by James Lark
Of course he hadn’t. He would never say anything as crude as ‘Jesus had a penis’, even if that was the point he was ultimately trying to make.
He immediately felt ashamed of even thinking that with Jesus sitting next to him, and inwardly repented in case Jesus could read his thoughts.
What if Jesus had seen a newspaper today? Of course, he had been in the service, so he would know what Biddle had really preached. So that was alright. Wasn’t it?
Again, Biddle desperately tried to remind himself what he’d really preached, hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t said anything that might offend the Son of God. It wasn’t something he would usually consider likely, his job being to glorify the name of Jesus. But having the risen Christ sitting in his church raised the bar to a whole new level.
And now Jesus was in his house. Jesus! The King of Kings! The Lord of Lords! In his house!
A vague memory of a Sunday-school song protested that the greatest thing you’ll ever see is Jesus living inside of me, so it wasn’t all that unusual to have Jesus in his house. But it was the first time that he had ever felt that Jesus was in a position to survey his furniture, his carpets, the colours he had chosen to paint the walls and the pictures he had on display. It had never felt important before, but now he found his mind racing through every scripture he could think of for some hint that the Rock of Ages might like pastel shades and watercolours of fields.
‘So … er … well, so this is the vicarage,’ said Biddle, hoping that he wasn’t sweating too visibly. ‘Do, um, make yourself at home …’ Even as he said it, it sounded stupid. The vicarage belonged to the church, which belonged to Jesus, so in a sense it was Jesus’ home. Biddle suddenly felt as though he was the guest. ‘If you … er … if you need to use the toilet, it’s … er …’
Biddle suddenly heard his own voice saying ‘he, too, had a messy, fleshy body with hormones and bodily fluids’ and felt his cheeks burning as he completed his directions to the toilet. Why had he mentioned messy bodily fluids? Had that really been necessary? His whole body seemed to be wilting as he recalled discussing Jesus’ bodily fluids when the man himself had been sitting in the back pew. But he desperately continued to maintain his light, airy expression of welcome mixed with joy at such an unexpected visit from the one he worshipped.
Except that he didn’t feel any genuine joy at all. He knew that he ought to, but Jesus just hadn’t come at a convenient time.
The answer-phone in the hallway was blinking feverishly, reminding Biddle that Jesus wasn’t the only problem he had to deal with at the moment. He decided not to listen to the messages until the morning, not least because he didn’t wish to draw Jesus’ attention to his personal and pastoral difficulties. Assuming that Jesus wasn’t already aware of them. Which was possibly quite a silly assumption.
‘So … would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?’ Biddle suggested. It sounded lame, but they couldn’t carry on standing awkwardly in the hallway all evening. ‘I’d offer you a gin and tonic, but I’m completely out of …’ Biddle paused. Would Jesus approve of gin and tonic? He needn’t have mentioned it, in any case; why had he gone and brought up the subject?
‘Do you have real coffee?’ enquired Jesus.
‘Er …’ Did Jesus know the answer to that? Was he asking the question purely to show up the deficiencies in Biddle’s larder?
No, that was ludicrously paranoid. Jesus was on his side. It was a perfectly ordinary enquiry and in any case it was about time he got some real coffee. He repented of not having any. ‘I’m afraid I only have instant coffee.’ Biddle smiled apologetically.
‘Tea will be just fine, then.’ They went through to the kitchen. Biddle smiled again, relieved to have something to do.
‘So …’ began Biddle as casually as possible while he filled the kettle with water, ‘what brings you to these parts?’
‘Behold,’ said Jesus softly, ‘I am coming quickly.’ He looked at Biddle with eyes that could pierce the depths of any human soul and could soften the hardest human heart. ‘You might have heard that before.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Biddle, ‘it’s from that song by Vaughan Williams, isn’t it?’
‘It is, although you’ll find it originates in the Bible,’ Jesus pointed out.
‘Really? I must read it sometime,’ Biddle joked. ‘I’m joking,’ he added hurriedly, wishing he hadn’t said it now because it had only made him look stupid. Of course he knew that it was from the Bible. But maybe Jesus knew that he knew that. In which case, why had Jesus made him feel stupid? Or was that all in his mind? He tried not to think about it and concentrated on warming the teapot. He didn’t usually warm the teapot, but this was Jesus, after all.
‘You don’t need to warm the teapot for me,’ Jesus said.
‘Oh, no trouble,’ Biddle assured him, ‘I usually do it anyway.’ Jesus raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Biddle felt foolish; was Jesus reading his mind all the time? Or was Jesus just giving the impression of knowing everything that was going on in his mind? Or did Jesus know him so well that he didn’t even need to read his mind?
That was an alarming thought. Jesus knew him as well as he knew himself. Probably better. He might as well have been standing naked in his kitchen.
How well did he know Jesus, in comparison? It was hugely embarrassing – he was at a complete disadvantage. And Biddle could hear his voice repeating the words ‘bodily fluids’ over and over again and he was desperately trying not to meet Jesus’ piercing, beautiful, terrible eyes, which didn’t bode well for the future, did it?
Biddle tried to stop thinking about it and reached for some cups. Jesus, Biddle decided, was definitely worthy of bone china. And God manifest in the flesh would surely know if he was being fobbed off with a mug.
‘I’ll pour this and then we can go through to the living room,’ Biddle said, every silence making him more nervous. ‘Living room? Sitting room?’ he added, flippantly. ‘I’m never sure what to call it. My mother always said living room, my dad always said sitting room – maybe my dad did more sitting in it!’ Biddle wished his mouth would stop talking. ‘So I tend to call it both, though I’m not sure whether that’s to do with the mood I’m in or … or …’
He began a new sentence. ‘I think I try to adapt to what people call it in their own homes as well. I mean, if I know somebody else calls it a living room, it makes sense to call it a living room. Not that they’d get confused if I called it a sitting room, necessarily, but …’ he tailed off again. ‘Which do you call it?’ he lamely enquired.
‘Lounge,’ replied Jesus. Biddle wasn’t sure, but he thought there might have been a slight gleam in the Almighty’s eye. He laughed, just in case, but not very much.
‘Well, shall we go through to it?’ He carefully arranged the teapot and cups on his hostess trolley. ‘I picked up this trolley some years ago for a remarkable price,’ Biddle explained to Jesus. ‘I think it’s genuine Edwardian.’
‘It’s not Edwardian,’ Jesus contradicted.
‘Really?’ Biddle was taken aback by the abruptness of this information.
‘It was made in the 1950s.’
‘Are you sure?’ The 1950s? Biddle couldn’t believe it.
‘I am a carpenter.’
Biddle nodded, wondering why the omniscient Messenger of the Covenant to whom all things were known felt it necessary to argue his case as an expert in carpentry.
Biddle pushed his increasingly less desirable hostess trolley through to the living room. Good God, he still had that birthday card up – Jesus surely wouldn’t approve of that. It wasn’t even that funny.
They sat down in armchairs opposite each other and Biddle poured the tea as slowly as possible, making the most of every second of noise it created, dreading what might follow. Would Jesus have awkward questions to ask him? Would he find himself forced to explain what he’d thought he was doing preaching on the subject of Jesus’ bodily fluids?
But no questions were forthcoming. In the silence t
hat followed, Biddle nervously wondered how many of his own questions he dare ask. He desperately wanted to know why Jesus was here, but was worried that the reason might have something to do with himself.
‘So … er … so you’ve come back,’ Biddle stated, rather obviously.
‘In one sense I was already here,’ Jesus responded.
‘Yes, but … now you’re back in … as … in a physical form?’
‘As you can see.’
‘Like you said you would.’
‘Yes.’
‘So … er …’ Biddle swallowed. ‘This is it, is it?’
‘This is what?’
Biddle swallowed again, slightly angrily. Jesus must know what he meant, Jesus knew everything, even when the bloody hostess trolley had been made. ‘I mean – this is the Second Coming?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Jesus.
‘Oh.’ They sat in silence again, except for the occasional noise of one of them sipping their tea. ‘It’s just …’ started Biddle, having worked up the courage to say something that might almost be interpreted as a criticism, ‘I was expecting something a little more … dramatic.’ He paused again, and waited for the response.
‘Mmm,’ said Jesus, sipping his tea. ‘What gave you that idea?’
‘In the Bible … it says you’ll come back with … with whirlwinds, and earthquakes … and … er …’ Now that he thought about it, Biddle wasn’t all that certain what the Bible did say about the Second Coming. Of course, he knew that the book of Revelation contained monsters and giant whores and earthquakes. But he had also heard many different explanations of what those images might represent and he wasn’t entirely sure that any of it really related to Jesus coming back.
But surely there was something about – ‘It says you’ll come back like … with … like … like a thief in the night.’ Even as he said it, Biddle realised that this was exactly what Jesus had done.
‘Isn’t that from a song by Cliff Richard?’ Jesus asked.
‘Yes, but it originates in the Bible,’ Biddle insisted.
‘Really? I must read it some time,’ Jesus answered wryly. Too late, Biddle realised that Jesus was joking this time, and once again he felt stupid.
‘So … this is it?’ he repeated. The nature of Jesus’ return might well be accurate as far as both scripture and Cliff Richard were concerned, but Biddle couldn’t help but think that it was something of a disappointment. Quite a nice surprise for the parish of St Barnabas, perhaps, but a disappointment nevertheless.
‘Don’t doubt that this is the start of something entirely new,’ Jesus gently said. At these words Biddle felt a new fear inside him, the fear of uncertainty mixed with excitement, more troubling than the worry of having delivered a sermon on Jesus’ bodily fluids. Poorly remembered phrases from the Bible flashed through his mind – and I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away … Was everything going to end, then?
‘So what are you waiting for?’ Biddle asked, and was shocked to discover that his voice had almost stopped working.
‘I wanted to make sure I was bringing everyone with me.’ Biddle met Jesus’ eyes properly for the first time, feeling them searching, imploring, yearning. ‘You do want to come with me?’ Jesus asked, after a pause.
‘I’m not sure that I know what you mean,’ croaked Biddle.
Chapter 17
Biddle woke with the relieved lightness of one who has escaped a bad dream. The previous evening had thrown so many things at him that it had all felt more complicated than it really was. In the fresh light of day, he could see that that in his mind he had overdramatised the importance of some of what had happened.
Not that it wasn’t very important indeed that the Messiah had chosen to visit the parish of St Barnabas. But whereas, the night before, the very presence of Jesus had filled him with fear, he now saw quite how ridiculous this attitude was. To have Jesus staying was an honour, a privilege, and surely there was nothing to be worried about.
Yes, there was the slight embarrassment of the sermon he had preached, but everybody had moments of putting their foot in it and Jesus was surely used to that sort of thing by now – people had done worse things to him in the Bible than preach on his bodily fluids. And it wasn’t as if Jesus didn’t already know Biddle. Indeed, nobody was in a better position to understand him.
With an unexpected burst of energy, Biddle threw off his sheets and leapt out of bed. He should go and make breakfast for his visitor.
He wondered if he had any fish. It would be very funny if Jesus woke up to find Biddle frying fish in the kitchen – the postmodern nod to the final chapter of the Gospel of St John combined with the role reversal was bound to appeal to the Saviour’s sense of humour. Biddle smiled to himself, imagining Jesus’ response. They were going to get on famously.
Quickly, he put on his slippers and dressing gown, and padded out of his bedroom.
When Biddle reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw the light on his answer-phone still frantically informing him that he had messages. With a distant recollection of his weariness the day before, he pushed the ‘play’ button. A synthetic female voice unsympathetically told him that he had fifteen new messages. Biddle didn’t know how many messages his answer-phone had space for, but he thought that it was probably about fifteen.
The first message was from one of the church’s oldest members (in terms of both age and the years she had been attending the church); Mrs McNish wished to make it clear in no uncertain terms how disgusted she was about the news of his homosexuality, that she hoped Biddle was aware that his shame was shared not only by the church of St Barnabas, but by the entire Christian community across the world and that her husband was in absolute agreement with these views. A similar message followed from Mrs Carpenter, who wanted to make it clear that Biddle should not expect to see her face in St Barnabas church ever again – though something about the way she said it made Biddle feel it was more than likely that he would be seeing her face and receiving her admonitions in person in the near future. The third message was an addendum from Mrs McNish, who wanted to make it clear that Biddle could not expect to see her face in St Barnabas church ever again. Biddle wondered if she had coordinated her call with Mrs Carpenter, phoning back so as not to be outdone by her. In any case, Mrs McNish more than successfully superseded the insult of Mrs Carpenter’s threats by implying that she was giving serious consideration to the possibility of attending the Methodist church in future.
The fourth message, from Mrs Lomas, was in a similar tone but delivered considerably more concisely, expressing disappointment and disapproval without going into any details of what she intended to do about it.
The fifth message was from Noreen Ponty, who wondered whether Biddle had noticed that he was in the local newspaper, and kindly offered to cut the article out for him if he wanted to see it.
Next there was a message from the Collyweston and Villages Clarion informing Biddle that they wanted to run an article on him and demanding that he ring them back instantly. This was followed by an enquiry from Anne Hudson, the church organist, wondering if choir would be cancelled that week ‘because they’ve told everyone you’re a transsexual?’
Biddle sighed.
The next message exploded out of the answer-phone in a somewhat distorted and indistinct manner: ‘Biddle! Ring me. Now. The minute you get this. I don’t know what the bloody hell you—’ Then it cut off. Biddle recognised the voice as that of Bishop Slocombe. He decided that he would ignore it for the moment.
By this time, he was feeling distinctly worried by the notable absence of any message from Sathan Petty-Saphon. She hadn’t turned up to the church hall the previous night, and if she wasn’t leaving messages on his answer-phone, what was she doing? Perhaps the newspaper report had simply caused her heart to stop working. More worryingly, perhaps she was doing something more proactive than leaving messages on his phone. It was a perturbing thought, but Biddle put it to
the back of his mind as he listened to the remaining messages, which continued along the same lines. Some of them were from parishioners with whom Biddle had only ever exchanged the briefest of words – interesting that this revelation should spur them into making proper contact for the first time, thought Biddle. None of them appeared to have noticed that the sermon as reported in the local newspaper was completely different from what he had actually preached. Biddle was starting to wonder whether he might have said everything as reported without realising it, while his mind had relayed back a sanitised version for himself only.
The final message was from Alex Milne. ‘Andy, it’s Alex – I’ve just heard about the newspaper article. Look, you mustn’t let them defeat you. Ring me when you want to talk.’ Abrupt though the message was, they were the first words of sympathy Biddle had heard on the issue.
He sniffed the air, thoughtfully; he could smell something cooking. He walked through to the kitchen, puzzled.
Jesus was standing by the gas cooker frying fish in a pan. ‘Come and have breakfast,’ he said, without looking up.
Biddle looked at Jesus’ deadpan expression. He had a nasty suspicion that the Great High Priest was fully aware that he had stolen Biddle’s joke. In a way, that made it even more knowing and referential, but Biddle wasn’t sure if he found it amusing. It didn’t seem morally right for an omniscient being to steal jokes. On the other hand, there was something comforting about having an omniscient being cooking fish in his kitchen.
Biddle felt his burden lift again; things weren’t all that bad. The newspaper report had been a shock, clearly as much to his parishioners as to him. But he had no doubt that the whole misunderstanding could easily be resolved. In the same way as he was now seeing everything in perspective, he felt sure that people who might have reacted to the report without thinking the night before were now reappraising their initial reactions, weighing up the exact veracity of the report and questioning the prejudices with which they had so hastily reacted. Who knows, he thought, in the long run it might even do some good.