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Kevin Wood
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7:00 AM 22nd January 2021
fiction

Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 9

 
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Perhaps it sounds strange, but I did not find it remarkable that a member of my parish had uncovered a conspiracy to take over the Church of England. There are two reasons for this. The first is that many members of the Church might be described as disturbed. The second, and more relevant reason is that there are such conspiracies. Hundreds of them. Not the Dan Brown kind, but much more mundane, and about as threatening as a coffee morning. The difficulty is avoiding them.

“Why don’t you sit down, Abigail, and tell me about it,” I said.

She sat, and said, “They believe they have uncovered sacred texts that were brought back from the Crusades by the Templars.”

I suppressed a groan. The number of secret texts the Templars had supposedly brought back from the Crusades would fill the British Library.

“And what was the substance of these texts?”

“That Jesus was descended from a race of sorcerers that once ruled the ancient continent of Lemuria, which is how he was able to perform his miracles. By performing certain rituals they’ve discovered, they’ll be able to bring the Church to greatness once more and rise to positions of power. They call themselves ‘Sons of Jesus Lemurian’.”
“I see,” I said, and indeed, I did.

The problem is that young would-be priests arrive at theological college full of hope. Then they discover that becoming a priest is not like being on an extended youth weekend. They discover a fundamental truth: Faith is hard.

Faith is about when you don’t have any answers because there aren’t any answers. It’s about the phone ringing at two in the morning and having to sound like you care. It’s about when a couple have lost a child and want to know why God would let that happen, and having to say, “I don’t know”. It’s about doing what you have to do when no one else cares, and when people tell you you’re wrong and foolish. It’s about all those things and more, and knowing that you won’t stop, because you can’t stop, because faith defines you in a way that colour or gender or sexuality never can.

Yes, faith is hard, but ancient rituals and symbology with their pseudo-wisdom are an easy false substitute.
Plus, long vanished continents are much more interesting than writing an essay on the difference between “homoousios” and “homoiousios”.

I leant forward, resting my arms on my knees – to show I was interested and listening – then asked, “How did you come across this group?”

“I… noticed things. Things some people were saying, references they were making, who they were meeting with…”

“And how did you notice these things when others did not?”

“It’s something I’m good at.”

I sat back again and pondered. There were a few things that bothered me about Abigail. She had murdered her husband, without remorse. Understandable, if reprehensible. She had planned it, simply, cleanly and efficiently. This is not normal for a lady who arranges the flowers in church.

“Abigail, when you killed your husband, you forced the door of your house to make it look like a burglary gone wrong. The police seemed to think it had been done quite competently. How did you know how to do that?”

“I think I saw it on TV.”

Which was such an obvious evasion there was no need to pursue it further. Two things were clear. She was more than she seemed, and she was probably right about this mysterious group of conspirators.

“Do you have any documentation to support what you’re saying about these people?” I asked.
She nodded.

“Then I would be grateful if you could provide me with a copy. I will examine the data and decide what to do.”
With that, the interview concluded. I pondered what I might do with the information. I suppose I could do nothing, but I couldn’t see Abigail taking kindly to that. Which meant I could then either support her or see if this group could be used.

I then went on to routine parish matters. There was a member of the congregation in hospital to visit, some paperwork, a home Eucharist for an elderly lady. When I finished, I found a neat pile of photocopies from Abigail on my desk. She had used Psycho’s knife as a paperweight. A substantial knife, not cheap. I wondered idly if it was stolen.

Her documentation was thorough and interesting, implicating quite a few members of the Diocesan hierarchy. I read it carefully, made a few notes, and went to bed.

The next day, I continued with more parish work. I make a point of visiting the local shops every week and talking to people. Talking to people is a vital part of being a vicar. You never know when something useful might come up.
In the afternoon, I had an appointment with the headteacher of the local school that we were using to hold services since the church burnt down.

After the obligatory social niceties, I said, “I realise that the church hasn’t had much involvement with the school in recent years, but I was hoping that we might be able to build up more of a relationship. After all, it’ll be at least a year before the church is rebuilt.”

“What kind of thing did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking perhaps if I were to take an assembly each week.”

“Well, the problem there is that now we live in a pluralistic society. There are many different faiths these days, and it would be wrong to be seen to be leading the students down a particular path.”

“Of course, absolutely. I agree.”

This was not the response she had been expecting, so I continued, “Naturally, I have a predisposition towards Christianity, but you have a duty to take a wider view. I would think it only responsible for you to allow children to make up their own minds.”

“You make it sound like a market stall. See all the choices on offer.”

“I wouldn’t express it like that, but when it comes to something as deeply personal as belief – well, if it’s to mean anything, then it has to come from within.”

I pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here’s the contact details of all the local leaders of various religions. I’m sure that they would be only too glad to help you.”

“And what about those who have no interest in religion?”

“I’ve included the details of the Humanist Society.”

After that, there was a bit of back and forth, but she agreed to let me take an assembly every two weeks.

Pleased, I got back to the vicarage to find a note from Abigail. She’d had a phone call, and the Rural Dean – one of the bishop’s lieutenants, a man of considerable self-importance and no little influence - had taken it upon himself to visit us a week on Sunday.

Disclaimer: Despite Rev David Wilson’s opinion, the Church of England is not riddled with cells of conspirators. After all, Lemuria was lost before Atlantis sank, so Abigail’s contention is impossible.

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