It is surprisingly difficult for a member of the clergy to blaspheme. This might seem strange at first, but it is a logical consequence of their calling. If you consider the situations where most people would blaspheme – I discount those who use blasphemy as a form of verbal punctuation as others might use swear words – they are situations of stress. Of course, clergy are just as susceptible to stressful situations as anyone else, but their response is, or should be, prayer. If you wrap the same words up in a prayer then it is no longer blasphemy. For example, “Oh God, please don’t let this church council meeting go on much longer” is a prayer. I do draw the line at starting a prayer with “OMG”, but the principle is sound.

Bishop James regarded Martin’s gasping body for a moment, then remarked to me, “It makes one feel quite prayerful, don’t you think?”

I nodded, and said, “Indeed it does.”

“I believe I shall absolve her. She has taught Martin a valuable lesson.”

“A wise and just decision.”

“You know, I always enjoy coming here.”

Danni, meanwhile, was standing over Martin, hands on her hips, while her daughter Mary was bouncing up and down with excitement. Al evaluated the situation, and decided that Porker and Psycho would need a hand getting cups of tea.

“There are a million girls out there who want to be me. Why do you think a record company would take on someone who couldn’t sing, when they have their pick of a million girls? I have a grade eight in singing, and spent fifteen years learning to dance before I got signed up for Nothing Good. So you tell me what your qualification is to be a music critic?”

“Wha..,” said Martin, before coughing and starting again. “Wh-who are you?”

“Did you know that she once assaulted a music critic on The One Show?” Bishop James asked me.

“No, but somehow I’m not surprised.”

“It doubled Nothing Good’s sales overnight.”

“Business and pleasure combined.”

“Quite so.”

“I,” said Danni in a low growl, “Am the person you said couldn’t sing, and had no talent. I am the person you said should have stopped before I got old. I am the person you have just really annoyed.”

Actually, she didn’t use the word “annoyed”. She used a far more interesting expression, but I believe that “annoyed” will suffice as a placeholder for now.

Liz, his wife, remained a shadow in the background, her face blank. She was so uninteresting that I instinctively distrusted her.

The entertainment over, the parishioners slowly drifted home. When Martin had sufficiently recovered we repaired to the Vicarage for lunch. Although I do not believe it is written anywhere, like many organisations the Church of England has certain rituals which must be observed. One of these is that when the Bishop visits, he should be given lunch. This should be in the form of a roast meal, accompanied with a respectable bottle of wine and dessert. The dessert is generally trifle. With most dioceses exceeding 200 parishes, each of which expects to see their bishop at least occasionally this represents a considerable saving on the weekly shop. In mitigation, I would point out that not every parish is able to provide the quality of meal that my housekeeper, Abigail, can produce.

Often at these formally informal meals I invite Al, Porker and Psycho thus ensuring that there is not a dull moment. On this occasion it was not possible due to room. With Bishop James, Martin, Liz and their two children, plus Mabel, Abigail and myself the table was full enough.

Grace was said adequately by Martin at the invitation of James and the meal was served – roast beef accompanied by a bottle of Shiraz. The food was excellent, but the conversation unusually stilted. This was despite James’ best efforts, and he is one of the most accomplished conversationalists I know. After much effort he pried from Ethan and Zoe – Martin’s children – that they liked their phones. Liz, he came to understand, was a primary school teacher. A very good one, according to Martin although he offered little supporting evidence.

Eventually, James tried a new tack.

“So, Martin – why do you think that church attendance has been declining in recent years?”

“Oh, it’s inevitable when you think about it,” Martin replied, accepting a bowl of trifle.

“And why is that?”

“Well, we live in a pluralistic, multicultural society, don’t we? Not something the Church had to worry about a hundred years ago.”
“And how do you think we should respond?”

“We can’t turn the clock back. It’s just the natural way of things.”

“So we should just accept it, and close the churches?”

Martin shrugged. “The world is a different place now.”

“Ah, I see. And David, what is your opinion?”

I took a sip of wine, and thought a moment. Mabel, who is of a distinctly evangelical – if unimaginative – background had gone very quiet.

“Oh,” I said, “It’s our fault.”

James raised an eyebrow, and nodded in an encouraging manner.

“Consider,” I continued, “The Unique Selling Point of Christianity - its USP, as they say – eternal life, free of charge, from the God of Love. If we can’t make that attractive to people then we’re doing something wrong. You, me, all of us. If people don’t want Christianity, then we can only blame ourselves.”

“Well, there’s been all the scandals…” offered Martin.

“Yes, and they’ve caused immense damage to people’s lives, and should never have been allowed to happen, let alone continue. But let me ask you a question – what makes more difference to you personally, someone being murdered, or someone throwing a brick through your window?”

“Both of which have happened in this parish,” added James.

“Well, I… The murder is the most important, of course,” replied Martin.

“Are you sure about the brick?” I asked James.

“Not positive, but it seems plausible.”

I let it pass, and addressed Martin again. “Yes, the murder is more important in all kinds of ways, but unless it is someone you knew personally, I would think that the thing that made the most difference would be the brick through the window.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with church attendance.”

“What it has to do with church attendance is that however stomach churning and utterly vile the scandals have been, what makes the most difference to people is their personal contact with the church. If someone asks a member of the clergy for help and gets ignored, where does that leave us? If an elderly person needs assistance climbing the steps into church, but the vicar is more concerned with the service starting on time than giving a hand, then who are we? If a vicar does nothing when someone is sick, then what should we expect? Those are the things that make the most difference to people, and that is where we fail, every day.”

“You know,” mused James, “A few years ago I visited Canterbury Cathedral and purchased a Christmas bauble in the shape of Archbishop Welby. I’m undecided whether I should hang it on the tree or not. But. I prefer David’s answer to yours, Martin. Do you know why?”

“Er… Well, I… Um…”

“Because what he says is difficult. Your answer evades responsibility. Your answer says that it is someone else’s fault. His answer is the complete opposite. Despite this parish being one associated with the phrase ‘body count’, he goes out every day and helps people, regardless of cost and who the person is.”

Mabel beamed at this praise, and Abigail looked quietly amused. I looked down at my trifle, reflecting that the reason I treated everyone the same was because they were all equally unimportant to me.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Martin.

“Ah, and that is why you have been made David’s curate.”

Martin and his family left shortly before Bishop James. As I handed James his vestment bag, he said to me, “I found your arguments emotionally compelling.”

I smiled, and said, “Although the logical was imperfect.”

“Indeed, yet sufficient for the purpose,” he replied, returning the smile.

“As Socratic as ever, James.”

I waved him off as he climbed into his car.

As you might expect, over the next few days I spent considerable time with Martin. I took him around the local shops. Sutley is a small market town that describes itself as “vibrant”. Through the considerable efforts of the local council it has managed to remain free of most of the franchise chains. Hence, if I want to buy a pair of trousers, I do not go to a chain store, I go to Manliegh’s, who have sold clothing in Sutley for over 150 years. It is true that in summer one can hear tourists bemoaning the lack of a Costa, but that is a small price to pay.

I explained to Martin my belief that a vicar should be seen regularly at the local shops. This is because local shop keepers talk to people. They are also very good at noticing if someone fails to come in for their groceries. From my professional perspective this makes an ideal early warning system. Often I have heard of someone falling ill or being taken into hospital as a result of conversations with a shop keeper. From there it is easy to form an appropriate response - perhaps a hospital visit, perhaps an offer to collect groceries, perhaps just to be there for them. It is true that this increases my weekly shopping bill – small local shops cannot compete with the super-sized Tesco hypermarket in Musdon for price. Still, I would far rather find out that someone was poorly while I could still do something about it, rather than waiting until the funeral director asks me if I can take a funeral service. Oh, and the local butcher does far better sausages and bacon than Tesco.
I am not convinced that Martin appreciated my reasoning with respect to patronising local shops.

I also introduced him to various parishioners in a series of home visits. Interspersed with this was the preparations for the inaugural service of the Local Ecumenical Project between my parish and the local Methodists. This was due for the following Sunday, and there were a myriad of details to consider. Not only would Bishop James be visiting us again, but also the Chair of the Methodist District, and the Methodist Superintendent Minister, Larry Seagry. There were many details to resolve, and I think I spent as much time on the phone or writing emails as I did with Martin.

Still, I arranged that on Thursday evening, we should visit Violet Johnson, one of my elderly parishioners. Violet is an old friend of Abigail’s, although Abigail is evasive about her past friendships. In fact, Abigail is consistently evasive with regards to all aspects of her personal history. Still, Violet is referred to by many in the parish as a ‘character’. Certainly, she has her quirks.

“Be sure to have a warm coat with you,” I cautioned Martin. “She may want us to sit in her garden, and the evenings can be quite cool.”

Martin had chuckled and said, “I’m sure she won’t have us out long at her age.”

I was unsurprised when, meeting him at Violet’s house, I discovered that he was only wearing a light jacket.

She answered the door, and ushered us in.

“Would you gentlemen like cocoa?” she enquired as we entered.

“Oh, not for me, thanks,” said Martin.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I would definitely recommend the cocoa, Martin.”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

“I’ll bring it out in a moment,” said Violet. “David can show you into the garden. It will be nice to have another person watching the fairies with us.”

She bustled into the kitchen, and I led Martin out into the garden.

“What was that she said about fairies” asked Martin.

“That’s what I do with her. We sit at the bottom of the garden, by the garden well, and watch the fairies.”

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“She is. I hope your jacket is warm enough, especially without the cocoa to keep you warm.”

Disclaimer: David’s insistence on using local shops rather that patronising large chain stores shows a callous disregard for the profit margins of large stores. This is deplorable, as it reduces the returns for investors such as the Church Commissioners, and so will negatively impact the finances of the Church of England.