A couple of weeks into Lent, and the sun was struggling through the clouds as Ruth caught a bus into the city and walked a couple of blocks to her destination. A face was watching her from the window, and the door opened very promptly.
“Um, hi.”
One look at the curate and experience set the alarm bells ringing. This meeting should have happened earlier, she should have realised that and made the time. No use showing her concerns yet, though, so she hid them behind a smile.
“Hi Lucy. Good to see you, thanks for making the time.”
“Err, come in? Tea?”
“That’d be lovely.” Ruth followed her inside, casting a subtle look over the interior. All very clean and tidy, apart from a mountain of paper and books on the kitchen counter. She carried on to the living room, sitting down to wait for her tea, being sure to look relaxed when Lucy returned. “So. How’s everything going?”
“Um, okay?”
In other words, badly. Ruth settled herself more comfortably, pushing her glasses up her nose. “This isn’t a test, and if you have any problems it’s much better that you tell me so we can address them, than that you suffer in silence and I find out in two month’s time from someone else. You are not in any trouble.”
Lucy twisted her hands together. “Well, it’s mostly the paperwork. I’ve been trying to fill in everything but I keep finding stuff I didn’t know about, and then I have to try to work out how to do it and find the information to put in them. There’s the charity ones, I don’t know if I’ve done them right, or missed some.” She took a deep breath, staring out of the window.
Ruth sipped at her tea. “Alright. What else?”
“Um... well there’s the PCC, I don’t know what to do, I’ve been trying to remember exactly how Mark did everything but it doesn’t… you know… I can’t… and...” she swallowed, glancing at Ruth, who nodded encouragingly, “I don’t know if my sermons are any good, and I’m trying to do pastoral visiting but I don’t always know what to say, and people want me to do a lent course but I don’t know how, and then there’s the band leader, and I… sorry… don’t know… Martin keeps asking me stuff and I don’t know the answers, and… sorry…” She ran out of steam, dashing a tear away with the back of her hand. “Sorry.”
Ruth found a packet of tissues in her bag and passed one over. “Not going your way right now, then?” she said gently.
That only drew a sob, the first of several. “Sorry.” Lucy blew her nose and tried to breathe normally. “I’m sorry. I’m trying…”
“I know, that’s abundantly clear. I’m going to help you.”
A few more large, hiccupping sobs. “Sorry. I just feel so useless. Don’t know why the Church let me in.” She applied the tissue again, prompting Ruth to offer another one. “Sorry.”
“Obviously I wasn’t on your BAP, but I read the report where they advised me that you have a genuine vocation. This was confirmed again in the summer, when you were recommended for ordination. Just because you’re having trouble with the practicalities, doesn’t mean that isn’t still the case. Remember what I told you at your ordination? You cannot bear the weight of this calling in your own strength, but only by the grace and power of God. You can only do your best, and the state you’re in now indicates that you’ve been doing just that. You’ve had a couple of years studying theology, a few months as a deacon, and now you’re trying to run two big churches. That’s not even a deacon’s job.”
“Sorry.” Lucy rubbed her sleeve across her face. “I know… sorry…”
“Don’t worry.” Ruth glanced at Lucy’s mug. “Drink your tea. May I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. Um... by the front door...”
When she returned a couple of minutes later, Lucy was sitting up straighter, her sniffs smaller and at longer intervals. “Sorry.”
“I wanted to come and see if you were okay, and I think that question’s been answered.”
That earned an almost-laugh. “Sorry.”
“…and you need to stop apologising.”
“Sorry. I mean… sorry… no, I’m sorry…” Lucy ducked her head. “Argh! Sorry, I’m... ugh, I’m trying.”
Ruth shook her head. “When you’ve quite finished, we should do something about the rest of what you’ve just told me. When did you last speak to your IME officer?”
“Um, start of October, briefly? She’s on maternity leave.”
“Of course.” She should have remembered. “Well, that answers a few questions. Spiritual director?”
“November? Before Mark went. I haven’t had time, sorry. I mean…”
“Address that. When did you last have a day off?”
“Uh…”
Ruth shook her head. “Every week. Keeping the sabbath is literally a commandment. Put it in your diary, nothing breaks it - I've made that mistake myself, I know how hard it is, but really do your best. Same applies to holiday; take some of that too, get yourself sorted out, I’ll send you a cheque from the discretionary fund to be used on your destination of choice. I’m not having curates burnt out nine months in.”
Lucy looked down. “Sorry.”
“I told you to stop apologising. I only started with that because it's the easy bit, and it gave me time to think about what I'm going to do.” Ruth gave her a reassuring smile. “Assuming Mark’s not going to be back in the next month or so, we have a couple of options. One is that I prod the appropriate people and they find you a new curacy. The PCC here can cope by themselves for a bit, they wouldn’t be alone. Alternatively, we find an advisor to step in in the meantime, and do what Martin was supposed to be doing. I'm leaning towards the first option, but I'm open to your views.”
She shrugged. “I do like it here, really. It’s just…” Lucy tailed off, picking at her fingernails.
“It's too much too soon?”
Lucy nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’ll ask around about a new curacy. I want you to have a fresh start, with proper support, and a chance to recover from all of this.”
“I'm mostly just... really tired, I guess.”
“You just gave me a significantly longer list of issues than that, which I suspect is more accurate.”
Lucy went back to picking at her fingernails.
“This situation's not fair on you,” Ruth continued. “I have a responsibility to sort that out and I promise you I will do that. If you’re willing to stick it out here just until we find you something else, I’ll get in touch with the archdeacon, she’ll come and scope out the situation and fix the paperwork for you and I will make sure you're not doing it all on your own anymore. You don't have to, it's up to you but would make things... cleaner, in terms of employment and all the legalities. If you can't face it, I'm sure I can come up with something that works.”
“I’ll try.”
Ruth smiled. “Very brave, it’s a lot to ask of you. Janice will help, she’ll have the parish back in order in no time. As far as the rest is concerned - sermons, committees, worship band leaders and the like - give it your best shot, and if you make a mistake or two don't worry because I’ve got your back. You’re not Mark, and you don’t have to be Mark. He’s an experienced priest with ten years in the job, you’ve been a deacon for less than nine months. Be yourself, don’t be afraid to admit that you’re not sure, chances are they’ll admire you all the more for it; it might encourage them to bring their own talents. But however people respond, remember that’s what God’s asking of you – not some sanitised, competent version of you, but the real you. That’s one of the hardest parts of ministry – being honest about yourself.”
“I guess. The thing I hate most is when they expect me to know things and I don’t.”
“You can tell them you’re not sure, and ask if anyone else knows. Or suggest someone else they could ask - the area dean, the archdeacon, someone from Church House. Or ‘sorry, I don’t know,’ is always a perfectly acceptable response.”
“My new catchphrase.” Lucy forced a strained laugh.
“You’re a first year curate, trying to deal with the questions normally asked of the vicar. Have you talked to your friends from college much?”
“Not really.”
“You should share woes. Late night phone calls can be good for that, text works well too, and of course you’ll have all kinds of social media I didn’t, even if you don't fancy seeing each other in person.” Ruth sat back. “So, you have something to be going on with. Day off, holiday - take some time off in lieu. Spiritual director. Friends. Being nice to yourself. Remember you’re not legally responsible. I’ll set a few things in motion, people will start getting in touch with you, as I’ve summarised. I’d like to get you over to Bishopthorpe for a chat in about a month, or as soon as we’ve figured out a new curacy. In the meantime do email or call Tom if you need to talk to me, including if anyone’s giving you trouble. Now, how are you feeling?”
Lucy sniffed and half smiled. “Better, I think? Sorry, I’m just… really tired and… stuff. Sorry.”
“Sometimes you just need a good cry. I’m sorry I didn’t realise before how much you were struggling - I haven't paid as much attention as I should - but now I know we’ll get it sorted out. That may well mean a new curacy, I know that’s not ideal but bumping along here is worse. It might mean a bit of a shift in tradition, and to a smaller town, even semi-rural location, dependent on finding the right incumbent. Would you consider that?”
“I… I guess?” Her disappointment was evident, but that couldn’t be helped.
“Good. And do you drive?”
“Um, sort of... I have a license. I can get a car if I need to.”
“Okay, Janice will be in touch. Now, I’m afraid I should get going. Shall we pray?”
Lucy nodded.
“We’ll begin with a moment of quiet…”
Only once she was outside walking to the bus stop did Ruth let the friendly calm fade. She took out her phone and whizzed through the contacts, before pressing it to her ear and shoving her free hand in her pocket. It was cold out, with the forecast threatening snow again. Bloody climate change.
“Hello Ruth.”
“Janice. Hi. Have you got a minute?”
“Now? Yes, if it’s only a minute.”
“CKC and Holy Trinity. Mark’s churches. Do you know what’s going on with him?”
“He paid the fine for the first court case and promptly got himself in trouble again. I’m not sure where he is now, I think setting up an illegal charity somewhere, I want to say Birmingham? I take it there’s an issue?”
“So we’re not going to be seeing him back within the next month or so?”
“Unlikely. Unless Parliament makes a U-turn.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“We sent someone in to help his curate, and they seemed to be quite good at lay leadership anyway. But I take it something’s come to your attention?”
“Yes. I’ve just had a talk with Lucy. Let’s say, I don’t think the advisor solution has worked too well – and Angela’s on maternity leave, so we didn’t pick up on it.”
“Great. What’s the damage?”
“She’s been doing her best but hasn’t had much guidance, so I think you’ll want to make a visit. She’s probably more worried than she needs to be, but it’s as well to check, and I think she does need help with the charity regulation stuff.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Well, precisely. Be nice, she’s more than a little overwhelmed, help her sort cover for a holiday too if she hasn’t done it yet. On a related note, can you think of anyone who’d make a good incumbent? Preferably evangelical, urban ministry.”
“That bad? I’ll have a think, won’t find anything like CKC though.”
“No, I didn’t think so. And yes, she’s still in her deacon year, this setup isn’t working. Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks Janice.”
Back to the office, where she fired off a couple of emails before opening up a list of possible training incumbents and scrolling through them. Not much choice, looking at those who didn't have curates already. She tried in her head to attach faces to the names. She needed someone who knew what they were doing, someone who'd care. She frowned for a moment, writing another email, a summons for Martin to come and explain why he'd let Lucy get in that state.
The next couple of weeks disappeared, a blur of meetings, services, and ceremonial, broken up with a livestreamed Lent talk and a radio interview. She finally took herself off up the moors for a day off walk, bundled in all the layers she could reasonably manage. A watery sun was striving faithfully amongst wisps of cloud, though making little headway against the two-foot drifts which some how persisted although the city snow had melted and been replenished a couple of times. Sheep huddled around a mess of baled hay, and a robin perched on the fencepost just ahead. Winter was tedious, and the sooner the snow was gone the better.
The following day, back to work. She eyed up the interview candidates at Morning Prayer, but headed straight up to her office afterwards. Kath would oversee the morning, Ruth didn’t have that much time to spare. Over lunch, she met with the other interviewers to gather reviews and to see what they candidates had produced for the written exercise, ready to chair the panel in the afternoon.
“You’re looking mean,” whispered Tom, when she passed him in the corridor.
“I’m always mean.” He snorted, and she shook her head. “Don’t tell me I’m too soft on you.”
“I’m just glad I didn’t have to go through all this. Interviewing in Manchester was bad enough.”
“Oh, I remember. By the time we got halfway, most of us wanted to stop and sit you down and tell you it’d be okay.”
“Wait, what?”
“The honest answer to why you wanted the job was because you needed to be local and have time for your mother… and obviously your life in general was imploding at that point.”
“It was that obvious?”
“I shouldn’t have let it slip, should I? Think about the people involved… even before I was ordained, my job included taking interviews. We’d all been in the game for quite a few years, and most of us had far too many years of ministry behind us. Of course we can read between the lines.”
He looked guilty. “Why did you accept me, then?”
“Why did we accept a good, honest person with a pastoral heart, to whom life had clearly dealt a few blows, but who was still full of energy, who was definitely well suited to the job and who would very much benefit from it too? Not to mention excellent references and an impressive written application? Besides which, we liked you, and that was useful since we’d have to work with you. It wasn’t just a sympathy thing, don’t worry.”
“You’re too kind.” He pulled a face. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me that while I still had interviews to go, I’d have been second guessing myself the whole time.”
A member of the publicity team appeared briefly at the other end of the corridor, and Ruth waved Tom away. “Go and do some work. I have candidates to interrogate.”
He shook his head. “I’m so glad I didn’t have to go through this.”
“So am I. For a start, it saved a lot of hassle for us.”
They’d shortlisted five candidates for interview, in the end, all ordained and all with substantial academic backgrounds. It had been an excellent field of applicants, but not too hard to narrow down, since they could afford to be picky. Ruth just hoped she could find someone she’d get on with, because that was the one thing you really couldn’t tell from a cover letter. It was a shame to be replacing Tom, though there was a certain attraction in the idea of working with someone with whom she could pretend that she really was unflappable. Was that a good thing?
Well, Tom had been working as her chaplain for a long time, change would be good for both of them. For the best, in the long term. Tom had so much potential, he shouldn’t get stuck at his age. She let herself fantasise for a moment, the idea of consecrating him as a bishop, one day. He’d be good, and she’d like to work with him. But it wasn’t what he wanted, not yet. If, in a few years, the Holy Spirit gave him a nudge…
She hurried away, taking her seat in the middle of the table, and conferred briefly with the rest of the panel. Kath passed her a stack of papers, which she flicked through before sitting back. “Right. Samuel Alan-Cooper. Let’s see him.”
The first task each candidate had to face was to deliver their presentation, on “the challenges facing the Church of England today”. No shortage of things to bring up, and it gave a good sense of the realism and general awareness of each presenter. And their ability to respond to questions, when Ruth challenged them to answer the same questions that had occupied hours of Archbishop’s Council meetings, challenging them to find the answers that the most senior advisors in the Northern Province had not. How to balance mission, mental health, and money? Ruth twisted a pen between her fingers as she listened to them, a tactic learnt decades back from a previous employer. If they couldn’t handle this much intimidation, they couldn’t deal with the demands of irate Northern bishops, or Richard.
After the presentation and related questions, she relaxed, for a short discussion on spiritual and theological matters. Two things to check: could they handle the job, and would she get on with them? She found herself comparing them to Tom, whose theology so complemented her own. It could be good to be challenged, but there were limits.
Eventually the last candidate was dismissed, and the panel shifted, shuffling notes and stretching. Ruth met several sets of eyes and snorted. “Yeah, divine right of kings isn’t really my thing, glad to see we all picked up on that.”
With that, the tension was broken, and they were all laughing.
“Anyone else keep a heresy tally on number two?”
“More carelessness and nerves, though, especially looking at her performance all day. You saw her face when Ruth stopped her.”
“And she then tried again, more correctly. That was impressive.”
“All the same, Arianism?”
“Easily done…”
Ruth shook her head in mock despair. “Jesus Christ. The Word. Who was in the beginning, through whom all things were made… coeternal and consubstantial with the Father and the Holy Spirit. Easily forgotten? And there was me thinking it was clergy discipline we were worried about…”
She took out her phone while they laughed. It was on silent, an entire afternoon without emails or calls. There’d be a backlog, of emails at least, to deal with after this. Nothing urgent, though, or the staff would have disturbed the interviews to tell her. Just a missed call from an unfamiliar number – no doubt just another scammer. And a text from Tom, no doubt something to look at when a convenient moment arose…
“Fuck.”
She didn't swear often, and it was met with absolute silence, all eyes on her.
She reread the text again, longing to have misread, before swallowing hard. “They’re dissolving the camp.”
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