Gallery.
It is curious how, in all ages and in every different styleof sculpture or painting, the face of Christ is instantly recognisable. It is something to do with the thin, elongated face, the long, straight, high-ridged nose, the heavy eyes, the sensual mouth. Add to this long hair and a beard and the image is complete; so familiar that we feel that if we saw him we would recognise him in the street.
I thanked Durfield very much, told him how much the pictures meant to me, asked him, as an afterthought, if he would mind writing about them for the parish magazine.
I hung up and looked at Stone.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘No.’
‘It was from a painting in the National Gallery.’ I wrote the artist and title down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. ‘Perhaps you could go and study that next.’
He made an angry sound in his throat, almost like a dog growling, and then turned abruptly on his heel, and left the room.
T he Article Appears
To my relief the article in the Hackney Gazette on Thursday outlined the story of the murder and the missing body, but very little of my interview with the young journalist. In fact he had reported my words rather accurately. I spread the newspaper out across the desk in my office at the church. There was an artist’s impression of the dead man, but I didn’t think it was a good likeness. The police were urging anyone who knew or had seen this man to step forward.
Over the last few days, several members of the church had come up to me and asked what I thought about these strange events. Most of them said it lightly, laughing, almost making a joke of it, but I could see that underneathmany were perturbed. Mary, clearly, hadn’t kept what she had seen to herself. One or two people asked me if I thought Mary was all right, because she was sure that what had happened meant some special sign had been sent to her, or to the church. Tessa told me that she told the women’s prayer group all about it at their meeting on Wednesday.
Tessa stood in front of me now, peering at the paper. She was in a hurry, her hair was disarrayed, and her trousers bulged oddly because she hadn’t taken off her bicycle clips. She said that she was a little anxious about all this. People in the church were taking different sides and wanted to know more clearly what I believed, she said. Liberalism was all very well, but I was aware, like her, that there were many people in the church who did have a more simple and more literal faith. I was always careful in my sermons not to advocate too strongly one view or the other, because I knew that my church was particularly mixed, containing recent immigrants, black people who had been born and raised here, poor white East Enders and well-to-do professionals and intellectuals. When speaking, I always tried to find the points of agreement and not to cause too much controversy. I knew that I was forever in danger of alienating one group in satisfying another.
No one had ever taken me to task about my sermons, and I often wondered whether that was because no one really concentrated on them. As long as I had a good beginning and a safe conclusion, the likelihood was that not too many listened to what went on in between. Butperhaps, if the congregation were looking to me for some leadership, maybe to quell their understandable fears that something supernatural was going on, it was time for me to speak out clearly. Certainly I would give it some thought.
I looked up at Tessa, who was hovering near the door. ‘Perhaps I should say something,’ I said. ‘If not in a sermon , then possibly in the parish magazine.’
She turned back towards me, urging me in her quiet way. ‘I think it would be a good idea.’
‘Are you in a terrible hurry? You don’t want to have a cup of tea?’
Tessa glanced at the door, then at her watch, and then smiled. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but I’ll just have to lock up my bicycle.’
While she went outside I boiled the
It is curious how, in all ages and in every different styleof sculpture or painting, the face of Christ is instantly recognisable. It is something to do with the thin, elongated face, the long, straight, high-ridged nose, the heavy eyes, the sensual mouth. Add to this long hair and a beard and the image is complete; so familiar that we feel that if we saw him we would recognise him in the street.
I thanked Durfield very much, told him how much the pictures meant to me, asked him, as an afterthought, if he would mind writing about them for the parish magazine.
I hung up and looked at Stone.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘No.’
‘It was from a painting in the National Gallery.’ I wrote the artist and title down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. ‘Perhaps you could go and study that next.’
He made an angry sound in his throat, almost like a dog growling, and then turned abruptly on his heel, and left the room.
T he Article Appears
To my relief the article in the Hackney Gazette on Thursday outlined the story of the murder and the missing body, but very little of my interview with the young journalist. In fact he had reported my words rather accurately. I spread the newspaper out across the desk in my office at the church. There was an artist’s impression of the dead man, but I didn’t think it was a good likeness. The police were urging anyone who knew or had seen this man to step forward.
Over the last few days, several members of the church had come up to me and asked what I thought about these strange events. Most of them said it lightly, laughing, almost making a joke of it, but I could see that underneathmany were perturbed. Mary, clearly, hadn’t kept what she had seen to herself. One or two people asked me if I thought Mary was all right, because she was sure that what had happened meant some special sign had been sent to her, or to the church. Tessa told me that she told the women’s prayer group all about it at their meeting on Wednesday.
Tessa stood in front of me now, peering at the paper. She was in a hurry, her hair was disarrayed, and her trousers bulged oddly because she hadn’t taken off her bicycle clips. She said that she was a little anxious about all this. People in the church were taking different sides and wanted to know more clearly what I believed, she said. Liberalism was all very well, but I was aware, like her, that there were many people in the church who did have a more simple and more literal faith. I was always careful in my sermons not to advocate too strongly one view or the other, because I knew that my church was particularly mixed, containing recent immigrants, black people who had been born and raised here, poor white East Enders and well-to-do professionals and intellectuals. When speaking, I always tried to find the points of agreement and not to cause too much controversy. I knew that I was forever in danger of alienating one group in satisfying another.
No one had ever taken me to task about my sermons, and I often wondered whether that was because no one really concentrated on them. As long as I had a good beginning and a safe conclusion, the likelihood was that not too many listened to what went on in between. Butperhaps, if the congregation were looking to me for some leadership, maybe to quell their understandable fears that something supernatural was going on, it was time for me to speak out clearly. Certainly I would give it some thought.
I looked up at Tessa, who was hovering near the door. ‘Perhaps I should say something,’ I said. ‘If not in a sermon , then possibly in the parish magazine.’
She turned back towards me, urging me in her quiet way. ‘I think it would be a good idea.’
‘Are you in a terrible hurry? You don’t want to have a cup of tea?’
Tessa glanced at the door, then at her watch, and then smiled. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but I’ll just have to lock up my bicycle.’
While she went outside I boiled the
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