wants to be a charge on the parish. Treasurers always feel embarrassment at being asked by the rector for petty cash. He is their minister, their spiritual father, so it can be uncomfortable dealing with his claims for car and public transport expenses, telephone, postage, stationery, secretarial assistance, office equipment, maintenance of robes, fees for visiting clergy and—a major item for an active priest—hospitality at the rectory. Fortunately his main income, his stipend, is not the business of the parish treasurer.
Otis Joy's solution to the thorny subject of expenses was the contingency fund, a building society account entirely at the disposal of the rector. It was fed by injections of cash. A church takes in most of its income in the form of cash. Collections at services are the prime source, but each fund-raising event brings in packets of coins and notes: fetes, coffee mornings, jumble sales, choral concerts, safari suppers, skittles, barbecues and social evenings. There are boxes in church for visitors to contribute a few pence to the upkeep, to buy candles, postcards and guide-sheets. Cash, cash, cash. Everything is bagged up and counted, but there are always late payments, niggling amounts that add to the work of the treasurer. The remedy was to siphon all the extras—with the treasurer's connivance—into the rector's contingency fund. This money didn't go through the books, so it simplified the accounting. More importantly, it reduced the total amount showing as parish income, and discouraged the DBF from increasing the quota.
Weddings, baptisms and funerals were another source of funds. The parochial fees were displayed on the board in the church porch, and it was convenient (the rector always explained to the families) to have them paid in banknotes, rather than cheques. He received the money in person, on the day, and paid the organist, bell-ringers and choir. The residue was his personal fee and that of the parish church council. It went into the contingency fund.
In return, he didn't pester the treasurer with frequent requests for petty cash. They had an understanding that he would draw a token amount, a nice, round figure—enough to keep the accounting simple, satisfy the auditors and everyone at the Annual General Meeting.
A happy arrangement for all concerned.
LATER IN the week at a confirmation class held in his office at the rectory, someone asked him about hell.
The question came from one of the adult candidates, a ginger-haired chartered accountant with freckles and a dour expression whose only charm was his name, which sounded like a seaside resort. Burton Sands had come late to the faith, but he was not a typical born-again Christian. He had chosen the Church of England after carefully investigating its claims and obligations. He'd picked it as a superior form of unit trust, a low-risk investment that might pay decent dividends in the long term.
"Hell?" said Otis Joy, as if it were a foreign word.
"Yes."
"We give it a low profile. It's a concept we're not too comfortable with in the modern church, but I'll say this"—he smiled and tried to duck out with a quip—"you won't find it in the travel brochures."
"Yes, but do you believe in it?" Sands pressed him.
John Neary, a plain-speaking countryman, said, "It's where you go if you arse about, isn't it?"
Ann Porter, the only woman in the group, sanitised the remark with, "If you err and stray like lost sheep."
"We all do, of course," the rector admitted. "The Bible tells us that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God, so—"
"See you down there, Rector," said Neary.
Everyone except Sands smiled, and the atmosphere improved. In some ways Neary was the saving of this group, the opposite pole to Sands. He watched football, and fiddled with his car and kept a few beehives in the back garden.
Joy tried to strike a more positive note. "Happily, there's redemption. When you're confirmed, you repent of your sins and
Otis Joy's solution to the thorny subject of expenses was the contingency fund, a building society account entirely at the disposal of the rector. It was fed by injections of cash. A church takes in most of its income in the form of cash. Collections at services are the prime source, but each fund-raising event brings in packets of coins and notes: fetes, coffee mornings, jumble sales, choral concerts, safari suppers, skittles, barbecues and social evenings. There are boxes in church for visitors to contribute a few pence to the upkeep, to buy candles, postcards and guide-sheets. Cash, cash, cash. Everything is bagged up and counted, but there are always late payments, niggling amounts that add to the work of the treasurer. The remedy was to siphon all the extras—with the treasurer's connivance—into the rector's contingency fund. This money didn't go through the books, so it simplified the accounting. More importantly, it reduced the total amount showing as parish income, and discouraged the DBF from increasing the quota.
Weddings, baptisms and funerals were another source of funds. The parochial fees were displayed on the board in the church porch, and it was convenient (the rector always explained to the families) to have them paid in banknotes, rather than cheques. He received the money in person, on the day, and paid the organist, bell-ringers and choir. The residue was his personal fee and that of the parish church council. It went into the contingency fund.
In return, he didn't pester the treasurer with frequent requests for petty cash. They had an understanding that he would draw a token amount, a nice, round figure—enough to keep the accounting simple, satisfy the auditors and everyone at the Annual General Meeting.
A happy arrangement for all concerned.
LATER IN the week at a confirmation class held in his office at the rectory, someone asked him about hell.
The question came from one of the adult candidates, a ginger-haired chartered accountant with freckles and a dour expression whose only charm was his name, which sounded like a seaside resort. Burton Sands had come late to the faith, but he was not a typical born-again Christian. He had chosen the Church of England after carefully investigating its claims and obligations. He'd picked it as a superior form of unit trust, a low-risk investment that might pay decent dividends in the long term.
"Hell?" said Otis Joy, as if it were a foreign word.
"Yes."
"We give it a low profile. It's a concept we're not too comfortable with in the modern church, but I'll say this"—he smiled and tried to duck out with a quip—"you won't find it in the travel brochures."
"Yes, but do you believe in it?" Sands pressed him.
John Neary, a plain-speaking countryman, said, "It's where you go if you arse about, isn't it?"
Ann Porter, the only woman in the group, sanitised the remark with, "If you err and stray like lost sheep."
"We all do, of course," the rector admitted. "The Bible tells us that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God, so—"
"See you down there, Rector," said Neary.
Everyone except Sands smiled, and the atmosphere improved. In some ways Neary was the saving of this group, the opposite pole to Sands. He watched football, and fiddled with his car and kept a few beehives in the back garden.
Joy tried to strike a more positive note. "Happily, there's redemption. When you're confirmed, you repent of your sins and
Similar Books
No Angel
Helen Keeble
Ransom
Grace Livingston Hill
Powder of Love (I)
Summer Devon
The Feminine Mystique
Betty Friedan
The Price Of Secrecy
Ravenna Tate
Text Appeal
Lexi Ryan
The Cards of Unknown Players: Digital Science Fiction Short Story (Ctrl Alt Delight)
Vincent L. Scarsella
The Butterfly Effect
Julie McLaren
Fresh Kills
Reggie Nadelson
Ruby Falls
Nicole James