18 The Times MagazineSunday morning
at the churchIt was a bright spring Sunday,
about a year into my first posting.
That morning we would be
christening the new baby of
a lovely young couple in the
congregation, and I arrived at
church an hour before the service
was due to begin to prepare.
As I drew up I could see that our long-
standing porch resident, Bobby, was sitting,
leaning against the front doors, blocking
access to the church. Bobby was homeless
and had become part of the place over the
past 12 months. Most of the time things were
calm and friendly. Endless cups of tea and
sandwiches were the best we could do,
alongside trying to broker accommodation
through some excellent homeless charities.
Sadly, each time he was successful and got
a flat, something would go wrong and he’d
resume his place in the porch.
This morning was going to be rather
different, however. He was not alone. Bobby
had a faraway glazed expression on his
face and as I walked closer I could see
that his trousers were around his ankles.
At his feet, kneeling and half concealed by
Bobby’s large woolly coat, was another person,
a lady, whose head was slowly bobbing up
and down above Bobby’s lap.
As my brain processed what I was seeing,
I didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or
be outraged. I erred on the side of outrage.
Not surprising given that the family were due
to arrive within moments.
“Bobby, who is that?” I shouted. No reply.
The rhythmical service continued. “OK,
Bobby, in half an hour we are going to have
children and adults arriving for the service.
This has to stop now!” Still no change. “OK,
Bobby, I’m going to call the police.”
To say that Bobby was irritated by my
inconsiderate intrusion on his moment of
pleasure was an understatement. Looking
thoroughly pissed off, he and his friend
stormed off.
Sadly, that was not the last we saw of
Bobby that morning. Just as I was about to
anoint the sweet babe at the font, flanked
by its cooing godparents and family, the
huge oak doors at the end of the old church
swung open.
Down the aisle Bobby stormed. Thankfully,
his trousers had now been pulled up but it
didn’t make the scene that was unfolding
any less alarming. Effing and blinding, he
began threatening to do ill to me at the top
of his voice.
“You don’t know what I’m going to do to
you, Father!” he yelled. For someone so big
and often unstable on his feet, he was makinghis way towards the font where I was standing,
baby in arms, at rapid speed.
At what point do I begin to back away, or
turn and run, I thought. And why on earth
was nobody doing anything?
Thankfully, the church wardens reached
him in the nick of time, taking him by the
arms and escorting him out of the church,
leaving me to christen the bundle of innocence
and purity in peace.- A weekend away in the countryside
Having a Sunday away from the parish is
wonderful. It gives a few days when you don’t
have to think about services and christenings,
and you can relax without any responsibilities
or public duties. So when my wife and I were
invited to a family wedding in a far from
home territory, I began looking forward to
the timeout. Alas, I was soon to learn that
a vicar is never really off duty.
The wedding was in a remote part of
gorgeous countryside in a tiny church full of
people celebrating the union of the happy
couple. In this case, a teacher and a GP.
I was impressed by the vicar who was
conducting the wedding service. He seemed
to know the entire liturgy – the words – off
by heart and set off at a fair old pace. Being
a relatively recently ordained Church of
England vicar, I marvelled at how he romped
through the opening parts of the service with
confident speed. The declarations were done
and dusted in no time. We were on course to
finish earlier than planned.
It was only when the vicar fetched a chair
and sat down during one of the hymns that
I began to think something might actually be
wrong. As a priest you often think about the
strange circumstances in which you might
be called upon in an emergency. I had an
unsettling feeling that this dreaded fantasy
may be about to come true.
There was a brief whispered conversation
between the groom (the GP) and the vicar.
Then, to my great surprise, just after the vows
and rings were exchanged, the vicar suddenly
legged it down the aisle and sprinted out
of the main door of the church, leaving the
couple looking startled. And me on the verge
of a panic attack.
At the end of the hymn, there was a pause
and nervous clearing of throats. At this point
my relative whose daughter was the bride
came rushing back to the pew where I was
sitting. “You’re going to have to do something.
You are a vicar, after all.”
“What’s going on?” I asked with a mild but
rising sense of alarm.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Do something!”
I told my relative that I’d go and find out
what had happened to the vicar. I headed
out the door through which he had bolted
to be confronted by a scene straight out of
a Richard Curtis film. The vicar was lying
sprawled on his back on a nearby gravestone,
as white as a sheet. One of the guests, who
was a medic, was leaning over him. “We’ve
called an ambulance,” he said. I gulped.
“So he’s not going to be able to finish
the service then?” I said.
“Definitely not,” replied the medic.
With a sense of vicarly authority I asked
the barely conscious priest for his stole
(the coloured scarf-like bit of gear that
vicars wear when conducting a wedding
service) and walked back into the church.
I was a rookie priest and without the comfort
of a book of words for a wedding service,
I felt slightly more like Rowan Atkinson than
Rowan Williams. “Pull yourself together,”
I told myself.
Donning my new scarf, I spoke to the now
despairing couple, and then introduced myself
to the congregation. I reassured everyone that
everything was going to be, “Fine!” and I was
indeed qualified to finish the ceremony. Just
don’t tell the local bishop.
The service ended after prayers and a
blessing given with some relish. I was the
slightly traumatised hero of the hour.
The scene outside the church was bizarre.
So relieved were the guests that everyone
seemed oblivious to the recumbent incumbent
on top of a tombstone, now being seen to by a
paramedic fitting him with a drip.
A few months later the official pictures
arrived. If you look very closely at the bottom
left corner of a few of the larger group shots,
you will be able to see a vicar lying on a
grave with an IV drip being held aloft by
a man in green.- Parishioners behaving badly
I’m often struck by just how ill-equipped new
vicars, especially young recruits, are to face
the rigours of parish life. The concepts of
people management, conflict resolution or
teamwork are largely neglected during training.
“Oh, the vicar is lovely, but he’s not quite
up to it, is he?” is a common refrain among
congregations who are dancing circles around
a struggling priest.
In the past few weeks I have had to deal
with parishioners behaving badly on several
occasions. Everything from calming church
members down who’ve had an argument
over the brand of coffee to serve on Sunday
morning, to confrontations over whether the
old bucket in the kitchen should be replaced
with a flip-top thing. As for suggesting
changes in the pattern of services, forget it.
How many times have I prayed, “Dear Lord,
please take them... Now!”
I don’t often get involved, but daggers
were drawn with such ferocity during one
particular incident between two individuals
that I had to intervene.
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