The Resurrection of the Body (12 page)

T
he Archdeacon's Visit

In the morning when I woke I could hear the children downstairs. Harriet was rushing around, looking for shoes and library books, picking up the children's coats, getting ready to hurry them into the car. She paused in her frantic maternal round to come to me and kiss me on the cheek and ask me gently if I felt better. Before I could form an answer she was gone; the door banged behind her and there was silence. I went into the kitchen and poured some tea. I sat at the table staring out of the window, confused and alone, and decided I had some serious
thinking
to do.

The telephone rang. I hesitated to answer it, to face demands for support from other people when I was so
desperately needing support myself. I let it ring six or seven times and then I picked it up.

It was the Archdeacon. He said he would be passing by my church later that morning and wondered if I would be free so that he could drop in and see me.

I consulted the diary. I had an appointment with an elderly parishioner which I could easily change. Of course, I could with all truth tell him I had a previous
appointment
and that I was very sorry, I wouldn't be there. But that was no good. The Archdeacon clearly wanted to see me quite urgently for a reason and it was much better to see him now rather than have it hanging over me.

I said that I would be in my office and that I would be delighted to see him.

I wondered what exactly had happened. Probably
someone
from the church had gone to see him. It could have been Tessa, perhaps out of wounded pride, though I could scarcely believe that of her; it could have been someone else, one of the wardens, perhaps Chris, who, following my remark in the vestry, seemed to think I had gone off my head. Or the congregation might have noticed my depression, my lack of fervour, my forgetfulness, even come to sense my lack of faith. Perhaps people had seen me wandering the streets, distracted, or they might have been influenced by Detective Chief Inspector Stone.

I took hold of myself and went to work in my study. There were a dozen messages on the answerphone and as many more unanswered from last week. I sorted out the urgent ones and began to make some calls. As I made the calls I began to feel better. Not doing this had been
weighing 
heavily on my mind even though I hadn't been
consciously
aware of it.

At twelve o'clock the Archdeacon came. He is a little younger than me, a very tall, good-looking, energetic man, and I have always got on with him perfectly well. We chatted for a few moments, the usual polite enquiries into family and church affairs, and then he settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

He told me that after the visitation one of the
churchwardens
had said that they were not satisfied that I believed enough in God or Christ to lead the congregation. Members of the church had been upset by what they took to be a lack of faith. One person in particular had said that they came to me to ask for guidance after having a religious experience and been more or less told that they had imagined it.

I knew at once from this who it was and what had
happened
. I was filled with guilt that I had said nothing to Mary about my own experiences, because, of course, I doubted their reality. I thought that I was going mad, and that, by implication, so was she.

It had never really occurred to me to think of this as a collective hallucination. Had a similar event occurred among Christ's disciples? I had been afraid even to discuss this with anyone else, with Mary, with Tessa.

The Archdeacon cleared his throat.

‘I understand, of course,' he said, ‘that a very terrible event occurred here in this church on Good Friday. I read reports of it in the paper and I understand that the whole affair is something of a mystery.'

I nodded.

‘I understand that there hasn't been a great deal of
publicity
about the case, despite its obviously sensational aspects, and that the police haven't made a great deal of progress with their investigations. Recently I had a visit from Detective Chief Inspector Stone. He told me he had a theory that this whole thing had been organised
deliberately
to try and gain publicity for the church. He hinted that you might have been aware of this.'

‘Has it occurred to you,' I said, trying to be reasonable and not angry, ‘that the whole of the Christian story might have been based upon a similar hoax? After all, there is plenty of evidence to show that Jesus knew about, even provoked, his death on the cross. Plenty of people have speculated that the disciples themselves stole the body from the tomb.'

The Archdeacon looked at me, puzzled. It was clear he didn't understand why I was saying this.

‘Is this what you believe?' I asked him.

‘That the disciples stole the body? No, of course not.'

‘You have no real evidence that this might not be true. Yet, on the basis of even less evidence, you might, for example, be prepared to think this of me.'

The Archdeacon brushed this aside. ‘Oh come now, I think we know one another well enough. Nobody is making any accusations against you.'

‘Aren't they?' I got up from my chair and sat down on the edge of my desk. I don't know why, but this made me feel more comfortable, perhaps because I was now looking down on the Archdeacon rather than him looking down
on me. ‘Isn't Chief Inspector Stone making exactly this kind of allegation?'

The Archdeacon was silent for a moment. ‘I don't think so. I think he's just testing the waters. He asked me for a character reference, as it were, and I spoke of you very highly. But it does seem to me that this business has got you into a spot of trouble. I am talking of things spiritual, you understand.'

I didn't want to admit to him that what I felt was
anything
out of the ordinary. Why should I? Each of us is playing a role. ‘But aren't we all in spiritual trouble? How many of us really know what we believe? We ask ourselves to accept miracles which took place two thousand years ago, when people did not understand medicine or science, when they believed that death simply meant the departure of the spirit from the body and that this spirit could, in exceptional circumstances, return. If we cannot believe in the miracles, as most of us can't, we look at their symbolic meaning and try to find a meaning in that. But what if the miracles are true? None of us has any faith. I tell you, if Jesus Christ himself came through that door right now, you would not believe it!'

He sat in silence, startled. I paused, pointing with emphasis at the door. Both of us turned and looked at it. It was a plain, modern door, painted blue, and there was nothing remarkable about it. But for a minute it seemed to me that the air moved behind it, the door swung inwards slightly, and that something hovered behind it in the corridor.

I got to my feet and looked outside. No one was there.
I closed the door behind me firmly and went back to sit on the edge of my desk.

The Archdeacon cleared his throat. ‘Well, what I have been trying to say is that perhaps this business has been rather a strain. Have you thought of taking a holiday?'

‘Harriet and I had been thinking of going down to see her parents in the country for a week or so.'

He spoke as if he had heard nothing of what I had been saying earlier, as if he had prepared his own little speech and was going to carry on with it as if I hadn't had this outburst. ‘I think that might be an excellent idea. In the meantime, you know you can always come and talk to me. We all have doubts, Richard, every one of us.'

T
he Article in the Newspaper

I opened my copy of
The Independent
the following
morning
to a terrible shock. There was a photograph of me
outside
St Michael’s on the home news pages, and a long article. But it was the headline that horrified me:
CHRIST IS MYTH, SAYS HACKNEY VICAR
.

How could this have appeared without my knowing? I looked at the byline: Kevin Brown, the journalist from the Hackney Gazette. Clearly his ambition knew no bounds, and he had already moved on to higher things. He had recycled the information from our previous interview, the news story and my editorial, and woven this around the mysterious murder and the missing body. I suppose, for a piece of journalism, it was not too sensational, but I had
no doubt that other papers would pick it up, and what they would say did not bear thinking about.

In the article Brown had also spoken to one or two people in the congregation who said unfavourable things about me. Only Tessa had ‘declined to comment’.

Even as I read the article the telephone rang. Harriet, looking flustered, picked it up. She murmured once or twice and then waved at me, pointing to the door to indicate that I should go and take it in the other room.

‘It’s the Bishop,’ she told me.

My mouth felt dry and I found it hard to speak. We have a new Bishop in Stepney, Hugh Martineau, and I had only met him once. I found him rather formidable.

‘Richard Page here.’

‘Hello. I’ve just seen this article in the paper. Not very pleasant, is it? I was wondering if you would like to come over and discuss it with me.’

We arranged to meet that afternoon at five. No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang again. This time it was ITV. Did I want to appear on tomorrow’s London Programme? By lunchtime I had heard from Radio Four, the
Daily Mail
, the
Church Times
, the
News of the World
and BBC Radio London.

I patiently told them all that I would have to consider the matter carefully, and rang the London Diocesan
Communications
Officer, Andrew Sargeant, for his advice. He had seen that morning’s
Independent
and thought that I should be very clear what I wanted to achieve if I was going to appear. ‘If you leave it, the whole thing will probably blow over,’ he said. ‘There is a risk that the more
you appear in the media, the more you will stir things up. It depends on whether you want this to happen, of course. It’s nice to have religion in the public debate, but all publicity isn’t necessarily good publicity for the Church.’

What did I want? My instinct was to say no, to leave things alone. On the other hand, it seemed to me that this was a very real chance to raise the question of what, in today’s church, one was expected to believe, and that people didn’t have to stay outside the church just because they couldn’t swallow the whole of the creed. It was also perhaps a chance to clear my name.

I told him I would think about it and hung up. Some time ago I would have said I would have prayed about it, but this was now beyond me. I would talk to Harriet, and then, later, to the Bishop. Perhaps he would give me guidance.

T
he Bishop of Stepney

I felt unaccountably alarmed as I drove eastwards. I was penetrating deeper into the East End, into areas I didn’t know, which still held for me an air of mystery. Of course, I was nervous. Although I knew that the Bishop was
basically
a traditionalist, I had heard enough of him to know that he was a warm and tolerant man. I suppose it did cross my mind that I might be in real trouble, that, if it came to it, I might actually lose my job. This didn’t worry me too much. The Bishop could not expel me from the church, could not stop me being a priest. The very worst he could do was take away my licence to preach at London Fields, but there would still be hope of getting another job, perhaps in a parish under a more liberal bishop. After five
years in London Fields, this might not be such a bad thing. But I didn’t want to think of it this way. I thought that this was an ideal opportunity for me to explain my feelings, hopes and fears, to explain the situation honestly, to ask for his help.

I drove along Roman Road, straight as a die, and finally turned right at St Stephen’s Road, Bow. I turned right again and then left in front of a grim, bricked-up
warehouse
and passed under an iron bridge. To the right,
opposite
a dreary modern estate, stood the gloomy Victorian Gothic residence, like something out of a Hammer horror film, with creeper climbing up one side and dark,
unreflecting
windows. I parked the car in front of the estate opposite and looked across the road.

In my anxiety not to be late I had arrived early. I sat in the car, fretting, messing with the car radio. At 4.55 I got out, walked up and down the road, and then nervously went up to the gate. As I walked up the path I saw a child’s face peer momentarily out of the big bay window to the left.

There were no flowers in the garden, only some lugubrious laurel bushes under the window. The black door was sunk back inside the Gothic porch, and to the right was a little white bell.

The door opened before I could ring it. Somebody, probably the little girl, had told them I had arrived. The Bishop stood in front of me in his purple clerical shirt, holding his hand out in greeting.

He showed me through into his study. He pointed towards a high-backed, dusky pink chair in the corner.

‘Sit down, sit down, how good of you to come. What would you like … some tea, some coffee, a little drink, not to inebriate, you understand, but to relax you …’

‘Tea would be perfect.’

He went out for a moment. I glanced round the room. It was full of dark, Victorian furniture and lined with books. There were icons on the walls and I couldn’t help noticing, to my right, a huge black-and-white photograph of what I could only assume to be Haile Selassie, crowned and holding the orb and sceptre. He had a thin, ascetic face, not unlike …

My thoughts were interrupted by tea arriving on a tray. The Bishop placed the cup and saucer on the table next to me. He noticed me looking at the photograph and said, by way of explanation, ‘The Emperor, on his wedding day. Splendid, isn’t it?’

I knew very little about Haile Selassie, except that he had been Emperor of Ethiopia and that the Rastafarians revered him as an incarnation of Christ. This did not seem to me a good omen.

The Bishop sat in a leather armchair opposite me, and gazed ahead, at the icon of the Trinity.

‘I have read your letter in your parish magazine,’ he began. ‘There is nothing that I would take issue with there. But I think that you must be very careful what you say in public. It’s all too easy to be misrepresented by the press.’

I said that I understood this and that I would be
careful
.

‘However, I believe that this statement you made has
arisen out of other events in your church … events that are rather disturbing, and which have divided your
congregation
. Now, you know my role as a bishop is a delicate one. Of course I am anxious to support you vicars in your work, but I also have a responsibility towards the health of the whole Church…’

I said, ‘I’m afraid it is more complicated than you think. I am not sure how you will take it …’ There was nothing to be done but take the plunge. I began to explain what had happened, haltingly at first, but then in more detail. The Bishop sat very still, looking ahead of him, his hands on his lap, the fingertips pressed together. I told him about the sightings in the park, even told him about going to the man’s flat, but when it came to it, I simply said that he had taken off his shirt and that I had seen the scars, and didn’t mention the prostitute. Somehow, this last detail was beyond me.

When I finished he didn’t say anything at first, sitting there deep in thought.

‘Well?’ I burst out, unable to wait any longer. ‘Do you think I’m going mad?’

He smiled at me and waved his hand dismissively. ‘Has anyone else seen this man? Has anyone else recognised him as the Christ?’

‘Oh, he exists; I mean, he is not an apparition. As far as I know, it’s only Mary, Mercy, a man called Gordon, and myself who have seen the resemblance … no one but me has seen the scars.’

‘I see.’ The Bishop looked ahead of him, at the
beautiful
icon. ‘Well, I think I shall be guided spiritually in this.
No, I don’t think you are going mad. I think I would feel if there were something narrow, obsessive, disturbed in what you say or the way that you have said it … but I think on the contrary that you are very honest, and that you are trying to make sense of something which seems beyond your normal experience. Perhaps this experience may prove fruitful, for yourself and for others in your church.’

The phone on his desk suddenly rang. He did not look up, but simply waited, and after four rings it was picked up elsewhere in the house. He picked up his teacup and drained it; I realised that I too had completely neglected mine, and that the tea had gone cold. I sipped it
reluctantly
, down to the bitter dregs.

There was a knock on the door and a woman put her head round. She said, ‘It’s a journalist from
The Times
… he says it’s very urgent.’

The Bishop stood up and picked up the phone from his heavy, mahogany desk. He listened for a minute or so in silence. Then he said, ‘Yes, I do indeed … well, I shall watch the community with great interest. Yes … you can say, “Isn’t it wonderful that owing to this event, people in this community in London Fields are being challenged to think about their beliefs, and may be brought nearer to seeing Christ in everyone …”’

He looked up at me from the desk. He smiled,
half-winked
at me, and an expression almost of glee crossed his face. ‘Yes, splendid. Thank you.’ He hung up. ‘Right, that’s fixed him,’ he said, coming back to sit opposite me.

His confidence with the press had impressed me; I saw at once that this was necessary, and that I would never be
able to put up such a performance. I decided to ring up and say that I couldn’t do the London Programme
broadcast
.

‘But what do you think?’ I asked again. ‘Do you think it’s a hallucination?’

‘There is a difference,’ he said, ‘between a
hallucination
, which comes from your own mind, and a vision, which comes from outside. Besides, you told me that other people had seen this man.’

‘Yes … that’s true.’

‘Then how can it be a hallucination?’

His eyes looked directly into mine. I felt a sudden, cold shock go through me. He did not think I was going mad; on the contrary, I think he envied me. It seemed he thought there was nothing strange about the idea that a resurrected Christ should suddenly pop up and start
walking
around the heart of Hackney, made obvious to those who were open to seeing him.