Reverend Green

There are moments in life when you become absolutely convinced that something terrible is about to happen.

And then there are moments when the Vicar becomes convinced.

The second category is usually far more entertaining.

It all started on a Tuesday morning when a black diocesan car rolled quietly into the church car park.

Now, most people would simply have seen a car.

The Vicar saw the beginning of the end.

By the time Reverend Green had switched off the engine, the Vicar had already mentally reviewed every questionable decision he had made during the previous twelve months.

Unfortunately, there had been rather a lot of them.

Not serious ones.

Just the sort of things that accumulate when you’re responsible for a church, a parish, three committees, six volunteers, a jumble sale and, on occasion, Frank.

Particularly Frank.

Reverend Green, meanwhile, appeared entirely unconcerned.

He emerged from the car carrying a notebook, smiled warmly and asked whether the Vicar had time to show him around the church.

The Vicar immediately interpreted this as the opening move in a highly sophisticated investigation.

The church tour began.

Reverend Green paused beneath a stained-glass window.

“That window could probably use some attention.”

The Vicar nodded solemnly.

What Reverend Green meant was that the leadwork was beginning to show signs of age.

What the Vicar heard was:

“You have neglected the House of God.”

A little later Green studied a section of stonework.

“This should probably be addressed before winter.”

What Green meant was exactly what he said.

What the Vicar heard was:

“You have failed your duties and generations shall remember your shortcomings.”

The tour continued.

Every ordinary observation became a prophecy.

Every practical suggestion became an accusation.

Every pause became evidence.

By lunchtime the Vicar was convinced that Reverend Green knew everything.

The fundraising accounts.

The Easter tent incident.

Gerald Frost.

The unfortunate matter involving the church lawn and a ride-on mower.

And, inevitably, Frank.

Especially Frank.

The strange thing was that Reverend Green never actually asked about any of these things.

The Vicar volunteered most of the information himself.

At one point Green casually asked:

“Who is Frank?”

The Vicar nearly swallowed his tea whole.

To Reverend Green it was a simple question.

To the Vicar it sounded like:

“So. Let’s discuss the Frank file.”

By mid-afternoon the poor man had become so tangled in his own fears that he was practically conducting both sides of the investigation himself.

Reverend Green spent most of the day discussing gutters.

The Vicar spent most of the day contemplating divine judgement.

The two conversations somehow occupied the same space.

I am told that sometime after lunch the discussion turned unexpectedly personal.

Reverend Green admitted that when he was younger he had spent years worrying about what bishops thought of him.

Years trying to prove himself.

Years making mistakes.

Years learning that churchmen are simply people wearing slightly different clothes.

The Vicar seemed surprised by this.

I suspect he had assumed Reverend Green had emerged from the womb carrying theological qualifications and a letter of recommendation from Heaven.

By late afternoon they stood together outside the church.

The day was quiet.

The church looked lovely.

The gutters remained in need of attention.

The stonework remained exactly where it had been all morning.

The Vicar finally reached breaking point.

“Have you come here to ask of me to beg for forgiveness?”

Reverend Green blinked.

The Vicar continued.

“Have you come here to play Jesus?”

For a moment neither man spoke.

Then Reverend Green reached into his coat pocket.

Produced a cigarette.

Lit it.

Took a slow drag.

Exhaled.

“Not at all, child.”

Another pause.

“I’ve come to discuss some renovation plans I have for the church next year.”

Silence.

I am told the Vicar stood there for several seconds while his entire day collapsed around him.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because nothing was.

Then, just as relief finally arrived, two engines appeared at the far end of the lane.

Frank and Clive.

Naturally.

They had arrived with a trailer full of lawn equipment as part of Frank’s independent contracting business.

The phrase “independent contracting business” should perhaps be interpreted generously.

Reverend Green watched them unload a mower.

Frank watched Reverend Green.

The Vicar quietly considered moving abroad.

Eventually introductions were made.

Green studied Frank for a moment.

Then asked:

“Are you a Christian, child?”

Frank considered the question carefully.

He looked at the church.

He looked at the Vicar.

He looked at the lawnmower.

Then he nodded.

“I am tonight.”

Reverend Green accepted this answer without hesitation.

The Vicar looked as though he might require medical assistance.

A few minutes later Reverend Green finished his cigarette, tucked the renovation drawings beneath one arm and prepared to leave.

As he drove away, the Vicar watched him disappear down the road.

Not a saint.

Not a prophet.

Not divine judgement.

Just a thoughtful churchman with renovation plans, a packet of cigarettes and more patience than most people deserve.

Beside him, Frank scratched his head.

“Nice fellow,” he said.

“What does he do?”

The Vicar laughed so hard he had to sit down.

And that, as far as I know, was the day Reverend Green nearly gave our Vicar a nervous breakdown simply by asking about a window.