Twenty-eight minutes earlier
The priest appears to be winding up his sermon and I silently congratulate myself for not heckling at any point during his performance. He spoke about the pain, loss and hardships we must all face, but in a bad-news-good-news kind of twist, he assured the congregation that God is actually doing a great job and He’s got the whole thing under control. So, really, don’t worry about it.
He’s frustratingly light on detail, however. There’s no mention of how God will help a single mother pay her heating bills, feed her family and keep them clothed, or how a parent is supposed to remain equanimous when told that their child has developed cancer of the spine. Instead, he talks about God’s love and chooses to dodge the nitty-gritty of real-world examples. I find this lazy and infuriating and guess it’s why sermons never end with a follow-up Q&A session.
But, hey, at least we’re into the home stretch and he’s urging us all to be as Samson in the Temple of Dagon. That strikes me as a bit of a mixed message, but it’s just one more generality that doesn’t add anything to the sum of my knowledge.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the architecture and serenity of churches, but I’m left cold when they swing into action and start staging ceremonies and the like. It’s as baffling as it is boring. But I’m told it brings comfort to many people and I genuinely envy their faith. Their belief that there’s a benign and all-powerful force looking down on us must be reassuring. More than this, I suppose, the notion that our existences are infinite and that every tatty little life is simply a preliminary to the good bit must be heartening.
Having said that, as I look about me, I notice very few happy faces. It’s a well-to-do parish. Business leaders pack the pews. Rich as Croesus but as miserable as sin. If these people believe all the stuff pouring from the pulpit, they should be grinning from ear to ear, but instead they sit with expressions locked in Old Testament solemnity.
And yet . . . The priest must be right to a certain extent, surely? There must be more to life than is obvious and transparent. There has to be a meaning – no matter how vague – to it all. An intention for everything. So, inevitably, I wonder what mine might be, and whether I’m fulfilling that purpose.
‘Think on why we were placed on God’s good Earth . . . There will be times when the devil has you by the throat!’ the priest informs his audience. ‘But we must remain strong in our resolve! We must reach out to our Lord . . .’
I’m in a charming little church at the heart of a village just south of the Clandon Downs in Surrey. After the service concludes, we all file from the nave and the priest hovers outside the main entrance, like an actor meeting fans by the stage door.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ We shake hands and he continues, ‘A new face in the flock, I see!’
He’s about my age, that’s to say late thirties, so I’m not sure why he’s speaking like the vicar off Dad’s Army.
‘Are you passing through, or are you a new parishioner?’
‘I’m here to see you, actually, reverend. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
His eyes dart to his right and the line of ladies queuing up to congratulate him on his turn at the lectern. ‘I’m a little busy at the moment and I am rather bound to presently mix and mingle with these good people in the church hall. There’s coffee and cake. You’re welcome to join us, Mr . . . ?’
‘We have a mutual acquaintance.’
The woman behind me clears her throat, an indication that I’m hogging the priest and should move along.
‘And who might that me?’ he asks.
‘Ekaterina.’
It’s doubtful he’d have looked as uncomfortable if I’d loudly announced I’d received his results from the STD clinic and it wasn’t good news. ‘Ekaterina? Goodness . . .’ He pulls his shoulders back. ‘Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in many years.’
‘If you could spare me ten minutes before your coffee morning?’
‘Of course!’ He smiles as if his change of heart is something to do with Christian largesse. ‘Let me see . . .’ He calls to the curate who’s waiting a pace or two inside the vestibule. ‘Martin!’ He’s a much younger man wearing a navy blue duffel coat. ‘Have you got a moment?’
Martin nods enthusiastically. Joins us.
‘Could you possibly greet the remaining ladies and gentlemen? I need to speak to the new member of our congregation.’
The curate eagerly agrees and the woman behind me tuts, aggrieved at being palmed off with the leading man’s understudy.
The priest puts his hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me away from the queue. ‘We can talk in the vicarage.’
‘If you’re sure you can spare me the time.’
A spark of irritation flashes across his face, then he’s all smiles again. ‘Of course, of course!’
I wonder if Ekaterina has some kind of hold over this man of God, or whether they’re linked by something more intricate.
We walk across the churchyard, passing two men digging a fresh grave. As we pass the gaping hole, the priest crosses himself. ‘In the midst of life . . .’ he murmurs.