Whether you find your God in a church, mosque, temple, beer glass or small bag of bananas imported from the Windward Isles, it's all the same to me. Those with a spiritual bent can live by whatever rules and regulations they so wish.

Occasionally, though, I find myself something of an interloper in one or more of these worlds, and - beer and bananas aside - I'm never too comfortable. Mainly, this is because I'm surrounded by people for whom (insert manner of worship here) is what they do, therefore it's what I don't, and I generally feel something of a fraud.

Take Sunday, for example. A friend - and, indeed bass player par excellence - was having his baby son christened, so off the Barnetts trolled to partake in the celebrations.

What struck me (apart from the fact that eight - count em, eight - hymns were sung - that's more songs than said bass player ever learned when he was in a rock and roll band with me) was that church has admirably risen to the challenge of Sunday drinking and Sunday shopping by setting itself up as a place where you can easily spend as much money as on these other pursuits.

It was a pretty full congregation so the collection plate went round early. I happily handed over a quid (my wife trumped me by donating two).

It only occurred to me later that no-one actually told me what this money was for. Does it go to a new church roof? The starving millions in Africa? A big stick to hit people with if they throw confetti in the church grounds at weddings? Not that I'm bothered, you understand, it's just that if someone stopped me in the street and asked for a quid I'd probably want to know where it was heading. Even the beggars in Bradford at least claim it's for bus-fare, though I once saw one bloke collect enough to hire his own limousine.

The other thing is, churches have become regular shopping paradises. Well, almost. On Sunday there were tables groaning with Fairtrade coffee and choccy bars. There was even a shelf full of books for sale. And, I must admit, one or two of them seemed out of place for a house of God - there was at least one vampire novel, a few chick-lit volumes, and a big book by Clive Cussler in which a lot of people get killed.

The problem is that once a church starts selling stuff like this, some people might think that pretty much everything is for sale. I'm not talking about bunging the vicar a few quid and offering him the use of your caravan in Filey to ensure smooth transition to the afterlife, because as everyone knows it's easier for a camel to win the 2.30 at Epsom than it is for a rich man to pick a winner at the Grand National (or something).

Rather, as soon as you mark some stuff up for sale in a church it becomes rather difficult to explain to a four-year-old boy that just because his mum's allowed him to put a one pound coin on the collection plate, that does not mean he has actually bought the toy monkey that he has been playing with from a bunch of cuddly toys at the back of the church and which are - unlike the Fairtrade coffee and Clive Cussler books alongside - actually NOT for sale.

This, then, to my mind, embodies the spiritual crisis of the Christian faith in the 21st century: Exactly what do you get out of it, at the end of the day? As soon as they answer that one, they'll have it cracked.