It’s to be expected, as one ages, there’s a growing awareness and acceptance that the days are wearing short.

The mood isn’t lightened when your nearest and dearest enquire about the music you want at your funeral. (Bob Dylan’s Restless Farewell or Not Dark Yet.

When considering the inevitable, there’s an understandable temptation to bury, so to speak, one’s head in the sand. Yet, that’s hardly fair on those left behind who will have to do the needful.

Settling on the most appropriate format of one’s own funeral is a particularly difficult call. I have no religious beliefs and, like many others, the only occasions I have been in church in recent years have been weddings and funerals.

Yet, despite an absence of faith, I lean towards the traditional Christian funeral service. Understandably and probably justifiably, some will accuse me of breath-taking hypocrisy. Others will see it as a last-minute insurance policy.

As an attendee however, I have always found the traditional religious service to be more comforting than the increasingly popular humanist option.

It’s certainly debatable whether the UK can be described as a Christian country, but as Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby put it, “our main system of ethics and values of society have been shaped and founded on Christianity”.

It’s therefore fitting, irrespective of belief, that life’s big events be marked in Church. Sure, it’s a personal thing, but I’ve found greater solace in words spoken by others in quiet, peaceful surroundings that encourage reflection.

There’s also comfort in the ritual and the knowledge that others have been there before. Additionally, a place and setting can offer additional meaning. A number of years ago, my wife and I purchased a burial plot in the kirkyard at her home village of Monymusk in Aberdeenshire.

It’s a place that means a great deal to both of us and is the resting place of generations of the family. It offers a sense of constancy and continuity.

The kirkyard is adjacent to the ancient church dating from the late 12th century. John Wesley twice preached there during his tours of Scotland in the late 1700s.
The sense of continuity is enhanced by the close association of village and church with the Grant family.

Sir Archibald was one of Scotland’s great 18th century agricultural improvers. The village is intertwined with the history of the Monymusk Reliquary, purchased for the nation in 1933 and one of the most valuable acquisitions of the National Museum of Scotland.

I derived great comfort from the thought that, when the time comes, I would have a simple service in the ancient kirk before making the short journey to the neighbouring kirkyard.

I was taken aback therefore, to learn that Monymusk Kirk is one of 20 churches in the Gordon Presbytery earmarked for closure within five years, the closures being part of a programme of national rationalisation set out in the report of the Kirk’s 2021 Special Commission on Review and Reform that concluded, there are “many more churches than we need”, many “in the wrong place or of the wrong type”. If implemented, the programme could lead to the loss of around one third of Scotland’s kirks.

My initial dismay at the imminent demise of Monymusk Kirk was soon tempered by the realisation that the Church of Scotland has few choices.

Membership has fallen from the high-water mark of 1.3 million to around 600,000. According to the 2016 Scottish Church Census, only around 7% of Scotland’s population attend church regularly. Attendance at Monymusk rarely tops 20.

Interestingly, the only growth area is amongst “new” Scots from different ethnic backgrounds. Amongst our neighbours for example, the only church attenders appear to be an African family. The census also revealed that church leaders, like their congregations, are aging and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to recruit ministers.

The Gordon Presbytery closures are mostly in small rural communities like Monymusk. Set in its wider context, the closures are simply another dimension of the filleting of rural services and facilities.

In many places the school, post office, pub and bus service have already gone. In an increasingly secular society, many will simply shrug and ask who cares.

Those like me, who do, are in a weak position to argue against the closures. We have done little or nothing to support our local kirks through our attendance or financial support.

It’s a classic example of use it or lose it. When it suits us, we use our kirks to mark our rites of passage. Even for those of us having little or no faith, the kirks represent a comforting and constant presence, addressing a deep human spiritual need, particularly at times of uncertainty and crisis.

Despite the advance of secularism, the loss of kirks, particularly in our rural communities, does matter.

It’s another step along the road to an increasingly rootless and disjointed society, offering little sense of constancy and continuity. Irrespective of our beliefs or lack of them, the closure of local kirks leaves us, individually and collectively, poorer.