A Very Agnostic Day

For centuries, theologians have pondered the so-called “problem of evil”. I wish to propose a more challenging dilemma: the problem of Britain’s railways. How, I ask you, could an all-powerful and all-loving God accept the existence of something so dysfunctional and infuriating?

I should back up a bit. I had accepted an invitation to represent agnosticism at the Big Church Festival — an evangelical bonanza taking place in West Sussex. Travelling from Poland to West Sussex for a short interview was eccentric — but I was taken with the thought of speaking at the kind of event I had attended as a young Christian. Besides, if we are offered something interesting, and it isn’t heroin or a trek across Afghanistan, we should probably accept.

Yet the Devil stood between the Big Church Festival and I. By “the Devil” I mean British railways. Having woken up at 3 to take a plane to Britain, my trip was going swimmingly until my train stopped at Gatwick.

By “stopped” I do mean stopped. A signals failure meant that trains to Brighton were held up for hours. I ground my teeth down to the gums, until — cursing myself for putting my fate into the hands of such a demonic force — I leapt into a painfully expensive taxi.

“Where are you going, my friend?” The cheerful Algerian taxi driver asked.

“To speak at a religious festival.”

“You’re religious?”

“I’m an agnostic.”

“I’m a Muslim,” he declared, before asking if he could tell me about his faith.

Boy, did he tell me — pausing only, throughout the long taxi ride, to play a few minutes of an audio version of the Quran. Frankly, I enjoyed listening to him. I wasn’t sure why he thought that his beliefs were true — or why it would have been incest for Adam and Eve’s children to have had sexual relations if they were twins but not if they were siblings born apart — but I enjoyed his passion and sincerity. Plus, it took my mind off the fee. Thanks, Farid.

“And at Judgement Day, what are you going to tell God, brother? That you were worshipping yourself? Anyway, here’s your stop.”

Unfortunately, it appeared that I had told him to drop me off at the wrong place. Google Maps had directed me towards somewhere called Winston House but in my vexed condition I had asked to be taken to Wiston Estate. (For all the harsh words I have directed towards British railways, I cannot claim that if I was in charge I would do a better job.)

A bemused but friendly local pointed towards a hill when I asked about the festival.

“It’s on the other side of that.”

So, I trudged off up the hill. Soon, I was panting. It was hot and I had only drunk a can of Rockstar.

“Weird question,” I asked a hiker coming from the opposite direction, “But have you seen a festival?”

“What kind of festival?”

“30,000 Christians hanging out.”

“Er — no.”

It seemed like the sort of thing that one would notice. I chose a different path.

Finally, I reached the top of the hill. Beautiful English fields stretched out before me — bathing in the sunlight. No festival. It was almost 1.30pm and I was meant to be onstage at 2.

Crossing the plateau — a sweaty advert for never smoking — I saw it. Underneath me was a city of tents — the Big Church Festival.

Getting down was no picnic. (A shame because the hill would have been a lovely place for a picnic.) I had to edge down a steep slope of loose stones — grasping at trees and praying that I wouldn’t slip and fall. I had worn my newest jeans for Heaven’s sake. It was 1.45.

Reaching the road, I pulled off my hoodie and wrestled on a dress shirt as I ran. One much-needed — and much appreciated — lift from a steward later and I was dashing onstage, only a few minutes late. Phew.

The interview — with the tireless author and podcaster Justin Brierley — was fun. I talked a bit too loudly. Perhaps I was filled with emotion — or perhaps I was still recovering from that damn hill. Someone said that I was brave to come to a Christian festival as a non-believer but I haven’t had such a generous audience since I insisted on singing at my own birthday party.

Being surrounded by chirpy young — and not so young — evangelicals was a nostalgic experience. From the main stage wafted the sound of EVP (evangelical preacher voice), which seeks to combine informality and profundity. “What I wanna say right now—”

Well, cynicism is cheap. Sitting on the train back to Luton Airport — halfway through a mammoth day — I was haunted by symbolism. Actually, I was being beaten around the head by symbolism. 

We’re all heading somewhere — facing obstacles, hearing other people’s perspectives, and trudging up the long, steep path of life. Agnosticism can be frustrating, but the hope is that we get a glimpse of what is on the other side — be it the Big Church Festival or a beautiful expanse of silent countryside.