Clear Light of Day by Penelope Wilcock Page A

modern church.
    â€œThe Lord Jesus Christ was born of a pure virgin,” she had asserted, more aggressively than was necessary judging by the nods of agreement here and there in her congregation. “He had to be born of a virgin, because if he hadn’t have been, his blood would have been the same kind of blood as yours and mine. And our blood’s no good—no good at all for salvation. Jesus Christ wasn’t born with blood like yours and mine in his veins. He had God’s blood—God’s blood that had to be shed on the cross for our salvation, to save sinners like you and me from the eternal punishment that awaited us. Quite rightly awaited: ‘Deliver us from evil,’ the Lord’s Prayer says, and note that word evil . Evil is not just knocking folks on the head and bumping them off but a hundred and one little things that you and me get up to every hour of every day. We are born evil, sinners from the day of our birth. Little children are evil, however innocent they may look. You leave a child alone in a room with a bowl of sweets on the table, and you can guarantee that child will eat one, for children are thieves and evil by nature until they are saved from the thrall of Satan by the precious blood of the Lamb; and brought to the mercy seat by the free grace of Jesus Christ who gave himself a sacrifice for sin and laid down his life in our place: For the wages of sin is death and only his blood could atone as an acceptable offering to a holy God. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. We are not called to understand, only to accept. Never be ashamed of the virgin birth.”
    Esme had listened to this in some amazement but had over the months come to a workable relationship with her Wiles Green senior steward. Miss Trigg disapproved of her appointment because Esme was not only a woman but also a divorced woman. But she was gracious enough to relinquish none of her offices and maintain her usual grip on the life of the chapel at Wiles Green. Sometimes Esme felt that grip amounted to a stranglehold and was occasionally tempted to the view that if the congregation justified its existence in nothing else it did so by the community service of keeping Miss Trigg contained in the chapel. Still, she kept the books well enough, lived nearby, and was always willing to let in the builders and the man from the electricity board. She terrorized the leaders of the Mothers and Toddlers group that met in the Sunday school room every Thursday and the cleaner employed to come in on a Friday (not today, Good Friday, but that lady was expected to attend the act of worship instead).
    Once free of her coat, Miss Trigg got busy with the teapot. Her scones were her own recipe and her tea hot and powerfully strong. Much like the gospel she preaches then, Esme thought as she approached the trestle table, saying, “Lovely day, Miss Trigg—thank you for all this; I know what hard work it is. Half a cup will be plenty, I’ll add some hot water from the urn in the kitchen.”
    Sometimes Miss Trigg remembered that smiling was her Christian duty; today she was concentrating on pouring the tea. Age made her hands a little unsteady, but she scorned to acknowledge this. She wanted the Lord to find her at her post when he came again. The second coming caused her a certain amount of consternation because of the amount of traffic on today’s roads, which would inevitably be thrown into mayhem by the selective nature of the rapture. She walked to church when she could, on the days when her sciatica didn’t play her up too badly.
    Silently, she held out a half-filled cup to Esme. Their eyes met. “Nice day,” said Miss Trigg gruffly, prompted by the requirements of Christian charity. “Enough?”
    Esme knew that shameless flattery and many expressions of solicitous concern for her health could melt that seemingly implacable exterior, but today she felt disinclined.
    â€œYes.