Behind the door, a congregation that normally isn’t. People who pass each other in the street without a glance shake hands and graze cheeks. Competitors in business pass the collection plate without spying on each other’s donations. Nobody kneels for prayer, or for communion; nobody knows the third verses or beyond.
It is Golding’s favourite service of the year. He drifted into the ministry, really, a short and chubby snow flurry softly building against a headstone. He finds parochial affairs uninspiring, the twinset set tiresome; he is not comfortable comforting. But here, at the eleventh hour, he can forget himself.
V for vignette 
This is reminiscent of R.S. Thomas in its austerity and bite. Wonderful stuff.
Thanks Paul. Don’t know much R.S. Thomas, but enough to know that is high praise indeed!
I meant to say that I particularly like “He drifted into the ministry, really, a short and chubby snow flurry softly building against a headstone.”