by Hugh Mackay
And then, as through the smoke of battle, a vision splendid shimmered into view: Neroli Fishbein had disengaged from the thinning crowd and was slowly walking towards him. The look on her face was unmistakable. It was a look not just of devoted admiration; not just of empathy and understanding; not just of yearning or even desire. It was, Linc believed, the first time he had seen the look of love on the face of a woman. There were even tears of sympathy coursing down her cheeks. Her lips were moving, but the words were lost in the music the idiot Markus had insisted on playing as people left the auditorium.
Only later, over a restorative libation with her, did he discover that Neroli had been trying to tell him she’d just been fired by BudJet.
EPILOGUE
‘YOU DON’T KNOW me, Pastor John, but I know you. Everybody knows you, if I may say so. My name is Otis and I am global strategy director of Bravissimo, an international advertising agency based in Milan. You may have heard of us? We are also represented in Australia. In fact, by coincidence, our Sydney office is in Millers Point, just down the road from your own beautiful church, Pastor John.’
This phone call was unwelcome. Reverend John Nelson, widely known as ‘Pastor John’, was indeed a minister of religion, though he could feel himself drifting away from the safe mooring that both words – ‘minister’ and ‘religion’ – once provided. Nelson was at that moment ensconced in an apartment in Rome, enjoying the hospitality of the former mistress of a recently deceased cardinal. (It suited both her and Nelson for them never to be seen together in public.) Nelson was briefly puzzled by the fact that a man identified only as Otis had somehow acquired his mobile phone number, but he was becoming accustomed to the ways of commerce.
‘What can I do for you?’ Nelson asked without enthusiasm, rolling his eyes at the woman lounging beside him on a pale blue silk-covered sofa. Though dismayed by the interruption, he had long ago embraced the idea that his mobile phone’s every beep was laden with potential.
Otis now produced his second geographical coincidence, presenting it as a near-miracle of proximity in space and time: ‘Actually, although I am, like you, based in Sydney, I am at this moment working just down the road from you, Pastor John.’
‘Just down the road?’ Was this the heavily-accented Otis’s favourite English colloquialism, deployed, perhaps, to demonstrate his mastery of idiom? And how could a total stranger know where Nelson was? No one knew that – not even his own colleagues in John Nelson’s World Ministry.
‘Milan. Figure of speech, Pastor John. Just three hours away by train. And many trains each day.’
‘Ah.’ Nelson tried not to sound too relieved.
‘I realise you are a busy, busy man, Pastor John, but, from our point of view, and possibly even from yours, this matter is rather urgent. We have a business opportunity for you that we feel you might find quite compelling. Quite compelling.’
Nelson was on the next train out of Rome.
■
Like Otis, you probably feel as if you know John Nelson. From his appearances on your television screen over many years, he would seem a familiar figure. Not a celebrity, exactly; the places you see him and the people you see him with put him in a different category from a movie star, a rock music legend or a TV chef. (Most recently, of course, courtesy of the deal with Bravissimo, you’d have seen him in a series of commercials for a hypermarket chain, but we’ll come to that.)
He was visible – not prominent, but noticeably present – at Barack Obama’s inauguration, for instance. If you were already aware of him, you’d have spotted him there in the background. You’d also have seen him popping up in various settings with Obama’s predecessor, George W. Bush – prayer breakfasts; welcoming the war dead back onto American soil; taking long, ruminative walks with the president’s coterie at his Texas ranch . . . that kind of thing. He wouldn’t usually be identified by name, but if you kept a reasonably close eye on current affairs, you’d have recognised his face, at least. He’s the sort of person who might come up in a trivia quiz, described as ‘a globe-trotting minister of religion with friends in high places who hails from Australia’.
If you’d thought about him at all, you might have considered him an intimate of world leaders with a reputation for doing his best work – his best pastoral work – behind the closed doors of the great and the good.
John Nelson. Not quite Billy Graham or Jerry Falwell. Not an evangelist. Not a morals campaigner. (Certainly not that.) Not quite Norman Vincent Peale, either – if your memory goes back to the days of positive theology, well before the advent of prosperity theology. But Nelson was never a theologian. Nor a formidable orator, either.
Nelson was more like clerical bling – a vaguely ecclesiastical figure whose presence conveyed broadly favourable connotations for those he was seen to associate with. For any politician, the Nelson connection was thought to be more substantial than, say, rubbing shoulders with sports stars or TV personalities. The mere presence of Nelson in the camp bestowed a kind of quasi-spiritual blessing.
He was on the fringes of Tony Blair’s premiership for years, kept somewhat at bay by Blair’s spinmeisters, but he became a closer confidant as the going got tougher towards the end of Blair’s term of office and, of course, as Blair’s expression of his own religious faith became more overt. Nelson was a friend of Gordon Brown, too, and seemed more comfortable with Brown’s no-nonsense Presbyterianism than Blair’s more esoteric Catholicism. When David Cameron took over as prime minister, sure enough, there was Nelson, clearly visible among the witnesses at his swearing-in. He has even, over the years, popped up in support of one or two dubious dictators following military coups in parts of Africa. You might well have seen footage of Nelson preaching in various churches and cathedrals around the world, often with cutaways to prominent political figures sitting in the congregation. You might even own one of the several books of his folksy sermons – Around the Campfire with Pastor John, for instance, or Pastor John’s Secrets of Daily Happiness – or, more likely, you might have bought one to give someone you don’t know very well, as a safe but serious offering. His books sell modestly in the UK and Australia, but do better in America. (‘A journey into the deep heart of the human condition,’ simpered Time in its review of Nelson’s first effort. ‘Pap for the soul,’ snarled the Guardian.)
If you’re an insomniac viewer of late-late-night television, you might have caught his short-lived syndicated program, Ask Pastor John, in which he conducted conversations with guests in the studio – mostly rather obscure figures on the fringes of the entertainment industry, flogging a slender autobiography while appearing to seek Nelson’s advice about some pressing personal issue. It might have been drugs, a wayward adolescent daughter or son, a relationship turning sour, or the burden of guilt that occasionally weighs on the suddenly wealthy. Tears were frequently shed: indeed, eye-dabbing was a hallmark of the program. Each show ended with a two- or three-minute homily, in which Nelson looked straight down the barrel of the camera and said something heart-warming, rarely mentioning God but always stressing the need for a sense of gratitude.
In spite of the books, the TV show and his many appearances in the company of an assortment of world leaders, you’d know almost nothing about John Nelson the man. You might have once read that Nicolas Sarkozy, the former French president, wouldn’t have a bar of him after Nelson spent a weekend with Sarkozy and his wife, Carla Bruni, on a yacht in the Mediterranean. You might also have picked up the information that in spite of his frequent visits to Rome and a cultish devotion to reruns of his TV show in Italy (where the subtitles render him as ‘Father John’), he has never been granted an audience with the Pope. ‘Snubbed,’ was how Hello! once reported it. Even in Australia, few people would be aware of Nelson’s humble beginnings as a locum school chaplain, exerting a charismatic influence over a small group of teenagers, at least one of whom who would remain in his debt for life.
One thing the tabloid media often approached but never qu
ite cracked was the question of Nelson’s alleged liaisons with a string of women. Flora, his handsome and long-suffering wife, ran a flourishing interior design business in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. She was never a regular attendee at Nelson’s inner-city church, and only ever appeared when the great man was himself in town. On such occasions, she was generally on hand for the cameras, gazing at her husband with carefully wrought ambiguity – did adoration or deep cynicism (or possibly loathing) lie behind that ghost of a smile? But she was always there, by his side, sometimes allowing him to grip her hand, when the cameras were rolling.
No one ever knows what goes on behind closed doors in any marriage – least of all the marriage of a celebrity couple like the Nelsons. In spite of journalists’ occasional efforts to get a handle on the Nelson ménage, little is known of how they got together, how they lived, how – or why – they managed to stick together.
What does seem to be generally accepted is that John Nelson has always maintained an assortment of semi-permanent relationships with women in several of the major capitals – Rome, certainly; probably London, Washington and Brussels; possibly Beijing. The Rome set-up is the most intriguing. In spite of Nelson’s own attempts at discretion, speculation about his relationship with that late cardinal’s former mistress is rife. He certainly spends a lot of time in Rome. Even now.
In Washington, where convenient pairings go largely unremarked on official occasions – and even at private social events for members of the upper echelons of politics, business and the military – Nelson partnered a cavalcade of glamorous women, ranging from emerging screen stars to established society hostesses. Did any of these transient formal arrangements morph into less formal couplings? No one asked.
In Beijing, it was rumoured that some high-ranking party officials chose to tolerate Nelson’s regular visits, including some provocative preaching engagements at Christian churches, because they had a treasure trove of information about his sexual liaisons that could be used to embarrass and discredit him when the time was ripe.
Let’s just say, as so many of Nelson’s own colleagues and associates used to say (some more indulgently than others), that John Nelson had ‘a weakness for women’. Women, in turn, clearly had a weakness for him, though how much of that was due to his status as a media celebrity, and how much to his personal charm, was impossible to know. In any case, his sexual allure was only part of the charismatic package – irresistible to so many people – that was John Nelson.
■
If he was ever more to you than a shadowy figure at the edge of your consciousness, you might have detected a gradual drooping of the shoulders over the years. Exhaustion, you might have idly thought; a jet-setting cleric, bound to be worn down by all that travel, all that exposure, while still trying to run a church and a marriage, both on a very part-time basis, in his home town of Sydney.
If you had concluded that the drooping shoulders and the pallor were due solely to exhaustion, you’d have been wrong. The deepest truth about John Nelson was the one nobody knew – probably not even Flora. In those years of maximum fame, he was hostage to a species of self-loathing that ran so deep even his towering ego occasionally crumbled and he had to go on retreats, usually to a remote monastery somewhere, to recover his poise. Given his profession, no one remarked on these retreats; indeed, they were seen as a sign of the man’s deep spirituality.
The truth lay elsewhere.
John Nelson’s problem was that he was empty, and not in the noble sense of ‘self-emptying’ so strongly endorsed in Christian and Buddhist spirituality. Oh no. There was simply a shell where John Nelson, the ‘minister of religion’, used to be. He was spent. Devoid of moral and spiritual capital. Fit for nothing but exploitation, John Nelson had become a hollow man – a mask for hire. It’s not that he was a hypocrite; he had simply mislaid the tools of his trade. The convictions, the vision, the certainties – even the intriguing doubts – that once sustained his faith had been driven out of him. Gone. In the beginning, he was a good guy, with a clear sense of what ‘good’ meant. In the end, he felt as if he were adrift in a sea of meaninglessness and despair.
Given the state he was in, Nelson would have preferred not to care; he aspired to nihilism, but even that consolation was denied him. He could not feel relaxed or philosophical about his situation; paradoxically, he felt guilt, shame and regret. There must have been a vestige of the old John in there somewhere, because he clung weakly to the possibility of redemption. (Yes, he could still use a word like ‘redemption’, though it no longer had religious meaning for him.) Even in his darkest moments, he could recall that, back in the day, he had been a man with a sense of purpose; a man of integrity; a man who felt it was not ridiculous for others to look to him for guidance, for inspiration or even for some kind of blessing.
But he gave too much away. Somehow, as he bestowed his unstinting and undifferentiated benediction on the rich and powerful, relieving them of their guilt and shame, all that dark material leached out of them and into his own blood and bones. He had lent himself to too many politicians, signed up to too many causes, made himself agreeable to too many people by placing himself in the service of their ambition and acting like a mindless groupie. His clerical garb, which he was always invited to wear, had become like a decoration awarded indiscriminately to whoever wanted to associate with it. From a man who once stood for something very particular, he had become a man prepared to march under any banner. (Had he ever turned down a request to align himself with a political leader? Had he ever turned down a request to appear in the media – especially on television – for any reason apart from a clash of schedules? He certainly couldn’t recall any such occasion.)
The decline had been gradual. From the start, he had seen the dangers inherent in this way of life and he was determined to guard himself against them. He had always secretly despised the trappings and paraphernalia of power, but now it was dawning on him that, of his own free will, he had allowed himself to become one of those trappings. ‘Get Nelson’ had become a demand for a political asset – a celebrity ally – not a spiritual adviser. He had been hollowed out by the demands of others’ ambition and, if he were to be totally honest with himself, by his own.
And then there was the commercial question.
The first serious alarm bell rang when he discovered that his sermon-writers were receiving quite substantial sponsorship money for incorporating branded product mentions into his sermons. It had begun harmlessly enough – he had always thought it a neat idea to pepper his sermons with references to well-known brands that increased the relevance of his message to his audience. He particularly enjoyed retelling the parables in a modern setting and he once referred, for instance, to the prodigal son driving a Jaguar. That got a laugh – even from Jag owners, who were curiously flattered by the insult. But when his writers struck a deal with Apple, these whimsical spontaneous references became mandatory. His writers had the seven wise virgins whipping out their iPhones to see where the bridegroom had got to, and the Good Samaritan using his iPad to locate the nearest inn and make a booking for the care of the man left for dead. His fully scripted sermons now called for him to admire the godlike omniscience of Google, to praise the compassion of McDonald’s for feeding the poor and hungry for so little cost, and to extol the virtue of cleanliness (‘next to godliness,’ he intoned with a straight face, as if it were a matter of theology rather than hygiene) with warm references to an assortment of Procter & Gamble products. Emboldened, his sermon-writers had him endorse – as if springing from a passing thought – a travel company organising tours to the Holy Land, a US budget airline that was facilitating family reunions for Thanksgiving and a special deal from a chocolate manufacturer for Valentine’s Day. Each year, as Mother’s Day approached in any country where he was likely to be preaching for the television cameras, his sermon-writers were swamped by requests from potential sponsors, from Interflora to Simone Pérèle.
The huge income generated from
these increasingly overt promotions – finally extending to include the actual display of products on the pulpit – helped to secure the financial position of the incorporated enterprise now known as John Nelson’s World Ministry. There were many so-called contra deals, as well, where no actual cash changed hands – such as the four identical black Audi TTS coupés, one garaged and waiting for him in each of the four cities he visited most regularly, so he would feel at home wherever he was. The deal that led to this arrangement involved little more than an inclusion of the Audi brand whenever Nelson made favourable mention of a car in a sermon (he was encouraged to continue gently mocking Jaguar in his oft-repeated Prodigal Son sermon), plus occasional photo shoots of Nelson ‘on retreat’ in his TTS – on the Amalfi coast, for example, or in the High Sierra – with the accompanying text implying some spiritual affinity between man and car.
Lucrative personal sponsorships flowed in, including branded leisure clothing, silk ties featuring subtle corporate logos, and a watch that was unmistakably TAG Heuer. (Nelson had experienced a disturbing spike in his self-doubt when he heard himself question why Rolex weren’t on board.)
Meanwhile, back in Sydney, a succession of short-term locum ministers had been doing their best to maintain the semblance of a going concern at the church where Nelson was theoretically still the minister, but from which he was almost perpetually absent. The place was packed out on his occasional visits, but stood practically empty on most other Sundays. Finally, the church authorities decided to sell the building, and John Nelson’s World Ministry, sniffing an opportunity, snapped it up.
The organisation’s overflowing coffers were able to finance a comprehensive – indeed, lavish – restoration, rejuvenation and extension of the old building. On the advice of Flora, JNWM engaged a leading firm of architects to design and oversee the work. Steam-cleaning and repair of the sandstone walls and construction of an extension to increase the size of the building by one-third. Replacement of the original ceiling timbers to create a seamless link between old and new. Complete refenestration, including the design and installation of a stained-glass window in the western wall of the extension. Relocation and restoration of the pipe organ. A new slate roof across the whole structure. Flexible, padded seating to replace the old pews. Lush aisle carpets. Stylish and subtle lighting. To cap it all, a beautifully proportioned miniature steeple.