St. Gabriel’s church loiters tantalizingly close to Rockwell primary school in North London. This proximity has inspired the church to create a speed-dating programme for the cheeky, knife-wielding seven to ten year olds. The increasingly 'backed-up' church authorities believe it’s a good way to reach out to the hairless youth, pull their arms behind their backs, unbutton their flies, and deliver God's sermon.
Thomas Weengold is the pastor. He is a thin man with child bearing hips, and today he ushers the skipping lonely hearts into the church with a beatific growl. A giant white banner flaps above his head that reads, 'This is just between us, ok Johnny?'
The children are injected one by one into the confessional where they discuss their hobbies and previous relationships. The youngsters queue in nervous excitement, reenacting the truffle shuffle and peeking under Jesus’ skirt. But after the date they have a adult look in their eyes, as if they’ve seen the face of god and want to phone Child line.
The day is over. The children are quiet and still. The nervous pastor phones the Pope, who puts his mind at ease by promoting him. I ask one child how he felt the day went. ‘God’s love comes in many forms, I understand that,’ he told me, ‘but I thought it would be …less horrific.’
I asked Weengold whether he thought the day had been a success. ‘Well,’ he said, pointing at children sitting awkwardly on the hard pews, breathing heavily, eyelids flickering, ‘they’re at peace….and, and, you can’t prove anything.’
They are at peace, it’s true. And yet one feels it was unnecessary for Weengold to empty all the coffins lining the church, squeeze the children into them, and wheel the death caskets out of the church and down the hill towards Tesco.
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