We are in a small church, beside a small lake, in a small city in the far, far North. On a not-so cold November night, Christ, arms aloft in a gesture of welcome (or an attempt to kill his followers with his likely funky body odour), is lambent with red and green disco lights, which rotate in mesmerising patterns across his image. A girl in a red dress is singing in a soft, sweet voice the poetry of her forebears.