I was born into the Church of England but in the most nominal way

In the reflective and tender words of Richard Coles, priest, musician, and storyteller of the human soul, we hear a tale that moves from the ordinary to the divine: “I was born into the Church of England, but in the most nominal way possible you can imagine, so it’s Christmas and Easter. And then like a great many clergy in the Church of England, I actually got nobbled by being a chorister.” Though spoken with humor, these words conceal a profound truth about the mystery of calling — how the sacred often enters our lives not with thunder or vision, but through the soft, unexpected melodies of ordinary experience.

The origin of this quote lies in Coles’s own life, one woven from unlikely threads. Born in England, raised in a household where faith was more form than fire, he found himself drawn into the church not through doctrine or discipline, but through music — that ancient bridge between earth and heaven. His story is not rare among the clergy of his tradition: many, like him, began their spiritual journey by singing hymns they scarcely understood, only to discover, over time, that those same notes carried the whisper of the divine. It is the story of being “nobbled” — caught by grace in the very act of beauty, drawn in by what seemed mere duty or delight.

To be “born into the Church of England in the most nominal way possible” is to speak of a faith that slumbers until awakened. Many souls begin this way, heirs to tradition but strangers to its meaning. They attend Christmas and Easter, the great festivals of light and rebirth, without yet feeling their power. Yet even such beginnings have their secret purpose. For, as Coles’s life reveals, the divine works patiently, planting seeds that may lie dormant for years before blooming into devotion. The child who sings in a choir may think he is learning music; yet, in truth, he is learning to pray.

This transformation is as old as time. Consider the tale of Augustine of Hippo, who in his youth mocked the faith of his mother, Saint Monica, yet was later captured by its beauty. He, too, was “nobbled” by grace, though he resisted it fiercely. One day, as he sat weeping in a garden, a child’s voice drifted over the wall: “Take and read.” He opened the Scriptures, and in that moment, the divine seized him utterly. Just as Augustine was converted by a child’s song, so was Coles awakened by his own — for music, like love, enters through the heart before the mind can refuse it.

In Coles’s words there is also a tender irony — for he describes being “nobbled,” as though grace were a mischievous hand that ambushes the unsuspecting. And so it often is. The sacred does not always call us through visions or miracles. Sometimes it comes through laughter, through friendship, through a piece of music that lingers in the mind long after the choir has gone silent. The chorister, singing words of ancient faith, may not yet understand their meaning, but the heart remembers what the mind forgets. In time, those songs become the very voice of calling — gentle, persistent, irresistible.

There is a lesson here for all who wander between faith and doubt. Do not despise small beginnings. The soul may be slow to awaken, but once stirred, it remembers. Attend your Christmas and Easter, sing when the hymns are offered, even if belief seems far away. For the divine has many doors, and one of them may already be open, waiting for you to step through. The ordinary — a song, a tradition, a quiet Sunday — may be the place where eternity first touches your life.

And so, my children of the present age, learn from Richard Coles: that grace often hides in the familiar, and that faith may find you even when you are not seeking it. Be open to wonder in its smallest forms — in the sound of a choir, in the flicker of a candle, in the laughter of family gathered at Easter. For the sacred has a way of “nobbling” us when we least expect it, turning habit into holiness, and music into meaning.

Thus, the message endures: do not wait for revelation to strike like lightning; listen instead for the quiet song that already plays within your heart. For it may be that, even now, you are being called — gently, beautifully, as Richard Coles once was — by a voice that sings through time, inviting you to return to the place where your spirit first began to listen.