Liverpool-Irish and Scots background, I’d have to own up to a whiff of the mongrel myself and I felt a sudden and complete empathy for Abel, whatever he may be.
As the French may well still say: “Vive la difference!”
