The Times Magazine 21“The prayers.” I let out a sigh, and closed
my eyes. The warden began to explain that
while I had been leading prayer, he had
kept one eye open and spotted one of the
gentlemen sitting behind my chair lean
forward, fiddle with my jacket and leave,
quickly followed by the second man.
“I suspected they’d taken something, so
I followed them out and saw them drive off
in your car.”
As I listened I was mentally going through
all the things I’d left in the car: the house
keys, my laptop, my phone, a box of spare
change, a pair of leather driving gloves my
mother-in-law had given me and a Bible.
It was at this point that two beefy police
officers came into the church, one of them
holding a pair of keys.
“Good evening, Father,” they said as
I stepped forward. “If you’d like to come
with us we’ll take you to the station.”
It must have been a peculiar scene for any
passers-by or visitors to watch unfold: a vicar
escorted out of the church by two officers.
They told me how, having watched my car
being driven away, the loyal church warden
had immediately dialled 999. Astonishingly.
it had been spotted and stopped within
half a mile of the church, right outside the
hostel we were working with. Sheer luck, or
divine intervention?
By some miracle, the perpetrators, along
with all the contents of the car, were found
inside. The only thing missing was the Bible.
A sacrifice I was happy to make if it provided
some reflective reading for the two in custody.- It’s all about the money
One of the things they don’t tell you during
vicar training is that while you may assume
everyone working for the Church of England
is on the same side, you’ll be disappointed.
For many of those within the institution,
reputation and survival are all that seem to
matter. These were my thoughts as I woke
up the other morning.
Despite the ravages of Covid-19 on
the small congregation in terms of death,
sickness and fear, the only correspondence
I seemed to receive from HQ was a reminder
that we should pay our “quota” in full and
on time every month. The quota is the
amount of money we as a parish are expected
to pay to the Church of England each year,
raised through the collections, donations
and various fundraising initiatives. In my
parish this was just shy of £100,000 a year.
This covers the cost of both paying and
housing two vicars, along with the central
costs of running HQ, including keeping the
top people there in the lifestyle to which they
are accustomed.
What happens if this quota is habitually
missed is never really stated. It’s the implied
threat of cuts to posts that keeps vicars
endlessly trying to fundraise.
In my opinion, the system is hopelessly
unfit for purpose. How were the active
members of our congregation, around
75 mainly retired and working-class people,
meant to raise this sort of figure? Especially
knowing that the Church of England is
sitting on vast sums of money locked up
in investments in the billions of pounds.
Personally, I was impressed that while we
hadn’t met the full quota, we had in fact raised
more than 50 per cent.
The morning in question began with
a phone call from somebody who called
himself a “parish assessor”. This person
explained to me that it was felt by HQ that
after a year in post, it was time they paid me
a visit. Naively, I thought that although we
hadn’t yet stumped up all of the money, the
assessors would want to hear where things
were at on all fronts: financially, yes, but also
the work we were beginning to do in the
community. So I got together with the parish
treasurer and prepared a presentation.
Thirty seconds into the visit by the
clipboard-carrying assessor and his sidekick,
I had renamed them the Dementors. Alien,
hostile and totally uninterested in hearing our
plans, and seemingly intent on sucking any
sign of hope out of us. “So, let’s have a look at
the parish’s performance in terms of meeting
the quota over the past few years. Hmm,”
Dementor 1 paused. “I would say that it is
a disaster, wouldn’t you?”
I was shocked. It seemed the tactics of
these two representatives were to intimidate
vicars and keep them in line, focused only
on fundraising rather than serving the
community we were in.
Later that week, I then received an email
from on high telling me that I had some fairly“wealthy” parishioners, and that if I only
explained the situation clearly to them, they
would surely understand that the future of the
parish is at stake and give generously. Yeah,
as though I hadn’t thought of that already!
Frankly, as someone who has come to
this game later in his career, I wasn’t going
to have any of that intimidating nonsense.
I have since told the Dementors that while
we try our hardest to meet our target,
fundraising is not our raison d’être. They
have since stayed away.
Interestingly, senior clergy members have
admitted to me that they know the system is
not fit for purpose. Making the change happen,
though, is a different story.- A funeral for Pete
I am not the only vicar who finds conducting
funerals the most fulfilling part of their job.
Today I was doing the funeral of the fourth
person who had taken his own life in two
months. Pete, the young man concerned, had
been a bright, gregarious guy – the heart and
soul of the party. Not long ago he’d been a
student and the church was packed with his
university friends, all devastated at what had
happened. Six of them bore the coffin up
the aisle where it rested on the easels. The
atmosphere was that bizarre mixture of
sombreness and determination not to allow
the occasion to be so glum as to displace any
note of humour or celebration of a life ended
far too early.
The music Pete’s friends had chosen
was great. No hymns, but I was reasonably
content the service was going to be a dignified
occasion that would honour Pete’s memory.
We had arranged that the six lads who had
carried the coffin into church would come up
together and give a tribute to Pete. A story
was recounted of a party at Pete’s flat during
freshers week at uni. Clearly, plenty of booze
was involved and lots of deep friendships
had seemed to be developing in many of the
rooms of the flat. The next morning, Pete and
some of his mates had got up and made it to
the kitchen. “Did you see some of the women?
Amazing!” “Yeah, what about that blonde you
were getting on with very well, Pete?” “Yeah,
she was gorgeous,” replied Pete. His mate said,
“You do know that you’ve just slept with my
girlfriend’s aunt?”
Now I am as open-minded as the best of
them, but I did say to the congregation that
they had just witnessed the winning entry
in the “Things you’re least likely to hear in
a church” competition. n
‘I WOULD SAY,’ CONTINUED THE ASSESSOR FROM HQ, ‘THE PARISH’S
PERFORMANCE IS A DISASTER, WOULDN’T YOU?’
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