Something I'm Not

Something I'm Not by Lucy Beresford Page B

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Authors: Lucy Beresford
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splitting—?’
    Dylan shakes his head.
    â€˜What, then?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ 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, ‘demanding a little chat, setting one of his little traps—’
    â€˜That’s unlikely, surely. What sort of traps?’
    â€˜The “we’ve noticed you’re not married yet” ones.’
    â€˜But why now? You’ve been in this parish, what, five years? Who’d tell tales?’
    So he tells me about Peter, a vicar from another diocese, who’d accepted a new job running a church mission for the homeless, but who’d recently been leant on by the Bishop to withdraw from the post because he was actively gay.
    â€˜As if he’d
want
to stay in the church, if that’s how it carries on,’ I say.
    â€˜Quite. Competence is no longer the issue. Whether you’re sleeping with someone of the same sex apparently is.’ He takes a long drag on his spliff and exhales slowly. ‘So, I’m thinking of leaving.’
    I stare at him, open-mouthed. ‘Leaving the church?’ I swallow. ‘What ever happened to faith, hope and charity?’
    Somewhere deep inside I have the sensation of old scabs splitting. Not that I’m 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. I’ve watched Dylan roll joints for years, and I can’t for the life of me begin to remember how he does it, so my spliff ends up very droopy.
    â€˜Ah, little Bambi-bunny,’ says Dylan, offering me his lighter. ‘That’s 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 “no gays”.’
    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! ‘I remember when there was that fuss about appointing a gay bishop—’
    â€˜Yes, but—’
    â€˜And in the States, they’ve got gay bishops, haven’t they? So we can, too.’
    â€˜â€™Fraid not. My stipend’s paid from a national pot. If the church ordains gay bishops, wealthier, anti-gay parishes will withdraw their funding. There won’t be enough money to pay priests like me, and the church will split.’
    â€˜It won’t,’ I scoff. ‘The church has weathered rifts for centuries. There’s a tithe barn in my home village, mentioned in the Domesday Book, regarding a dispute over the appointment of a rector—’
    â€˜Oh, right. So, it’s OK for the church to behave as it did in the thirteenth century?’
    â€˜Well—’
    â€˜The problem is’, he spits, ‘that the church is confused.’ He snatches another handful of his beloved pistachios. ‘“God is love”, they say. “God will forgive you. Come to confession and be absolved of sin.” Which is all very well until you’re a man loving a man. Then they don’t want to know. You’re evil. An outcast.’ He’s striding around the kitchen now. ‘I’d say that most of my parish know I’m gay. They accept it; they’re 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, they’d petition to have me thrown out. They’d write to Lambeth Palace, insist I was a bad influence; say I was undermining traditional biblical morality. I’m the same person who delivers the wonderful homilies, who

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