Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 16

There are many different ways to meet one’s future spouse. They might be met through the intervention of friends and families. Or these days, they might be met through a dating app. In the case of Mabel, my fiancée, she had turned up on my doorstep one day, declaring that God had told her to marry me.

From my perspective, this was rather fortuitous. As a vicar I seldom meet women where there’s less than a fifty-year age gap. However open minded one may be, this does represent a hurdle. Again, there is the option of downloading an app and doing the swipe-left, swipe-right business, but let me be honest. “Vicar” is not the most swipeable occupation. Yet I believe that I am called to become the Archbishop of Canterbury. A little research shows that the majority of people who climb the ladder in the Church of England are married. This made the whole Mabel situation quite convenient. True, she was a little dim, and a bit evangelical, but presentable enough and fairly close to my age.

There is a rite of passage in a relationship known as “Meeting the Parents”. Mabel got off lightly in this respect, as my parents are dead, but hers are very much alive. The rite had been delayed multiple times, always with good reason, but tonight was the night. According to the best traditions I had forgotten about the appointment, but one of my strengths is adjusting rapidly to unexpected situations.

Thus, when Mabel asked me if I was ready to meet her parents, I said, “Yes, I’ll get my jacket. Are you sure I shouldn’t take something, like flowers?”

“No,” Mabel replied. “It’s quite alright. They don’t worry about things like that.”

Fortunately, I believe that a vicar should be presented properly at all times. Granted, sociopaths have a reputation for personal grooming, but who would take a poorly attired vicar seriously? The practical upshot of this was that I could just get in the car and go.

About half an hour later, we were in Crossall, a dormitory village like so many in the area. Mabel’s parents live in an estate built in the 1970’s at great detriment to the surrounding countryside. We pulled up outside a modest, brick-built semi-detached house. It was well presented, with flower beds around a small front lawn, overlooked by standard uPVC double glazing.

Mabel rang the doorbell, which was answered by a late middle-aged man of average build with short-back-and-sides, and a shirt and tie.

“Mabel, how lovely to see you! And this must be the David we’ve heard so much about.”

He held out a hand and shook mine firmly.

“A pleasure, Mr. Goodall,” I said.

“Please, call me ‘Dad’”.

A woman of similar age appeared, wearing an apron. The pair of them had obviously developed their notions of how a married couple should look from 1960’s Ladybird books. No doubt I would soon be required to address her as “Mum”.

“Jim, you should have called me earlier! Let’s see the ring, Mabel!” she said.

“Linda!” said Jim Goodall.

Despite his reproach, when Mabel brandished her ring both of them chorused, “PTL!”

I mentally translated this as “Praise The Lord”. It is an affectation within certain evangelical circles, and I will admit that I do not understand it. If something is important enough to cause spontaneous praise of the Lord, why acronymise it? I realised that like being a little dim, Mabel’s evangelical streak was genetic.

While the kettle boiled, Linda asked, “Have you told your parents yet?”

“Sadly, my parents passed away a few years ago.”

“Did they know the Lord?”

“Oh yes, without doubt.”

This intelligence was greeted by a solemn chorus of “PTL, PTL”. I was glad that Mabel didn’t join in with her parents.

“When did you decide to become a vicar?” asked Jim.

“I didn’t. The best piece of advice I have ever received was, ‘Try as hard as you can to get out of being a vicar – because if you can get out of it, you shouldn’t be doing it’. I couldn’t get out of it, so here I am.”

“PTL, PTL,” muttered Jim.

I neglected to mention that the alternative would have been helping my father running a corner shop. It had been in the family for many generations, but had never appealed to me. When you make 20p on a loaf of bread, you have to sell a lot of bread to live. For me, although my calling was genuine, it was also quite convenient.

Linda brought in tea and fruit scones, asking, “Why do you insist on staying in the Church of England? Surely it would be more spiritually fulfilling for you in an evangelical church, such as Crossall Community Church?”

“I am where the Lord has called me,” I replied, triggering another chorus of “PTL”.

Crossall Community Church, I should mention, is the independent evangelical church Mabel’s parents attend. However, this conversation does highlight the problem with evangelicals. They won’t stop talking about God. Or the Bible. Or church. It never stops.

I was meeting my fiancée’s parents for the first time. Their daughter had been fortunate in making a very good match – how many people could say that they were marrying the future Archbishop of Canterbury? Historically, there’s only been around a hundred Archbishops of Canterbury, so really, Mabel was very lucky. This was her parents’ big chance to learn more about their future son-in-law. But were they interested? No. It was all about God. God this, God that, God the other… Strangely, as a vicar, I am quite familiar with the topic of God.

In all honesty, I have a lot of respect for the evangelical churches. At their best, the Church of England can learn much from these evangelical churches, although their worst can be pretty bad. For all its faults, the Church of England does tend to eliminate the worst excesses.

Jim continued the God theme with a long and rambling discourse “led by the Lord” on the various ways that it was possible to “fall into error”. There was particular focus on how this might be achieved within the Church of England. Of course, I listened with polite attention, but I spend all day dealing with God. A change of topic is often welcomed by vicars during their downtime.

Finally, Jim pronounced that I was “A Man Of God”, and therefore a suitable match for his daughter. If he’d just asked, I could have told him that myself.

There was an impromptu prayer session, and after final injunctions against falling into the traps of heresy, we left.
Once we were in the car, I asked, “How do you think it went?”

“Oh, they really like you, I can tell.”

“How’s that?”

“I just count the number of times they say ‘PTL’. Perhaps I should have told you they’re a little evangelical.”

“I found them quite refreshing.”

This was true. In their own little way, they were refreshing. After all, these are people who moved to the village of Crossall because they drove past and saw it had the word “Cross” in the name. “That must be a Sign from God – we should live there”. I suppose it is possible to argue that this has all the theological depth of a Teletubbies episode. Equally, it should be considered that Teletubbies is a well-respected programme, even if the way it depicts the Sun is a little disturbing.

And Jim’s ruminations on heresy had given me a hint regarding the problem of The Sons of Jesus Lemurian, so perhaps his vague ramblings had been led by the Lord. If I could make the idea work, it would solve that problem, and possibly stop Abigail murdering any more clergy. If it didn’t work, then it was likely that it would stop my career permanently. But I always plan for success.

Disclaimer: Certain elements of the Church of England might consider comparing some evangelical churches to the Teletubbies a sub-optimal description.