When the new dean arrived he had pondered whether to sell some of the silver to pay for the trip, but the bishop refused to approve. Since then, following the quiet retirement of the canon treasurer, pensioned off to a comfortable and not too onerous parish in the countryside, the new dean had been able to steer a much straighter course and for this he was grateful. There had been no need for any major reforms, just a steady hand on the tiller, a favourite metaphor of the dean from his days in the navy.
Immediately before this appointment the dean had been an archdeacon in a large northern city and the practical nature of that office, which attracts people without much imagination, was the perfect qualification for this difficult role. He could concentrate on the drains, gutters, pillars, window panes and roof slates, and there was much of this at the Cathedral. Thus the church could find solace in the renewal of its crumbling fabric after its human members had so sorely let it down. The dean knew there was nothing like a building project to take up all the energy of the canons, and provided it wasn’t too modern and innovative, it would also endear him to the surrounding population. They looked at the Cathedral as their church, even if they never darkened its threshold from year to year.
The dean reached the end of the nave, and put out his hand to halt James in his stride.
“You see up there,” he said with some excitement, pointing up far above their head to a small opening above an arch. “That is our first sponsored window. You can just see the logo in the corner; not too obvious, I hope.” Without waiting for a comment, and in no need of one from the likes of James, the dean set off again, turning a sharp right into the south transept. James managed to keep about two paces behind. They came to the door of the clergy vestry.
“You know the number for the lock on the door.” said the dean, more in a telling rather than an asking sort of voice. “It is the date on that tomb, backwards.”
James looked to see the effigy of a knight, battered as if he suffered more in death than in life, with the date 1178 highlighted in lead lettering on the side.
“You go in,” said the dean standing back to let James through, “I am just off to see the choir master and all those rascals.”
James couldn’t work out whether the dean treated the Cathedral like his old school, or maybe the minesweeper he used to captain somewhere in the Arabian Gulf. Either way it seemed to work because the place was efficiently run and, surprisingly, produced a small profit.
The clergy vestry was a large square room lined with large vestment cupboards, various Gothic leaded windows on one side, a cracked mirror hanging precariously on the only bit of spare wall, and an old oak table of medieval patina in the centre. On the table was a pile of books, various scraps of paper with the names of people to be prayed for, a fountain pen and the worship register. James began to flick through this, wondering how many people actually attended the Cathedral services, and whether it justified the complement of full-time staff.
Just then the door was flung open with great force. It was the canon succentor, a tall thin man, with a bald head and think-rimmed glasses. It was well known he wanted to be a dean, and one day almost certainly would be, though not at this Cathedral. For the moment he had to concern himself with the responsibility of overseeing the services; the kind of activity needing attention to detail, confidence that the liturgy was perfect for the occasion, and the skin of an elephant to resist the criticism of the worshippers for whom the service is the point at which all battles begin and end.
“Good evening, James,” said the succentor, glad to see a man his own age in the vestry for once.
“Hello, Kevin," replied James still a little startled he been caught checking the register. James thought how unfitting the name Kevin was for a succentor of a cathedral, or indeed a future dean, but then remembered how the succentor had given a talk on St Kevin, ‘the much maligned Irish saint who rightly surpassed St Patrick’. It had escaped no one the dean’s name happened to be Patrick.
There was no doubt in James’ mind Kevin was gay. It was the manner in which he spoke, the smile he gave, how he dressed, his interest in the choir school, all above board of course, and the fact he had a very spoilt basset hound, an animal so obviously in receipt of misplaced affections. The dog and the succentor were always seen together, both inside and outside. He took the dog for three walks a day in the Close, allowed it to lie under the table at committee meetings, and to sit upright in the passenger seat of his car as if to give directions. To call at the succentor’s house was to be greeted with the fulsome if sometimes unwelcome interests of the dog, until called off by his owner. The only place they did not go together was the Cathedral, not unless the dean was away. Whatever the evidence suggested the succentor was gay, James could see Kevin would do nothing to jeopardize his career, for such was his ambition to be a dean.
“You are our preacher tonight, I do believe,” said Kevin. “Better than what we usually get, I am sure, but do make it fulsome and short.” The emphasis was on the latter.
“I always do,” replied James who was going to say something frivolous about sex and sermons but thought better of it. After all, the succentor was officially a virgin and painfully celibate.
Two vergers entered the room and began fussing with candles and matches. Kevin treated them like a sixth former might regard second-formers: people designated with tasks that are important but not essential. He turned his back on them and approached one of the vestment cupboards, selecting a cope for the service. He chose one richly embroidered in gold and blue.
“Keeps the cold out,” he said as if to justify wearing such a heavily decorated cloak.
Presently the dean came back, having given his pep talk to the choirboys.
“Now, you know the procedure,” he said, again more of a statement than a question. “You can walk with me. When you get in, bow to the altar, and go to the stalls on the left. When we get to the sermon, the verger will come, bow and take you to the foot of the pulpit stairs, which you go up and bow again. Homeward bound, all in reverse. No problems?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, and James thought all he had to do was look remotely dignified and everyone would be happy.
“Don’t forget the microphone,” interjected Kevin.
“Ah, yes, don’t use it myself, because I can project, but if you need it, and for all those deaf aids, it is the button just below the lectern,” added the dean, annoyed he had been reminded to mention it.
Just then the door opened.
“Good evening, Mr Archdeacon,” said the dean, and Kevin gave a little bow in reverence to the office if not the person.
“Now, we must get one thing straight,” said the archdeacon after curtly acknowledging the greetings. He made no recognition of James who had drifted to the side of the room at this point. “It is the order of the procession. I feel we need to do this properly.” This had been one of the campaigns of the archdeacon ever since he had arrived in the diocese. He came from a lesser known cathedral where those in his position walked at the back of the procession, the place of greatest dignity and honour. However, here things were done differently and precedence was given to the canons of the Cathedral over and above the archdeacon.
“I feel that because I have a role throughout the diocese, and most of the people out there know me, I should be in my proper place,” he asserted.
“Well, we do have our traditions and you know how hard they are to change,” was the dean’s answer to this and to so many other complaints he had faced throughout his ministry. In his head he wondered why people didn’t just do as the headmaster or captain told them, but was willing to concede some needed to be treated with a little more delicacy. The archdeacon did have influence on the bishop, let alone sat on some of the more important committees at Church House.
Just then a verger came in to say it was time to line up for the service. This prevented the archdeacon from making a response, but he thought his point had been forcibly made. However, the home t
eam knew they could not be beaten. The canons and choir assembled in the south transept and, amidst the tombs of warriors long since dead, a prayer was intoned and the procession began to line up. Not a moment too soon. The organ boomed out the entry hymn, and with the swishing of cassocks and surplices the choir turned and set off down the side aisle. The archdeacon found himself propelled unwillingly into a position just behind the dean's verger, audibly grumbling as he went, and unaware of the exchanged glances of the dean and succentor, who were trying to be magnanimous in their victory.
“Come, walk beside me,” said the dean to James, “you are the preacher, after all.”
“I don’t care where I walk,” replied James, hardly hiding a smile.
“Neither do I, but some people seem to,” said the dean, his words lost in the crescendo of music.
Less than half an hour later James found himself in the great pulpit of the Cathedral, surveying a scene perhaps unchanged over hundreds of years. What he saw was testimony to the tremendous power and breathtaking beauty of the Christian faith, the momentous efforts of nameless craftsmen and the conspicuous wealth of famous benefactors.
“And love is the greatest thing of all,” pounded James, aware of the irony of his words in such a place. “It is what our faith is all about.”
He had not been preaching for long, perhaps only five minutes or so, and he paused briefly to scan the congregation. He could see the choir of men and boys, half of them sitting with their backs to him, completely motionless and disengaged, having heard three sermons that week already. The choirmaster was hurriedly checking through the next piece of music. There were the dean and canons, hardly visible in their shadowy stalls, the proud parents waiting for their sons to sing, the odd selection of regulars, refugees from other congregations who chose the lofty anonymity of the Cathedral, and a sprinkling of tourists, marked out by their ignorance of the chorography of evensong and their keen attention to the sermon.
“Love will still be around when this Cathedral is merely a pile of stones.”
Not a flicker of response from those whose daily livelihood depended upon the building. James resisted the temptation to think it didn’t matter at all what he said. But he needed to share what he believed.
“There may come times in our lives when we have to act out of love, putting aside responsibilities and other duties because of love. Is that not what the disciples did when they first met Jesus? They had families, they had businesses, they had status in their communities, but to follow Jesus was worth much more. They knew they had to respond, and absolutely nothing would stand in their way.”
Did they not realise he was trying to tell them something, to explain how he felt, and what drove him in this faith. But even if they had been listening they would not have understood. The dean had spotted a member of the congregation, a local businessman, and he made a mental note he needed to catch him after the end of the service. The succentor was thinking about his dog, and the fact they had only been able to have a short walk that afternoon. And the archdeacon was working out how he might get into his proper place in the procession at the end of the service.
“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen,” announced James, which brought an instant response from the choir. The sermon was over and it was their time to sing.
“Good sermon,” said the dean to James in the vestry afterwards, patting him on the back. “Brief and to the point. Don’t forget to sign the register. I must dash. Got to catch one of my regulars.” With this he had gone. James was soon left on his own. All the fussy tidying up of the vergers had been efficiently done. The choir had hurried off to dinner at the school, and the congregation had dispersed down the nave. Only the tourists lingered, stopping to read monuments or look at the stained-glass windows and stonework. It was as if only they appreciated the place.
As James walked to the exit he felt quite alone. He was not sure anyone had understood what he was trying to tell them. From what he could see, no one had the urgency of the Gospel in their hearts. The canons in particular were inoculated from his words. Love to them was something they might talk about, theorise, even celebrate, but never act upon.
As he got to the door he paused to turn around. The place looked smaller than when he had arrived. It also seemed ordinary, no more special than any other historic building. It was beautiful, perhaps even magnificent, but what it had to do with his faith he could not see. He remembered the old story of when this Cathedral was built a little devil got inside and was turned to stone, and tourists search to find his image incarcerated in the roof above the main door. Perhaps in that medieval tale there was a message for all time, that God could only be found in flesh and blood, and all other incarnations were demonic distractions.
He went out into the evening air, closing the heavy door behind him. It shut with a loud thud, and James thought there was finality to that sound that replicated the thoughts of his mind.
Outside the floodlights were illuminating the West Front, creating a false day in the impending darkness. It was cold, but James felt he needed time and space before he walked home. He found a bench in the Close and there he sat, in the quiet emptiness, collecting his thoughts. He tried to make sense of what was happening to him, of the past experience that shaped who he was, and of the choice staring him in the face with such implications for his future.
At what point, he thought, in the last 40 years was he supposed to be open and honest about his feelings? Was it when he was young and to be homosexual was illegal, a crime punishable by imprisonment? Was it when he was at school and every image of a gay man was either a pervert or effeminate queer? Was it when he joined the church in his teenage years when other Christians preached about the disgusting sodomites? Was it when he was ordained and the bishops issued a statement saying reluctantly priests could be gay as long as they never expressed their feelings in a physical way? Was it more recently at the Lambeth Conference when several bishops signed an officially declaration that condemned as an abomination a form of love they did not and would not understand?
He had tried over twenty-five years of adulthood to hold to the integrity of his feelings and his faith, belief in a loving and caring God. He had been honest with those who had a right to know, and, with those who never asked the question, he never gave an answer they did not want. Now the pressure had become too great, and he had to be honest with himself, with those close to him, and with his bishop, whether they cared to listen or understand or not.
“The trigger was, of course, meeting Terry, falling in love with him and him falling in love with me,” said James verbalising his thoughts to an empty Close.
He wondered for a minute or two whether it would have ever happened if he had not met Terry. He knew we can all lead empty and unfulfilled lives for years and never realise something vital is missing. His favourite fairy-tale as a child was the King and the New Clothes, how everyone is willing to be fooled when they think it suits them. But now, for James, the little boy is watching the king come naked down the street and is crying out to expose the foolishness.
His mind was a pendulum of thoughts. There was so much to consider and weigh up. For every argument, a counter argument; for every decision, a note of caution, a reason for doing nothing.
The church will say he is a fool to throw away career prospects and secure income; to cast everything aside for one subjective, intangible and fragile relationship. All he knew was if you are going to be a fool about anything in life, then the best thing to be a fool about is love. What benefit, he thought, is there in keeping your life and throwing away your soul, a distant voice seemed to echo?
What would he lose in reality? His chains, his part in a system that had repressed such love for so long and continued to do so. He regretted he had inadvertently supported such repression and kidded himself that being in the structure would bring about reform. He was beginning to see with impatience how the hatred and the prejudice were so strong he was not sure the chu
rch was redeemable, although he knew there is always hope in death and resurrection. Maybe, just maybe, he wondered if the church could catch up with the rest of society. Otherwise it would become a bastion for the hardened hearts; those who vent their anger on things they greatly fear. Religion does bring out the best and the worst in people.
He could hear himself preaching in the Cathedral: “There comes a time in life when you have to make a decision, whatever the cost.” His faith had taught him that. When he was younger it had been easier to be forthright, but the responsibilities encrusted over time had blunted the sharpness of life. Being a father, owning a house, and most of all being ordained into an institution, had brought a deadening reality and practicality. There was something suffocating about being a vicar; always viewed as respectable but naive, as the moral conscience of the community, but totally inexperienced, as the shockable other-worldly man, so unable to respond to his own needs.
“Physician, heal thyself,” he voiced another echo from the past.
The indecision and compromise of a whole life was not enough to prevent him from doing something. Indeed it is probably that very indecision and compromise pushing him to act now. All the persuasion of bishops, pastoral or unpastoral, and he had experienced both, would not be enough to convince him otherwise.
But as soon as these thoughts had formed in his mind his confidence began to falter. Had he the strength to carry this through? Would it not be easier to draw back from the brink, save himself, and save his family from embarrassment and discomfort? To stand on the edge of a precipice was an exhilarating experience, but it could not last; soon the choice, to jump or to step back, would have to be made.
“Maybe the holiday, time away from all of this, will help me,” he assured himself looking about him in the Close which in its emptiness offered him no comfort. But he only half believed that the Greek sun would make matters clear and the decision easier.
Gay Before God: An Awakening Love Forbidden by the Church Page 4