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Confession

John Farquhar Young

    Graham, for six weeks a widower, opens his front door to find the Reverend Patrick Bold benignly smiling at him, his head cocked slightly to one side as though observing an unusual phenomenon.
    Oh God! Graham groans inwardly but retusrns the smile.
    “Ah Patrick. I was just about to go for a walk,” he lies, grasping at the first semi-plausible falsehood that comes to mind. “Please come in.” But for no more than a few minutes, he wants to add.
    “I was just passing,” the young minister says as he settles into the sofa in the living room. “And I thought I might see how you were getting along.”
    “I’m ok. Well reasonably ok,” Graham murmurs. “But thank you for calling.”
    “Well, that’s ok then,” the minister says, gently nodding in the ensuing moments of silence. “It’s just that people have not seen you around and about and one or two have wondered if you are ok.”
    By people you mean the ‘coven’, Graham thinks, easily conjuring up a picture of a group of elderly ladies in the congregation. “How is the coven today?’’ he would ask his wife when she returned from a meeting of the church ladies’ group. “And who has Mrs MacLeod inflicted her homemade vegetable soup on this week?”
    “She’s just being charitable in her own way,” Jenny would say, pretending to disapprove and at the same time trying to suppress a smile.
    Becoming aware that the Reverend was speaking he re-focuses on the young man’s face.
    “Yes, I’m fine,” he says, perhaps more emphatically than he intended. “You can tell anyone who’s interested, I’m fine.” Not really fine, but day by day, I am coping. I am eating well enough, without the benefit of Mrs. MacLeod’s ‘brew’.
    He glances around the room. For more than a week he has been aware of the thick layers of dust covering various surfaces. As his eyes stray back to the minister, he spots a black sock protruding from the cushion at the clergyman’s back. There it is! Since the last wash day, he has been puzzled by its disappearance. He suddenly recalls that after several glasses of wine he removed the sock to scrutinize a slightly bothersome ingrown big toenail.
    The clergyman eagerly attempts to dispel any suggestion of doubt about Graham’s coping skills. “I’m sure you are, I’m sure you are, but you’re a valued member of our congregation as of course was Jenny ...” He pauses. “Well, we’d love to see you back among us.” He hesitates. “Whenever you feel inclined.”
    I definitely DO NOT feel inclined. I will never feel inclined. Jenny’s commitment to the church: he has been released from that. A small cruel freedom! The lines, the rules, the domestic ordinances which patterned his day-to-day life are now, in the absence of loving reminders, so easily abandoned. Jenny would be mortified by the proximity of the stray sock to the minister’s bottom. He smiles inwardly. Perhaps I am turning into a slob?
    A silence has descended between Graham and the clergyman. The young man draws a breath and seems to come to a decision. “You are not...” he begins slowly, “... particularly enthusiastic about the church, are you?” I noted that you did not sing hymns and looked around during prayers and...” he chuckles “.... during my sermons, not that they were especially worthy of attention.”
    He becomes serious and fixes his attention for a moment on a corner of the ceiling. He returns his gaze to Graham. “I think you are reluctant to resume regular attendance at our services. Please be frank about your feelings.”
    Be frank, he says! Very well, frank it is! Graham draws a breath. “The language of church worship, the prayers, the hymns – and all that - are for me totally meaningless.”
    “Straight from the heart. I appreciate that. I really do,” the minister says. “You accompanied Jenny as a sort of loving duty. I can understand that.” After an extended moment he seems to come to a decision. “I am going to speak to you strictly in confidence.” He looks expectantly at Graham for a sign that his disclosure will be treated appropriately.
    Though distinctly apprehensive about how the conversation is developing, Graham nods his assent.
    “I have to tell you...” the clergyman says gravely, “... that for much of my relatively short working life, the language of worship and the way in which faith is articulated, has also been for me quite meaningless. What is spiritual in the world beckons to me not in words, but in silence or in sacred music.”
    He pauses for a moment before continuing. “But I feel I have a duty not to confuse people, share my doubts, or shake whatever faith they have, brittle and fragile - and shallow - though that often is. So ...” he pauses, then shrugs and smiles somewhat sadly, “... for that reason I often feel compelled to play the hypocrite. Hypocrisy, you might say, is a strand of my vocation. For the sake of the people I deeply care for, I must live with an irreconcilable and sometimes very uncomfortable inner conflict.”
    “That’s some confession!” Graham exclaims, then laughs. “You would not want to air these views too widely.”
    Patrick smiles. “Indeed not,” he says softly. “But to use your interesting word, I strongly feel the need to
confess
to someone, from time to time
to share my thoughts openly with someone outside the congregation. Being something of a skeptic, I think that you might possibly fit the bill.”
    Half an hour later Graham watches the young clergyman make his way towards his car in the lane. They have agreed to meet again for what they have jocularly labelled ‘another confessional session’.
    Now swinging the errant sock nonchalantly in front of him he heads the wash hamper. He decides to do some dusting, and to make it a rule dust once per week.
    In his mind’s eye he sees Jenny smiling.

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