by Paul Kerensa
- ‘a Bible quote of everything the gospels say directly about homosexuality.’
GREEN: Jesus said nothing about it, nor did any Jewish prophet. Paul’s letters refers to it, where it’s listed alongside lying, cheating and adultery, so it’s a sin, but one of many, and we’re all guilty. So the centrist attitude is largely a shrug of the shoulders.There are no pamphlets or placards (hooray - think of the trees, hence this is ‘green’), and no concerted efforts to pray away so much as a fondness for Wham CDs.
There’s an acknowledgement of the Bible’s various negative comments on homosexuality, which cannot be ignored, but the focus is elsewhere - in a world of poverty and myriad secular challenges for the church, the centre ground tries not to get bogged down in who fancies who in their congregation. Growing up as I did in Dibley, Midsomer, we didn’t have homosexuality in our church, at least not that I noticed during the service (but then I sat quite near the front).
‘This is the will of God, your sanctification; that you abstain from sexual immorality.’ - 1 Thessalonians 4:3
BLUE:Time to get blue: let’s talk about sex. More liberally, church leadership may now include gay people in church leadership, but on the condition of their celibacy. The Church of England allows gay people to be priests, but biblical teaching on sex outside marriage means they must abstain. Yet if gay people want to marry, the church says they can’t. It’s a vicious circle (but enough about wedding rings).
‘Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.’ - Romans 15:7
INDIGO: ... In yer go, into church, everybody. Gay, straight, tall, short, all welcome, all able to participate in sacraments, be ordained and marry.
This school of thought doesn’t think ‘tolerance’ goes far enough. Bad smells are tolerated. Someone eating a kebab next to you on the train is tolerated (or more often not). People should be welcomed and made to feel part of the community. Saying to a gay couple, ‘You’re welcome in our church, because that loving committed relationship you’ve got, it’s merely on a par with lying and cheating...’ may not be as welcoming as it could be.
There is a paradox - parts of the Bible do condemn homosexuality.Yet we need to be a loving church. The world is too full of bigger problems than this. Maybe we should accept that, like why anyone would want a kebab on the morning commuter train, it’s just a sweet mystery of life.
‘Some are incapable of marriage because they were born so ... there are others who have renounced marriage for the sake of the kingdom of Heaven. Let those accept it who can.’ - Matthew 19:11-12
VIOLET: At the end of the rainbow, there’s our final strand of thinking: those churches that actively affirm the LGBT[55] community and encourage them in, or meet them on the street. Jesus spoke widely of love, discipleship and faithfulness, and idea of a ‘civil partnership at Cana’ just wasn’t in the culture at the time.
‘Christians Together at Pride’ marched in London’s Pride parade, while placards were waved at the sidelines by other Christians back in red zone of the opinion spectrum. When they’d finished processing alongside non-Christian LGBTers, there was a service for Pride marchers at Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church.
Luke told me of a similar venture. ‘There’s a church in Liverpool, St Bride’s, with a regular gay-friendly service. Every month they have a service called Open Table, for and by the LGBT community. In terms of liturgy it’s the straightest thing they do. As for Paul’s writings, he doesn’t even mention lesbians, bisexuals, or transgendered people, and it looks like his concern was for exploitative encounters.What he would make of loving same-sex relationships remains a mystery.We might as well ask Julius Caesar to draw a penguin.’
While churches the world over decide which colour they’re painting themselves, Christianity is tarnished. In a recent survey, when asked for words associated with Christians, Americans came up not with words like ‘loving’ and ‘caring’, but ‘homophobic’ and ‘bigoted’. Christians I know are helping the poor, feeding the hungry, and generally ‘being nice’. So thanks to our disunity about this one issue, we’re being massively misrep- resented. Perhaps it’s time that whatever colour we are, we all got well over the rainbow, friend of Dorothy or not.
‘The truth is, that outside of churches, no one is that interested,’ Luke told me. ‘It’s no longer a secret at work. As chaplain I’m not even “the only gay in prison” - again, martyrdom denied. So bizarrely, I’ve found freedom in prison.’
‘Sounds like there’s a bit of a love/hate relationship with the C of E?’ I asked.
‘Quakers,’ Luke said. ‘If I had my time again, with a level playing field, I’d be a Quaker.’
‘Any reason?’ I was trying to cover my ignorance - I knew little of the Quakers. I knew they had something to do with cereal, but I couldn’t remember which one. I think it was Shreddies.
‘You ever been to a Friends Meeting?’ Luke asked.
‘I watched season one to four pretty much back to back with a couple of mates. I was Chandler, they fought over who was Joey and Ross.’
‘Friends, Quakers, same people,’ he clarified. ‘Their way of worship, got to be the most radical I’ve ever encountered.’ Bold words, especially for one who’s gone from village vicar to LGBT-themed service via Heaven (the nightclub). ‘And obviously they have a hugely important history in this country. Not least prison reform.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Goes without saying.’ I made a mental note to have a date with Wikipedia later.
‘They got them privacy in prison. Prisoners learning a trade - that comes from early Quakers. Anti-slavery campaigners and all. They’ve done a good lot.’
I resolved to look into the Quakers; they sound like historical good eggs. It’s good to remember that social justice isn’t a new concept in UK Christianity. Christians don’t leave people behind, or at least haven’t, till now.
55 Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, or Transgender. For the first time in this book, a useful footnote.
14
Friends and Other Sitcoms
Querying with Quakers
I’d landed a part in a sitcom. In America this would be the route to stardom.[56] For our Atlantically-challenged cousins, the route is: comedy circuit, comedy circuit, comedy circuit, sitcom role, bad comedy film, good comedy film, host Oscars. Here in the UK it’s more: open mic circuit, pro circuit, sitcom part/panel show appearance, advert, bad comedy film, pro circuit, open mic circuit, death. I’m moving to America.
But in the meantime, Mr Kerensa, we’re ready for your close-up.
I was so excited! I’d spent years working up to this. I’d done my time behind the scenes: writing, writing more, fetching coffee (all right, only for myself, while writing). I’d only acted on camera in front of the window at Currys Digital.
I needed this. Gone were the days of spending all my earnings on DVDs. Since becoming a parent, I couldn’t afford them and wouldn’t find time to watch them if I did. There was that transitional month when I bought five DVDs, realised I’d never watch them and they’ve sat there on the shelf ever since. It means I can time the exact moment that my carefree life ended: Old Paul ceased to be when The Dark Knight was released. (I’m told it’s a good film - I’ve yet to get the chance to find out.)
That’s not to say that I hadn’t been frugal in my bachelor days, but I think it’s fair to say I was ‘differently frugal’. I’d happily blow money on wine, women and song,[57] while scrimping on essentials like food. One day I found myself at home eating a Victoria sponge cake for lunch, just because at 99p it was cheaper than a sandwich. I didn’t even slice it - I just ate it like a burger. I’d have got away with it had my flatmate not walked in and queried my serving suggestion and dietary choice, ignoring my bleatings that jam is fruit.
Sitcom big-time was what I needed to kick start the toddler’s
university fund, the very second I’d filled the tax bill fund and paid off the debt from 2009’s holiday fund. Since starting out as a comedian, I’d seen up-and-comers up and go. Open spots overtook. I’ve introduced Jack Whitehall as an open spot, compèred Sarah Millican at a new act competition, and attempted to follow Michael McIntyre.[58] So this could be my time. Stardom was calling and I had to answer, or knowing me I’d let it go to voicemail because I didn’t recognise the number.
I had a rare glimpse of the celebrity lifestyle years back, when flatmate Danny blagged us tickets to a show by one of his magician friends, Derren Brown.[59] The event would combine two of my favourite things: magic and freebies. It would be the press night, so we’d be in the same audience as celebs like Jonathan Ross, as well as normal people like Paul Ross.
I’ve always been a fan of ‘doubling up’ as a comic, so I used the trip to the big smoke to visit my accountant. He had forms for me to sign, and my fifteen pound rail fare would save him the 42p stamp. So I donned my only suit, because I think you’re meant to do that for accountants. It was one of those halfway posh outfits, where a top designer stoops to doing a range for M&S. One that says, ‘The person who made this normally charges a grand a suit, so this one’s only a hundred pounds because it’s a collection of offcuts glued together.’
Accountant and I pored over some figures for an hour, before concluding I had approximately no money. Then he billed me for that hour’s work, so I now had less than no money.
‘Back home now?’ he asked chirpily, reclining in his better-suit-than- mine.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Off to a top West-End show. First night.’
‘Can you afford that? Let me re-show you the figures ...’
‘Not if it eats into a second hour,’ I added hastily.‘Anyway the tickets were free.’
I gathered any paperwork I needed, including the receipt for the suit, which would be going back next week based on today’s findings.
I headed to the West End, but the badly-lit number-crunching had come at a cost. My new contact lenses - hard, evil lenses - had not reacted well to staring at digits, particularly the red ones. I nearly swung via Superdrug for some eye drops, till I spotted Poundland over the road and swung via there instead. Big pound shops have a pharmacy section - a good tip for the unhealthy and unwealthy. The budget eye drops didn’t help alas, though the 99p Victoria sponge I bought for dinner at least brightened my spirits, and there was not a trace of jam on my nice suit.
As I approached the theatre for my first ‘first night’, my corneas were weeping as they pressed against the fierce contact lenses, and even the murky autumnal half-light was blinding me. Passers-by thought I was upset. The truth was, I was just in pain. I remembered I had sunglasses in my jacket pocket from the last time I’d worn the suit - a wedding, on a brighter day. I donned them, and rounded the corner to the impressive Cambridge Theatre. Through my sunglasses and teary eyes I saw the giant Derren Brown poster, and a ton of press photographers flanking the main entrance.
A soap star walked in, and the cameras snapped. Half a dozen non- famous people entered and the photographers lowered their cameras to the floor. How demeaning. I hurried in behind the muggles, not wanting to follow a celeb myself and experience the photographers’ rejection.
Yet as soon as I got near them, all the cameras went up again, to me. There was no one else around, but I heard click after click. I had a fly’s eye of lenses pointing at me from both sides as I walked up the red carpet.
I knew in an instant that it was all a mistake. They’d seen a sharp- suited chap with sunglasses on at dusk, and thought, ‘Well, he has to be famous.’ They’d take all the snaps they could now, then work out later that I was actually a nobody. I was a fraud, but a fraud enjoying the moment.
‘Over here! Over here!’ the mob screamed.They wanted poses.
I turned and gave them a few, when one photographer spoke out. I knew in an instant I’d been rumbled: the Emperor wasn’t wearing new clothes after all.
‘No, wait. Look at his carrier bag.’
As the cameras all drooped, so did my eyes, to see that yes, I was indeed clutching a bag from Poundland. My fifteen seconds of fame was over...
...Till now.With my big sitcom part around the corner, I made sure my lines were learnt and my call-time checked. Everything was ready for my TV acting debut, but I still had a Sunday morning free and a curiosity about the Quakers. I’d wanted to give them a try since my chaplain friend recommended them, so ahead of the sitcom appearance, I went to meet some new Friends.
***
I enter a small semi-detached house, where I find a handful of strangers. Over the road is a large traditional gothic church, with dozens of suited people rushing in. But today that’s not for me.
Our building is plain and single storey, but there’s no ignoring the large sign outside: ‘Friends Meeting House: All welcome’. It starts with ‘Friends’, it ends with ‘welcome’.That’s nice, isn’t it?
The hallway greeting is true to the sign, and a kind elderly woman looks at me with an ‘Ooh!’ I must be their first newbie for a while.
‘You’re new here. Have you been to a Quaker meeting before?’
I admit not, but that I have Wikipedia’d them. She breathes a sigh of relief yet still recaps the key points that any visitor should know, i.e. that it’s largely silent, and that there’s no minister. We all sit anywhere we want.
‘Many new people find the silence a bit unbearable,’ she confides. ‘If you need to leave, that’s okay.’
I imagine previous first-timers lasting five minutes then running into the street screaming, desperately breaking into cars and turning the radios on loud just to hear some noise. I think I’ll be okay. If she thinks I’m not used to silence, she’s never been to one of my gigs.
She gestures me through a door, telling me, ‘A few of them are in. That means we’ve started.’
I walk in, and she’s right - here the meeting begins ‘when two or three are gathered’, as Matthew 18:20 decrees. And here are the two or three: a goateed sixty-something reading a Bible in the corner, a middle-aged man deep in thought with the classic fingers-on-chin-and- index-finger-up-the-cheek pose to prove it everyone, and an older chap reading the Bible on his iPad. He’s the oldest person I’ve ever seen comfortably using a tablet, at least of the non-paracetamol variety.
So the atmosphere is a nice mix of tradition and the cutting-edge. I sense that I’m in a meeting steeped in history, yet due to the simplicity of the set-up, it doesn’t feel dated, and an iPad fits in quite comfortably here. The simple layout is a square of chairs around the walls, with a central circle in the middle around a table.There is no altar, no nave, no cross; this is no church. There is a piano, which surprises me, for a fellowship that is known for its silence and lack of sung worship.
Quaker worship is different - today we’ll be worshipping the same God that the Anglicans over the road are, but while they are invited to now sing ‘How Great Thou Art’, omitting verse four, we’ll be invited to omit all verses, of all hymns. We’ll worship as a collective in a time of quiet waiting. The hope is to hear God’s still small voice of calm, as these Friends aim to emulate the early Christians.
That is not to say no one will speak aloud. If someone feels moved by the Holy Spirit to speak up, then they can. God leads this service. I’ve read that some weeks, no one says anything but sometimes you can’t shut them up (by which I mean three people might speak for a minute each - it’s all relative).Today, I have no idea which it will be.
I sit with the others in peace and wait upon God. Then thoughts enter my brain - shopping lists, things I meant to set the video for, do we call it a video nowadays, because it’s not a video is it, it’s meant to be called a DVR, but that hasn’t caught on, has it? ...
I’ve become distracted pretty quickly.This is my prob
lem in times of prayer.When at my regular church, and Marjorie leads the prayers saying, ‘We will now leave a moment of silence for you to offer your own prayers,’ that’s when my brain instantly pipes up with eighteen different distractions that have been just waiting to burst out. By the time I’ve dismissed them all, mentally minimising them to the taskbar, the prayers are over and we’re onto the church notices. Perhaps here with the Quakers, an hour of silence is what I need to get past my brain’s interruptions and actually get conversing with the Creator. I can afford to acknowledge my mind’s distractions, move past them, and maybe get to some quality G-time before the end of the hour.
I decide it starts now. No distractions. Time to get my pray on, because any moment, one of my three co-attendees could be moved to speak. I wonder how long before someone speaks. A minute? Ten minutes? Fifty-nine minutes? Perhaps no one will say anything till the very end, when one of the Friends will stand suddenly and say,‘Nuff said,’ before moonwalking out of the meeting house.
First words uttered at 10.53 a.m. - that’s the bet I make with myself. Is it wrong to use prayer time to make fake bets in your head? Undoubtedly. I mentally confess that sin, then carry on doing it.
I remember a wedding reception when our table had a pound sweepstake on the length of the speeches. One by one, everyone’s guesses came and went, till it was just two people left: my dad and me. I felt a bit guilty clock-watching while the best man gave Aunt Madge’s apologies for absence, but the look in my dad’s eyes became fiercely competitive, so as time went on I willed the speaker to start wrapping up. If he stopped talking in the next minute, I’d win the eight pounds; if he had any more apologies or anecdotes, my dad got the lot, and more importantly, braggers’ rights.
‘... So a big thank you to all the ushers. Let’s now charge our glasses for ...’
Applause suddenly broke out.