Intimations Of Immorality: Dark Arts

As I wrote last week, walking round the reservoir listening to Proverbs 11-20 reminded me of those occasions in the past when people have offered me unsolicited advice, accompanied by intimations of immorality on my part. One example of this presents itself in my mind’s eye as a three-act play: but I don’t have time to write it as such, and you wouldn’t have the patience to read it. But here it is in summary form.

Act One (Scene: the sitting room of a small terraced house, recently redecorated; a cheerfully corpulent plumber sits opposite a young couple; beside him is a bookcase.)

The tradesman - let’s call him Sam, shall we? - is entertaining us with lots of anecdotes, just as he did when he was installing our central heating system.

As a Christian as well as a plumber, he seemed the obvious man for the job. He’s been paid, of course, and now he’s enjoying our hospitality for an evening.

What surprises me is how much he knows about other Christians in our locality. Some of his stories show people we know in a new light, and not necessarily to their advantage. One man is mean, another is under the thumb, a deacon we know has a dubious private life, and that minister who seems to preach so well, he’s got all his sermons out of books and he’s never been to Bible College. Sam has been to one. He mentions this several times, for some reason.

How his eyes shine as he amuses us! However, as he glances down at the books by his side, his jowly face assumes a more serious mien. Why so, I wonder? My academic works are upstairs. Down here the books are mostly of a practical nature: D.I.Y., gardening, photography, cookery, car maintenance - plus a few novels and some film criticism.

Another moment, and out it comes: “Those books! Get rid of them!” “What books?” “Those books, there!” His jowls are wobbling, and his finger is stabbing down in the direction of the books about films - as though he’s discovered a copy of the Necronomicon of the Mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, along with The King in Yellow, both bound in human skin, or something worse…

Why is he so excited? “What’s wrong with them?” “The occult! They’re evil! Get rid of them! Take them out in your backyard and burn them!” “But - they’re just books of film criticism, science fiction and fantasy and horror…” That sets him off again, as though I were about to become a Satanist under their influence, an event about as likely as me becoming a career criminal after reading Connie Fletcher’s What Cops Know.

It’s patently absurd, and I say so; and he seems to calm down as the evening comes to its close. But, when he’s gone, I wonder - will I be featuring in any of his anecdotes in the future, for the amusement or the enlightenment of others?

Act Two (Scene: a church hall, currently being used for worship, since the church building itself is riddled with dry rot. A church meeting is in progress.)

Time has passed, and we have had to leave the baptist church where my wife and I were married, along with several others of the congregation; the diaconate there have insisted on reinstating a pastor caught in adultery, “because he has now repented entirely, and we are satisfied that his experiences will have made him a better man and will enable him to minister more effectively in the future.” We didn’t think that that was biblically sound, and after such a short interval, but we were shouted down in the church meeting, and the deacons had their way. That was a pity, because… But you can guess the rest, can’t you? Let’s leave it at that.

We have joined another local baptist church. It was in a pretty poor state: a decaying building, a dwindling congregation, and no pastor at all. Now it’s on the mend, with the church hall adapted for services and Sunday School, with local people coming in (including a good number of young folk), and with a joint ministry - of variable quality, I admit, my own contributions being strictly amateur hour stuff. But, my late, lamented friend Ronnie and our gifted friend, Peter (who has also been to Bible College), preach regularly and soundly and with some success. God seems to be blessing our efforts.

What happy times we have there, as a young family! And then, thanks to Peter’s extensive range of contacts, we’re able to call a pastor, whose salary is largely funded by his home church. He comes with his wife and children, settles in the town, and preaches faithfully and firmly, in solid evangelical style.

Alas, this does not please one of the deacons, a man who has been a leading light there in the past. Let’s call him Mr Whitechapel, shall we? What really upsets him I don’t pretend to understand, but he plans and plots behind the scenes, then a church meeting is called, then accusations are made, and then there is a call for the pastor’s resignation.

At the final church meeting, we point out that there is no case to answer - only a dislike of the man’s manner, his evangelical emphasis, and the fact that he isn’t from this country. But all reasonable, rational, biblical discussion goes right out of the window: history repeating itself.

And the man making the most noise? It’s Sam, who has accompanied us to this church. He’d seemed so supportive, but now he’s on his feet and red in the face. Everything I say is interrupted by angry accusations. I’m either naïve or not in my right mind, gullible or up to no good. “Ackavey!” he keeps shouting. I have no idea what he means. (Much later, I learn that it was supposed to be the Welsh “ach y fi”, “a dialect expression of disgust or abhorrence”. 

The vote goes against the pastor, who offers his resignation; and so off we all go, as well. And in a couple of years, the church has closed its doors. The area where it once stood has been redeveloped, and there is now no sign that it ever existed.

Act Three (Scene: a mill shop, many years later. It is filled with folk who have money in their pockets and time on their hands. An older man is looking at a row of tee shirts and deciding that they’re far too expensive.)

Someone comes up behind me: “Ey up! It’s (and here he uses a diminutive form of my name which no one who really knows me would ever employ), isn’t it?” I turn to see Sam. He has a broad grin on his face and he greets me like a long-lost brother. He’s in casual attire, the sort of stuff they sell in this store. His stomach is straining the top of his trousers and pushing his polo shirt out in front of him.

He’s waiting for his wife, he tells me, he’s been sitting on a chair over there for ages, but what about me, he’s heard that I’ve been having a bad time. “Have yer? Have yer? Eh? Eh?” How his eyes sparkle and shine as he presses me for more information! They’re either smaller than they were or his face is fatter; he looks positively porcine now. A little smile keeps curving up the corners of his mouth as he tells me what he’s been told about me: all bad, apparently. “Is that right? Is that right? Eh? Eh?”

I tell him I’m fine, thanks, which is true, and he seems a bit disappointed, so he tells me he’s retired and where is my wife and have I heard anything about this person and that person and do I know he’s been to Bible College and have I read this book on the person and work of Christ and he reads a chapter of it every night before he goes to bed and surely I must have heard of it - and on, and on…

… until his wife appears, followed by mine. And then he’s quiet and his eyes lose their lustre. She chats with us, and talks about him as though he isn’t there. He’s had to come inside and wait for her. “Last time I left him in the car he had all the electrics on and flattened the battery.” She shakes her head sadly. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with him.”

As she speaks, I glance at him again. I note the little spots of blood on his reddened cheeks, as if he’s shaved in a dimly-lit room. There is a dribble of egg yolk down the front of his polo shirt, and his thinning hair lies across his head in long strands, combed up and over from one side to the other in the infamous Scargill Manoeuvre.

And then they have to go. As she leads him away, he looks back and calls, “Remember that book! You ought to read it! I read a chapter of it every night! Every night!” His eyes are shining again. I wonder if he still remembers the things that he said to me all those years ago?

I’ve found them hard to forget.

Epilogue

What is it that makes Christians go right off the rails? I’m sure you’re familiar with the old formula: “Beware of the gold, the girls, and the glory.” It’s obvious what it was with the first pastor that I mentioned: “the girls”. I wonder whether you’ve been reading between the lines as you’ve worked your way through the account above? Which of those three things (or the lack of one of them) do you think might have been a problem for any of the other characters in our drama - including myself?

Going to a Bible College (if you can find a sound one, these days) can be a very good thing. The study of theology should be a part of every bible-believing Christian’s life, in one form or another. But what about the wisdom that seems to be in such short supply in the Contemporary Christian Church? Proverbs tells us that it’s there to be had in the word of God, but it takes hard work: firstly, to find it out, and secondly, to apply it in our lives. But if we are built up in the process, then we might be better placed to build up the churches in which we worship.

I suppose there is something to be said for smashing things up: it’s exciting, invigorating, arousing, even; and it gets you noticed, if you feel you’ve been unjustly neglected. And it’s so easy!

However, according to the very many references to “strife” in Proverbs, it will at last - as my mother so often used to say - end in tears…