Murder in a Cathedral by Ruth Dudley Edwards Page B

the band dispersed and a single light shone onto a youngish man in a bright yellow tunic who had just materialized in the pulpit. Amiss recognized him as the Rev. Bev by his black ponytail and the three rings in his left ear.
    ‘Brothers and sisters! God is love!’ He threw his arms out and motioned to his congregation to respond.
    ‘God is love!’ they parroted.
    ‘Hallelujah!’
    ‘Hallelujah!’
    ‘Louder, louder. Hallelujah!’
    ‘Hallelujah!’
    As the din died away, a hulking skinhead with spots gazed so threateningly at Amiss and Pooley that on the next round of ‘Hallelujahs’ they participated enthusiastically.
    Bev’s voice fell several decibels. ‘Hey,’ he crooned. ‘Hey, hey, hey.’
    ‘Hey, hey,’ shouted the congregation.
    ‘How do we know that God loves us?’ he enquired. There was a dramatic pause. His voice rose. ‘ ’Cos he’s told us so, that’s how! In his very own story!’ And in a crescendo: ‘In his very own – his very own book!’ At which he picked up a volume from the edge of the pulpit and waved it over his head. ‘And this is it. The Holy Word of God! God’s own book! The Bible!’
    He put the book down and looked sternly at the congregation. ‘Now why did God give us this book?’ They gazed back expectantly. ‘So we would read it, of course! Not to leave lyin’ there! He gave it us so we could build up the muscles of faith.’
    He moved his head slowly from left to right and surveyed each section of his flock sadly. ‘But you’re just not building up those muscles the way God wanted, are you? You’re lazing about. Your muscles are all flabby.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s not what God wants.’ He bunched his fists and flexed his impressive pectorals. ‘This is what God wants from you. He wants you all to build big muscles and be champs!
    ‘You know how a wrestler gets to be a champ?’ Again he surveyed his listeners slowly, this time from right to left. ‘I see you all know the answer. First he works out to build up those muscles. And then he practises wrestling against ever stronger and stronger opponents. He’s always preparing himself to meet the next one.’
    He brandished the Bible again. ‘This is your own private work-out equipment – a present from God to you. Exercise, exercise, exercise. Build up those big faith muscles. And then you’ll be ready to wrestle with sin.’
    His voice fell dramatically. ‘When you’re strong enough, you’ll be ready to take on the great enemy himself. Yes, brothers and sisters, when you’ve got the faith muscles of a Mr Universe, you can throw the Great Satan himself!’ His voice rose. ‘And if we’re all champs and we wrestle him together, we’ll be able to put our feet on Satan’s neck and count him out!
    ‘That’s our holy mission! That’s what God wants us to do. That’s why he gave us the equipment.’ He gazed round. ‘Now, you know how you feel when you give someone a present and they’re not grateful enough? It bugs you, doesn’t it? And it bugs God too when he looks down and sees you leaving the exercise bike of faith gathering dust in the corner of your soul.’
    The congregation shuffled in a shamefaced way.
    ‘But this isn’t just bugging God. It’s committing suicide. ’Cos if you ignore God’s exercise bike you won’t have the muscles to climb into heaven when you die! Think of that! You’ll be looking at the staircase and you won’t have the strength to climb up to God! Jesus will be standing at the top with his arms open to you, and you won’t be able to reach him.
    ‘There’ll be a place for you somewhere else, though. You don’t need muscles to tumble down the mine shaft to hell. And as you fall towards the devil and the lake of eternal flames, you’ll be crying out in despair. “Oh, God,” you’ll be crying, “I’m sorry I didn’t work-out when you gave me the chance. Save me.” ’
    He shook his head gloomily. ‘But God won’t hear you.