Chapter 2: Ruth

Advent. A time of waiting - or, for the Archbishop of York, running from one Christmas do to another, barely time to record a video for the Church of England website on the importance of taking time to reflect. After all these years, the Nativity hardly came as a surprise, and the nation had been pre-empting it for a month before the Minster choir had even started rehearsing for the Advent Procession. Ruth would need to watch out or she'd find herself dashing off a conclusion to her Christmas sermon in the Minster vestry, something she had never resorted to as yet.

But there were so many other things to do first. While Lizzie's appointment had been announced, she wouldn't take up her post until Epiphany, and until then Ruth kept finding things landing on her desk which should really have been dealt with by Canterbury. She was getting old, the numbers were starting to blur... a hint she should start thinking about retirement? Not full retirement – she had another ten years to be eligible for that – but backing off somewhat, into a parish or maybe a university role. She had savings, too, to tide her through. She could take a sabbatical year if she wanted.

But what would she do? It wasn’t like she had a family to spend time with – her sister’s family, sure, but they hadn’t spoken in thirty years, apart from when their parents were dying. She even managed to keep them out of mind most of the time. And she’d never wanted to start a family of her own, it just hadn't seemed worthwhile. And would have required someone to start it with, anyway.

Saturday afternoon began in too much of a rush, as she was late leaving a diocesan lunch and then got stuck following a tractor for three miles, but she eventually made it to a church already starting to fill. “Afternoon, Lucy. Tim.” She nodded to them across the vestry as she buttoned her cassock.

The soon-to-be priest half smiled back, chewing her lip, nodding to her training incumbent’s words. Slightly more animated than the nervous silence with which she had listened to Ruth's charge last night. Ruth sorted out her cross and then joined them, letting Tim finish his sentence before interrupting.

“Afternoon, Tim.” She tried to reassure him with a look, before turning to her ordinand. “Lucy, perhaps you would like to spend a few minutes walking with me around the churchyard..?”

Lucy followed obediently out of the vestry door, as Ruth led the way around the winding path between gravestones. A rare dry spell meant the grass was only slightly spongy.

“Are you going to say… I mean… are you thinking..?” Lucy stuttered. Ruth cut her off quickly.

“Nothing is wrong. There’s no need to worry.” She held up a hand at Lucy’s intake of breath. “No need to speak, unless you want to. I’m sure everyone – your training incumbent in particular – is bombarding you with well-meaning advice and reassurance, but I think you've been told everything you need to. Instead, I'd just like you to walk with me out here for five minutes, and then we will find the necessary people inside and you will take your oaths and make the declaration of assent, and then we will make final preparations and go to the Lady Chapel and continue to pray until the service begins. In the words of Mother Julian, and as I told you in my charge - all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. Okay?”

Lucy nodded, and they walked in silence, Ruth glancing at Lucy only occasionally out of the corner of her eye. It was a beautiful place, Yorkshire, when it wasn’t raining. From the other end of the churchyard, the murmur of people arriving, the slam of a car door. A pair of crows bickered, one from the branch of a nearby tree and the other from the church roof. The church bell rang the half hour.

“Right. Anything you want to ask or say? The answer can be no.”

Lucy shook her head, not looking up from the ground ahead.

“Are you ready to take your oaths and make the declaration?”

A nod.

“The others will be waiting inside. Come.”

The church was full, including no small number of children. A solid sound in the hymns, as good as a Minster congregation would normally manage, even with an amateur choir instead of the York choristers and lay clerks; at least three colours of choir cassocks indicated joint choirs. And there were almost as many robed ministers as they'd have had in the Minster too, including most of Lucy's curacy cohort.

Ruth had chosen to preach herself, on bravery and perseverance, written with Lucy in mind, but with a message to the laity too: we are your priests, we are broken too and need your support as much as you need ours. A reminder of God’s presence even when one felt alone, and of good which might be found in all things.

There were tears on Lucy’s cheeks when she stood before Ruth again, but she answered each question clearly. And then she knelt, as Ruth laid hands on her head and felt the words of the liturgy wrap around them. Finally Ruth took and and anointed shaking hands, drawing Lucy to her feet and steering her to face the congregation, for a formal welcome immediately swallowed by cheers and applause.

A little while later, they stepped out into a rare blaze of winter sun. Ruth turned to Lucy immediately.

“Happy?”

The grin answered that, really, spreading across still-wet cheeks. “Thank you. So much.”

“Thank you. For your faithfulness, in not giving up.”

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“Why would I do that? You’ve had a tough ride to get here, and it won’t all be easy from now on, but I pray things get better. God doesn’t have it in for you, you’re not cursed never to be a priest, you’re not a failure or wasting everyone’s time...”

Lucy laughed, dashing a tear away with frustration. “Sorry, I don't know why I'm crying.”

Ruth shifted her crozier out of the way and held out an arm. It was an awkward hug, hampered by her chasuble. “Following a vocation is hard,” she told Lucy quietly. “That won’t change, but know that God is with you, and it will come out right in the end. And that it is worth every bit of the pain.” She paused, and then smiled, with a different question. “So, Mother Lucy - priest in the Church of God - could I ask your first blessing?”

Lucy blinked a couple of times. “Um, of course?”

Ruth passed her crozier to Isla, then removed her mitre and knelt on one knee in front of Lucy, eyes closed as she felt her hands on her head and heard the words of blessing spoken in an awed voice. Then she rose back to her feet and smiled, first at Lucy and then at the registrar who stood by holding Lucy’s certificate, and finally with a brief nod to Tim.

A few more photos, before they were interrupted by the descent of Lucy’s family, and Ruth stepped away. A familiar pang, at seeing Lucy surrounded by parents and grandparents and siblings, all congratulating her and overflowing with emotion. Was it jealousy? No, Ruth was happy for Lucy; she deserved every bit of this joy, and it was good to see her parents in this far happier context. She went to speak to them, briefly, both parties avoiding reference to that hospital meeting. How close this ordination had come to not happening.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Ruth took a glass of bubbly and continued circulating. It was good to be able to stay a while, to wander around the church hall greeting joyful congregants. They were from all different churches within the benefice, and a few from Christ the King and Holy Trinity where Lucy had had her first curacy, as well as college friends and fellow curates and a lot of other local clergy. Cake was cut, handed round, and enjoyed, and then Ruth made eye contact with Isla and jerked her head. Her chaplain was over by her side in a moment.

“Best get on. I’m just going to say goodbye to Lucy.”

“Anything left in the vestry?”

“No, it’s all in the car.” Ruth hovered in Lucy’s line of vision until the new priest extracted herself.

“You’re looking to talk to me?”

“Only to tell you I’m off, to wish you the greatest joy and say that I’ll be praying for you tomorrow as you celebrate the Eucharist for the first time. It is a wonderful duty and a privilege, I hope that it will be a joyful experience. Remember that it is a prayer, an act of worship, and that it is Christ himself who you take in your hands. And if you fall over the words, don’t worry, Jesus understands.”

Lucy pulled a face. “I’ll try not to…”

“Obviously, but it's not something to be concerned about. Anyway, I’ll see you around. Remember you can email Isla any time if you want to talk to me. God bless you, Lucy.”

There were no tractors this time, as they made their way back to normal sized roads, the short distance back to York for whatever Christmas event she’d agreed to attend this week. Followed by Night Out at the Cathedral, all techno-carols and funky lighting. It was the kind of thing Lizzie loved, but that just made Ruth feel old, and she couldn't help glancing at her watch as the evening wore on. That said there was something special in those fifteen minutes where teenagers who had been jumping up and down a moment before sat or lay on the stone floor attentive to her every word, and in hearing them discussing some of the things she'd said as they poured out at the end.

Sunday dawned reluctantly, the sun barely outlined through mist. It would be a clear day, eventually, and this was already showing when Ruth left Bishopthorpe’s chapel after morning prayer and joined Sunday staff and the resident Sisters for breakfast. Sister Helena and Sister Adelaide, of the Order of the Holy Paraclete, were the constant of Bishopthorpe, against the coming and going of Palace life. A kind of family, at times, who like Ruth knew the place as more than just an office.

Her conversation with Sister Helena was brought to a close by the interruption of Isla. Work should not be done on the Lord’s Day… unless you worked for the Church. For Ruth, it would be a day filled with driving as much as services, or rather with working in the back of the car as Isla drove. A farewell service every week, so it seemed, this week the Bishop of Lancaster finally stepping away as he had threatened for the past two years. He had just turned seventy-five, so it was fair enough, if inconvenient.

Her phone rang. She grimaced at the archdeacon's name and picked up.

“Afternoon Janice. Something wrong?”

“Afternoon Ruth. Could be. Apparently a curate has refused communion to a same-sex couple. The media fallout may be nasty, fortunately the churchwarden told the incumbent who informed me immediately. I’m investigating, thought you should know.”

Ruth took a deep breath, already mentally running through possible candidates. “Who and where?”

“The curate is Samantha Karner, priest since June. St Nicholas, Millsden - James' curate. From what I understand, the couple in question were married and then received a church blessing yesterday. Curate criticised the incumbent’s willingness to do the blessing, incumbent expressed concern at her intolerance and told her not to attend the service. Curate presiding in that same church this morning is alleged to have recognised the couple and refused to administer to them.”

Ruth tapped her fingers on her knee. “Thanks for letting me know. You believe it’s true, from the reports given?”

“All I have to go on is my conversation with James. You'll probably receive a formal written complaint in the next couple of days, and then we can deal with it properly. Meanwhile James assures me that she has been relieved of all duties today and until further notice, and that he is providing pastoral care to the two men affected. For now just be aware and ready to make a statement.”

“Right. Thank you, Janice.”

Ruth put down the phone and forced herself to take five minutes of prayer. Why now, the busiest time of her year? She’d like to go in like a storm and make it clear to this curate – and to anyone else, by example – just what she thought of such behaviour. Then again, perhaps best not. Better to leave it to Janice, who was extremely capable in these situations, her anger cold as Ruth’s could be hot. And remember, innocent until proven guilty.

But first, a farewell, to a man who had served faithfully in this particular post for over fifteen years. The suffragan bishop of Lancaster, frail at seventy-five, struggling not to spill the wine as he raised the chalice in shaking hands. He’d been talking about retirement for a couple of years, it was disgraceful that they hadn’t let him go. That the Church was so willing to drive people like Stuart to the ground. There was nobody to replace them, that was the issue, but then who’d want the job?

The party afterwards was good, not a mince pie in sight. She recognised several friends from theological college, and others she’d come to know since, and generous quantities of wine. Isla would keep an eye out, Ruth trusted, as she took her second gin and tonic and joined a small circle of old friends.

“And this is my granddaughter…”

Oh, joy. Ruth nodded appropriately at the photos passed around.

“…which makes three. Millie’s delighted, of course, she’s an old hand by this point, and the other two are excited. I think I have a picture of them all together… yes, here! We’re looking forward to Christmas, they’ll all be coming to mine and we get to do a proper family Christmas.”

“I’m having mine over too. They’re that bit older, though, which is harder… what do teenagers like, as far as presents are concerned? My grandson’s just turned thirteen…”

“What’s he into? One of mine's into football, the other's a gamer.”

“At least as grandad they won’t expect you to be up-to-date. I’ve been giving mine board games and books for years.”

“Classic. I used to do so much research, though, I feel like expectations are high.”

“Ah, the greatest mistake.”

“I’ve always taken the well-I-am-a-priest tack – used to give them Godly Play stuff when they were younger, that transitioned easily into books – wholesome classics, they’re just about old enough for CS Lewis now…”

Ruth sipped at her gin and drifted away. It wasn’t a conversation she had any place in – she had godchildren, of course, of all ages, but she didn’t sent presents except for confirmations, only cards with personal letters. Prayed for them regularly, talked by email or phone occasionally, saw them rarely – and yes, she knew that wasn’t great, but she was busy.

She almost joined another group but caught the hint of another similar conversation and swerved past. Drained the glass, set it on the side, and slipped in to murmur in Isla's ear.

“Should get going. Feel free to stay, I'll see you in the morning.”

Isla glanced around briefly, then shook her head. “I'm ready to go when you are.”

A farewell and a thank you, to Stuart. A round of quick goodbyes with those in her path to the door, everyone taking for granted that she was simply busy. And then out, into a mist of light drizzle, pulling her coat tighter around her as she led the way across the car park.

“Good evening?”

“Nice enough. It’s been a long day, though.”

“It has.”

Tom would have known something was wrong. He'd have pushed her, would have read her emotions quicker than she could read them herself. Would have coaxed her to confess what was on her mind and then reassured her about it. She shouldn’t compare her chaplains – Isla was excellent – but she did it anyway. She couldn’t help missing him.

It was early, to be settling into a hotel room. They could easily have made the drive back to York tonight, but she’d wanted the freedom to stay at the party late if she felt like it. She scrolled through emails and every type of social media, read the news, and then found a number on her phone, considered sending an email or text. It was only just after nine, though, a sociable enough hour, so she caught the dial button before she could change her mind.

“Evening, Ruth. To what do I owe the honour?”

She smiled slightly. “Hi Tom. Just thought, I haven’t spoken to you in a while, wanted to see how you’re getting on.”

“It's so good to hear from you. Nottingham’s keeping me busy but treating me well; this archdeaconing lark isn’t too bad, you know. And the fostering is going well, with Megan, she’s a real genius for getting things done – and won’t take no for an answer, especially not where the children are concerned. And yeah, visitation today, such is my new life. How about you? Busy as ever?”

“Ordination yesterday - Lucy Green, you'll remember her from Rachel's consecration. Priesting delayed twice but it's done now, it was lovely. Early service at Bishopthorpe today. Confirmations. Currently in Lancaster after Stuart’s farewell do. You know.”

“Sounds like things haven’t changed much. Party ended early, then?”

“Decided to duck out gracefully. It’s been a long day.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, disciplinary issue. It’s starting to appear in the papers already, the tabloids. Only going to get bigger.”

Tom groaned sympathetically. “Sounds like fun. My sympathies to Janice – assuming it’s a York thing. Disciplinaries are the worst bit of this job.”

“Tell me about it. National news, too…”

“…so I’m guessing more than a slap on the wrist, don’t do it again, typed deal.”

“More of a license-in-the-shredder deal.”

“One of those ones where you shatter them in pieces and then send the remains out for your chaplain to deal with?”

There was a long silence, in which she picked at the hem of her skirt.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“The disciplinary bothering you?”

“Janice will deal with the investigation and the CDM, it won’t be my problem… realistically, until after Christmas, I just don’t have time.”

“Go on. What's wrong, what got you out of the party so early?”

“Just wasn’t enjoying it. The reminder that we’re all getting old, everyone comparing grandchildren. What happened to the years?”

“You spent them serving God in the Church?”

She sighed. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Do you want to come and visit?”

“I'd love that.”

“Then do.”

“Can we have one of your pastoral care chats where you help me talk through everything that's on my mind and tell me to be less of an idiot? The non-confidential stuff, obviously.”

“I guess so, if that's what you really want. Obviously you have a new chaplain, I don’t want to tread on her toes.”

“You and Isla are very different people, I don’t think it’s a risk. Anyway, I need it.”

“Fair enough. I guess I'll do what I can, and if nothing else it'll be good to see you. Obviously your diary is worse than mine, email me with dates and times you can manage.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

There was a pause. “Look after yourself. Sabbath rest, remember. I’ll see you soon, shout if you need anything urgently.”

“Thanks. See you.”

“Bye.”

She put her phone on the charger and flopped back on the bed. She’d done it: admitted something was wrong, sought help. Okay, not exactly admitted something was wrong, but Tom would know. He could help her work it out.

© 2021 E.G. Ferguson