splittingâ?â
Dylan shakes his head.
âWhat, then?â
âNothing.â He gestures at his snap-lock packet of weed. And for the first time, I seriously consider it; instead, I pull at strands of hair near my crown. I watch him roll his joint, as he explains how he lives in dread of a call from the Bishop, âdemanding a little chat, setting one of his little trapsââ
âThatâs unlikely, surely. What sort of traps?â
âThe âweâve noticed youâre not married yetâ ones.â
âBut why now? Youâve been in this parish, what, five years? Whoâd tell tales?â
So he tells me about Peter, a vicar from another diocese, whoâd accepted a new job running a church mission for the homeless, but whoâd recently been leant on by the Bishop to withdraw from the post because he was actively gay.
âAs if heâd
want
to stay in the church, if thatâs how it carries on,â I say.
âQuite. Competence is no longer the issue. Whether youâre sleeping with someone of the same sex apparently is.â He takes a long drag on his spliff and exhales slowly. âSo, Iâm thinking of leaving.â
I stare at him, open-mouthed. âLeaving the church?â I swallow. âWhat ever happened to faith, hope and charity?â
Somewhere deep inside I have the sensation of old scabs splitting. Not that Iâm so religious that his departure could weaken my virtually nonexistent faith. But something about Dylan being untethered leaves me reeling. I lunge for his parcel of dope, and make a hash of opening it. Iâve watched Dylan roll joints for years, and I canât for the life of me begin to remember how he does it, so my spliff ends up very droopy.
âAh, little Bambi-bunny,â says Dylan, offering me his lighter. âThatâs the problem with the church. It still expects those of us who preach its gospels to live the life of saints. And Christianity, for lots of people around the world, means âno gaysâ.â
I inhale quickly, as if to deny the act to myself. My heart is racing. I am taking drugs! Wa-hey! I am part of an inner circle. Stick that in your Bambi-shaped pipe and smoke it! âI remember when there was that fuss about appointing a gay bishopââ
âYes, butââ
âAnd in the States, theyâve got gay bishops, havenât they? So we can, too.â
ââFraid not. My stipendâs paid from a national pot. If the church ordains gay bishops, wealthier, anti-gay parishes will withdraw their funding. There wonât be enough money to pay priests like me, and the church will split.â
âIt wonât,â I scoff. âThe church has weathered rifts for centuries. Thereâs a tithe barn in my home village, mentioned in the Domesday Book, regarding a dispute over the appointment of a rectorââ
âOh, right. So, itâs OK for the church to behave as it did in the thirteenth century?â
âWellââ
âThe problem isâ, he spits, âthat the church is confused.â He snatches another handful of his beloved pistachios. ââGod is loveâ, they say. âGod will forgive you. Come to confession and be absolved of sin.â Which is all very well until youâre a man loving a man. Then they donât want to know. Youâre evil. An outcast.â Heâs striding around the kitchen now. âIâd say that most of my parish know Iâm gay. They accept it; theyâre not bothered. But there are a few, who praise my sermons and admire my fundraising abilities, who invite me to lunches to meet their eligible nieces. Now, if
they
suspected, theyâd petition to have me thrown out. Theyâd write to Lambeth Palace, insist I was a bad influence; say I was undermining traditional biblical morality. Iâm the same person who delivers the wonderful homilies, who
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