fiction
Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 7
I did what any reasonable vicar would do. I invited them in and offered them tea. By now, I even knew which biscuits they would choose.
“How’s Mrs Horton getting along?” asked Detective Inspector Dennis Thorpe.
“Well, it’s a difficult time for her. She still doesn’t feel able to return the house where her husband was murdered. Naturally, she’s welcome to stay here for as long as is necessary.” I neglected to add that she was the one who murdered her husband.
“I quite understand. She’s lucky she was able to turn to you.”
I made self-deprecatory gestures, and the conversation moved on to Geoff.
“Well, I suppose the first thing that I should tell you is that about a week or so ago, I had to ask for his resignation as church treasurer. The accounts were in a terrible state, and we had failed to pay the money that we owed the Diocese.”
“That’s strange. I’d understood he was a retired accountant.”
“Yes, exactly. So, I’ve been trying to make sense of the figures. I was going to ask the advice of the Diocese, because it’s not really my area of expertise, but my impression is…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I have a suspicion – only a suspicion, mind – that Geoff may have been diverting church funds.”
“You mean, he was nicking the collection?”
I sighed. “Look, I don’t know a great deal about finance. That’s why I wanted to be sure before passing it to the Diocese. But, yes. That’s what I suspect.”
“And you fired him, cutting off his cash?”
Well, after that, it was pretty cut and dried. They wanted to know the results of any Diocesan investigation but understood that the Diocese moves like a glacier. A final biscuit all round and off they went.
I settled down to write the sermon for the next day.
Writing sermons is easy. I don’t know why some people struggle so much with it. Never put in politics. Never include personal anecdotes, unless they’re self-deprecatory. Put in a little theology, so the congregation think they’ve learnt something, but not enough to bore them. Include a little morality so they can draw a line and imagine themselves on the right side of it. Introduce a little doubt that maybe they aren’t quite as good as they thought they were. Finish with a happy, upbeat thought, because happy, upbeat congregations put more in the collection. That’s it, really. Oh, and if there’s any disasters, you must fit them in too. On this occasion, that gave me plenty of scope.
The school hall was a far better venue than the church had been, and the school gave us a rate which was heavily discounted – presumably from guilt that some of their students may have been involved in the fire. Attendance was high, predictably enough. I announced a special meeting of the church council for the next day. I added that I was planning to create the role of Parish Evangelism Officer, and anyone who was interested should submit their name to Sue, the church secretary.
I was pleasantly surprised to see Al, the Hells Angel sitting at the back and made a point of going over to greet him.
“Good to see you here, Al.”
“Thanks. I thought I’d just have a look in, see how things were. Thanks for keeping the police off our backs over the fire.”
“I was just being honest.”
“Well, thanks, anyway. What happened with that bloke who offed himself?”
“I forgave him. Sadly, some people find forgiveness harder than condemnation.”
Al looked away for a moment, so I added, “I think you can understand that.”
He abruptly changed the topic of conversation.
“So, you going to rebuild the church?”
“When the insurance is sorted out, yes, I’m sure we will.”
“You need to sort out the acoustics, then. The old church had lousy sound.”
“Something you know about?”
“Did a few tours as a roadie with Uranium Death Cult. Yeah, I picked up a thing or two.”
“Would you mind if we asked you for advice?”
“Sure, no problem.”
Tea and coffee were to be had after the service, and I was pleased that several people made clumsy efforts to welcome Al. I did the rounds, reassuring people, and generally doing what a vicar is supposed to do.
There were about 100 people on the church’s register – the Electoral Roll. Of these, maybe 20 ever showed their faces. Fifteen were on the church council, and about ten appeared regularly on a Sunday. It would be a better use of resource if I were to replace the Sunday service with church council meetings.
The church council meeting went mostly as I expected.
We talked about a new church warden but decided to wait a little before making an appointment out of respect for Mrs Horton. Besides, there wasn’t a church to warden right now. Likewise, the appointment of a new treasurer was delayed.
Much talk focused on the church, and predictably everything had to be repeated five times. Essentially, the insurance company wanted to see the fire officer’s report but didn’t foresee any real problems. The quire of the old building might be salvageable, but it wouldn’t get rebuilt like-for-like. I agreed to contact the Diocese for recommended architects. An hour and a half discussion summed up in three sentences, but that’s church council meetings for you.
Finally, we moved on to the Parish Evangelist. I gave a couple of minutes spiel about why I was instituting the post, and then asked about volunteers.
“I’ve had two people come forward for this,” said Sue. “Mabel Goodall, and June Whiting.”
I pictured June for a moment. Short, with hips a yard across, in her seventies, walked with an orthopaedic stick, smelt of Parma Violets, low intelligence, low imagination. I could already see which way the council would vote.
Naturally, I recused myself from voting, as Mabel is my fiancée, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. Ten votes in favour of June, two for Mabel. A less capable Parish Evangelism Officer is difficult to imagine.
Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson’s comments regarding the writing of sermons should not be seen as representative of the attitude of the Church of England as a whole. Those called to preach the Word of God often work into the small hours of Sunday morning, carefully crafting the Message they present to the congregation.