Church
by Andrew Lee-Hart

 

 

The City Rehabilitation Unit

 

I remember Nottingham when there were churches and chapels on most streets, Anglican, Methodist, Baptist or the more obscure denominations. At certain times of day you could hear the Call to Prayer, and during the Sabbath, you could see Jewish people making their way to one of the city’s four synagogues.

 

Now they are all gone, the Churches, Chapels, Mosques, Synagogues and Temples razed to the ground, not even converted to something else, and quickly built over so that now there is nothing to remind us of what once was so important to so many.

 

As usual I was kept waiting, although this time it was only for a little over two hours, the department must have been less busy than usual, they were bored, or they just felt sorry for me. One day I had had to wait for over twelve hours, and it was not unusual for me to be there for most of the day. Was it deliberate? Probably, but one should never underestimate the incompetence of the new Kingdom, which is both cruel and fallible.

 

On my first appointment I brought a book, nothing controversial, just a detective novel, but it was taken off me by the death-faced receptionist straight away, and when they returned it to me at the end of my appointment, several pages were missing and there was a dark brown stain on the cover. So now I just sit on a plastic chair and recite chapters from the Bible in my head, but I am getting old and my memory is fading and soon all I will be able to remember are a few verses here and there, not the whole chapters of scripture which I once had at my command.

 

Every time I was interrogated by somebody different; do they have a high turnover or is it just to disorientate? This time it was a woman in her thirties with dark skin and a rather lovely perfume. I gave her a smile which she ignored. She was cold and harsh, but her beauty meant I did not care. I wondered what would happen if I asked her out for a coffee but decided not to risk it, and of course it was only a whimsical thought. I doubt that we would have anything in common, and all I wanted to do was stare at her beauty rather than engage her in conversation.

 

“Mr Newman” she said reading from a sheet and emphasising the “Mr”, as if to point out that I was no longer a Reverend, or at least not according to the Kingdom. She looked at me until I admitted that this was who I was.

“How is your redemptive work going?”

“Okay I think, I visit the Civic schools that you send me to, and talk to the children twice a week, and explain why I am no longer a Christian, why the King thought fit to abolish religions because of the harm they do, and I talk about the flawed history of the Church of England.”

 

She looked at me after I had finished speaking, she seemed to enjoy the silence, basking in it, or waiting for me to confess to something. But after being in prison and tortured one can deal with these games, and I was twenty years older than her, she could have been my daughter, my daughter Miriam who refuses to have anything to do with me.

“Several Teachers say you do not appear engaged, and less than sincere, and that you do not seem to be following the prescribed lesson.”

“I say what I am told to” I told her, “and I suspect I know more about the subject than any teacher.”

“You forget that this is a punishment, and a light one. You are very lucky. Do you want to be back in prison?”

She looked at me and I gazed back, noticing her dark brown eyes so that eventually she lowered them in seeming embarrassment.

“I am putting this down as a warning” she told me and wrote something down, “anything more and you will be incarcerated or worse.”

 

There was more silence.

“Do you like coffee?” I asked her, but she ignored me and left the room carrying her notes with her, leaving behind a trace of the exotic perfume she was wearing.

“Lord forgive me my lust” I prayed, but I was not sure how seriously I meant it, after all one needs some pleasure in life, and there wasn’t much else for me, nor had there been for many years.

 

After the meeting I was told to stay in the waiting room, again another one of their tricks, but I was used to it, so I sat there, refusing to succumb to my impatience. I had nothing I needed to do, nowhere I needed to go, and I had learned to control my hunger and thirst. And then out of the blue the receptionist told me I could leave and to be sure I was in time for my next appointment.

 

There was a cheap café near the railway station, where I often went after these meetings. I bought some toast and orange juice, and sat there and thought of nothing at all. And then someone who used to go to my church came in and as he walked towards the counter, I saw him recognise me. Mr Herbert was a musician who once, many years ago had thought of ordination and had been one of the most dedicated members of the church, and someone with whom I had prayed on many occasions.

 

I saw him pause when he saw me, and our eyes met for a moment and then he looked away. He was clearly deciding whether to acknowledge me or not, but eventually his cowardice got the better of him and he retreated out of the café without a word. Although I did not blame him, I was disappointed, if only because I longed for someone to talk to.

 

 

The Samuel Butler Civic School

 

I was lucky. Many clergymen had not survived the arrival of the Kingdom, they were either executed in glorious High Definition, or covertly in prison, being found dead in their cell. Only a few of us had come out the other side alive and we were forced to repeatedly repent for our former beliefs.

 

Other religions had fared differently, all Imams were sent to Afghanistan or Iran, Hindu Priests to India, whilst Rabbis and their congregations had been shot without mercy, as had the more obscure sects; Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons and others of their ilk. I had been in prison whilst this was happening and had come out to a different landscape, a brutal landscape under which lay the bones of the faithful.

 

Each week I was sent to a different school in or near Nottingham, to talk to classes of children about the error of my ways, and of what once was the national church. Each lesson went the same way; a discussion of the Church of England and its corrupt beginnings; with plenty of emphasis on Henry VIII and his wickedness and then a potted history of the church with emphasis on anything hypocritical or bad; its covering up of child abuse, Bishops who did not appear to believe in the basic tenets of the faith and its interference with things that it should have kept out of.

 

I often wondered why they bothered. When I was vicar the Church of England was declining; numbers were dropping and we no longer even had a use as somewhere to get married or buried. Why destroy something that was already on its way out? And yet of course there are always the devout, who believe and devote their lives to the Gospel, and so long as they are prepared to risk their lives by worshipping together, then the church will survive, no matter what they do to the clergy.

 

The staffroom was friendlier than usual; I was offered coffee and a biscuit and even shown where the loo was. Normally I would be ignored, although whether this was fear or contempt I was never sure. One middle aged teacher, Mr Watts, sat next to me and we spoke about John Donne. I had assumed that Dean Donne was on the banned list but who knew? How could one ban all writers who mentioned religion or God?

 

“An interesting mix of sex and God.”

“But they are not necessarily exclusive” I pointed out, “the Puritans have a great deal to answer for.”

Mr Watts laughed, “indeed they did.”

I noticed that another teacher was listening to our conversation, and Mr Watts seemed to notice too and so – in loud voices – we talked about the war with Canada; a much safer topic of conversation.

 

Once in the classroom I went through my spiel as I always did. The attractive woman I saw yesterday was correct of course; I don’t engage with it much, I know that there are some former clergymen – although surprisingly few – who take great pleasure in denouncing the church to anyone who will listen, perhaps to show that have truly been rehabilitated, or because they actually have seen the error of their ways. But for most of it is a punishment or humiliation that we have to do, and hate doing. Of course the church was never perfect, it was full of humans, and only the naive pretended otherwise, but it was a means to reach God through prayer and love, something that no State can ever achieve, however Godlike their leaders.

 

The second class I spoke to were first years; so eleven or twelve. Their teacher, was Mr Watts, who I think winked at me as he let me have the floor, whilst he sat at his desk and ostentatiously did a crossword, either because he was bored or because he wanted to show that I could say what I liked without witnesses.

 

Mostly the children ignored me and what I was saying, staring into space or chatting amongst themselves, but then this was what I had grown to expect, and what I preferred. But after a few minutes I realised that one girl was staring at me intently, and then as she caught my eye she gave me a shy smile, which was when I realised who she was.

 

One of my churches, is a cinema in Mansfield; the owner was once a staunch member of his church; and whilst he does not attend our meetings, he leaves it open on a Friday morning so that we can meet. And this girl was always there with her mother and brother, after a moment I remembered her name, Tabitha, a sweet and devout girl who clearly loved going to church. And as I spoke she continued to look at me, with a smile of recognition and happiness, presumably not understanding a word that I was saying.

 

I always worried for the children; all it took was for one careless word or the wrong expression and those they cared about most would be hauled away most likely never to be seen again, and their lives changed would be changed forever. This was the first time that I had seen someone from church in school, and I became frightened, presumably she had been told again and again by her parents never to mention her church, but as she looked at me she was not attempting to hide her joy at seeing me, so that it was obvious to anyone who looked, that she knew me.

 

My voice grew more and more strident as I denounced the church and my life as a vicar. Tabitha looked at me again looking frightened. Well they could not complain about my apathy this time.

“Listen children, do not believe in a man in the sky who listens to all you thoughts, and sees all that you do. There is no God, there never was. Believe in the here and now and reject these fairy tales, fit only for babies and the mentally ill.”

Tabitha’s smile had disappeared and she looked in shock, and seemed to be on the verge of tears. I knew that I would never see her against amongst my flock, and I was sorry but it was all that I could do, both for her sake and mine.

 

As I finished and a rather shocked Mr Watts thanked me I could not look at the young girl sat at the back who I imagined was in tears now. I left feeling like St. Peter after the death of his Lord and wondered if I should have stood up and proclaimed my faith, I was tired of living amongst the shadows, knowing that other men I had known and prayed with had died refusing to compromise or besmirch their faith.

 

And as I walked to the next lesson I remembered Jesus’s words in the Gospel of Matthew.

“But whoso shall cause one of these little ones who believe in Me to fall, it were better for him that a millstone were hung about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”

 

 

Chilwell Vicarage (the beginning of the end)

 

Strangely they took my wife first. Charlotte had been forced to give up her job soon after the Kingdom took power, after she refused to sign the “Denunciation of all Religions and Gods”, which meant that she automatically was sacked from the library, but she was not too bothered as she was bored there and was looking for something more interesting. And she had plenty to do with her voluntary work. It was only the money we missed, without either of us now earning and ineligible for state aid money was tight, but we had savings, and we hoped, as many did that the Kingdom would soon be out of power – how could they not be – and things would be back to how they once were.

 

Charlotte had been due at the Food Bank all day, neither of us were allowed Mobile Phones of course, so I had not heard from her, and it was only in the evening when she did not come home from dinner, that I thought that there might have been a problem. I rang Mrs Wesley who said she had not turned up.

“I know how things are, so didn’t want to ring your house and get you in trouble.”

“It is okay” I told her, “these are strange times, I will ring round and see where she is.”

 

I tried Miriam, who seeing the way the country was going, had moved out a year or so ago and had not been in contact since, other than sending us a card with her contact details on. She listened when I told her that her mother was missing, but then put the telephone down without responding. I tried to ring her a few days later, after I had still heard nothing, but the phone was disconnected and I discovered subsequently that she had moved house once more, and this time she did not send us an address or number. I have not heard from her since.

 

Charlotte was not the only one to disappear during the early years of the government; many of my colleagues were taken and members of the church. At first nothing official was said, those who contacted police were even told that they would do their best to find them. But after a couple of months, those who had gone missing suddenly appeared in the government newspaper “Kingship”; with details of the charge and the sentence, although when all these trials took place nobody knew. But of Charlotte there was nothing, and she wasn’t the only one of whom the Kingdom denied all knowledge; giving us hope that she was not in their hands.

 

For a long time I hoped that she had escaped, realised that she would be arrested and done a bunk, although I felt hurt that she had not spoken to me first, or at least let me know that she was safe. It was only when I was in prison myself, and they showed me the photographs of what was left of my love, that I finally had confirmation of the truth, but I think deep down on that first day I knew she was dead.

 

Now of course deaths are nothing; so many people I knew from childhood to the present had been executed, died in prison or simply vanished. So even the death of Charlotte became less momentous than perhaps it should have been.

 

 

Cooper’s Garage, Long Eaton

 

Apparently almost two hundred years ago this building was used as a Presbyterian Church until the expanding congregation built something bigger and more appropriate, and then the Primitive Methodists also used it for a few months until they too outgrew it. After that it was the first cinema in district, showing silent films; comedy shorts I imagine, with the likes of Chaplin, W. C. Fields and Thelma Todd. After that it had various uses, including as a meeting place for other diverse congregations.

 

In more recent years it has been a garage, owned by one William Cooper, whose brother used to be a clergyman, and was martyred down in London. On Tuesday nights, it reverts back to its original use as I lead a service for an increasing number of worshippers including William.

 

I got there early, driving my motorbike, a pre-war Honda. In the baggage compartment at the back I keep my dog collar, Bible and hymn book. I was only ever stopped once; two policemen waved me over, as I was heading to a chapel in Beeston. Feeling scared and vulnerable I stood at the side of the road whilst the two men went through my bags. I knew that at any moment I would be arrested and my death warrant signed. I could have run, but they would have caught me, so I stood there waiting for the inevitable.

 

After a few minutes the two policemen came back to me and the older one said.

“All seems to be fine. It is a dark night, mind how you go.” and waved me off.

I drove around for awhile in case I was being followed, that it was a trap, but apparently not. And when I opened my bags at the house where the service was to take place everything was still there.

 

Since then I have never been stopped, and nor I have had any miracles, unless the fact that people all over the East Midlands are prepared to risk their freedom and their lives to sit with fellow believers for an hour or two just as Jesus’s followers did hundreds of years ago. Although I do wonder why God was prepared to save my life, when he wouldn’t save Charlotte from being beaten to death, or all those other thousands who were slaughtered for daring to believe that there is something beyond secular authority.

 

William Cooper was already in the garage, and we talked as I set up the service. Apparently he had had no belief until his brother was taken away and then in due course his execution was announced in the government paper. Suddenly he became devout; although I was never sure if it was a belief in Christ or the need to fight against injustice.

 

“Have you ever thought of escaping?” he asked me, after I told him about my visit to the City Rehabilitation Unit the day before.

“Where to? America is impossible to get to, and do we really know what is going on there anymore? You hear such rumours…. And the rest of Europe is no better than the Kingdom.”

“I hear Rome has become an enclave and that all sorts of Christians are fleeing there.”

“Really? I know Italy was said to be less stringent in its persecutions, but that’s all.”

“It is the South apparently, Rome down to Naples. I have a friend who escaped and got word to me; it might be worth considering...”

And then we stopped talking as members of the congregation started to walk in, cautiously and quietly, but determined and glad to be there.

 

There was thirty-one this week, one more than last time. How could I think of deserting them when more and more were coming? If they could be brave so could I.  And perhaps, with God’s help we would triumph. And everywhere else, I understood that numbers were increasing, perhaps not by much but definitely increasing. And when the buildings we used became closed to us we just went somewhere else, there was always somewhere open to us.

 

I began with the Lord’s Prayer, and then read from Chapter 12 of Acts, where Peter is in prison by Herod, and an angel comes to his rescue.

“The night before Herod was to bring him to trial, Peter was sleeping between two soldiers, bound with two chains, and sentries stood guard at the entrance. Suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared and a light shone in the cell. He struck Peter on the side and woke him up. “Quick, get up!” he said, and the chains fell off Peter’s wrists.

 

Then the angel said to him, “Put on your clothes and sandals.” And Peter did so. “Wrap your cloak around you and follow me,” the angel told him. Peter followed him out of the prison, but he had no idea that what the angel was doing was really happening; he thought he was seeing a vision. They passed the first and second guards and came to the iron gate leading to the city. It opened for them by itself, and they went through it. When they had walked the length of one street, suddenly the angel left him.”

 

I remember when I was only a curate at a small church in Leeds, reading this narrative, and it meant little, just an exciting adventure story. But now it had become real, and the forces of Herod were out in the city every day, looking for us, and miracles did occur, they might be small, but they happened, and many of the people in this congregation had witnessed them.

 

I talked to the people in front of me, about the dangers we faced, but how we should remain steadfast and believe in the power and forgiveness of God, when we are not as brave as we would like to be. And I thought of being in that school earlier and wondered if I could be so easily forgiven for the damage that I had done to one girl’s soul.

 

 I had spotted the new member of the church whilst I was preaching. A middle-aged woman, who seemed to be a typical member of the church, but there was something about that was a bit odd, although I was not sure what. You learn to trust your instincts and I knew to be wary of her.

 

She came up to me after the service and shook my hand, looking directly into my eyes.

“Reverend Newman; I remember you from Chilwell.”

“Oh” I said embarrassed; we tended not to give out names, nor did I remember this lady, and was sure that I would have. She looked at me expectantly, until I gave up.

“Yes, it is Rev. Newman.”

She smiled with satisfaction, and shortly afterwards left the garage, having done what she had come here to do.

 

 

Dagenham Punishment Centre

 

They hadn’t wasted time. I had not even had time to make myself a cup of tea after getting home from church, when my door came crashing in followed by six members of the Kingdom’s Special Religious Police, with guns and sticks. They beat me to the floor and kicked me over and over again, but for some reason I remained conscious; aware of the pain and of then being picked up and thrown into one of their green vans.

 

As they had dragged me out of my house I saw people watching from their windows or their gardens, and was it my imagination but did I see sympathy? Perhaps one day our people will be tired of this and rise up, or refuse to help the Kingdom. It was something to hope for as I lay in the van that smelt of blood and urine.

 

I realised that they were driving me straight down to London, along the motorway, which was busy even in the middle of the night. I started feel sore then but was eventually able to sleep before waking up just as I was dragged into the cell, and it was back to how it was when I was first arrested over five years ago.

 

It was as if the last five years hadn’t happened, there was the lack of food (thin slices of bread with some meat well past its best and water); never enough, never nearly enough of both, the light which was always on, the screams from adjoining cells, and then the questions, endless questions asking who and where, although never why.

 

“You don’t have to die” the young woman with silver blonde hair told me, as again I refused to tell her about the churches I led, and then after a moment she nodded to the thug standing behind me, who punched me hard in the head, and then started kicking me, whilst my interrogator watched, and drank water from a bottle, pure water, which I knew she was doing just to mock me so I stopped wanting it.

 

This continued for a week, maybe much longer, I was so disorientated that I cannot say for sure how long I was there for. I wish I could say that I did not give anyone away, but the best I can say is that I did not give everyone away, and that I threw names in to confuse them, names of people who were dead, or who I had made up, or thought that I had. And increasingly I got weaker and weaker, and more and more confused.

 

And then it stopped, which is when I realised that I was going to die. There were no more interrogations, and the food got slightly better; a little more of it and fresher; presumably they wanted me to survive long enough to be shot in front of the cameras. And the light went off at night time, so I actually slept. No books to read alas, but I was grateful for what I had.

 

I prayed too, not asking for anything, just a conversation with God; a God who I did not understand, but who was all I had, who had seen all the evil and violence that man is capable of and yet was still there in the midst of us.

 

And then one morning I woke early and the cell door was wide open. Cautiously I got up and dressed, nobody came in and everywhere was silent. As quietly as I could I walked out of my cell, there was the guard room, but the soldiers were asleep, snoring loudly. And then there was somebody at my side; I could not see them, well not clearly, but I could feel their presence as I continued to walk.

 

“Come” a voice said to me, I hoped that it was Charlotte but it wasn’t, the voice was unworldly and neither male nor female, perhaps an angel.

“Come the doors are open,” the voice told me, and it seemed to guide me past the cells where my fellow prisoners were also asleep, as were more guards who we came across, slumped on the floor. We continued to walk through my prison and the voice was correct, the gates were open and ahead of me were the streets of London, starting to get busy for another morning.

 

I stood there for a moment, enjoying the sunshine, knowing that this would be the last time that I would see it. I was tempted to walk out, to sit in a park and sleep and forget everything, perhaps live a normal life, do a “normal” job and forget God and his Church. But then I thought of Charlotte and also the little girl in that school back in Nottingham and I realised that I was old, and that if there was any truth in what I professed to believe, then I needed to be brave and not to run away.

 

And then slowly I walked back into the prison and to my cell, the angel or whatever being it was, still there besides me. Back in my cell I lay on my bed and closed my eyes, ready to face what the day would bring, and to become what from the days of the Roman Empire to now, were known as Martyrs.

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