Looking back on a school trip to eastern Turkey, I wonder whether there was a subtext, a hidden message conveyed by the places where we were taken on one particular day in June.

We visited the cave church of St. Peter which is in the mountains behind Antioch. We parked the bus at the bottom of the hill and started to climb the rather steep pathway. The land was dry. The trees stunted and twisted. The teenagers laughed and talked loudly. Even the Americans were not really impressed by our destination. The Turkish teacher said her students had been there before so this was a little dull for them.

As we neared the entrance, we passed a man selling medals for pilgrims. I bought a St. Peter’s medal and then bought three sandstone figurines for colleagues as gifts.

When we came closer, we entered through a stone gate into a flat, smooth-cobbled square. The entrance into the cave church itself was decorated with a series of columns and cut-out, interlaced stars. I took a picture. The stones were cream and grey and white. The elaborate facade was only added much later by the crusaders. At the time when St. Peter was conducting services, there was only a hole in the mountainside. Nothing could distinguish the entrance from the many other cave holes in the cliff. This meant the church was secret and the worshippers would be safe from detection and arrest.

But even so, inside the church the early Christian left a bolt-hole, a long tunnel where they could crawl to escape. Crawl up without light. Stay there hidden until the Romans left with their torches. How long would they have to stay in the narrow tunnel, cold, trembling, hungry, blind?

The inside of the church was dark because clouds scudded across the sky. It was also cold and the stones were damp. But I felt disoriented and awed. I am not a devout person — the furthest thing from devout, but I wondered at these early Christians who endangered themselves and their families, who walked up into the hills to create a community of believers.