A Lot Like Eve

by Joanna Jepson

  “All that stuff he was talking about on Sunday, it’s really going to happen, isn’t it?” Joe was sitting on a swing, twisting to the side as he pushed his foot against the post. I was seated on the other swing and I looked at him, turned slightly away from me, trying to follow what he was talking about.

  “Which man on Sunday?”

  “The one giving the talk, all that stuff he was saying about hell and the apocalypse.”

  “He was talking about Revelation, it’s a really tricky book to understand …” I took a deep breath, steeling myself for where this conversation might demand we go.

  “But it’s really gonna happen, isn’t it?”

  “Joe, I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen … Or what it will look like. Those things he was talking about are one man’s vision … It’s really hard to know exactly what he was seeing.”

  Joe walked the swing backwards and stood poised, ready to let himself sail through the air. But he didn’t move, he stayed looking ahead, his clear blue eyes steady for once.

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “Well, the bit about how God is going to make his home with people, and there will be no more crying, or pain, or death, that makes sense … I think God knows that that’s what we’re trying to find ultimately. So I’m not sure about what the apocalypse will actually be, but it seems that the bit God is aiming for is to bring us all home. To restore us and make us whole.”

  He was looking at me and I could see he was troubled. I hadn’t anticipated that the theological things spoken at church would affect him so much. I tried to prompt him:

  “Which bit is bothering you most?”

  I knew which bit was bothering me: it would be trying to explain all the implications of Christ’s sacrificial death on the cross, in a way that would have some kind of meaning to the dispossessed punk on the swing beside me. All those teen house-parties spent learning how to lead someone to Christ, with diagrams about penal substitution on the back of a napkin; what a misspent youth.

  “I don’t wanna be left out … I mean if it’s really gonna happen.”

  I hesitated, wondering at which point to begin my worn tirade of evangelistic patter.

  “But does it mean I gotta go to church all the time and stuff?”

  I looked across to the children’s roundabout on which James and Leon were slowly revolving as they chatted to Geoff standing next to it. If anyone else was here listening I would be giving Joe The Right Answer, telling him how he had to come to church because that is where he could worship God and find fellowship. I would push away the doubts I had about him coming to church, and ignore my worries about how being absorbed into a community of beige and navy, middle-class Christians might endanger his colour and his soul. I would overlook the fear I had of him being whitewashed, body, mind and soul, should he succumb to the very nice, respectable peer pressure of a congregation who were praying for him to be saved. I didn’t want him to become one of us with our hallelujahs and frothy fervour. Joe was OK with his luminous soul and hair and the chains that lightly clacked as they swung between his ears and belt and belly button. He just wanted to find his way Home. And in those moments I wanted to scoop him up and piggyback him to the gates of heaven myself – “He’s with me!”

  “Joe, you don’t have to come but you know that you’re welcome whenever you do … but it’s not a price you have to pay. Geoff and I won’t stop coming to see you here if you did decide not to come to church …”

  “But what about God?”

  “He’s here too. He knows your heart … what you’ve been through. He cares that you’ve got no home right now … you matter to God not just when you die but in what’s happening to you right now.”

  The technicalities of Christological explanations fell away. What was done on that cross all those centuries ago was done. Joe didn’t need the theological disseminations, or yet another sinner’s prayer offered for him to repeat; he needed love to break into the bleakness and turmoil of his existence.

  “You matter to me, and to Geoff too … and, I don’t know them but I’m sure your parents feel dreadful about what’s happened between you.”

  “You think me and God could be OK?”

  “Yes I do Joe … I think that’s what God wants and if that’s what you want too, then yes …”

  20

  Saved through Childbirth

  The questions Joe asked me, and the answers I gave him, stayed with me for days. In them I heard echoes of my own daring hopes: that God and I could be OK, that I might find a way home to God away from this church I’d not yet escaped. I wanted to know who … if … God was, away from all this.

  Only I couldn’t yet see any signs that pointed to God – Out There. The idea of finding somewhere to go with all my questions was forming without any obvious answer. Until two days later, when Dad told me he’d been praying for me, and the idea of theological college popped into his mind. It may not have been the world beyond that I was expecting; I knew that theological colleges were places where people trained to be vicars. But I also knew how extraordinary it was that the Almighty might have whispered this suggestion to my father; a man who didn’t believe in women’s ordination, or subjecting one’s grasp of The Truth to the intellectual shakedown that theological studies would cause.

  I wrote off to some nearby theological colleges and excitedly read the syllabus lists before passing them onto Cliff and Justin along with a request for some sponsorship. It was Cliff who called me in for a meeting to discuss it and he sat opposite me fanning the prospectuses out in front of him with a bemused expression on his face. “Look Joanna, have you prayed about this?”

  That was code for we don’t think this is right for you but we would rather not tell you that to your face. In fact, I hadn’t specifically sat with hands folded, eyes closed and run through the reasons why I wanted to do this, then bolted on an Amen. I hadn’t needed to. The sight of modules on pastoral care; Old and New Testament studies; psychology and spirituality of healing; poetry and theology; The Gospel of John; and ancient Hebrew had thrilled me with an excitement that nursing never had. This was exactly what I wanted to study.

  Cliff was flicking through the papers as he continued.

  “These courses are a lot of money, and really … I just don’t think we can justify spending £500 so that you can go and do a training course.”

  “But look at the subjects they teach; there’s mission, discipleship, New Testament and Old Testament studies … how is that not going to be worthwhile?”

  He reddened and shifted his leg over his other knee.

  “What would you be training for? Really, Joanna, you don’t need Hebrew and Greek to fulfill God’s call on your life.”

  “I do if I’m going to understand the Bible properly.”

  He knew where I was taking this. If the answer was no, I wanted him to admit the reason to me.

  “You can get that kind of teaching here at church.”

  “But I can’t get that kind of serious training at church.”

  He took a breath and leaned back in his chair. “Joanna, what do you need to be trained for? It’s only pastors that require this kind of training course.” He waved the wadge of papers down onto his knee with a slap.

  “I think it’s important for anyone wanting to deepen their questions and understanding about the Bible.”

  “That may be so but we simply can’t put that kind of money into funding you when you’re not going to be a pastor.”

  I didn’t want to be a pastor, but I did believe that I had to make that decision and not have it assumed for me by church elders on account of my gender.

  “I … ”

  “Joanna look, you are going to make a wonderful wife and mother one day, you have a great vocation ahead. All these courses look interesting now but they won’t serve you well as a wife and mother in the long term.”

  I had never actually heard someone in the twentieth century and on this si
de of the Atlantic own St Paul’s line about women being saved through childbirth, but it crossed my mind that this was what he was getting at.

  “Are you saying that women are saved by having children?”

  We were both suspended in a hiatus of disbelief; I that he believed this and he that I was going to make him say it out loud.

  “Well, it’s not that women are saved by having children but that through that experience they are saved.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I wasn’t being facetious; it just made absolutely no sense.

  “Well, through giving birth they are saved and know God’s mercy …” It seemed that this was the only time Cliff had ever had to justify this part of St Paul’s writings.

  “and God saves them …”

  At this point I was absolutely sure that there was nothing better I could do with my life than go and get some proper theological education.

  “Cliff, that sounds really alarming. Are you saying that women’s vocation as mothers is where they find salvation? What about women who can’t have children? I don’t particularly want to have children; where does that leave me? You teach that we have to marry a Christian man but everyone knows there aren’t enough Christian men in the church to go round so what about all the leftover women? Unmarried and not quite saved!”

  “Joanna, Joanna …”, he held up his hands to slow the roll of indignation and quieten the accusatory tone that had crept into my voice.

  “We know that we need to address the issue of getting men into church …”

  “That in no way addresses the underlying theology you hold …”

  I was about to lose it; a lifetime of unchallenged dogma curdled, ready to be spewed out, but I didn’t have a close enough relationship with Cliff to hurl that kind of mess on him – no matter how much I felt he deserved it. The money, the sponsorship didn’t matter, I would find a way to put myself through theological college, but I did need a reference from my church leaders.

  “Look, I don’t mind if you don’t feel able to give me any money. But I need you to write a reference, will you do that?”

  “Yes we will.”

  I suspected it would be the kind of promising reference that employers write when they desperately want to get rid of an employee.

  “Thank you … I appreciate you giving me your blessing …”

  “Ahhhh, Joanna, hold on … I didn’t say you had our blessing.”

  Maybe I should have hurled on him after all. Instead I took it home, where Dad was making a cup of tea to take out to the garden. I told him how the conversation with Cliff had gone, and without taking his usual place on the side of the church leadership Dad put his fists on his hips and listened, making grim-sounding “hrrrmmm” noises.

  “Seriously … he actually said women were saved through childbirth … Does he mean Christ’s death and resurrection wasn’t quite enough to cover women? Am I just waiting to get married and give birth before I’m truly initiated and saved? It’s seems that all these preacher men use the Bible to dictate what women are meant to be like … They say that following Christ is supposed to be about integrity and freedom but it pretty much comes down to persuading girls to be nice, virginal, teetotal and never swear … and then we’re supposed to go and sell that to the world!”

  Dad chewed the corner of his lip and looked thoughtfully out towards the garden.

  “It’s not freedom, it’s not the Gospel, it’s just rules … and come on, did I look like I was in any danger of fornicating at the age of fifteen when I was told not to be like a dress that gets tried on lots but nobody wants to buy? Did I?!”

  I paused to draw breath and saw his eyes close slowly at the memory of such instructions, and then the twist of a weary grimace move ever so slightly across his mouth.

  “God knows I’m only pretending to be a Christian because I’m afraid I’m going to go to hell. How is that a healthy relationship with the Lord?”

  “I know we’ve been strict with you … We can’t help wanting to protect you …”, Dad broke in, his voice serious and careful.

  “But that isn’t good enough, is it? That’s not helping someone have faith … It’s substituting faith with rules and fear and then saying we can’t even ask questions about any of it because we’re women and we should be silent and just listen to the men.”

  “Darling …”

  “You and Mum are always going on about being good and not swearing, but actually there are situations – like my conversation this afternoon – when a swear word is exactly the right word of response. And you have never given me a good reason why I shouldn’t have sex before marriage …’

  “Well …”

  “And saying that it says so in the Bible does not count. If it says it then there must be a good reason why …”

  I could tell that finally Dad was ready to meet me at last.

  “Because it weakens marriage.”

  “Well …”, I sighed, my exasperated hands and shoulders sagging in deflation. “I have no response to that … I can’t know whether that’s true.”

  “That’s why you have to trust …”

  “Well, is it your experience?”

  “I’m not claiming to be perfect, but I truly believe it’s best to protect your marriage from the baggage you might take into it.”

  “You really think I’ve got no baggage, Dad? I’ve got so much baggage. All this religion is baggage. Nobody can be baggage-free … Certainly no one with the upbringing we’ve had. It’s not about sex – it’s about the fear and naivety that Christianity has been cultivating … for years. I loathe this God, I’m tired of Him … He causes nothing but fear … and slavery to rules … I don’t want to believe in it any longer.”

  I was shaking and crying with the relief of speaking truthfully at last, with the sense that somehow Dad was standing in for God: willing to have thrown back at him the words of love and freedom that had become so encrusted and mangled within me.

  “Come here, Joanna …” Dad gently pulled me down from the kitchen counter I was sitting on and enfolded me in his arms.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry that I’ve been so strict with you over the years … I’ve tried so hard to get it right and I can’t help feeling I’m much to blame for your exhaustion and fear … and I’m sorry.”

  I could hear the tears in Dad’s voice, and as I sobbed into his chest, my words formed the most truthful prayer of conversion I’d ever prayed.

  “I want to know if there is a God … and if there is then She knows that I want to find Her and She’s going to trust that I’m looking for Her even if I have to tear down a whole load of my religious pretence in order to get to Her …”

  Dad didn’t react to the she’s and hers and for a while the silence was broken only by stifled sobs.

  “Joanna, will you forgive me for my part in this?”

  “Yes … but it isn’t all you, not all of it.”

  “Listen, you go right ahead and apply to theological college. And don’t worry about the money … it will come together, but you’re right you need to do this.”

  I might have left church right then, but that seemed churlish and it would also jeopardize my place on the youth work team, and so I carried on going, enjoying the friendships it held without worrying about my place in the holiness stakes any longer. When at the evening meetings the band led the congregated young people into some kind of ecstatic Jump-to-the-Lord-athon I sat at the side, my knees pulled up to my chin, watching the veins in their necks bulging with effort, the sweat glistening in drops across foreheads, the spit showering from mouths as they yelled “Praise you Jesus” and jumped as high as they could. Laura and Geoff were sitting near me too; I turned to Laura and we looked at each other. On the other side of her Geoff was gazing on and then he too caught my eye, his hand rubbing his chin as he harrumphed a smile at the madness taking place in front of us. I smiled back at him, convinced I no longer believed in the God they were jumping for. “
Coffee?” Laura mouthed, and I got up with a nod, following her around the arc of frenzied noise out to the kitchen.

  21

  Turned Tables

  That month was December and if I needed a chance to step back from church then my return to hospital for the final operation at least bought me a little respite. This time it would be a three-hour operation to construct a chin; nothing like the bone-splicing, flip-top facial reconstruction and rewiring I’d undergone just a few months earlier. No self-administering morphine button, or ICU blur; this time I was unceremoniously returned to an empty ward with my chin merely encased in plaster.

  After the first operation I’d bumped into a girl from school who had remarked lazily ‘I can’t really see the difference …’ despite an almost two-centimetre shortening of my face. I wanted to lamp her. So although I knew that the chin job was going to complete Mr Harrison’s work I didn’t particularly expect it to be the most transformational operation of them all. It was only when Jane Addis walked into the ward for a surprise visit that I realized Mr Harrison’s work might finally be done.

  “Oh Wow!” she gasped. “You look completely different.” She walked slowly over to my bed, her eyes fixed on my jaw.

  “Seriously, that’s incredible! Who is this girl?”

  She bubbled with exclamations as I patted around my plastered, swollen jaw feeling for the difference.

  And it was different. It was surreal even, when, for example, in January the new shop assistant started at the jumper shop with me and I recognized her from the year below me, in Curie House, at school.