Near-believing

The Devil never tempts us with more success than when he tempts us with the sight of our own good actions.

—Bishop Wilson

   When I hosted Sunday Evening with Father John,my producer, a most supportive sceptic(and one I'd call a near-believer,that kind of atheist I guess who prays at times)gave as great a compliment as I'd received.   'If you've taught me anything,' Rod confessed,'it's this: the priesthood is no joke.'   'True,' I agreed. 'Though what other occupationever had as great a scope for humour?There you are, attempting to speak of, through and forthe Great Unknown himself, whilst every minute ofyour spiel seems but another dare.Let me see you'll ponder if this time I can know,or more simply show, what I'm talking about,truly talking about.'           And if on Saturday eveningsthat station's Sexuality Show was somewhat fatuous(though for those times and on its terms well meaning)often it seemed we both were givingdiffering answers to quite similar questions,If they, as an example, grasped for their latestpop-psychology nostrums, there I'd berelying on the staunchest of my standbys:'Somewhere in Scripture, friends, I'm surewe'll find an answer . . .' One day apart,complimenting each other, talkback amateurscounselling both questing and confused,trying to explain in terms that Rod,my honest and discreet (if sceptical) producermight appreciate.                       If I'd a mandate then(we'll say I had) now I require a different one,preparing me to give such answers as are necessaryto counsellor or advocate or friend,certain there will be some flaws I might confess,others offered as apologies and when requiredothers for evaluation or negotiation or denial.   To someone I'll admit that thenI was a fool, a young fool, somewhat needing help;to someone else how, though I acted simplyas myself, this still remains an issue:that adolescent's crush on Father John;whilst to a third let's be announcing thus:She was and she still is a liar.   And after my admissions have been understoodyou'll find me quite light-headed,knowing I could've been one greater fool(though I wasn't) and now older, this shall find mebetter for it.                      Yes, I'll have myself concur, the flaws . . .but in those days I was domiciled in a cobbled Faith,one where a group of men stood in shadows,near-believing something might exist beyond.And though I've left such shadows(who knows how God has told me but he's told me)someone is still required, honest and discreet,who'll still believe me, who'll have to understandwhat we can, can't, must and mustn't saybeyond the room we're in.Though prayers and sacraments shall help, that dayI won't be after judgement or redemption.My crisis will have arrived (as Pamela and I both understandit will) and I'll be found talking to, yet through,another man's honesty and discretion, so that this onceI might hear myself, trusting we both understand(as I hoped that producer would) and then believe.   'What a natural at this you are!'Rod would further compliment. 'Even if you hardly knewyou were . . .'                      And there I'd be,confronted by my Sunday evening ranters,urgent for doses of the hottest gospelling,when mine were more designed to be lukewarm.Bland does it Father John, you haven't yet acquired a gift for public mayhem.                      So all I could allow myself was more pretence:imagining I could interrupt this hyper-evangelist,that God-denier with Thanks my friend thanks heaps . . .now though we pause . . . pause for a word from our sponsor . . .then swing in with the 'Hallelujah Chorus.'                      And Leo,for all his very few, flamboyant priestly years,would have had that touch.   At College Leo Pengilly, Geoff Cattermole and Ibecame that kind of coterie made for overreaching.   'I mean,' mused Leo, 'how high can we Anglo-Catholics flybefore we jet to...