So A Comedian Walks Into Church

by Paul Kerensa

  ‘No props, no frills for me this year,’ said Dan. ‘Me and a mic. Even left my guitar at home.’ I didn’t even know he played guitar. ‘I’d give you a flyer, but “my people” have got them all.They’re getting some posters up.’

  Oh to have ‘people’. Granted, you needed to have been on a few TV panel shows, or in Dan’s case, be prepared to go into debt by ten thousand pounds, but on the plus side he got to look smug all month and talk about ‘his people’.

  With nothing better to do, Dan wandered with me back to my cave, which looked identical to when I’d left it two hours ago.

  ‘We’ve been trying to unfurl this banner,’ explained Purple Glasses. ‘And we think we’ve got WiFi working.’ I knew it would be great comfort to the audience, unaided by lights or seats, that the banner outside the cave was well unfurled. They’d probably blog about it using the WiFi.

  Dan helped me carry a few chairs into the ‘auditorium’, finding it fun to muck in since he wasn’t doing any work on his own production. One hour later, my show’s start time came, and it almost looked like a theatre. A dank cavernous theatre, but a theatre.

  I made my way ‘backstage’, and unfortunately couldn’t peer through the curtain to spy on the audience coming in due to a lack of curtains, and a lack of audience.This being a cave, I peeked behind a jutting rock instead. With no sign even saying this was a venue, I expected no one but lost palaeontologists.Amazingly the audience, like the underground spring water to my left, started to seep in. These were the dedicated few, who wouldn’t be put off by no signs or box office.They’d trip over power cables and guess a route through the cave corridors. One unfurled banner lying on the ground reading ‘Edinburg’ and a strong WiFi signal was all they needed to know that comedy lay within.

  An Edinburgh first night

  A to-do list to make a bad show

  Make sure you accelerate through it - that way they may miss jokes and you’ll be done early.

  Forget chunks of material. It may make no sense without that earlier set up, but hey, make the audience do some work.

  Deviate off-topic thanks to heavy machinery outside. Those roads won’t fix themselves, and you may discover you’re an improv genius. Or just lose your place.

  Latecomers: pander to their every need. How dare you start on time.

  Fend off leaks from above, because all good venues are made of rock, and all good performers bring an umbrella onstage.

  Brought wigs, a Santa outfit, and some mops? Why not forget to use any of them? Besides, the mops may come in handy for the pool of water onstage, thanks to that unforeseen stalactite.

  As the sixteen stalwarts of my opening night audience filed out, I took a sigh of relief at being 1⁄24 of the way through the festival. It was to be a long month, and I knew I had to keep my vitamins up, but just for one night I thought I’d try the local delicacy of kebab pizza, opting for the healthy option by not having it deep-fried.

  Kebab pizza down to crust and bones, I found myself outside a modern church building, advertising a drop-in zone for fringe-goers. I was a fringe-goer, so I dropped in.The conversation that followed was like a scene from a festival play, which I’ll call Same God, Different Church:

  NAZ: Hi, I’m Naz.

  PAUL: Thanks. Paul.

  NAZ: Do you want a napkin?

  PAUL: Sorry?

  NAZ: You’ve got a bit of chilli sauce just ...

  PAUL dabs his chin with a napkin.

  NAZ: Enjoying the festival?

  PAUL: Yeah. I’m doing a show.

  NAZ: Yeah? Like a play?

  PAUL: A stand-up show. Comedy.

  NAZ: Right.That’s good. God likes to laugh. Do you know God? PAUL: I’m an Anglican.

  NAZ: Oh okay. Do you know God?

  PAUL: Yeah, I do.

  NAZ: Oh. Okay. Cool. I might try and make it to some shows.You never know what you’re going to get though, do you?

  PAUL: Well you don’t, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?

  NAZ: I don’t know. I saw a show a few years ago - the comedy was quite edgy.The F word, the S word, the D word ...

  PAUL: (Thinks) What’s the D word? (Says) Looks like a nice church.

  NAZ: Yeah, it’s great. I’ve been here for five years, came here as a student. Evangelical, God-shaped community.

  PAUL: What shape’s that?

  NAZ: (Quick as a flash) A heart shape.

  PAUL: Nice.

  NAZ: Have you ever done an Alpha course?

  PAUL: No, but ...

  NAZ: You should do an Alpha course. Our church hosts our next one in September.

  PAUL: I live in Guildford.

  NAZ: Is that near Morningside?

  PAUL: A bit further south. Every August I decamp to Edinburgh.

  NAZ: Decamp?

  PAUL: Decamp.

  NAZ: I’ve heard of those courses. In America. Do they work?

  PAUL: Eh?

  NAZ: Is ‘post-gay’ the right term?

  PAUL: I meant just ... forget the ‘decamp’ thing. I travel to Edinburgh every August.

  NAZ: Oh. Right.Well if you’re only here for the festival, there’s the Café Church on Sunday evening. It’s not part of this church, but could be good if you’re just interested in Christianity.

  PAUL: I’m Anglican.

  NAZ: Yeah. I hear the café do free jammie dodgers.

  NAZ gives PAUL a flyer. PAUL takes it.

  PAUL: I’d better give you a flyer for my show. No jammie dodgers I’m afraid.

  PAUL attempts to give NAZ a flyer. NAZ eventually takes it.

  PAUL: Well I better go. It’s been lovely.

  NAZ: Hasn’t it? Hope to see you Sunday. And do drop in here any time. Open late each night for the fringe-goers.

  PAUL: How late?

  NAZ: I think till 9pm.

  PAUL: Well, bye.

  NAZ: Wait, can I pray for you first?

  NAZ prays for PAUL. PAUL says a quick prayer back, because it would have been rude not to. NAZ and PAUL both open their eyes and shoo away a CROWD who thinks it’s a fringe show.

  PAUL: Well, bye, Naz.

  NAZ: Bye, Paul.

  PAUL: (to CROWD) Seriously, please go.

  Exit PAUL, pursued by CROWD.

  Three days and three shows later, I’d had two reviews: a four-star write- up that read like a three-star, and a three-star that read like a child’s essay. I’d had two rainy afternoons flyering (one star - ‘a wash-out’) and a deep-fried cheeseburger (five stars - ‘a visceral sensation that hits you in the gut’).There is a tendency here to review everything, I thought as I read my three-star review again, then rated the review one star, then rated my review of it five stars.

  I heard a familiar voice across the street.

  ‘Hey, Kerensa!’ It was Dan again, discussing with one of ‘his people’ just how big he’d like his face to appear in the next print run of posters. I crossed to see him, and we decided to grab a 6 p.m. lunch (Edinburgh timings meant breakfast at noon and dinner at midnight). We sought jacket potatoes - mine just cheese, his coronation chicken, because his show was selling out. And while I’d had a three- and a four-star review, he’d had the same but three of each. We were both average, but his averageness was more highly publicised thanks to his top PR team.

  It turned out that his show wasn’t the only thing selling out, but jacket potatoes were too. With none left, they’d closed early, so we meandered on. We passed a centuries-old church, converted into a theatre for the month, and currently pounding out R&B. A chalkboard showed that now performing was Riot! The Musical.

  ‘Wow, Christians are funky!’ said Dan with a dash of sarcasm.

  ‘Yeah, we are,’ I agreed.

  ‘Ha! Oh,
are you a ... you’re one of them? Oh no.’

  ‘Yes Dan,’ I replied testily.

  Dan took a step back from me, as if to check I was a Christian from my head to my toes.‘I thought you liked science and maths and things?’

  ‘Can I not like both? Can I not say God created science and maths and things, and aren’t they good?’

  He handed me a flyer.‘You should really come see my show. I’ve got this bit in it about rationalists versus you guys.’

  I took his flyer out of habit, then offered it back. ‘No offence, Dan, but if three years studying Theology, the existence of fossils, and the existence of Richard Dawkins, all can’t stop me believing what I believe, then I doubt five minutes of shtick about God-botherers is going to get me putting my Bible on eBay.’

  Dan returned his flyer in his back pocket. ‘It’s your funeral. After which you’re dead in the ground.’

  There was silence between us.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet,’ said Dan.

  ‘Just saying a prayer for you,’ I replied. He didn’t look happy about that.

  ‘Yeah, well listen to this silence ...’ Dan replied, followed by a few seconds pause throughout which his stomach rumbled.‘I need food,’ he conceded. ‘Just a biscuit or something.’

  ‘Do you like jammie dodgers?’ I asked.

  ‘Heck, yeah.’

  And off we went to Café Church.

  ***

  En route I explain to Dan about the concept of Café Church. I don’t want to pull the wool over the eyes of this lost sheep (now there’s an image). Dan rolls his eyes but gives it his blessing.

  ‘As long as they do jammie dodgers, I’m in,’ he says.

  We arrive at the café, and to my surprise it is a bona fide café - the difference is that it should be closed for business, but it’s occupied by a group of Christians with a mic stand and a guitar, like a band of survivors in those apocalyptic films who break into and occupy deserted shops.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Mr Comedian.’ It’s Naz from the drop-in.

  ‘Comedians,’ I correct, and introduce Dan.

  Dan puts his hand out.‘Hello, I’m Dan. Non-believer.’ He then scans the room for jammie dodgers, spies them and nudges me. We edge towards them - this is our dinner. The room now has a dozen or so people, and most haven’t spotted the biscuits.

  A young woman greets the room via microphone: ‘Hi everyone, I’m Jeanette, thanks for coming. Do grab a coffee and a seat, or mill around, or whatever. I’m going to play a song while you come in, and then Ian’s going to say a hello after that.’

  She spends a minute tuning up her guitar and then sings an unfamiliar song, which has the unfortunate consequence of raising the volume of everyone’s conversations. Dan and I give her our full attention - we’re performers so know what it’s like, and besides we’re busy munching. By the time she finishes, Dan and I have had a fine banquet of jammie dodgers. We’re trying to justify the jam as part of our five-a-day, but our stomachs ache and disagree.

  A chap in a lumberjack shirt tries to bring the room to order. He introduces himself as Ian, Jeanette’s husband. Ian and Jeanette - they don’t look like The Krankies, but have the names and the accents.

  ‘Great to see you if it’s your first time at our café. We’re going to have just an informal chat really. Now I’m a Christian, but I don’t want to speak Christianese here tonight. Let me just read you a short passage from the New Testament - that’s the second one ... ’

  He reads a passage from Mark’s gospel, the Parable of the Growing Seed.

  ‘Now to make it interesting - well not interesting, it is interesting - to make it different, I’m going to give a little talk, but I’m going to incorporate some words, which you’ve all been writing on slips of paper by the biscuit plate.’

  I didn’t notice any paper; in fact I’m worried we might have eaten it. Dan leans over and speaks in a hush,‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this covered. Look out for “Barcelona”.’

  Uh oh. This should be unusual: a sermon improvised around suggestions from the audience.Very ‘Edinburgh’.

  ‘So,’ begins Ian, the bowl of paper slips by his side. ‘We’re told the Kingdom of God grows like a seed, so whether you believe or not ... ’ He reads a piece of paper.‘... Snow-leopards. Can a snow-leopard change its spots? Does a snow-leopard have spots? There’s a question.’

  I’m not sure about this. He’s already going off-topic.

  ‘... But the seed grows, in its time, like a ...’ Another piece of paper.‘... bungalow.You might say that bungalows don’t grow, but I’d say to you ...’ Another. ‘...Thanks for the jammie dodgers ...’

  A man to my left with crumbs in his beard looks pleased with himself.

  ‘Actually that slightly misses the point of the exercise ...’

  The bearded man frowns.

  ‘But let’s get back to the seed ...’

  Let’s.

  ‘... That seed grows, and God’s kingdom grows, and we’re part of that. God wants us in it.You may feel pushed away.You may feel unworthy. You may feel totally unspiritual. But the important thing is ...’ He picks up a slip.‘... Humphrey Bogart.’ And another. ‘And trams.’ Yet another.‘In Barcelona.’

  Dan punches the air with an ‘Olé!’ on that word, as if he’s the victim of a cruel hypnotist.

  It was a bold idea, and was kind of fun.We’ve had a laugh, and we’ve learnt something, if only that improv sermons may not be a thing of the future.

  Ian wrapped up the event.‘You know what, I’d love it if we could just pray now, for a minute, maybe, if there are no objections? Yeah? I mean only if we’re all okay with that?’

  I look around. No objections. You have to tread lightly at Café Church, I imagine. Some may be here to worship, some to find out more about Christianity, some for the coffee.

  So we pray, and Ian concludes by adding, ‘One suggestion for those who like to pray, maybe for yourselves, maybe for your loved ones. How about opening a phone book, picking a random person, and praying for them? Wouldn’t that be great?’

  One or two teens among us look uncertain - I don’t think they know what a phone book is.

  As the meeting disbands, we’re encouraged to mingle and Naz joins us with a coffee.

  ‘So what did you think?’ he asks Dan and me. He clearly sees us both as newbies, Dan the atheist and me the Anglican.

  I tell him I’ve enjoyed it; it’s been unthreatening and diverting, although I secretly missed having more of a focal point. I liked Ian’s idea of phone book praying - I’m certainly guilty of praying mostly for myself and my loved ones. So I’ve definitely taken something away from this.

  Dan takes a deep breath before giving his verdict. Naz and I don’t know what to expect. Dan finally comes out with, ‘Let me get a coffee.’ And he throws his coat next to Naz’s chair.

  I make my excuses and leave them to it for my evening show. As I reach the door I see Dan and Naz deep in chat and caffeine. I hear Dan talk of ‘Dawkins’ and Naz talk of ‘Hitchens’, and anticipate their conver- sation being a feisty one. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, in the words of Humphrey Bogart, on a tram, in Barcelona.

  I do like informal church. I’ve had some great sessions of ‘Beer & Hymns’ at Greenbelt Festival at Cheltenham Racecourse: two hundred people belting out ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer’ while swilling ale. Messy Church is marvellous for all the family, and does exactly what it says on the tin. Then there’s Pub Church, Café Church, Park Church, House Church ... It’s like Edinburgh Festival venues.At the Fringe you can find shows in caves, toilets and even churches. It’s equally true that across the UK you can find churches in cafés, bars and flats. It’s odd that the church down the road hosts Riot! The Musical while this church meets in
a café, but many of the people here wouldn’t come if it were in a traditional church building.

  I’d encourage Naz into a comedy club and Dan into a church. It’s a good thing that these folks set foot in this café, just as I’m sure it’s good that punters down the road are setting foot in a church, even if it is to see a musical featuring songs like ‘Don’t Kettle Me In, Mr Policeman’.At least I think that’s a good thing.

  I leave and see a poster of Dan’s face with four stars plastered over it.Which makes me reflect on where I’ve just been ...

  Event 4/5, Coffee 4/5, Biscuits 5/5. My stomach hurts.

  12

  Work in Progress

  Meeting with Methodists

  ‘I’m pregnant.We’re going to have a baby.’

  These words change everything, especially if you barely recognise the person speaking.Thankfully on this occasion, it was my wife.[53]

  Our prayers had been answered. It was around about the time my hand was wavering over the cheque book for IVF. We gave thanks, a lot, and Zoë did pregnancy tests, a lot.

  After a few days of disbelief and staring at lines on test kits, the responsibility set in. I realised I’d need to work twice as hard.The next Edinburgh Festival fund - to blow a small fortune on performing a fringe show to nine people - became the baby fund. When it came to the choice of printing a thousand flyers or buying a thousand nappies, I had to choose the nappies. You can’t wrap a child’s bottom in a picture of my face, or at least I wouldn’t want to.

  We still couldn’t quite believe it, till the bump showed itself. Watching a lot of Dragon’s Den at the time, we nicknamed the bump ‘Theo the Foetus’.We knew though that ‘Theo the Baby’ wouldn’t work in the same way, so we started looking elsewhere for inspiration. Biblical names have always been popular whether you’re religious or not, from David to Daniel to Mary to Matthew. I shortlisted Pontius, Methuselah and Herod, and Zoë unshortlisted them.

  As bump started to grow, I started to grow up. I saw the world in different ways. I’d mutter at underdressed clubbers that they’d catch their death, and how no daughter of mine would go out dressed like that. Tuition fees went from being a financial bullet I’d dodged, to being a barrier to little Methuselah’s education in twenty years’ time. I was becoming the sort of person who couldn’t read a newspaper without grumbling.