THE REVEREND SHIPLEY'S SERMON

People in positions of power should possibly watch their words...

The Reverend Percy Shipley stood behind the gigantic bible resting on his lectern and let his eyes roam over the congregation. Once upon a time, he thought, those rows of pews would have been crowded by sinners anxious to be saved, but now they were few and every week getting to be fewer. Every time a parishioner passed away there was one more empty pew, and it was only rare when a newcomer replaced him or her. Well, he’d wake them up! 

There was Mrs Simpson near the front with a feather sticking out of a ridiculous hat and he had been told of the depth of her sins. Fornication was her chosen route to hell and by golly did she fornicate! It went around the parish like a breath of satanic air, Mrs Simpson has been at it again, sharing an evil bed with Tommy McCardle! And he never a member of his congregation, or any other as far as he knew.

He’d heard that Tommy McCardle was a regular visitor to her cottage, arriving as night was falling and not leaving utnil dawn, usually with a soppy grin on his face. And if that wasn’t enough, Billly Tomstone, his curate had told him how he’s seen her knocking on Geoffrey Boysie’s front door and an arm reaching out and pulling her in. Such sins! And there she was near the front of his small congregation with a face as serene and innocent as any face could be. He’d go and throw her out of the church, that he would, only if he did that he would be reducing his congregation by one more soul, and that would never do.

He coughed theatrically, and then leaned forwards, with what he hoped was a holy and heavenly expression on his face. This would give it to them! He knew what he wanted to say and this time he was going to say it!

“Brothers and sister,” he began, “friends seeking the truth, needing to know that there is nothing blocking their way to Heaven when their time comes. I want you to consider a few of Satan's tricks when it comes to your destination in eternity. So listen well.”

There was a splutter and Andy Abrams walked out after shuffling to the end of the row he was sitting in. So that sinner was afraid of the truth, was he? Well, let him burn in Hell when his time comes, because the Reverend Percy Shipley knew a thing or two about Mr Abrams, all right. He, personally, had witnessed the way the vile man hovered in the green bus shelter when it was too late for any bus to be running, and almost eating Gladys Pomfrey, and she a married woman even though her husband was in jail for taking a fancy to Mr Abrams’ property and selling it to old Stepson who had a second hand shop in Quarrydale.

The Reverend smiled to himself. He knew a thing or two about folks round here, didn’t he? And he kept such snippets as he learned at the front of his mind so that he could produce them at a moment’s notice if such it was needed in norder for him to prove a point.

He cleared his throat, and continued, then spluttered as he noticed that someone new had entered his church and was sitting right at the back. He wasn’t sure, but the newcomer looked the spitting image of the bishop in plain clothes as though he was out searching his diocese for proper sermons not being created.

Was he being checked up on? If he was then he’d better really screw the sins out of his wretched congregation. He’d like to see feal tears flooding down shamed faces as his oratory released shame and embarrassment.

“And, brothers, sisters and friends, I want you to contemplate the vile sin of fornication!” he boomed, getting to the intended meat of his lesson, “I want you to look into your hearts, even into your souls, and strip out any shadow of such evil. And if you have ever been wicked enough to engage in any form of fornication, I want you to prostrate yourself before an image of Christ and beg his forgiveness, for you are in dire need of that forgiveness, or you may live your wretched foul lives in need of it, and then pass away only to spend eternity enduring the fires of hell!”

He glanced in the direction of the man he had identified as possibly being the bishop, and frowned. Was it him? Could it be that he was being monitored? Was the bishop there merely to count his flock and find it wanting, or was there something more serious in his presence? Or was it not the bishop at all?

He was puzzled, but he had yet more to say.

“There are some who may be the offspring of fornication,” he boomed, “men and women who came to be alive as a consequence of sin. Whose every breath is an offence to Heaven. Whose life was damned before they were even born, before their lungs felt the first rush of air, before they sucked the first milk on this world. Yet they have been condemned because of the sin that created them.”

Was he going to far? Maybe his Lord was a forgiving lord, a creator who could never create such an imperfection? But no: he was firm in his own mind. To him sin was sin and that’s all there was to it. It even troubled him that even trivial sins might be forgiven because having been committed they must be writ large on the pages of some celestial book, very sordid detail, every shameful thought, where they will be indelibly recorded for all eternity. That had a nice complete feel to it. Sin should be eternally inglorious.

“Let us pray,” he bellowed suddenly, wanting to make sure that the man at the back was who he thought he might be, and if he was, why was he there? Was he being judged? And if he was, what man had the right to judge him?

“Our father,” he began, and the congregation took up the Lord’s Prayer with a sombre hum.

Then he drew the service to an end with hymn number 44 from his own special hymn book (dozens of copies bought cheaply at a boot sale because of printing errors, though the congregation didn‘t need to know that), and then, finally the blessing.

The church fell silent and then the sinners slowly started leaving, shuffling down the aisle, with him behind them. And then they were in the fresh air, a beautiful Sunday morning with the whole world feeling clean and pure.

“Ah, Shipley,” came the familiar voice of the Bishop. Yes, it was him all right, he had a birthmark on one cheek and it looked suspiciously like a kitten complete with a curly little tail.

“Sir? It is you then,” he almost squawked.

“You will notice, Shipley, that I am in civvies,” said the Bishop quietly, “I thought it only right that I should come to you without the paraphernalia of my office to distract you…”

“Sir?”

“Your sermon was quite appropriate, Shipley,” nodded the Bishop. “But I thought you ought to know something of a personal nature. Your mother…”

“No, sir, my foster mother,” he corrected his superior cleric, “my mother died at my birth, sir, that was what I was always told, though…” and he smiled as if he was about to crack the very funniest of jokes, “I was never around and wakeful enough to confirm it!”

“I see, Shipley. Then you were told lies,” harrumphed the Bishop, “so I’ll put you straight, shall I? Yes I will! Your mother, a prostitute from the City, a fine woman but one who allowed herself to be impregnated by a client without taking adequate precautions once too often, a fine woman none-the-less, one of whom I had a great deal of sympathy, passed away and has already found our Lord and sits at his feet in humble penance… I doubt she would have enjoyed the words you just proclaimed, and also, maybe, it has just crossed my mind that you might start wondering a little bit more about the guilt of those born as a gift of sin… Understand?”

The Reverend Percy Shipley’s recent booming words played themselves over in in his mind and burst forth as a kind of pale ochre vomit, and he fell to his knees, unable to reply yes sir for quite some time.

© Peter Rogerson 26.03.23

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Reviews

[AYVID N]

A very realistic, true to life story of the kind of absurdity that goes on in the guise of preaching. I always wonder how one man can tell another what's sinful and what's not. Reverend Percy Shipley was a stupid man who thought he was clever. In his thoughts and intentions, he was more immoral than the local wayward woman. And as if to justify his character, at the end he turned out to be a son of a w***e himself. He really deserved the shock and the agony that would follow in the aftermath. This story was so good and satisfying to read.

[Peter Rogerson]

I suppose we've all been subject to criticism from those whose opinions are quite irrelevant to us. It doesn't have to be any kind of official pracher., though I always delight in examining what motivates them!

[AYVID N]

Indeed, could be countless factors. Human behavior is complex and intriguing.