A Test of Faith
Another flake of ageing white paint, brittle from years of service, finally curled up enough to snap free. It fluttered to the ground, impersonating the snowflakes it had seen over its lifetime adorning the vestry wall just next to the small open window, but it went unnoticed by Father Crest himself. He felt the same breeze which had liberated the paint though, and although it didn’t cause any of him to flake away, it did give rise to a small wave of goose-bumps up his arms. He liked to keep the window open for little while each day, even in the winter months, to bring fresh air into the old stone building. It was more for ritual than anything else, given that draft-proofing had apparently been low on the list of priorities for whoever had built the church centuries ago. Perhaps they’d suspected that stiff winter breezes were the route to piety, or that no building was truly sanctified unless it was freezing at all times of year. Father Crest was willing to concede that it certainly provided an adequate test of faith to crack the frozen pool of holy water on a winter morning.
Several holy books were scattered across the small desk against the back wall, displaying to the ceiling various passages and verses used in recent sermons. By this stage of exposure the ceiling could have made a respectable theological scholar, although being a literal part of a religious building would have called its neutrality and objectivity into question. A notepad to one side of the desk bore the torn remnants of historical efforts to forge a worthy sermon, each page ripped free prior to delivery and subsequently rested on the lectern in the chancel, nestled between the pages of the ceremonial holy text.
Sometimes the words flowed easily from Father Crest and onto the page. A particular verse would erupt into the vicar’s mind and carry with it lessons in morality which his congregation might appreciate and absorb, or a news story would find its reflection within the pages of a prophet’s teachings. More often than not he would see something on the television which took his fancy, and relive it via the gospels and ancient parables. This week, however, both moral authority and television had failed him.
Minutes had turned to hours and from there to days as the notepad stared back at him, bare of wisdom and truth. No inspiration could be divined from scripture, the tales of ancient people being punished for their flaws bringing forward no message other than to strive for unattainable perfection. It wasn’t that he had irredeemable souls to save or impossible problems to solve. A rejection of the values his congregation should have been holding dear or a series of blasphemies would have made life easier; such actions were trivial to chastise with the words of the apostles or gospels. Father Crest was faced instead with a world which seemed apathetic about life itself, following the rules to the letter with a deadened resignation. All he had seen was bland and passionless, the members of his parish walking along paths grooved deep with repeated steps. He was a shepherd tending to a clockwork flock, and it sat on his heart like a belt compressing his chest.
Preparing for the morning sermon, his dog collar gripped in a limply dangling hand as he sat collapsed in his chair, Father Crest dwelt on the problem as he had done all week. It had run this way and that around his mind, investigating every potential avenue of resolution and finding dead-ends every time. Before he knew it, the feeling had started to rub-off on him, and left a trail of defeated emptiness around his brain wherever it had explored. Perhaps he was unnecessary in this age, with no heresies to purge or sinful behaviours left to correct. Perhaps the wolves which had harassed the flock in ages past were now gone. Clockwork had no predators anyway, except rust or maybe a stern blow with a brick. His congregation didn’t seem rusty; dulled perhaps, but not seized up with decay. Their gears moved evenly, but to no end.
Above his extinguished fire, sitting on the mantelpiece, the vestry’s timepiece ticked along just like the people outside. But at least this mechanism served the purpose of reminding him that it was time to take his position. Father Crest stood slowly and laboriously with a heavy sigh, put his collar on with muscle memory alone, and paced slowly through the door. For the first time in years, his notepad stayed whole and behind. It was as blank as the attitude he’d found in his congregation.
Air simultaneously cold from outside and stale from the church interior, carrying the musty aroma of ancient cushions and worn wooden seats, wafted around the vicar as he crossed to his lectern in the chancel. It carried sermons past, wedding services from times gone by, and the funerals, baptisms, and choir services of years; a slightly pungent reminder of all that the church had done for the town. In the deep silence of the empty sanctum, the memories, smells, and icons all weighed more heavily on a person’s mind, driving themselves further in than they had any right to go. When a person came to sit in the noiseless chancel there was nothing to distract them from internal contemplation and the agenda of the memories assailing them. It was an effect that had been used for years, the vicar supposed, to emphasise the impact of any lessons delivered within these sanctified halls. Back when he was Billy Crest he would have considered that manipulative, and not an action that the church would have taken consciously against its own followers. But now that he was Father Crest, his opinion had drifted somewhat to the other side of the court. Needs must, after all, and if his congregation wouldn’t save themselves willingly, then it was his duty to find a way of making it happen.
Lying open on the lectern, as it always did, was the book of scriptures from which knowledge was to flow into Father Crest. He was a conduit for the teachings held within, responsible for delivering venerable words to his vulnerable congregation as and where necessary. He was the interpreter of their intentions, ensuring that any who questioned their meaning were guided towards the correct path with a kind hand. He was a figurehead and a symbol, representing the Lord to these people. And their actions towards him were, therefore, a direct analogue for actions towards the Lord himself, his teachers had told him. Billy Crest wouldn’t have liked the sound of that. Father Crest relied on it.
With a hand which had sanctified births and unions, but been washed several times in between, the vicar turned pages back and forth at random. He scanned through the dense tome of those stories and messages which the ancient believers felt to be of great import, but still he felt no epiphany. A reflexive voice in the back of his reminded him that everything happened for a reason, and inspiration would strike him at the time it was needed. After all these years he had no idea whose voice it was anymore; his own, his teacher’s, that of the priest who conducted the services in his youth, or someone else’s entirely. Even the volunteer groups he’d worked with in the past could have been in there somewhere, lending their own vocal harmonies to the generic voice of reassurance. He couldn’t account for why, but the reassuring voice did nothing but irritate him today. All of his life and his work had been characterised by repeated phrases, quoted verses, and ritual words. They were stock answers which could supposedly meet any question and leave it satisfied, but they had done nothing to solve his current lack of something worthwhile to say. Perhaps they would indeed provide him a solution at the right time. But then again, perhaps they wouldn’t.
A dull thud echoed around the church as Father Crest slapped his palms flat onto the open pages of the book and looked up to the empty rows of pews. It was a sight he had seen countless times; before and after every sermon the church was barren. Sometimes it was easy to feel that this was simply its readiness to take in anyone who sought salvation or shelter. Other times Father Crest had to beat back the whispers from the corners of his mind that it was abandonment.
‘The congregation have other matters to attend to in their lives; the church should be there to help them, not enslave them and chain them to itself’ was Billy Crest’s answer every time the thoughts of dissent tried to manifest themselves.
Stained glass windows cast rainbows and beams of colour across the dark wooden interior on sunny days. This morning in the bright whiteness of an overcast sky, the colours were still present but only as washed out forgeries of their full potential. Father Crest had learned to see beauty in the variations though. It was one of the few things which changed from day-to-day in the way that the words of scripture couldn’t, whilst still remaining true to the cause. Now if he could only encourage his congregation to do the same and break their perfunctory rhythms.
He checked his watch, a digital display informing him that it was time to open the doors and greet the congregation as they filtered in. Seeing something as modern as that in the halls of antiquity helped to remind Father Crest that he was living in the real world, rather than the ancient cities outlined in the parables. Reconciling the wisdom of someone who thought that healing the sick was a fairly revolutionary idea with a congregation able to access the entirety of human knowledge in a few seconds was tricky. But it was also a necessary consequence of modern technological advances, and a duty which was Father Crest’s to fulfil. Questions over whether a hashtag charity campaign would have been run on social media during the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah were answered with a cursory ‘of course’.
Father Crest arrived at the heavy iron lock which had held the oak doors of the church for centuries. Keeping the supposedly ever-welcoming halls of the church closed overnight had always felt like something of a contradiction in terms, regardless of side-doors and doorbells to request entry. His gaze and hands then fell to the modern lock sitting just underneath, which had functionally replaced the iron lock a few years ago out of necessity. Being able to replace a sturdy key the size of his wallet with a normal pocket sized key had been a welcome change for the vicar, as well as removing the need to battle with a stiff lump of iron, prone to binding on cold nights, just to keep the doors closed. The old lock was pleasing to look at, and thankfully that was now its only purpose. Maybe the congregation looked at his church in the same way; a spectator event but nothing of any real import.
A heavy slug of cold air swept in through the crack in the doors as they swung ponderously open, like the church drawing in a deep breath of the morning. Robes billowing gently in the breeze, Father Crest supposed that the church needed its own time to wake up and get ready for the congregation. It was understandable; if a few dozen people were about to walk into him, he’d want to have at least taken a good gulp of air first to get ready. And there would be several more heavily-enforced rules regarding the wiping of feet before entering.
On the gravel between rows of bushes and trees the first couple of cars were already neatly parked, apparently impatient for proceedings to get underway. It wasn’t unusual for a certain few members of the parish to arrive early, despite Father Crest’s gentle indications that they would be better off waiting at home in the warm a little longer, rather than lingering in the car park. Waving over as he knew he should, and wearing a smile though there was no feeling behind it, Father Crest let the car-bound worshippers know that the arms of the Lord, or at least the doors of His home, were open to receive them. Polite waves responded to the vicar’s summons, followed shortly after by car doors clunking open and closed.
Heads of white hair, the usual culprits of early arrival, bobbed through the car park as their respective feet crunched through the gravel. Billy Crest had seen this throughout his youth, the elder members of his home parish always ready and seated before anyone else arrived, and assumed it to be a sign of utmost piety and enduring faith. He’d entered through the imposing doorway every time and looked for the typical heads and shoulders, inevitably waiting in the foremost pews with perceived eagerness for what the old rector had to say.
Devotion was not the explanation that Father Crest favoured, not from the handful of people currently ambling their way towards him through the car park. ‘Bored’ had fit the bill in the early days of his tenure, which morphed to ‘possessed of so little to do that they might as well get to the church a little early, rather than risk missing the ten minutes of small-talk and patient waiting prior to the sermon actually getting underway’. Since even then, he had been beset by yet more cynical notions.
“Hello Father Crest.” Gwendoline Jones called from a few paces away, making the vicar’s stomach tense with restrained frustration at having to interact despite his mood. Notes of brightness in her voice could do nothing to mask the aloof superiority with which she always spoke. Growing inside the vicar was an opinion that Mrs Jones wore being first to enter the church as a symbol of status, a thin justification she used for nothing other than to look down on everyone else.
“Good morning Gwendoline. How’s the knee?” Father Crest responded, asking his typical reflexive question to prove that he could take an interest in her. He already knew that she would put on a faux-brave face before explaining to him some banal detail of why it was, in fact, making a martyr of her. His better nature made him ask every time, but he was starting to hate himself for it.
“Oh I’m bearing up. Mustn’t complain. Gave me awful jip on Thursday, though.” She complained, after a classic opener. “Or was it Wednesday? It was when we had that bad rain, and I had gone to the shops to pick up some more teabags and bread. I bent down to pick up the wholemeal, which they always put too low and they know full well that I can’t get down there easily these days but they put it there anyway, and it really twinged. It must have been Thursday because I had done the bins that morning as well which always puts a lot of strain on it.” She bleated. At the best of times Father Crest could only have maintained such a conversation for a few minutes. But it was the same story every week, the never-changing tales of Gwendoline’s expectation that the world should exist to suit her needs. It was more than he could handle today.
“Well you’d best get out of the cold and take a seat to rest it.” The vicar suggested strategically, guiding her inwards with one hand gently on her back and the other unnecessarily showing her the way to the pews.
“Yes the cold does make it play up. But it still doesn’t stop me getting here first, eh.” She said with a chuckle. Father Crest’s smile was empty but she didn’t notice, tottering her way inside as if it had been her idea the whole time.
Having made steady progress whilst Mrs Jones had been dithering at the door, Mr and Mrs Holborn were nearly on top of him. Walter Holborn walked as tall and straight as he had ever done, whilst Janet Holborn linked her arm through his and moved with more of a stooped shuffle. She blamed it on years of work as a hairdresser, leaning and bending at awkward angles to sculpt her clients. Her husband's upright posture was a relic of his days as a schoolteacher at the highly exclusive private institution shut down a handful of years previously. His attitude had remained open for business however.
“Good morning Father.” Walter said in his commanding tone, sounding like he was formally ordering the vicar to have a good time prior to noon, on pain of a harsh caning. That kind of threatening authority made it feel all the stranger that a man more than two clear decades his senior still called the vicar ‘Father’. It just made a mockery of traditional heredity.
“Good morning Mr Holborn, Mrs Holborn.” Father Crest replied a little mechanically, trying not to sound like one of Walter’s former students. “I trust the day finds you well?” He forced himself to add.
“Yes fine.” Mr Holborn said back hurriedly, without any feeling other than mild irritation at idle chatter.
“Yes thank you, Father.” Janet Holborn added quietly, with a small token smile.
Neither Janet nor Walter slowed down as they spoke to or walked past the vicar, instead continuing their journey undisrupted into the church’s sanctum. They could always be relied upon not to stop for idle small-talk. A part of the vicar thought it to be a little rude sometimes, but today he welcomed their glancing interaction. Much better to have dismissive silence than a second Gwendoline.
More cars pulled in over the following minutes, spilling out worshippers to join a trickle of walkers and cyclists. In an orderly fashion they each sauntered though the doorway and said their hellos to Father Crest and each other. Perfunctory answers were bounced back against the vicar’s ‘how are you’s and they took their seats. None of them asked Father Crest how he was. It hardly bothered him usually, but today, despite his total lack of desire for conversation, it stung.
Once the whole flock had been corralled into their pews, Father Crest pulled the doors shut with an echoing ‘clunk’ and paced his way up to the lectern. Standing and looking over the day’s audience the vicar waited patiently for silence. When that didn’t work out he tried waiting impatiently instead. He cleared his throat, tried quietly saying ‘OK, now’ and ‘Right then’, and even asked directly for quiet. After those further failures to secure quietness, the feeling of powerless dejection he’d been battling all morning turned to a spark of anger, and he slammed his book of holy scriptures shut. The bang echoed from the vaulted ceiling and shook the ancient timbers high above, filling the alcoves around the sanctum and bouncing back like the roar of a theological lion.
Shocked silence and gasps filled the space normally occupied by a gradual tapering of conversation. Father Crest certainly had their attention now.
“Ha.” He laughed weakly, trying to regain control of himself and break the tension he’d just created. The congregation didn’t seem to see the funny side.
“Good morning, everyone. I hope that this day finds you all well.” Father Crest began at last, trying to muster his normal enthusiasm but not quite managing it. It was similar to the manner in which a steam roller doesn’t quite manage to fit into a pair of ballet shoes. Billy Crest’s naïve voice told the directionless preacher to look to his flock for inspiration and support, but all the vicar saw were bored, disinterested faces. They were a mirror to his own emotion, aside from the few who were still showing shock from the book closure. Murmurs started to creep back in, but didn’t last for very long in case a second book-slamming was imminent.
"So, perhaps today we should start with the any-other-business section. Give it a chance to feel important for once, rather than an afterthought." The vicar ventured with another nervous, unconvincing laugh. "I'll pass the collection plate round first, I think." He said, remembering the hole in the church roof. He didn't know what it was about holy-site construction which led to easily perforated roofs, but even when he was in training it seemed that every church either had a leaking roof, or was undergoing repairs to the leaking roof. Some of the roofs had just been repaired, but immediately sprung another leak to make up for it. Billy Crest would probably have made a remark about the holes being an aperture for the Lord's love and light to pour through, but Father Crest suspected that divine adoration didn't rot the timbers or drip on the back of people's necks.
Damp aromas from the Lord's adoration seeping in above drifted down to the vicar, watching over his silent flock as he fetched the collection plate and passed it to Miss Colton on the first row. Every action came against the burden of his weighty emptiness, his stomach allowing him to make only those gestures which were as hollow as it felt. His mouth forced the smile that his eyes couldn’t, feeling tears hiding away just behind the surface. They wouldn’t come out, but threatened their presence with every word and motion. Returning to his position in front of the pews Father Crest stared at his lectern and wanted nothing more than to slump over with hunched shoulders, collapsing away from his responsibilities. But his arms held him upright where his spine wanted to fail. The congregation looked back at him just the same as always, as if he were the bright and energetic man he normally presented to them.
“The church roof fund is still open. If anyone has an idea of how to raise money for the repairs then it will be gratefully heard.” He said mutedly with eyes facing down. Standing at his lectern he was surrounded by gilt frames, candlesticks, and iconography with considerable worth, yet still he was begging for charity. ‘Say thank you for all the donations so far’ Billy reminded him. Father Crest knew he should do it, and he even wanted to do it, but the words were limp and heavy at the bottom of his chest, pushing down on his diaphragm and stifling his breathing. To get them out would be like trying to get a sodden bird to fly, incapable of rising up due to the weight of its own feathers.
“We are still in need of volunteers for our work party to clear the weeds from the church grounds. Starting next Saturday afternoon and continuing each Saturday afterwards as required. Any time at all would be appreciated.” He paused to let them consider attendance. Consideration seemed to be about as far as any of them would take the matter. “And… and if any of you, or those you know, seek counsel from the parish then they are always welcome.” The invitation was a formality at this stage. It was rare for someone to seek his advice on anything beyond when they could book a ceremony or whether he’d be willing to donate to their sponsored cracker eating contest or something. As expected, silence met his offer. He waited for a moment, and then pushed himself onwards.
"I owe you, to start today’s sermon proper, something of a confession" Father Crest projected to his congregation. "Although I know confession isn't really our thing, of course." He added with a small, pained chuckle. A little inter-denominational theological humour usually went down a treat within this particular niche crowd, but as the vicar looked from face to face he saw that few were smiling. In fact a handful were maintaining their frowns, still affronted by his method quieting them down. The vicar bit back his disappointment and annoyance, burning all the more because of the effort it had taken to force the joke out in the first place; that they had the audacity to bear a grudge against him for their own rudeness was an insult, but Billy’s voice reminded him that it wasn’t his place to take offence.
“I’ve been struggling with what to say to you all. To decide which of His teachings would suit your needs best.” He said. He spoke slowly, partially from the embarrassment and uncertainty of his honesty, and partially to buy more time to think. The right words had always come to him by this point of his previous services, whether in a flash of a light or a slow trek through a forced topic for the sermon. Even if he had to fight through it word by bloody word he had managed to have something in place before speaking. But today there was only a void in his mind. It was empty of options, let alone decisions. Billy’s voice told him that even in the darkest times, all it took was for someone to turn on the light, although he may have borrowed those words from Professor Dumbledore rather than the messiah. But Father Crest didn’t even think it was dark in his heart right then; there was simply nothing to see. Even His light couldn’t illuminate something that wasn’t there to begin with. In his mind he knew what he could do to get around this. He could smile and laugh it off, discuss how everyone struggles from time to time, and teach the lesson that humility and the acceptance of shortcomings is valuable. But there was a weight in his chest and stomach that he couldn’t lift high enough to do it. It held the laughter down like the cork of a champagne bottle, and there was no-one there to shake him up and pop it off.
Billy gave the preacher all sorts of suggestions. He could read his favourite verse, a psalm which meant something special, or even just random passage, and then discuss the message it was trying to relay. Whilst Father Crest knew that it really was as simple as that, he also knew that there was no way he would go through with any of those ideas, no matter how much he wanted to. Whatever had got in the way of his planning was binding his hands to stop him turning pages, muzzling his mouth to stop him speaking freely, and even salting the water in his kettle to delay its boiling.
He held his silence for a few moments, but that produced no shift in the countenances of the congregation. Father Crest drew a deep breath in, the aroma of his wooden lectern familiar and comforting. This was his seat of knowledge and wisdom, the symbol of his authority and leadership in the room, but today it did nothing for him.
“Try as I might to bring together a sermon which would serve all of us, and help us to serve Him in turn, I fear that I have been filled with a little too much of His peace and tranquillity. It's a difficult thing to admit to you. Believe me when I say that it was even harder to accept for myself in the first place. But you aren't here to listen to me talking about my own problems." He continued, a selfish part of his mind hoping for a murmur that they did care about his problems. His audience was silent.
Father Crest had revealed his moment of weakness to the congregation, to the people he had served and helped and counselled. And they looked back impassively, as if he were a news broadcaster discussing the tarmac choices available to a local authority. In all their emotional breaks and crises of faith or happiness he had been there for them, and now they simply stared, emotionlessly. He would even have taken the frowns back at this point; at least they would have been feeling something.
A life of devoted service had kept him here performing these motions, day-in and day-out, without a thought of questioning why, or whether he should keep going. Was it wrong to ask for something back? He wasn’t even asking for their empathy or sympathy; simple recognition of his plight would be sufficient; acknowledgement that he was a man like any other with problems that could be solved by their help. Billy and the rest of his better nature tried to talk him out of such thoughts, but the leaden rain was soaking in and pushing his mind down.
“Does this not stir a thing in your heart? By the grace of the Lord does the plight of a fellow man not give you cause to react? Have you even noticed!?” He cried, the grip on his composure slipping whilst his grip on the edges of the lectern tightened.
Someone coughed. The pews were filled with people, and they shifted in their seats and fidgeted on the hard wooden seats, but no-one said a word. They all kept listening, not rapt with attention but dutifully keeping their eyes on him. They didn't want to be there, that was obvious. ‘But here they are all the same’ Billy Crest observed. The vicar brushed it away. At the back of the church, resting on an empty seat, the collection plate had stopped on an empty seat. It had come back empty one too many times before, and now again it sat with no charity to show.
“Is presence and presence alone the extent of your commitment and devotion? You come to this place of worship every week for your reasons of public opinion and image but do you pledge yourselves to His will or simply perform the motions without sincerity? I find it hard to tell today. The heart of faith is to feel! Feel a connection to something, feel a kinship with your fellow worshippers, feel a part of something which goes beyond our earthly bodies and these tangible experiences. You cannot all be so dulled and numb to the truth of why we are here, or to the voice of empathy in the back of your minds!”
Faces he knew individually blended to one common expression of neutral focus. All eyes were on him, but the only thing that Father Crest could see behind any of them was dull grey. They were mechanoids going through the physical act of coming to worship without any cognisance of their surroundings or what was going on. Had he made them into these drones of minimalist duty rather than the truly human devout? Was he one of them? Running along on his rails and performing duty rather than championing his flock? No, he could see that the congregation were trapped in their loops of behaviour, acting out of programmed habit. At least he had the human independence to feel despair about it.
"We must ask ourselves whether we can tell one day from the next, and I for one fear the answer. I fear that we are not appreciating our lives, the lives He has given us, for what they are. Mindless obeisance and acting from ritual rather than worship is not the point of our existence! Drifting along by routine and repeating the same words to one another every day is not the gift He has given us."
Father Crest scanned the room taking in the details of every face, and found that he trusted none of them any longer. In times past he would have sworn that any member of his congregation would swoop to the aid of a man in crisis or the church in a time of need, but the longer he languished in front of them without a glimmer of reaction the further that faith in them waned. Weariness swelled in his heart, as if all the efforts he had ever made for his parish had hit him at once and sapped his energy.
"Can anybody hear me? Are you listening? Do my words enter your ears but not your mind, or are you fully deaf and dumb to what lies around you?" The tired vicar cried to his congregation of sinners and heretics. “I do not stand here and preach to you for the sake of my own soul, nor do the lessons I choose serve the sole purpose of filling a sermon. They are the guidance in morality that you so sorely need. To sit in this hallowed hall, this house of His light, and steadfastly ignore that which is conveyed to you is a blasphemy. You take His acts of worship in vain equally reprehensibly as if you had used His name.”
An edge of strained desperation, the mania of fervour, had crept into the vicar’s usually even and controlled tone. Leaning forwards on his lectern he berated his congregation for the crimes of apathy and acceptance of a leaking roof. High above from the stained glass windows, the saints looked down upon him and the occupied pews. Would they approve of what he was saying? Would they judge his congregation so harshly or take a better view?
“Every day is a gift but to you they have become an entitlement. Every freedom is a blessing but you have become ungrateful and complacent. Every time you take a drink from the Lord’s well it is a privilege to experience His protection, but you consider it your right! You content yourselves with watching the house of your saviour, He who would give his last to give you enough, crumble. And you consider yourself exonerated as long as you took a longer, more mournful look than your neighbour. But when that one-upmanship finally grows dire enough to necessitate action, the veil of selflessness cannot mask the heart of narcissism which drives you forwards. If any one of you was motivated by empathy then surely you could not stare up at me with such an unconcerned countenance.”
Clothes rustled slightly as the congregation fidgeted and shuffled their feet. Still there were no protests. Father Crest had their attention, but he did not find much worth in it.
“This holy place, this house of our Lord, bears witness to all of us. It sees what it is in our hearts, and whether our intentions are worthy of the adoration we seek from our deeds.” Father Crest preached. ‘Deeds like shielding your flock, as is your duty?’ Billy questioned. He had hated hypocrisy. Father Crest tried to deny to himself that he was now depending on it.
“When we look into our hearts, we must be sure that what we see is the truth, and not just what we want to see. Telling ourselves that our intentions are pure will not alter reality, nor will it fool the judgemental gaze of the Lord. Eventually the façade cracks and falls away, and one day we may find that we can’t even fool ourselves.”
Another icy drip fell from the timbers onto the top of the vicar’s head. It was cold and shocking, doubly so when the frigid draft swept between stone blocks and chilled it further. No matter what else happened, the forces of nature would always pick holes in this sanctuary and blast their frozen tendrils inside. Maintaining those boundaries against the intruders was a task never completed, one requiring constant time and attention; doing it alone when so many relied on the church staying standing was overwhelming. Father Crest looked up into the darkness of the ceiling and searched for any sign of the hole, knowing that such flaws were not easily visible to the eye. It would require a concerted effort to find and fix.
‘One could argue that only by serving the needs of the church is receipt of its protection guaranteed. The stones, lead and slate encasing you take all you have to offer and express no gratitude for what they get; why should it be any more of a crime for the living statues in the pews, staring up at you now, to do the same? They are all the same products of the earth, and all of them require constant repair-work to their structure and their souls, the mortar which binds them all together.’ Billy’s voice whispered inside Father Crest’s head. He didn’t like having to refer to the congregation as if they were dead lumps of rock, but the metaphor served well enough. He’d heard worse analogies as a child when the parables were relayed to him, or when a teacher was trying to convince him to stop asking questions. But there and then Billy was more concerned with arguing that it was a man-of-the-cloth’s role to rise above such concerns as gratitude and recompense. He would have held that their solemn duty was to service the spiritual needs of the parish and represent the Lord’s word to them; to be an avatar of the virtues and teachings the Lord espoused, without regard for petty concerns such as thanks.
But the ends were the same either way, Father Crest argued back at himself. Appreciated or otherwise the rites were being performed, the people blessed, and the world allowed to move on. So if it gave him some measure of catharsis to consider that the people who had arrived to hear his wisdom were vultures pecking at his hands, rather than sparrows taking the seeds therefrom, then what harm was there? He held that it gave him armour against getting too attached or drawn in. A view not coloured by close involvement would see clearer.
“Acts of charity are not charity if they are performed in service of our own ego or our own conscience. Guilt is not the path to altruism.” Father Crest continued to his congregation, despite Billy’s protestations in the back of his mind. “I compel you to question yourselves, to look inward with His eyes and, when you find yourselves wanting, to consider how penance may be paid.”
He was barely concealing the black tar of his frustration any longer, allowing it to swamp over the message and cling to every word, until the sermon was simply a vehicle for his venomous tongue. When Billy’s voice told him such, he rallied in defence of himself.
Maintaining the souls of the flock had prevented the maintenance of the roof. Despite his sacrifices for them, rainwater still flowed in; they saw the decay of their own sanctuary and remained unmoved. The decay of their vicar evoked no more of a reaction. Father Crest argued with himself that he held ceremonies and services to bring the congregation together as a community, but they bounced away from one another like billiard balls, barely interacting beyond the end of the sermon. Allowing them to live in the sea of their own shortcomings had not helped them to see the error of their ways, and subtle guidance had delivered them nothing.
‘Error of their ways?’ Billy’s voice demanded. ‘Vague accusations and dwelling on perceived past trespasses do not a condemnation make, and nor does inaction over a problem make them culpable for it occurring in the first place. What have they done to earn your ire?’ It challenged. Father Crest rose to it; if Billy wanted solid accusations and condemnation then he would have it.
“When I married you, Mr and Mrs Haver,” he growled, pointing a stiff finger towards the thirty-something couple two rows back “you pledged to hold the Lord in your union and one another in your hearts at all times. You made vows to honour each other and the church, just as the church fulfils its duties towards you. And I have played my part; my service on the importance of togetherness in love was a message to you both, if only you had given it the grace of your attention. The simple act of being attentive to the same things at the same times can be the foundation of a solid relationship of shared experiences, and I tailored my sermon to help bring you that gift. But my words slipped through your notice like sand through your fingers, and still you seem to drift along together only because you are caught in the same current.”
Hands held in their respective laps, Mr and Mrs Haver maintained eye contact and showed no glimmer of a response.
“I gave the service when we buried your husband Gwendoline,” Father Crest persisted, swivelling at the hip and leaning forwards over his lectern to face the white-haired woman sitting front and centre “and you took all the support the church could offer, support which you needed and was freely offered. And you pledged to repay that kindness with devotion to the church, but all I have seen from you is pomposity and self-aggrandisement in the least impressive terms. Your timeliness does not earn you favour with the Lord, and when it exists only to rub in the faces of others it does not earn you favour with me either.” She fidgeted her handbag slightly further up her lap and returned to stillness. “You treat every arrival as another flimsy victory and then impatiently wait out the sermon for your next chance the following week, but you neglect the lessons I am trying to convey in the meantime.
I welcomed your child into this family, Mr Baron, as a new soul which might open further doors and the next chapter of your life. But you have named him after yourself as if he might continue the cycle in which you find yourself locked, and you stubbornly insist on continuing your old routines as if his existence should not be allowed to alter yours. Life changes, and it is to be lived with your family, not despite them. I note that I have not seen Mrs Baron or the child since the baptism, for fear of their presence disrupting your established practices in attendance.” Father Crest accused, continuing the sermon of underappreciation. His moustachioed target made no effort to defend himself. “And yet you do not convince me that you are listening, even without the distraction of your loved ones sitting alongside you.”
Father Crest admitted to himself that he was starting to clutch at straws with that last one, but the wave had been carrying him forwards and examples always had to come in threes. That was sermon-writing 101.
Even having been called out by name, the congregation looked back impassively as he ran them into the ground and through the mud. Were they so numb as to ignore every word, or were they turning the other cheek better than him? Their silence filled the room more than ever, like a viscous fluid shielding them against the clergyman’s thorny reprimands.
Father Crest listened to his own words, his judgement of those he was bound to guide in the face of their placid acceptance. He started to wonder if Billy would be proud; not just the Billy left in his head, but the boy who had grown up with the Lord in his heart. He asked himself in that moment whether he was he being the man that Billy knew he could become, and the answer did not taste sweet. The jaded vicar stared at the blank expressions looking up at him, and he wondered to himself if Billy would have aspired to such moral high grounds if he’d known how little the flock respected their shepherd. Without him they would have been savaged by wolves long ago. Not literally, except for that one incident in the zoo, but by figurative spiritual wolves, which were a great threat to the eternal soul. But despite his protection they moved along as they saw fit, rejecting their own duties in the rescue of their own souls.
“Say something! Say anything! Defend yourselves or admit to your heresies, I care not which as long as it means enough to you to make you feel more than this blankness. Whether you see the beauty of His world or protest the cruelty of His servant in this house of the Lord just show me you can hear!”
With every furious word the memory of who Billy had wanted to become ate at him a little more. The man he could be stood alongside the man he was, and it cast a long shadow. Father Crest had, in his anger, been everything that his younger self had sought to reject, but the figure of who he wanted to become was a stronger man than that. He forgave those who went through the motions without feeling, because they were at least trying in their own way. He reacted with humility and grace when confronted with his own failures or rejection of his advice. And most importantly he offered a hand to those in need when they needed to be shown the way. Even himself.
Father Crest found himself at a loss all of a sudden. A moment ago he had been filled with fire and brimstone, openly listing the failures of people who travelled and dedicated their time to listen to his service every week. He had shouted in judgement of those he was pledged to serve and protect, and sought to punish their own stoicism. That wasn’t the work of a good man, or a scion of the Lord. His words had been poor, going beyond pettiness, as had his futile search for cardinal sins among the congregation. With the insights of the man he wished to be, however, he found something lurking in the shadows of his mind; a wave of the same guilt which he’d earlier denounced as the coward’s altruism.
The vicar was forced to admit that Mr Baron’s bake sale at the Christmas service had covered the costs of fitting the new front door lock. The man could definitely be an arrogant thug, but he had sacrificed his own time and helped immensely to keep the church secure and make the vicar’s own life easier.
Gwendoline and her husband used to help organise and run every fete and community event the church held, before his passing. She was allowed time to mourn, Father Crest supposed, and grief could be a reason not to revisit alone those experiences that she used to be able to share. If arriving at the church early was the only way she could prove her commitment then it wasn’t such a crime.
Even Mr and Mrs Haver had used part of their modest wedding fund to repair some of the stained glass windows which had broken in the great storm a few week prior; it had been for the purpose of preventing the rain from blowing directly into the bride’s face during the ceremony, but all the same they’d helped.
Billy would have forgiven all these people without hesitation, even without their moments of redemption. He already had, in fact; he immediately did so every time their minor trespasses crossed Father Crest's mind. Billy would also have forgiven himself for a moment of weakness and human emotion. Father Crest wasn't quite ready for that.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight and drew a deep breath in through his nose, one which seemed to keep going forever as if his lungs were infinite. And on his exhalation the tension of his irritation fell, his shoulders and chest sagged, and he opened his weary eyes to the congregation. He opened them to his flawed group of dressed-up sheep, trying to bleat along to the hymns of a theology they didn't fully grasp, but were committed to all the same in their own way. And if their understanding was poor then there was only one person to blame.
“But these complaints are the lot of humans trying to stay within the Lord’s light. Our souls are not perfect and they cast shadows, sometimes so subtly that we fail to notice until engulfed by the darkness. But even in the deepest shade can be escaped if a hand is offered to show the way out.”
‘And if the hand doesn’t appear?’ Billy questioned.
“If you can see no hand, of course, then the fault is mine and mine alone.” Father Crest said quietly. “Reach out to your neighbours, your friends, and your family when you find me wanting, and hold the church accountable for the times it fails you.”
Father Crest looked down at his book of scriptures, turning pages at random as an excuse to hold his gaze low and hide his embarrassment. It was a good thing that he had Billy to hold him to order when his congregation failed to do so. And he had already made all the right suggestions for a remedy to the troubles of the missing sermon.
“I think this passage will help.” The vicar announced with sudden energy, clearly forced but at least present. He had chosen a section at random, but reading it would keep him out of his own head whilst talking.
With the normal deafening scrape of wooden benches against an ageing stone floor and the rustling of rain jackets the congregation stood as Father Crest dismissed them. Some of them rubbed at legs sore from sitting still, a few raised their arms in a stretch, and most simply waited patiently for their chance to leave. In orderly columns, feeding from each pew in turn, they filed through the church with their own quiet murmurs and opened the vast oak doors at the entrance, allowing the bright white light of day to spill in. Father Crest stood with palms gripping the edges of his lectern and arms locked straight, watching as his flock went off towards the rest of their day with the benefit of his wisdom once again. Or perhaps today they had the benefit of his temper. Either way he was, as ever, left alone in the sanctum.
When the last of the congregation had exited, leaving the door hanging open like every other bloody time, Father Crest stepped down from his pedestal. Gently he walked to the entrance and pulled the doors shut, throwing out an indeterminate, blind wave to anyone who may have been looking. He made the rounds of the pews, tidying up cushions and evening out the spacing between each row, and he picked up the odd dropped glove here and there. With the sanctum returned to order, and the light of the saints in their stained glass shining down upon it, Father Crest returned to the vestry. In the chilly room, filled with fresh air from the still-open window, he sat heavily into his chair and stared at his blank notepad, as it waited patiently on the desk for the next week’s sermon.
It would be another seven days before he had to recite something that his flock needed to hear. But he wondered now if there might be more use in writing a sermon that he needed to hear himself. Idly he took the misplaced gloves from his pocket and placed them in a neat pile on the desk, drooping slightly as they overhung the edge. Looking at the lost-and-found, rescued simply by tending to the needs of the church, Father Crest gave a mirthless chuckle and realised that he had found his inspiration.
Several holy books were scattered across the small desk against the back wall, displaying to the ceiling various passages and verses used in recent sermons. By this stage of exposure the ceiling could have made a respectable theological scholar, although being a literal part of a religious building would have called its neutrality and objectivity into question. A notepad to one side of the desk bore the torn remnants of historical efforts to forge a worthy sermon, each page ripped free prior to delivery and subsequently rested on the lectern in the chancel, nestled between the pages of the ceremonial holy text.
Sometimes the words flowed easily from Father Crest and onto the page. A particular verse would erupt into the vicar’s mind and carry with it lessons in morality which his congregation might appreciate and absorb, or a news story would find its reflection within the pages of a prophet’s teachings. More often than not he would see something on the television which took his fancy, and relive it via the gospels and ancient parables. This week, however, both moral authority and television had failed him.
Minutes had turned to hours and from there to days as the notepad stared back at him, bare of wisdom and truth. No inspiration could be divined from scripture, the tales of ancient people being punished for their flaws bringing forward no message other than to strive for unattainable perfection. It wasn’t that he had irredeemable souls to save or impossible problems to solve. A rejection of the values his congregation should have been holding dear or a series of blasphemies would have made life easier; such actions were trivial to chastise with the words of the apostles or gospels. Father Crest was faced instead with a world which seemed apathetic about life itself, following the rules to the letter with a deadened resignation. All he had seen was bland and passionless, the members of his parish walking along paths grooved deep with repeated steps. He was a shepherd tending to a clockwork flock, and it sat on his heart like a belt compressing his chest.
Preparing for the morning sermon, his dog collar gripped in a limply dangling hand as he sat collapsed in his chair, Father Crest dwelt on the problem as he had done all week. It had run this way and that around his mind, investigating every potential avenue of resolution and finding dead-ends every time. Before he knew it, the feeling had started to rub-off on him, and left a trail of defeated emptiness around his brain wherever it had explored. Perhaps he was unnecessary in this age, with no heresies to purge or sinful behaviours left to correct. Perhaps the wolves which had harassed the flock in ages past were now gone. Clockwork had no predators anyway, except rust or maybe a stern blow with a brick. His congregation didn’t seem rusty; dulled perhaps, but not seized up with decay. Their gears moved evenly, but to no end.
Above his extinguished fire, sitting on the mantelpiece, the vestry’s timepiece ticked along just like the people outside. But at least this mechanism served the purpose of reminding him that it was time to take his position. Father Crest stood slowly and laboriously with a heavy sigh, put his collar on with muscle memory alone, and paced slowly through the door. For the first time in years, his notepad stayed whole and behind. It was as blank as the attitude he’d found in his congregation.
Air simultaneously cold from outside and stale from the church interior, carrying the musty aroma of ancient cushions and worn wooden seats, wafted around the vicar as he crossed to his lectern in the chancel. It carried sermons past, wedding services from times gone by, and the funerals, baptisms, and choir services of years; a slightly pungent reminder of all that the church had done for the town. In the deep silence of the empty sanctum, the memories, smells, and icons all weighed more heavily on a person’s mind, driving themselves further in than they had any right to go. When a person came to sit in the noiseless chancel there was nothing to distract them from internal contemplation and the agenda of the memories assailing them. It was an effect that had been used for years, the vicar supposed, to emphasise the impact of any lessons delivered within these sanctified halls. Back when he was Billy Crest he would have considered that manipulative, and not an action that the church would have taken consciously against its own followers. But now that he was Father Crest, his opinion had drifted somewhat to the other side of the court. Needs must, after all, and if his congregation wouldn’t save themselves willingly, then it was his duty to find a way of making it happen.
Lying open on the lectern, as it always did, was the book of scriptures from which knowledge was to flow into Father Crest. He was a conduit for the teachings held within, responsible for delivering venerable words to his vulnerable congregation as and where necessary. He was the interpreter of their intentions, ensuring that any who questioned their meaning were guided towards the correct path with a kind hand. He was a figurehead and a symbol, representing the Lord to these people. And their actions towards him were, therefore, a direct analogue for actions towards the Lord himself, his teachers had told him. Billy Crest wouldn’t have liked the sound of that. Father Crest relied on it.
With a hand which had sanctified births and unions, but been washed several times in between, the vicar turned pages back and forth at random. He scanned through the dense tome of those stories and messages which the ancient believers felt to be of great import, but still he felt no epiphany. A reflexive voice in the back of his reminded him that everything happened for a reason, and inspiration would strike him at the time it was needed. After all these years he had no idea whose voice it was anymore; his own, his teacher’s, that of the priest who conducted the services in his youth, or someone else’s entirely. Even the volunteer groups he’d worked with in the past could have been in there somewhere, lending their own vocal harmonies to the generic voice of reassurance. He couldn’t account for why, but the reassuring voice did nothing but irritate him today. All of his life and his work had been characterised by repeated phrases, quoted verses, and ritual words. They were stock answers which could supposedly meet any question and leave it satisfied, but they had done nothing to solve his current lack of something worthwhile to say. Perhaps they would indeed provide him a solution at the right time. But then again, perhaps they wouldn’t.
A dull thud echoed around the church as Father Crest slapped his palms flat onto the open pages of the book and looked up to the empty rows of pews. It was a sight he had seen countless times; before and after every sermon the church was barren. Sometimes it was easy to feel that this was simply its readiness to take in anyone who sought salvation or shelter. Other times Father Crest had to beat back the whispers from the corners of his mind that it was abandonment.
‘The congregation have other matters to attend to in their lives; the church should be there to help them, not enslave them and chain them to itself’ was Billy Crest’s answer every time the thoughts of dissent tried to manifest themselves.
Stained glass windows cast rainbows and beams of colour across the dark wooden interior on sunny days. This morning in the bright whiteness of an overcast sky, the colours were still present but only as washed out forgeries of their full potential. Father Crest had learned to see beauty in the variations though. It was one of the few things which changed from day-to-day in the way that the words of scripture couldn’t, whilst still remaining true to the cause. Now if he could only encourage his congregation to do the same and break their perfunctory rhythms.
He checked his watch, a digital display informing him that it was time to open the doors and greet the congregation as they filtered in. Seeing something as modern as that in the halls of antiquity helped to remind Father Crest that he was living in the real world, rather than the ancient cities outlined in the parables. Reconciling the wisdom of someone who thought that healing the sick was a fairly revolutionary idea with a congregation able to access the entirety of human knowledge in a few seconds was tricky. But it was also a necessary consequence of modern technological advances, and a duty which was Father Crest’s to fulfil. Questions over whether a hashtag charity campaign would have been run on social media during the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah were answered with a cursory ‘of course’.
Father Crest arrived at the heavy iron lock which had held the oak doors of the church for centuries. Keeping the supposedly ever-welcoming halls of the church closed overnight had always felt like something of a contradiction in terms, regardless of side-doors and doorbells to request entry. His gaze and hands then fell to the modern lock sitting just underneath, which had functionally replaced the iron lock a few years ago out of necessity. Being able to replace a sturdy key the size of his wallet with a normal pocket sized key had been a welcome change for the vicar, as well as removing the need to battle with a stiff lump of iron, prone to binding on cold nights, just to keep the doors closed. The old lock was pleasing to look at, and thankfully that was now its only purpose. Maybe the congregation looked at his church in the same way; a spectator event but nothing of any real import.
A heavy slug of cold air swept in through the crack in the doors as they swung ponderously open, like the church drawing in a deep breath of the morning. Robes billowing gently in the breeze, Father Crest supposed that the church needed its own time to wake up and get ready for the congregation. It was understandable; if a few dozen people were about to walk into him, he’d want to have at least taken a good gulp of air first to get ready. And there would be several more heavily-enforced rules regarding the wiping of feet before entering.
On the gravel between rows of bushes and trees the first couple of cars were already neatly parked, apparently impatient for proceedings to get underway. It wasn’t unusual for a certain few members of the parish to arrive early, despite Father Crest’s gentle indications that they would be better off waiting at home in the warm a little longer, rather than lingering in the car park. Waving over as he knew he should, and wearing a smile though there was no feeling behind it, Father Crest let the car-bound worshippers know that the arms of the Lord, or at least the doors of His home, were open to receive them. Polite waves responded to the vicar’s summons, followed shortly after by car doors clunking open and closed.
Heads of white hair, the usual culprits of early arrival, bobbed through the car park as their respective feet crunched through the gravel. Billy Crest had seen this throughout his youth, the elder members of his home parish always ready and seated before anyone else arrived, and assumed it to be a sign of utmost piety and enduring faith. He’d entered through the imposing doorway every time and looked for the typical heads and shoulders, inevitably waiting in the foremost pews with perceived eagerness for what the old rector had to say.
Devotion was not the explanation that Father Crest favoured, not from the handful of people currently ambling their way towards him through the car park. ‘Bored’ had fit the bill in the early days of his tenure, which morphed to ‘possessed of so little to do that they might as well get to the church a little early, rather than risk missing the ten minutes of small-talk and patient waiting prior to the sermon actually getting underway’. Since even then, he had been beset by yet more cynical notions.
“Hello Father Crest.” Gwendoline Jones called from a few paces away, making the vicar’s stomach tense with restrained frustration at having to interact despite his mood. Notes of brightness in her voice could do nothing to mask the aloof superiority with which she always spoke. Growing inside the vicar was an opinion that Mrs Jones wore being first to enter the church as a symbol of status, a thin justification she used for nothing other than to look down on everyone else.
“Good morning Gwendoline. How’s the knee?” Father Crest responded, asking his typical reflexive question to prove that he could take an interest in her. He already knew that she would put on a faux-brave face before explaining to him some banal detail of why it was, in fact, making a martyr of her. His better nature made him ask every time, but he was starting to hate himself for it.
“Oh I’m bearing up. Mustn’t complain. Gave me awful jip on Thursday, though.” She complained, after a classic opener. “Or was it Wednesday? It was when we had that bad rain, and I had gone to the shops to pick up some more teabags and bread. I bent down to pick up the wholemeal, which they always put too low and they know full well that I can’t get down there easily these days but they put it there anyway, and it really twinged. It must have been Thursday because I had done the bins that morning as well which always puts a lot of strain on it.” She bleated. At the best of times Father Crest could only have maintained such a conversation for a few minutes. But it was the same story every week, the never-changing tales of Gwendoline’s expectation that the world should exist to suit her needs. It was more than he could handle today.
“Well you’d best get out of the cold and take a seat to rest it.” The vicar suggested strategically, guiding her inwards with one hand gently on her back and the other unnecessarily showing her the way to the pews.
“Yes the cold does make it play up. But it still doesn’t stop me getting here first, eh.” She said with a chuckle. Father Crest’s smile was empty but she didn’t notice, tottering her way inside as if it had been her idea the whole time.
Having made steady progress whilst Mrs Jones had been dithering at the door, Mr and Mrs Holborn were nearly on top of him. Walter Holborn walked as tall and straight as he had ever done, whilst Janet Holborn linked her arm through his and moved with more of a stooped shuffle. She blamed it on years of work as a hairdresser, leaning and bending at awkward angles to sculpt her clients. Her husband's upright posture was a relic of his days as a schoolteacher at the highly exclusive private institution shut down a handful of years previously. His attitude had remained open for business however.
“Good morning Father.” Walter said in his commanding tone, sounding like he was formally ordering the vicar to have a good time prior to noon, on pain of a harsh caning. That kind of threatening authority made it feel all the stranger that a man more than two clear decades his senior still called the vicar ‘Father’. It just made a mockery of traditional heredity.
“Good morning Mr Holborn, Mrs Holborn.” Father Crest replied a little mechanically, trying not to sound like one of Walter’s former students. “I trust the day finds you well?” He forced himself to add.
“Yes fine.” Mr Holborn said back hurriedly, without any feeling other than mild irritation at idle chatter.
“Yes thank you, Father.” Janet Holborn added quietly, with a small token smile.
Neither Janet nor Walter slowed down as they spoke to or walked past the vicar, instead continuing their journey undisrupted into the church’s sanctum. They could always be relied upon not to stop for idle small-talk. A part of the vicar thought it to be a little rude sometimes, but today he welcomed their glancing interaction. Much better to have dismissive silence than a second Gwendoline.
More cars pulled in over the following minutes, spilling out worshippers to join a trickle of walkers and cyclists. In an orderly fashion they each sauntered though the doorway and said their hellos to Father Crest and each other. Perfunctory answers were bounced back against the vicar’s ‘how are you’s and they took their seats. None of them asked Father Crest how he was. It hardly bothered him usually, but today, despite his total lack of desire for conversation, it stung.
Once the whole flock had been corralled into their pews, Father Crest pulled the doors shut with an echoing ‘clunk’ and paced his way up to the lectern. Standing and looking over the day’s audience the vicar waited patiently for silence. When that didn’t work out he tried waiting impatiently instead. He cleared his throat, tried quietly saying ‘OK, now’ and ‘Right then’, and even asked directly for quiet. After those further failures to secure quietness, the feeling of powerless dejection he’d been battling all morning turned to a spark of anger, and he slammed his book of holy scriptures shut. The bang echoed from the vaulted ceiling and shook the ancient timbers high above, filling the alcoves around the sanctum and bouncing back like the roar of a theological lion.
Shocked silence and gasps filled the space normally occupied by a gradual tapering of conversation. Father Crest certainly had their attention now.
“Ha.” He laughed weakly, trying to regain control of himself and break the tension he’d just created. The congregation didn’t seem to see the funny side.
“Good morning, everyone. I hope that this day finds you all well.” Father Crest began at last, trying to muster his normal enthusiasm but not quite managing it. It was similar to the manner in which a steam roller doesn’t quite manage to fit into a pair of ballet shoes. Billy Crest’s naïve voice told the directionless preacher to look to his flock for inspiration and support, but all the vicar saw were bored, disinterested faces. They were a mirror to his own emotion, aside from the few who were still showing shock from the book closure. Murmurs started to creep back in, but didn’t last for very long in case a second book-slamming was imminent.
"So, perhaps today we should start with the any-other-business section. Give it a chance to feel important for once, rather than an afterthought." The vicar ventured with another nervous, unconvincing laugh. "I'll pass the collection plate round first, I think." He said, remembering the hole in the church roof. He didn't know what it was about holy-site construction which led to easily perforated roofs, but even when he was in training it seemed that every church either had a leaking roof, or was undergoing repairs to the leaking roof. Some of the roofs had just been repaired, but immediately sprung another leak to make up for it. Billy Crest would probably have made a remark about the holes being an aperture for the Lord's love and light to pour through, but Father Crest suspected that divine adoration didn't rot the timbers or drip on the back of people's necks.
Damp aromas from the Lord's adoration seeping in above drifted down to the vicar, watching over his silent flock as he fetched the collection plate and passed it to Miss Colton on the first row. Every action came against the burden of his weighty emptiness, his stomach allowing him to make only those gestures which were as hollow as it felt. His mouth forced the smile that his eyes couldn’t, feeling tears hiding away just behind the surface. They wouldn’t come out, but threatened their presence with every word and motion. Returning to his position in front of the pews Father Crest stared at his lectern and wanted nothing more than to slump over with hunched shoulders, collapsing away from his responsibilities. But his arms held him upright where his spine wanted to fail. The congregation looked back at him just the same as always, as if he were the bright and energetic man he normally presented to them.
“The church roof fund is still open. If anyone has an idea of how to raise money for the repairs then it will be gratefully heard.” He said mutedly with eyes facing down. Standing at his lectern he was surrounded by gilt frames, candlesticks, and iconography with considerable worth, yet still he was begging for charity. ‘Say thank you for all the donations so far’ Billy reminded him. Father Crest knew he should do it, and he even wanted to do it, but the words were limp and heavy at the bottom of his chest, pushing down on his diaphragm and stifling his breathing. To get them out would be like trying to get a sodden bird to fly, incapable of rising up due to the weight of its own feathers.
“We are still in need of volunteers for our work party to clear the weeds from the church grounds. Starting next Saturday afternoon and continuing each Saturday afterwards as required. Any time at all would be appreciated.” He paused to let them consider attendance. Consideration seemed to be about as far as any of them would take the matter. “And… and if any of you, or those you know, seek counsel from the parish then they are always welcome.” The invitation was a formality at this stage. It was rare for someone to seek his advice on anything beyond when they could book a ceremony or whether he’d be willing to donate to their sponsored cracker eating contest or something. As expected, silence met his offer. He waited for a moment, and then pushed himself onwards.
"I owe you, to start today’s sermon proper, something of a confession" Father Crest projected to his congregation. "Although I know confession isn't really our thing, of course." He added with a small, pained chuckle. A little inter-denominational theological humour usually went down a treat within this particular niche crowd, but as the vicar looked from face to face he saw that few were smiling. In fact a handful were maintaining their frowns, still affronted by his method quieting them down. The vicar bit back his disappointment and annoyance, burning all the more because of the effort it had taken to force the joke out in the first place; that they had the audacity to bear a grudge against him for their own rudeness was an insult, but Billy’s voice reminded him that it wasn’t his place to take offence.
“I’ve been struggling with what to say to you all. To decide which of His teachings would suit your needs best.” He said. He spoke slowly, partially from the embarrassment and uncertainty of his honesty, and partially to buy more time to think. The right words had always come to him by this point of his previous services, whether in a flash of a light or a slow trek through a forced topic for the sermon. Even if he had to fight through it word by bloody word he had managed to have something in place before speaking. But today there was only a void in his mind. It was empty of options, let alone decisions. Billy’s voice told him that even in the darkest times, all it took was for someone to turn on the light, although he may have borrowed those words from Professor Dumbledore rather than the messiah. But Father Crest didn’t even think it was dark in his heart right then; there was simply nothing to see. Even His light couldn’t illuminate something that wasn’t there to begin with. In his mind he knew what he could do to get around this. He could smile and laugh it off, discuss how everyone struggles from time to time, and teach the lesson that humility and the acceptance of shortcomings is valuable. But there was a weight in his chest and stomach that he couldn’t lift high enough to do it. It held the laughter down like the cork of a champagne bottle, and there was no-one there to shake him up and pop it off.
Billy gave the preacher all sorts of suggestions. He could read his favourite verse, a psalm which meant something special, or even just random passage, and then discuss the message it was trying to relay. Whilst Father Crest knew that it really was as simple as that, he also knew that there was no way he would go through with any of those ideas, no matter how much he wanted to. Whatever had got in the way of his planning was binding his hands to stop him turning pages, muzzling his mouth to stop him speaking freely, and even salting the water in his kettle to delay its boiling.
He held his silence for a few moments, but that produced no shift in the countenances of the congregation. Father Crest drew a deep breath in, the aroma of his wooden lectern familiar and comforting. This was his seat of knowledge and wisdom, the symbol of his authority and leadership in the room, but today it did nothing for him.
“Try as I might to bring together a sermon which would serve all of us, and help us to serve Him in turn, I fear that I have been filled with a little too much of His peace and tranquillity. It's a difficult thing to admit to you. Believe me when I say that it was even harder to accept for myself in the first place. But you aren't here to listen to me talking about my own problems." He continued, a selfish part of his mind hoping for a murmur that they did care about his problems. His audience was silent.
Father Crest had revealed his moment of weakness to the congregation, to the people he had served and helped and counselled. And they looked back impassively, as if he were a news broadcaster discussing the tarmac choices available to a local authority. In all their emotional breaks and crises of faith or happiness he had been there for them, and now they simply stared, emotionlessly. He would even have taken the frowns back at this point; at least they would have been feeling something.
A life of devoted service had kept him here performing these motions, day-in and day-out, without a thought of questioning why, or whether he should keep going. Was it wrong to ask for something back? He wasn’t even asking for their empathy or sympathy; simple recognition of his plight would be sufficient; acknowledgement that he was a man like any other with problems that could be solved by their help. Billy and the rest of his better nature tried to talk him out of such thoughts, but the leaden rain was soaking in and pushing his mind down.
“Does this not stir a thing in your heart? By the grace of the Lord does the plight of a fellow man not give you cause to react? Have you even noticed!?” He cried, the grip on his composure slipping whilst his grip on the edges of the lectern tightened.
Someone coughed. The pews were filled with people, and they shifted in their seats and fidgeted on the hard wooden seats, but no-one said a word. They all kept listening, not rapt with attention but dutifully keeping their eyes on him. They didn't want to be there, that was obvious. ‘But here they are all the same’ Billy Crest observed. The vicar brushed it away. At the back of the church, resting on an empty seat, the collection plate had stopped on an empty seat. It had come back empty one too many times before, and now again it sat with no charity to show.
“Is presence and presence alone the extent of your commitment and devotion? You come to this place of worship every week for your reasons of public opinion and image but do you pledge yourselves to His will or simply perform the motions without sincerity? I find it hard to tell today. The heart of faith is to feel! Feel a connection to something, feel a kinship with your fellow worshippers, feel a part of something which goes beyond our earthly bodies and these tangible experiences. You cannot all be so dulled and numb to the truth of why we are here, or to the voice of empathy in the back of your minds!”
Faces he knew individually blended to one common expression of neutral focus. All eyes were on him, but the only thing that Father Crest could see behind any of them was dull grey. They were mechanoids going through the physical act of coming to worship without any cognisance of their surroundings or what was going on. Had he made them into these drones of minimalist duty rather than the truly human devout? Was he one of them? Running along on his rails and performing duty rather than championing his flock? No, he could see that the congregation were trapped in their loops of behaviour, acting out of programmed habit. At least he had the human independence to feel despair about it.
"We must ask ourselves whether we can tell one day from the next, and I for one fear the answer. I fear that we are not appreciating our lives, the lives He has given us, for what they are. Mindless obeisance and acting from ritual rather than worship is not the point of our existence! Drifting along by routine and repeating the same words to one another every day is not the gift He has given us."
Father Crest scanned the room taking in the details of every face, and found that he trusted none of them any longer. In times past he would have sworn that any member of his congregation would swoop to the aid of a man in crisis or the church in a time of need, but the longer he languished in front of them without a glimmer of reaction the further that faith in them waned. Weariness swelled in his heart, as if all the efforts he had ever made for his parish had hit him at once and sapped his energy.
"Can anybody hear me? Are you listening? Do my words enter your ears but not your mind, or are you fully deaf and dumb to what lies around you?" The tired vicar cried to his congregation of sinners and heretics. “I do not stand here and preach to you for the sake of my own soul, nor do the lessons I choose serve the sole purpose of filling a sermon. They are the guidance in morality that you so sorely need. To sit in this hallowed hall, this house of His light, and steadfastly ignore that which is conveyed to you is a blasphemy. You take His acts of worship in vain equally reprehensibly as if you had used His name.”
An edge of strained desperation, the mania of fervour, had crept into the vicar’s usually even and controlled tone. Leaning forwards on his lectern he berated his congregation for the crimes of apathy and acceptance of a leaking roof. High above from the stained glass windows, the saints looked down upon him and the occupied pews. Would they approve of what he was saying? Would they judge his congregation so harshly or take a better view?
“Every day is a gift but to you they have become an entitlement. Every freedom is a blessing but you have become ungrateful and complacent. Every time you take a drink from the Lord’s well it is a privilege to experience His protection, but you consider it your right! You content yourselves with watching the house of your saviour, He who would give his last to give you enough, crumble. And you consider yourself exonerated as long as you took a longer, more mournful look than your neighbour. But when that one-upmanship finally grows dire enough to necessitate action, the veil of selflessness cannot mask the heart of narcissism which drives you forwards. If any one of you was motivated by empathy then surely you could not stare up at me with such an unconcerned countenance.”
Clothes rustled slightly as the congregation fidgeted and shuffled their feet. Still there were no protests. Father Crest had their attention, but he did not find much worth in it.
“This holy place, this house of our Lord, bears witness to all of us. It sees what it is in our hearts, and whether our intentions are worthy of the adoration we seek from our deeds.” Father Crest preached. ‘Deeds like shielding your flock, as is your duty?’ Billy questioned. He had hated hypocrisy. Father Crest tried to deny to himself that he was now depending on it.
“When we look into our hearts, we must be sure that what we see is the truth, and not just what we want to see. Telling ourselves that our intentions are pure will not alter reality, nor will it fool the judgemental gaze of the Lord. Eventually the façade cracks and falls away, and one day we may find that we can’t even fool ourselves.”
Another icy drip fell from the timbers onto the top of the vicar’s head. It was cold and shocking, doubly so when the frigid draft swept between stone blocks and chilled it further. No matter what else happened, the forces of nature would always pick holes in this sanctuary and blast their frozen tendrils inside. Maintaining those boundaries against the intruders was a task never completed, one requiring constant time and attention; doing it alone when so many relied on the church staying standing was overwhelming. Father Crest looked up into the darkness of the ceiling and searched for any sign of the hole, knowing that such flaws were not easily visible to the eye. It would require a concerted effort to find and fix.
‘One could argue that only by serving the needs of the church is receipt of its protection guaranteed. The stones, lead and slate encasing you take all you have to offer and express no gratitude for what they get; why should it be any more of a crime for the living statues in the pews, staring up at you now, to do the same? They are all the same products of the earth, and all of them require constant repair-work to their structure and their souls, the mortar which binds them all together.’ Billy’s voice whispered inside Father Crest’s head. He didn’t like having to refer to the congregation as if they were dead lumps of rock, but the metaphor served well enough. He’d heard worse analogies as a child when the parables were relayed to him, or when a teacher was trying to convince him to stop asking questions. But there and then Billy was more concerned with arguing that it was a man-of-the-cloth’s role to rise above such concerns as gratitude and recompense. He would have held that their solemn duty was to service the spiritual needs of the parish and represent the Lord’s word to them; to be an avatar of the virtues and teachings the Lord espoused, without regard for petty concerns such as thanks.
But the ends were the same either way, Father Crest argued back at himself. Appreciated or otherwise the rites were being performed, the people blessed, and the world allowed to move on. So if it gave him some measure of catharsis to consider that the people who had arrived to hear his wisdom were vultures pecking at his hands, rather than sparrows taking the seeds therefrom, then what harm was there? He held that it gave him armour against getting too attached or drawn in. A view not coloured by close involvement would see clearer.
“Acts of charity are not charity if they are performed in service of our own ego or our own conscience. Guilt is not the path to altruism.” Father Crest continued to his congregation, despite Billy’s protestations in the back of his mind. “I compel you to question yourselves, to look inward with His eyes and, when you find yourselves wanting, to consider how penance may be paid.”
He was barely concealing the black tar of his frustration any longer, allowing it to swamp over the message and cling to every word, until the sermon was simply a vehicle for his venomous tongue. When Billy’s voice told him such, he rallied in defence of himself.
Maintaining the souls of the flock had prevented the maintenance of the roof. Despite his sacrifices for them, rainwater still flowed in; they saw the decay of their own sanctuary and remained unmoved. The decay of their vicar evoked no more of a reaction. Father Crest argued with himself that he held ceremonies and services to bring the congregation together as a community, but they bounced away from one another like billiard balls, barely interacting beyond the end of the sermon. Allowing them to live in the sea of their own shortcomings had not helped them to see the error of their ways, and subtle guidance had delivered them nothing.
‘Error of their ways?’ Billy’s voice demanded. ‘Vague accusations and dwelling on perceived past trespasses do not a condemnation make, and nor does inaction over a problem make them culpable for it occurring in the first place. What have they done to earn your ire?’ It challenged. Father Crest rose to it; if Billy wanted solid accusations and condemnation then he would have it.
“When I married you, Mr and Mrs Haver,” he growled, pointing a stiff finger towards the thirty-something couple two rows back “you pledged to hold the Lord in your union and one another in your hearts at all times. You made vows to honour each other and the church, just as the church fulfils its duties towards you. And I have played my part; my service on the importance of togetherness in love was a message to you both, if only you had given it the grace of your attention. The simple act of being attentive to the same things at the same times can be the foundation of a solid relationship of shared experiences, and I tailored my sermon to help bring you that gift. But my words slipped through your notice like sand through your fingers, and still you seem to drift along together only because you are caught in the same current.”
Hands held in their respective laps, Mr and Mrs Haver maintained eye contact and showed no glimmer of a response.
“I gave the service when we buried your husband Gwendoline,” Father Crest persisted, swivelling at the hip and leaning forwards over his lectern to face the white-haired woman sitting front and centre “and you took all the support the church could offer, support which you needed and was freely offered. And you pledged to repay that kindness with devotion to the church, but all I have seen from you is pomposity and self-aggrandisement in the least impressive terms. Your timeliness does not earn you favour with the Lord, and when it exists only to rub in the faces of others it does not earn you favour with me either.” She fidgeted her handbag slightly further up her lap and returned to stillness. “You treat every arrival as another flimsy victory and then impatiently wait out the sermon for your next chance the following week, but you neglect the lessons I am trying to convey in the meantime.
I welcomed your child into this family, Mr Baron, as a new soul which might open further doors and the next chapter of your life. But you have named him after yourself as if he might continue the cycle in which you find yourself locked, and you stubbornly insist on continuing your old routines as if his existence should not be allowed to alter yours. Life changes, and it is to be lived with your family, not despite them. I note that I have not seen Mrs Baron or the child since the baptism, for fear of their presence disrupting your established practices in attendance.” Father Crest accused, continuing the sermon of underappreciation. His moustachioed target made no effort to defend himself. “And yet you do not convince me that you are listening, even without the distraction of your loved ones sitting alongside you.”
Father Crest admitted to himself that he was starting to clutch at straws with that last one, but the wave had been carrying him forwards and examples always had to come in threes. That was sermon-writing 101.
Even having been called out by name, the congregation looked back impassively as he ran them into the ground and through the mud. Were they so numb as to ignore every word, or were they turning the other cheek better than him? Their silence filled the room more than ever, like a viscous fluid shielding them against the clergyman’s thorny reprimands.
Father Crest listened to his own words, his judgement of those he was bound to guide in the face of their placid acceptance. He started to wonder if Billy would be proud; not just the Billy left in his head, but the boy who had grown up with the Lord in his heart. He asked himself in that moment whether he was he being the man that Billy knew he could become, and the answer did not taste sweet. The jaded vicar stared at the blank expressions looking up at him, and he wondered to himself if Billy would have aspired to such moral high grounds if he’d known how little the flock respected their shepherd. Without him they would have been savaged by wolves long ago. Not literally, except for that one incident in the zoo, but by figurative spiritual wolves, which were a great threat to the eternal soul. But despite his protection they moved along as they saw fit, rejecting their own duties in the rescue of their own souls.
“Say something! Say anything! Defend yourselves or admit to your heresies, I care not which as long as it means enough to you to make you feel more than this blankness. Whether you see the beauty of His world or protest the cruelty of His servant in this house of the Lord just show me you can hear!”
With every furious word the memory of who Billy had wanted to become ate at him a little more. The man he could be stood alongside the man he was, and it cast a long shadow. Father Crest had, in his anger, been everything that his younger self had sought to reject, but the figure of who he wanted to become was a stronger man than that. He forgave those who went through the motions without feeling, because they were at least trying in their own way. He reacted with humility and grace when confronted with his own failures or rejection of his advice. And most importantly he offered a hand to those in need when they needed to be shown the way. Even himself.
Father Crest found himself at a loss all of a sudden. A moment ago he had been filled with fire and brimstone, openly listing the failures of people who travelled and dedicated their time to listen to his service every week. He had shouted in judgement of those he was pledged to serve and protect, and sought to punish their own stoicism. That wasn’t the work of a good man, or a scion of the Lord. His words had been poor, going beyond pettiness, as had his futile search for cardinal sins among the congregation. With the insights of the man he wished to be, however, he found something lurking in the shadows of his mind; a wave of the same guilt which he’d earlier denounced as the coward’s altruism.
The vicar was forced to admit that Mr Baron’s bake sale at the Christmas service had covered the costs of fitting the new front door lock. The man could definitely be an arrogant thug, but he had sacrificed his own time and helped immensely to keep the church secure and make the vicar’s own life easier.
Gwendoline and her husband used to help organise and run every fete and community event the church held, before his passing. She was allowed time to mourn, Father Crest supposed, and grief could be a reason not to revisit alone those experiences that she used to be able to share. If arriving at the church early was the only way she could prove her commitment then it wasn’t such a crime.
Even Mr and Mrs Haver had used part of their modest wedding fund to repair some of the stained glass windows which had broken in the great storm a few week prior; it had been for the purpose of preventing the rain from blowing directly into the bride’s face during the ceremony, but all the same they’d helped.
Billy would have forgiven all these people without hesitation, even without their moments of redemption. He already had, in fact; he immediately did so every time their minor trespasses crossed Father Crest's mind. Billy would also have forgiven himself for a moment of weakness and human emotion. Father Crest wasn't quite ready for that.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight and drew a deep breath in through his nose, one which seemed to keep going forever as if his lungs were infinite. And on his exhalation the tension of his irritation fell, his shoulders and chest sagged, and he opened his weary eyes to the congregation. He opened them to his flawed group of dressed-up sheep, trying to bleat along to the hymns of a theology they didn't fully grasp, but were committed to all the same in their own way. And if their understanding was poor then there was only one person to blame.
“But these complaints are the lot of humans trying to stay within the Lord’s light. Our souls are not perfect and they cast shadows, sometimes so subtly that we fail to notice until engulfed by the darkness. But even in the deepest shade can be escaped if a hand is offered to show the way out.”
‘And if the hand doesn’t appear?’ Billy questioned.
“If you can see no hand, of course, then the fault is mine and mine alone.” Father Crest said quietly. “Reach out to your neighbours, your friends, and your family when you find me wanting, and hold the church accountable for the times it fails you.”
Father Crest looked down at his book of scriptures, turning pages at random as an excuse to hold his gaze low and hide his embarrassment. It was a good thing that he had Billy to hold him to order when his congregation failed to do so. And he had already made all the right suggestions for a remedy to the troubles of the missing sermon.
“I think this passage will help.” The vicar announced with sudden energy, clearly forced but at least present. He had chosen a section at random, but reading it would keep him out of his own head whilst talking.
With the normal deafening scrape of wooden benches against an ageing stone floor and the rustling of rain jackets the congregation stood as Father Crest dismissed them. Some of them rubbed at legs sore from sitting still, a few raised their arms in a stretch, and most simply waited patiently for their chance to leave. In orderly columns, feeding from each pew in turn, they filed through the church with their own quiet murmurs and opened the vast oak doors at the entrance, allowing the bright white light of day to spill in. Father Crest stood with palms gripping the edges of his lectern and arms locked straight, watching as his flock went off towards the rest of their day with the benefit of his wisdom once again. Or perhaps today they had the benefit of his temper. Either way he was, as ever, left alone in the sanctum.
When the last of the congregation had exited, leaving the door hanging open like every other bloody time, Father Crest stepped down from his pedestal. Gently he walked to the entrance and pulled the doors shut, throwing out an indeterminate, blind wave to anyone who may have been looking. He made the rounds of the pews, tidying up cushions and evening out the spacing between each row, and he picked up the odd dropped glove here and there. With the sanctum returned to order, and the light of the saints in their stained glass shining down upon it, Father Crest returned to the vestry. In the chilly room, filled with fresh air from the still-open window, he sat heavily into his chair and stared at his blank notepad, as it waited patiently on the desk for the next week’s sermon.
It would be another seven days before he had to recite something that his flock needed to hear. But he wondered now if there might be more use in writing a sermon that he needed to hear himself. Idly he took the misplaced gloves from his pocket and placed them in a neat pile on the desk, drooping slightly as they overhung the edge. Looking at the lost-and-found, rescued simply by tending to the needs of the church, Father Crest gave a mirthless chuckle and realised that he had found his inspiration.