Brilliant Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  The priest droned on monotonously with the Greeting and the Prayer of Preparation. ‘... from whom no secrets are hidden; cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you and worthily magnify your holy name through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  ‘Hold on, a minute!’ thought Callard as his blood-pressure rose sharply. ‘Who are we actually praying to? God the Almighty or Christ the Lord. There’s a vast difference. A world of difference. And who’s Holy Spirit does the priest refer to when he says “The inspiration of your Holy Spirit”? God’s or Christ’s? What the heck is he talking about? And if all this is really true and God should answer our prayers, how come then I’m afflicted with cancer of the throat and suffering the cure? How the hell can that possibly inspire me?’

  ‘Almighty God,’ continued the priest in a dull monotone, ‘our heavenly Father, we have sinned against you and against our neighbour in thought, word and deed, through negligence, through weakness, through our own deliberate fault... ’

  ‘Oh, that’s great,’ considered Callard in his mind. ‘We have sinned against you! What have I done that was so bad to incur the wrath of God? I ask you, what have I done to have to suffer cancer of the throat? And why is it through our own deliberate fault. No, no, no! This is absolute jargon fed to the masses!’ He turned to his wife inquisitively. ‘It’s almost certain I’m going to die soon,’ he stated unhesitatingly. ‘What are you going to do when that happens?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she returned quietly, alarmed at his comment as though he knew something but had refrained to tell her.

  ‘If they can’t cure this cancer I’ll die... within the next year or so,’ he told her flatly, ignoring the woman in front of him who turned round to reproach him silently for speaking with a caustic glare. ‘What are you going to do then?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ whispered Irene angrily. Her husband was a real pest most of the time. In church, he was an absolute nightmare.

  ‘Marry the milkman,’ muttered Callard to himself, bursting into laughter at his own morbid joke. This brought the attention of a number of other parishioners nearby although no one uttered a word against him.

  The congregation stood up but he remained seated. ‘I’m an invalid,’ he said quietly to satisfy the furious expression on his wife’s face. ‘I’ve got cancer of the throat!’

  ‘And doesn’t everyone know it!’ retorted Irene sharply. ‘Do you know how many people contract cancer of the throat in this country alone each year? I don’t suppose you do. But I can tell you one thing. They don’t make half as much fuss as you do, George. That’s for sure!’

  He fell silent again to reflect the situation. What on earth was he doing here in this place of worship? He didn’t believe in God or a supreme being. He cared even less for Jesus Christ. After all, what had the man been? A Jewish rebel who fell out with his own kind. A person who had the gift of the gab and was supposed to perform all kinds of miracles. Okay, the man was a healer. Well there were many healers in the world. So what? He fed a mass of people on three fishes and five loaves... or was it five fishes and three loaves... he could never remember. He would always turn the other cheek in a land where invaders were in their midst and brutality was rife! He had twelve disciples and a following of people who the Romans regarded as dangerous in their thinking. In truth, there could have been nothing less dangerous? Christ began a non-violent religion and he was just an ordinary man. Now, in a declaration to all the worshippers in churches throughout the world, priests persisted that he was the son of God. The son of God! Are you kidding? How ridiculous? Would they say the same of George Callard if he started up a new religion and was eventually assassinated. Not on your life... but they did for Jesus Christ!

  The congregation began to sing ‘Lord Have Mercy, Christ Have Mercy, Lord Have Mercy.’

  A wave of self-pity shuddered down Callard’s body like the words running through a stick of rock. Mercy was the plea but there was to be little mercy for him however hard he prayed to God. As in the past, he dwelt on all the matters afflicting the people throughout the world. Wars, pestilence, floods, fires, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and all the evil that man did unto man. How could people come to a place of worship and pray to a God knowing that he allowed all these things to happen... and on a regular basis too? They asked the Lord to have mercy. Well mercy was all they might hope for and never receive from such rough treatment delivered by an unforgiving God who allowed all these events to come about and did nothing to stop them. After all, if he had created the world, he could stop all the nonsense unless, as the true scientists declared, he didn’t create it in the first place. And apart from the disasters, there was all the disease, pain and suffering affecting practically everyone alive. Yet people still claimed they were Christians, they came to church and prayed to an almighty God who didn’t seem to care a damn about a single one of them. Furthermore, none of their lives were improved by their worship of an allegedly supreme being. Clearly, it was a case of mind over matter. Most men and women, in their weakness needed support. They were often filled with guilt and they felt they had to lean on someone else to shift the guilt off their shoulders. The only way they could do that was by pretending that some saviour would help them... someone who didn’t exist... an image... a myth. Such belief helped to ease their minds, giving them something to hang on to. Well he didn’t need support of that kind. Not religious help. He looked up as a pause occurred during the service caused by a man walking down the aisle to reach the pulpit. It was time for him to read a portion of the Gospel.

  ‘Does anyone know the difference between a stoic and a cynic,’ he called out in the hush that reigned at the top of his voice which was rather squeaky due to the radiation treatment on his neck. There was absolute silence but he continued nonetheless. ‘A stoic is what brings the baby. A cynic is what you wash it in.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘A stoic... a stork, and a cynic... a sink. Get it!’

  His wife gave him a withering look while the rest of the congregation looked on him as though he were insane.

  The man in the pulpit read part of the Gospel which related to a message by the apostle Paul to the Corinthians.

  Callard shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘This was a reading from the Bible. A reading of mere history. But in this case it was fiction. Was anyone in the church actually listening to this rubbish? He looked at the congregation, viewing mostly the backs of their heads from his wayward position towards the rear. He doubted it. The words would simply pass through their heads... in one ear and out the other. When the man had finished the reading, a stout woman dressed in black came forward to read yet another passage. The situation seemed to get more boring by the minute. Then, after what seemed to be an interminable period, the readings of the Gospel ended and everyone prepared themselves for the next part of the service... hymn number two seven three. Callard had never heard of it before, nor did he recognise the tune or the words. From the weak volume of singing, nor did sixty per cent of those in attendance. The organ raced through the hymn at tremendous speed as though the organist was in a hurry to get home for an early lunch, and then everyone sat down to listen to the sermon. If matters were considered to be bad, they were to become far worse.

  ‘Christ, in the Book of Revelations, claimed “I am the Alpha and Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end”,’ began the priest calmly.

  His words immediately brought Callard’s mind to the edge of reality. ‘Hold on,’ he thought to himself. ‘The Alpha and Omega. Those are Greek letters. Why did a man preaching to a congregation in Palestine... a man born and bred in Palestine... speak Greek letters during a Roman campaign. That was suspect to start with because it didn’t make sense. It was doubtful whether Christ actually knew any Greek at all let alone was able to quote letters of the language. Surely, this section of the Bible had to ha
ve been completed by a scribe who was Greek who began to assume things that Christ might have said... but didn’t! In fact, it was all made up by scribes, each of whom added a little bit to a series of legends passed down by storytellers who revelled in the gift of the gab... just like Jesus!

  ‘Why did he say Alpha and Omega?’ blurted out Callard loudly, interrupting the priest in the middle of his flow. ‘They’re Greek letters and Jesus spoke Aramaic, didn’t he?’ Every head in the church turned in his direction and he felt an overwhelming hatred from all those in attendance. ‘It’s reasonable to ask the question,’ he said to his wife. ‘Why did he say Alpha and Omega when he didn’t speak Greek?’

  After pausing for a few moments, the priest continued the sermon as though there had been no interruption. However, there was no stopping George Callard when he got the bit between his teeth.

  ‘And let me add that the thing about faith is that it isn’t a fact. If someone could prove it, it wouldn’t be faith.’

  ‘That is indeed an interesting argument,’ returned the priest quickly, ‘but not one for discussion during the Sunday service. Perhaps you would like to come and see me some day in the week and we could argue the point.’

  ‘Why not discuss it now as part of your sermon?’

  ‘Because I’ve already prepared a sermon for today if only you’d care to listen to it.’

  His words had the effect of closing Callard down and he kept quiet for a while, muttering and mumbling to himself as though the priest had got the better of him. He stared at the guide to the service handed to him when he entered the church. Heavens, they had only reached page five and it continued on to page twelve... and here was the priest just starting on his sermon! He was in for a boring forty minutes to say the least!

  When the next hymn, the Offertory hymn, was announced, Callard opened up the book he held in his hands to stare at the words. They were practically the same as those of the hymn sung before. Words of praise. Alleluias. Lots of raptures about God, Christ, the Lord, and then even more praise. As the voices echoed throughout the church, his eyes glanced over the page to view the words of other hymns. Indeed, they were all the same. The only difference were the tunes set to them. Then, out of the blue, a warden appeared by his side holding out a brass bowl. It was the Collect where parishioners placed money in the bowl to help pay for the repairs to the church. Well surely the Church Commissioners with all their property and wealth could cope without his help. He had forgotten to bring small change with him and he fished a one pound coin from his pocket for his wife who gave him another withering look, whereby he reluctantly conceded to do the same on his own account. There was a long pause while the collectors returned the money to the priest who blessed it. Now what was the point of that? They came round to collect money and it was given. Why bless it? What good would that do?

  The priest continued with the Eucharistic prayer and praised God for his mighty acts after the taking of the bread and wine.

  ‘Some acts,’ thought Callard bitterly. ‘It’s alright for those praying to laud God for all he’s done. What about my affliction?’ He looked across the aisle at a man with a large goitre which had swelled the front of his neck. ‘And what about him? Why does God make him suffer?’

  The Last Supper was recalled and then it was time for The Lord’s Prayer. Callard knew it by heart. His teacher had taught him to recite it at school. He was rather bemused in a way. There were times of crisis in life when people began to recite it... especially when they considered that they were facing death. He had seen it in the cinema many times in a number of films. It was a kind of last minute effort made by people to make sure they got into Heaven... if there was one. The volume increased as the congregation recited the prayer.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be they name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’

  ‘You see,’ muttered Callard to himself. ‘They do believe there’s a Heaven, otherwise they wouldn’t say so!’

  There was a further pause as the priest broke the bread to share in the body of Christ. Callard shook his head slowly. Now that was symbolism to its highest degree. ‘This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the World. Happy are those who are called to his supper.’

  It was then the turn of the congregation to answer. ‘Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed.’

  That was it! ‘Say the word and I shall be healed.’ thought Callard. ‘But what’s the word? God, Lord, Jesus Christ? What is it because I want to be healed of cancer? Well,’ he concluded, ‘there isn’t one, is there? Because there’s no God, and Jesus Christ was just an ordinary man crucified by the Romans for trying to influence people into a new religion. He died on the cross and that was that! There was no Son of God, no sitting at the right hand of God... no nothing. It had all been made up by the priests who wrote the service and performed it ritually to a gullible public.

  ‘Almighty God,’ continued the priest, ‘we thank you for feeding us with the body and blood of your Son, Jesus Christ. Through him we offer you our souls and bodies to be a living sacrifice.’

  ‘Hey, hold it there a minute!’ whispered Callard sharply to himself. ‘You do what you like with your soul. I’ll do what I want with mine. Feeding us with the body and blood of your Son, Jesus Christ. What a load of garbage! And everyone in the church accepts it. What’s in their minds, for Heaven’s sake?’ He argued the point with himself for some time hardly realising that the final hymn had been sung and the priest and his entourage had escaped to the vestry.

  ‘Come on, George,’ snapped Irene. ‘It’s time to go. That’s what you wanted to do from the start, isn’t it?’

  He hung his shoulders sheepishly and left the church, still clinging to his atheistic views. Nothing had changed for him there. Nothing at all.

  Later that day, the Callards had just finished dinner which they always started eating at six o’clock. George sat on his favourite armchair in front of the television while Irene relaxed on the settee knitting a jumper. He twiddled his thumbs for a while, clearly bored with simply sitting doing nothing, feeling a strong urge to turn on the television set but he knew that she would remonstrate if he did so. They never watched programmes before seven o’clock in the evening and there was still fifteen minutes to go.

  ‘That was a disgraceful performance in the church,’ she said, turning on him angrily. She had been seething all day until she felt she could hold back no longer.

  ‘What do you expect from me?’ he demanded with a tinge of anger in his voice. ‘You know my views on religion. I’ve no time for it. Dragging me along to the church is pointless.’

  ‘Not if we want everyone to know we’re a couple,’ she ranted like a dog with a juicy bone.

  ‘Oh, is that what we go to church for?’ he countered. ‘To show everyone that we’re a couple. Well we could do that in the pub any evening you like.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious!’ she reproached unkindly.

  There was a long silence before Callard decided to ask a pertinent question. ‘Do you really believe in God?’ he asked earnestly.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replied firmly, surprised that he should ask it. ‘God looks after us during the day and night.’

  ‘Well that’s debatable,’ he retorted, ‘If God was looking after me, he would have made sure I didn’t have to suffer with cancer.’ He paused waiting for a reaction but she continued knitting quietly without replying. ‘And I suppose you believe in Heaven,’ he went on after a while. The place where people’s souls end up after they die.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the idea I hope. Surely you can’t complain about that, can you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter to me. You can believe in anything you want. But, to my mind, it’s a case of hedging one’s bets. You see, I think mos
t people say they believe in God in case he does exist and there is a Heaven. If there is, they expect to go there in the end. They don’t want to miss out. Whereas if they fail to believe in God or Heaven, and there is one, they may find that they’re not invited in.’

  ‘That’s not a very nice way of thinking,’ returned his wife sharply. ‘Of course there’s a God. And there is a Heaven. When a person dies, their aura leaves the body and it rises. Now where do you think it goes? To Heaven of course. There’s no other place for it to go.’

  He paused for a long time before putting his proposal to her. ‘In that case, I’d like you to do me a favour. You see, when I go, I want to take some of the money we’ve saved with me to Heaven. They say you can’t take it with you but I’m going to try. I’ll bring that old tin chest from the shed and put it in the attic. You can put some money inside it and then, when I die, I’ll rise and take it with me as I go to Heaven. Maybe it’ll help me out of trouble when I get there.’