by James Lark
Bernard was still chuckling with anticipation (the people near him assumed that he was chuckling at Jeffrey Slater’s monologue, and wondered whether he was being polite or if he could possibly be finding it funny), when he noticed that Ted Sloper was suddenly absent from the room. The absence of the pianist wasn’t difficult to notice – the man had been reeling about making a complete tit of himself all evening – so his whereabouts were a matter of some concern to Bernard. If Sloper wasn’t there, it could ruin everything.
But no sooner had he noticed this than Jeffrey Slater finished his monologue to relieved applause, and Robert Phair was announcing that it was a great privilege and honour for their next act to introduce somebody he was sure they’d all heard of, so would they all give a big round of applause for Jesus Christ.
The Messiah was indeed received with rapturous applause as he modestly walked onto the stage. Bernard Lomas watched the figure, who was so clearly enjoying the attention he was getting, with a mixture of hatred and reluctant admiration. After all, this man had persuaded an entire church that he was Jesus. And they clearly liked him, which was what Bernard hated most of all.
‘I understand you’re going to sing for us … er …’ Robert glanced at the piano and then looked around the hall. ‘Ah, Ted doesn’t seem to be here, um, at the moment, so … perhaps you could tell us what you’re going to sing, anyway?’
Jesus cleared his throat, and with the faintest smile said ‘I’m going to sing “Climb Every Mountain”, from The Sound of Music.’
This was all Bernard Lomas needed to hear. Too bad that Sloper wasn’t there – it couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Er… Jesus,’ he called, standing up. Every head in the room turned to look at him. Bernard looked back in satisfaction, delighted to be drawing attention away from their Messiah. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Jesus,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘I know you’re the Son of God and all that, so perhaps you’ll forgive my impertinence …’
‘Get out,’ Sathan Petty-Saphon ordered sternly, rising from her seat. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ Bernard replied nastily, ‘it’s just that I’ve got a question for Jesus.’
‘Well, you can’t ask it!’ hissed Petty-Saphon.
‘Let him ask his question,’ Jesus said quietly, raising his arm to silence Petty-Saphon. She stood, silently fuming – Jesus should know better than to encourage somebody like Bernard Lomas.
Lomas, disoriented by Jesus’ intervention on his behalf, struggled to gather his thoughts for a moment before continuing. ‘It’s only that I understood that it wasn’t climbing mountains you’re famous for – aren’t you supposed to move mountains?’
Jesus calmly met Bernard’s sardonic glare, and Bernard was momentarily shocked by the power of the man’s gaze. He might not be Jesus, thought Bernard, but he’s certainly got a lot of confidence. Damn cheek.
‘Actually,’ Jesus responded, ‘what I said was that with faith the size of a grain of mustard, you can move mountains.’
‘Oh. I see,’ faltered Bernard, then he raised his voice indignantly. ‘So you’re saying you want me to move a mountain, is that it?’
‘No.’
‘Right. But you’re admitting that you can’t move mountains?’ Bernard was determined to trick the man somehow.
Jesus continued to hold Bernard’s gaze. ‘Why, do you have any mountains that need moving?’
This was what Bernard had been waiting for. ‘Oh, well, since you’re offering,’ he grinned, spitefully, ‘there is something I need you to move – nothing as big as a mountain, but I wouldn’t want to put you to too much trouble …’
‘Um … I’m not sure that this is really …’ Biddle began, getting up from his chair, but, like Petty-Saphon before him, he was silenced by a single gesture from Jesus.
‘Where is it?’ asked Jesus.
‘Just outside,’ Bernard replied, his eyes glinting. Jesus nodded and strode off the stage towards the door. The audience followed immediately, excited about the prospect of mountain-moving activity forming part of the parish entertainment – it had never come close to being this exciting before.
What they discovered outside was the same thing that the inebriated accompanist had discovered a few minutes before: Ted Sloper’s harpsichord, neatly placed in the driveway, and beautifully spotlit by the security light on the wall of the church hall.
Bernard stood next to it, still enjoying the attention and the brilliantly theatrical effect he had achieved.
‘A mere harpsichord,’ announced Bernard Lomas. ‘A teeny tiny insignificant harpsichord – barely a challenge at all, really, compared to a mountain. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind proving your divinity by moving it. Maybe, once you’ve done that, you’d like to move my house, too, as my wife has been determined to do so since you started throwing your weight around.’ Bernard spat out this final sentence, allowing some of his true bitterness to show now that he was in control of the situation.
The assembled crowd held their breath, wondering what would happen. Some of them felt deeply uncomfortable with the idea of testing God – it was a little too much like laying a fleece, and a harpsichord was a pretty extreme kind of fleece. On the other hand, they were very curious to see whether Jesus could – or indeed would – prove that he was God. Reverend Biddle wondered if now was an appropriate time to intervene, but decided that Jesus was probably in control of the situation.
Bernard leaned towards Jesus, less intimidated now that he felt sure of winning. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard for God to move this, eh?’ he said with an air of smug satisfaction. ‘After all, even I managed to get it this far.’
‘YOU?’ an enraged voice squealed from the direction of the bushes, and in a furious blur Ted Sloper shot out of the darkness and threw himself at Bernard. Bernard was caught by surprise and Ted knocked him onto the ground. Immediately, the choir director started pummelling his rival’s face – in his drunken state, Sloper’s blows had little power behind them and he was capable of doing no real damage, but Bernard Lomas was essentially a coward and finding himself on the floor, he started to cry for help.
Biddle quickly stepped forward. ‘Ted, stop that,’ he commanded sternly.
‘He stole my fucking harpsichord!’ screamed Ted, continuing to pummel Lomas.
‘Well, yes. But there are other ways of resolving this,’ Biddle insisted, grasping Ted by the collar and attempting to pull him off his howling victim.
Mrs Feehan decided that this was the time to carry out her mission. She had intended to wait until the vicar stepped up to perform in the entertainment but, the performance having been curtailed, she decided that this was probably the most opportune moment the evening would supply her with. Reverend Biddle was at least the centre of attention.
She pushed her way towards the fracas and, struggling to make herself heard above Bernard Lomas’s yells and Ted Sloper’s expletives, tried to get Reverend Biddle’s attention. To his credit, although he was trying to wrestle Sloper away from Lomas, Biddle did notice that one of his congregation was speaking to him.
‘Ah, Mrs Feehan!’ he beamed. ‘I wonder if it could wait, now isn’t really …’
‘You would be wise to look to your own soul, Reverend Biddle,’ Mrs Feehan hissed.
‘Uh … I’m not sure what …’ Trying to concentrate on one of his more difficult parishioners at the same time as stopping his choir director from damaging another, Biddle was suddenly caught in the face by a misjudged blow of Sloper’s. Falling to the floor, he saw out of the corner of his eye Mrs Feehan remove a tuna-and-broccoli quiche from a plastic bag. His confusion was replaced by horror when she reached back into her bag and pulled out something that definitely resembled some sort of gun.
Evidently, both Sloper and Lomas also caught sight of the pistol a fraction of a second later, as the noise of their fighting abruptly ceased.
Biddle gazed up at Mrs Feehan; towering over him and lit from behind by the security light, sh
e was a terrifying figure. Or possibly the effect had more to do with the pistol she was pointing at his face. His mind was working like lightning to try and deduce why she might be threatening him – what Gerard had told him earlier undoubtedly had something to do with it.
‘Mrs Feehan,’ he said, his voice shaking, ‘I know that your son has run away from home, but don’t think there’s any need for …’
‘“Every man shall be put to death for his own sin”,’ Mrs Feehan proclaimed, her voice steely and determined. ‘Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-four, verse sixteen.’
‘Mrs Feehan, now probably isn’t the time to discuss Old-Testament law and the importance of reading scripture within its original context,’ Biddle told her hastily, trying to back away on the floor and discovering that his way was blocked by the leg of a harpsichord, ‘but whatever sin you think I’m guilty of, I don’t think …’
‘Verse seventeen: “thou shalt not pervert the judgement of the stranger, nor of the fatherless”,’ continued Mrs Feehan, accusingly.
‘Okay, so you think I’ve perverted Gerard’s judgement. That’s … understandable, but again we probably need to talk about different ways of reading scripture and certainly, as far as homosexuality is concerned …’
‘Paul’s letter to the Romans, chapter one, verse twenty-seven: “and likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another”,’ continued Mrs Feehan, taking off the revolver’s safety catch as she had seen her husband do a long time ago, ‘“men with men working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompense of their error which was meet”.’
Sathan Petty-Saphon decided that somebody needed to take action. ‘Mrs Feehan,’ she called from her position of relative safety, ‘I agree with you that the Bible is very clear on the issue of sexual immorality. It is also very clear on the issue of murder, so put that gun down!’
‘“Them which commit such things are worthy of death”!’ hissed Mrs Feehan, swinging round to confront Sathan Petty-Saphon. Biddle took his chance and quickly got up from the floor. Mrs Feehan reacted with lightning reflexes, turning back to Biddle and pinning him against the harpsichord with the pistol. Biddle’s congregation watched in horror, but nobody moved a muscle; it was quite clear the Mrs Feehan was unhinged, and the probability that she might start shooting people at random seemed high.
‘“In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,”’ Mrs Feehan declared, ‘“when ye are gathered together, with the power of our Lord Jesus Christ deliver such an one unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that the spirit may be saved in the day of Lord Jesus”!’ Her finger tightened on the trigger.
‘Mrs Feehan, there’s really no need for this,’ panicked Biddle, wondering why nobody was doing anything. Why wasn’t Jesus doing anything? The terrible thought crossed his mind that Mrs Feehan really was carrying out God’s will, and Jesus fully approved of what was happening. It didn’t seem likely, but perhaps they’d all misjudged Jesus’ character. ‘What are you hoping to achieve?’ he shouted, desperately trying to hold off the moment when Mrs Feehan finally shot him at a range from which she couldn’t possibly miss.
Ted Sloper held his breath. He didn’t wish to see the vicar shot, but if it was going to happen, he didn’t want to see his harpsichord messed up in the process.
‘“Know ye not that a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump?”’ Mrs Feehan raised her voice as if to address the whole crowd. ‘“Purge out therefore the old leaven, that ye may be a new lump”!’
‘Mother.’ The voice came from the driveway and Gerard Feehan emerged into the light. He looked at his crazed parent with a mixture of fear and anger. ‘Put the gun down,’ he told her.
Mrs Feehan turned to look at him in disbelief. Her son had never, ever had the impertinence to give her orders. ‘Look what he’s done to you,’ she whispered. ‘Look how your judgement has been perverted.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Gerard.
Mrs Feehan gasped, then levelled the pistol at Gerard. ‘“Purge out the old leaven”,’ she insisted, ‘…“that ye may be” …’
‘Drop it,’ Gerard told her.
‘…“a new lump” …’
‘Drop. It.’
Mrs Feehan met his eyes and for the first time saw the man that her son had grown into. She dropped the pistol.
‘What’s the point?’ she said, tears springing to her eyes. ‘There’s no point in any of it any more. It’s all corrupted.’
‘Christine,’ said Jesus, stepping forward. ‘You need to forgive him.’
‘After what he’s done?’ demanded Mrs Feehan, looking with disgust at Biddle. ‘Or do you mean him?’ She pointed accusingly at Gerard, still pensively looking on at the scene.
‘You need to forgive your husband,’ said Jesus. He stepped away and her eyes filled with tears; she remembered again the man she had loved and given everything for, the husband who had callously left her for another woman, left her to bring up a baby who was only a few months old at the time. She remembered the time before then – how happy they had been, the family she had longed for – and she remembered the emptiness he had left behind him and the coldness that had filled the space left inside her. Out of the corner of her eye she realised that she could see him now, only it was in the face of her son, her grown-up son, who was looking at her with the same strange tenderness that she remembered seeing in her husband’s face a long time ago. Then she fell to her knees and wept.
Jesus stood over Ted Sloper and Bernard Lomas. ‘I think you will also find it easiest if you forgive him,’ Jesus told Ted, with a nod towards Bernard, whose mouth was opening and closing wordlessly. Then he turned to Bernard. ‘You can move your own mountains,’ he said, and walked away.
The crowds had started to disperse – some had gone back into the church hall and were tucking into second helpings of the food. A resourceful helper had cut Mrs Feehan’s tuna-and-broccoli quiche into slices. Other people were walking homewards, aware that the parish entertainment had got as entertaining as it was going to get, probably ever.
‘At least somebody’s still prepared to stand up for Biblical principles!’ Sathan Petty-Saphon was saying to Reverend Biddle.
‘I nearly got shot thanks to Biblical principles!’ Biddle replied irritably. ‘That’s where scriptural literalism gets you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jesus said, as he walked past them, ‘it wasn’t loaded properly.’ He continued walking down the driveway and stopped where Gerard was still standing, observing the scene in front of him. ‘You’ve had a busy day,’ he commented. Gerard nodded. He swallowed, slightly nervous about speaking to the Lord of All after some of the things he’d been shouting earlier that day.
‘How did your song go?’ Gerard finally asked.
‘I didn’t get round to doing it,’ said Jesus. He looked back at the church hall. ‘I wasn’t even the headline act.’
‘Well,’ said Gerard, awkwardly, ‘I’m not sure that their priorities are the same as yours.’ They stood in silence for a few moments, listening to the distant sound of cars, a dog barking, Gerard’s mother quietly weeping. Ted Sloper was indistinctly saying to Bernard Lomas, ‘How about a drink?’
Gerard looked back at Jesus. He felt as though a lot of his questions had been answered and he hadn’t even asked them. Jesus smiled and winked at him, then continued to walk down the driveway away from the church hall.
Gerard stood still for a moment longer, for the first time in his life feeling accepted. Then he slowly walked towards his mother.
PART THREE
There was once a man who decided to throw a huge party. Now, this man had a big house with a large garden and he wanted his party to cover all of it. Of course, that was going to be a lot of hard work which he couldn’t possibly get done all by himself. So he decided to form a committee.
He put adverts in the newspaper and in the window of the post office, and anyone who wanted to help put together his incredible party was
welcomed onto the team. Anyone could pitch in their ideas – the man’s one condition was that the party had to have a nautical theme. He had done a lot of deep-sea diving, so it was quite a hobby of his. Also, he knew that the best parties all have a theme of some sort, and it seemed to him that a nautical theme had a lot of potential for creativity.
So the man left his committee to get on with it and start putting things together, while he drove off to Calais to buy all the food and drink for the party.
Now, it wasn’t long before arguments broke out within the committee. ‘I think we need to discuss exactly what he means by nautical,’ one person said.
‘Is that really relevant?’ asked another. ‘Surely the main thing is to get the colour scheme right and work from there.’
‘If the colour scheme doesn’t work with the theme, then it will be completely hopeless,’ the first person argued.
‘I wonder whether we really ought to come to a conclusion about what he means by the word party …’ a third person put in.
Before long, the committee had, by necessity, split off into several subcommittees. One subcommittee was formed for the sole purpose of researching and developing the nautical theme, and spent many days poring over books about sea creatures. A different subcommittee dedicated themselves to measuring the house and garden – they never really explained why they were doing this, but they continually told people that it would definitely turn out to be useful one day.
Another subcommittee was formed to try to organise the subcommittees into some kind of order. This subcommittee ended up appointing an overarching committee leader, who was to be supported by a number of senior committee members, under whom various commissions were to be formed to investigate and regulate the activities of the other subcommittees, even though a degree of independence was to be allowed. The senior committee members based their authority on the fact that they had been left in charge in the first place, though some people were unsure whether this was really the case, and things got all the more confusing when another conglomerate appointed a leader for itself and various subcommittees decided that they would follow his advice instead.