Now I Know by Aidan Chambers Read Free Book Online Page A

there, a fact of one’s life.
    Now it’s my turn to stare at Old Chum while trying to sort out this nugget. Then: Sorry, vicar, but I don’t find that very clear.
    Vic slumps even further into his own and his chair’s upholstery and looks deeply disappointed.
    He says: Convincing is what you mean.
    I do? say I.
    He nods, sighs: I’m not very good at this, I’m afraid . . .
    I didn’t mean . . ., I say, feeling embarrassed.
    Vic, flapping a hand: I know, I know. But I’m not. One must have the courage to acknowledge one’s limitations. And I have to admit that I’m not too good at talking about God. Never really have been. Every week I hold confirmation classes. Mostly young people of thirteen or fourteen, and mostly attending because their parents want them to. Rather like baptism, you know. Parents want their children done just to make sure. Hedging their bets. If God exists, having it done might get him on your side. If he doesn’t, who cares?
    He chuckles. Chummy fluffles and slobbers.
    Well, Vic says, I talk to them. Tell them as best I can about church and prayer, and about God. They listen – rather dutifully, I have to admit, and politely. Too politely, I sometimes think. Might be better all round if they argued. They do ask the odd question now and then, but just to show willing and to be kind, I’m sure.
    He smiles, but sadly, and goes on:
    Some drop out. But mostly they stay the course and go before the bishop in their best new clothes for the laying on of hands. All very pretty and pious and their mums and dads looking proud. But as I stand at the bishop’s side and witness the performance of this holy rite I know that six months later they’ll mostly have given up any pretence of being in the slightest interested in God or church or anything religious. And I wonder how much their falling off is a failure of mine.
    He pushes himself up in his chair, not looking at me. I sit stone still. I’m not sure he’s talking to me now. He might not even remember I’m in the room. Is he just talking aloud to himself? I feel a bit guilty, like I’m eavesdropping on a private confession.
    He speaks so quietly I strain to hear: Of course, if you suggest to them that they aren’t Christian any more, they’re most indignant, quite insulted in fact, and tell one sharply, and not so politely any more, how Christianity isn’t the same as being a church-goer, and how, if it comes to that, the church has betrayed Christ because it’s more interested in old buildings and out-of-date customs than in people and their needs, and how the church supports evil rulers and amasses wealth while people die in oppression and hunger and terrible poverty. And frankly, Nik . . .
    He does remember I’m here after all!
    . . . I have no answer to such accusations. I’m quite inadequate to the task of explaining that what we’re really talking about is the Being who, by definition, is so all-containing of ourselves and the world and the entire universe, as well as whatever unimaginable wonders lie beyond, that it is impossible to say anything meaningful at all. God is a being who is beyond being. How can one speak of such a . . .
    He raises his hands, shakes his head, shrugs.
    I nod, meaning: I understand the difficulty.
    He sighs again. Says: And now you come, asking me to tell you what belief is. What am I to say?
    Now I have to shrug.
    And it’s his turn to nod and smile sympathetically: You’re quite right to ask, I don’t mean you aren’t, dear boy. But I find myself in a quandary. I’m like a man who’s found a sack of gold but can’t tell anyone where he found it because, if he ever knew, he’s forgotten now. And whenever he tries to share his gold with others, it turns to sand even as he pours it into their hands. You can imagine how embarrassing that is! For a vicar