Article
Belief
Community
Creed
Sport
5 min read

Is Goodison Park a place of worship?

Delve beyond the identity and the inspiration.

Henry Corbett, a vicar in Liverpool and chaplain to Everton Football Club.  

  

Football fans wearing blue stand and watch a match in a stadium.
Everton fans hope.
Everton F.C.

In some places football is considered a religion. No more so than in Liverpool. Its citizens revere not just one team but two - the Blues and the Reds.  

It's a divided city. Some wear the blue of Everton FC, others the red of Liverpool FC. A mere mile separates the stadia where supporters pay homage to their heroes.  

As the chaplain to Everton, I often contemplate this devotion. Is Everton’s stadium Goodison Park a place of worship? And is football really a religion?  

The quick answer is “Yes” and “No”. Goodison Park is surely a place of worship, and football is not a religion, though that second answer may need a bit of a defence.  

That football grounds are places of worship is instanced at every game played: chants of praise are sung and worth is given to the players, the team, the history, the manager, maybe even the owner.  

Goodison Park has hosted games since 1892. The attendance at the ground’s opening was 12,000, the cost £3,000, and the point of it all? Everton Football Club had begun in 1878 as St Domingo’s, founded by a Methodist minister. The Rev Ben Swift Chambers wanted to keep his St Domingo’s Church cricket team fit during the winter, and the cricket team was to help young men stay away from less worthy pursuits. Similarly, Manchester City was founded by Anna Connell, the vicar’s daughter, to keep young men on the streets of East Manchester away from trouble.   

St Domingo’s then became Everton FC and later came the move to the new stadium on Goodison Road. The crowds brought gate receipts, the players and staff needed wages, and football clearly becomes a business as well as an activity to help young men avoid trouble.  

Then and now the game is entertaining, the outcome is unpredictable, and the players can show outstanding skills, athleticism, courage, resilience, teamwork.   

That’s where the worship naturally comes in. Awe and wonder are important human attributes, and Evertonians have delighted in the skills and character of players down the club’s 147-year history. At every football ground there will be chants for players that celebrate their skill, character, achievements, giving worth to their ability. And yes, there may also be chants doing the opposite of worship to the opponents and to the unlucky referee just trying to do their job. The team is celebrated and worshipped, sometimes in language that is hard to believe: “We’re by far the greatest team the world has ever seen” can feel like undeserved worship when Everton are struggling to avoid relegation. Such optimistic sentiment may reflect Evertonians’ awareness of the importance of history and the bigger picture! Another chant begins “And if you know your history...”.   

Outside Goodison Park is a statue of Dixie Dean: he scored 60 league goals in the 1927-28 season and his ability and achievement is worshipped, given great worth, by many before and after a game. The other statue outside the ground is of the “Holy Trinity”, Howard Kendall, Alan Ball and Colin Harvey, the midfield three that helped bring the League title to Everton in 1970. Many such players in the history of the club have received and still receive worship. Goodison Park is a place of hope, frustration, joy, anguish, and, yes, of worship.  

But is football a religion? Goodison Park is called by some a cathedral, the club has fans, it conveys an identity, the game offers principles for living such as teamwork and the valuing of different gifts.   

Yes, football is like a religion, and understandably religious language and gesture are often used around the game. “Salvation!” says the commentator as Graham Stuart scores the winning goal in the 3-2 win over Wimbledon to keep Everton in the Premier League. Television cameras can home in on a supporter clasping their hands in prayer at some decisive moment.   

And yes, football can play a part in someone’s life that is very like the part a religion can play: it can become the most important thing, it can shape mood, behaviour, it can provide long-lasting rituals.  

But it is one thing for football to be like a religion in some respects, it is another for it genuinely to qualify as a religion.   

This of course begs the question “how are you defining religion?” I am going for the stronger definition. So, I’m not agreeing with a statement such as “shopping is your religion”. I would rather say “shopping is one of your passions, interests, maybe overriding interests, but no, not a religion”. Some of the stronger dictionary definitions include “A system of beliefs, symbols and practices that addresses the nature of existence”, and “the way people deal with ultimate concerns about their life” and “a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe”.   

Does football meet those definitions, does football answer the deepest questions of life?  

Who am I? An Evertonian, but deeper than that, who am I?   

What is the purpose of my life beyond hoping Everton win football matches?   

What happens after death?   

Football does not address those ultimate concerns. It is like a religion in offering identity, inspiring worship, having a gathering point like Goodison Park for communal activity, but it is not a religion as it does not address those ultimate questions.  

I will be going to worship the skills and characters of players, coaches, staff and manager at Goodison Park before the season ends, but I don’t see my love of football as a religion. The Christian faith is my religion: it addresses the deepest questions, the ultimate concerns, just as other religions seek to do.   

There is more to life than football. As an Everton manager, a practising Catholic, Carlo Ancelotti once said: “Football is the most important of the less important things”.  

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Article
Change
Community
Generosity
4 min read

The day everything felt different

A tiny congregation in a forgotten town tried something fragile
A man presents a heart shaped paper token towards the camera
A donor presents their token at the fundraiser.
Derek Hughes.

In a time when trust in institutions is low and communities feel overlooked, something unusual happened in the forgotten town of Eccles.

One Saturday eight community groups set up stalls. No big strategy or powerful organisations. Just ordinary grassroots projects sharing their stories. One provides meals for families who would otherwise go without. Others put on skills workshops for those who doubt themselves or provide social connections for the lonely

Each table was led by someone who cared. The hall buzzed with interest. People from across the community turned up.  By the end of the day, over £16,500 had been raised. Enough to keep doors open. Enough to keep the lights on. Enough to keep hope alive in places most people forget.

But here’s the twist. It wasn’t led by the council. It wasn’t a government initiative. It wasn’t corporate sponsorship. It was sparked by a tiny church, with no money to spare and no plan beyond helping others flourish.

What really brings hope?

Every community like Eccles carries the same ache. How do you bring lasting hope to a place that feels forgotten? What does transformation look like not just for a few, but for everyone? Systems try. Charities try. Councils try. But projects stall. Promises fade. Good intentions don’t always touch the people who need them most.

It’s easy for struggling communities to look to others for rescue. But maybe change grows from small acts that spark something bigger. From a tiny church with quiet faith that every person matters, and that love is worth the risk. When faith is generous rather than self-serving it can become a catalyst for a whole community. 

That’s what me and my friends from LifeChurch Eccles hoped for when we organised the day..

This wasn’t about raffles or clever fundraising tricks. Those might raise money — but they rarely move the heart. They turn giving into a transaction: “What do I get in return?” We were aiming for something deeper. A movement of generosity that wasn’t transactional, but transformational.

When giving is free of strings, something surprising happens. People don’t pull back. They lean in. Maybe because that kind of giving speaks to something deeply designed into us all. God’s already placed in all of us.

How it happened

There was no blueprint. No professional fundraiser. No slick tech. Just a small group with a willingness to try.

We put out a simple call for ideas. No red tape, just a Google form. Any local group with a plan to make a difference could apply. Eleven grassroots projects came forward, from youth sports teams to befriending schemes for older adults. We set ourselves a bold goal: raise £1,000 for each one.

We invited businesses to sponsor a project. £250 each. Many said yes. Not because of a pitch, but because they saw something real.

We hosted a showcase. Invited local people to attend. One Saturday, eleven tables. People wandered, listened, gave, and stayed longer than expected.

We set one rule. Give to whatever moves you. No pressure. No gimmicks. Just connection and choice

The council doubled it. Salford Council were so struck they matched every pound raised. Overnight, the impact doubled.

What followed was bigger than money. New relationships. New volunteers. New collaborations. One group received its first-ever funding. No single moment changed everything. But together, they created a ripple. And that ripple hasn’t stopped.

What we learned

We didn’t set out to write a playbook, but a few lessons stayed with us:

Small groups can spark big impact. Our lack of resources made space for others to step in. Saying “we need help” drew people closer.

Weakness builds trust. By lifting others up instead of ourselves, credibility grew. Councillors and businesses said they’d never seen a project like this with no agenda.

Generosity spreads. Once giving started, it caught fire. People gave more than planned. People who’d never normally get involved wanted in. Because real generosity is contagious.

The overlooked need champions. Groups like Mature Movers — helping older people stay active — had never received funding. That day, they walked away resourced and celebrated. Every town has hidden heroes like that.

Impact multiplies when you give it away. None of the money came back to the church. But what we gained was trust, connection, and joy. You don’t lose by lifting others. You gain something money can’t buy.

The power to trigger change

This isn’t about Eccles being special. It’s about Eccles being ordinary.

Every town has hidden heroes. Every postcode has needs. Every community has people who want to make a difference but don’t always know how. You don’t need a big platform. You don’t need a perfect plan. Sometimes, it just takes a fragile step and the courage to trust that others will join you.

Because generosity really is infectious. You don’t need status or size to spark it. A handful of people, energised by faith can ignite something far bigger than themselves.

All you need is a little courage to go first.

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Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?
 
Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief