The Sermon on the Downs

We walked up the hill. It was steeper than it looked, and I confess that, despite my peak physical condition, I was beginning to labour a little. Myra, on the other hand, seemed to experience no difficulty at all, which I thought surprising for someone of her rotundity and encasement in all that leather.
Anyway, after fifteen minutes or so, we reached a sort of copse. Myra, thankfully, called a halt and suggested we sit in the lee of a tree – which we did. Then without any preamble she asked me a question:

‘What do most people want? More than anything else?’
‘Money? Fame? Power? Love?’ I am guessing.
‘Certainty!’ Most people cannot abide unpredictability, they seek to find pattern in chaos. And it’s all happened since we evolved into consciousness. Ever since we achieved a sense of self, an awareness of our own mortality, people have been looking for guidance: They feel there must be meaning to life, “there’s got to be more than this”, and yearn to find it; and if they cannot actually find it, then they want to believe in it. I almost said that they want to know how things “really are”, but of course, really they want to know that things are as they would like them to be.
Enter the Prophets, Priests, Pastors, Messiahs, Mystics, Gurus, Imams, Witch Doctors and “Holy Men” (notice, no “Holy Women”) with “certainty” as their stock-in-trade. And they spawn the sub-culture of fairground “fortune tellers”, tarot readers, palmists, readers of tea-leaves and assorted “psychics”, consulted by those feeling the need to “know” what the future holds.

‘And you are saying this is all nonsense?’ George is bemused. ‘I mean are you suggesting that we humans have invented God?’

No, I am suggesting that God evolved, along with an evolving spirituality (I don’t particularly like the word but it is so much in vogue these days). And religion developed as a sort of set of “rules”: the Ten Commandments, Bible, Koran, Upanishads and various lesser known texts, all instruction manuals on How to “do” God. Then you get the back-up: the robes, the candles; the incense, the gongs, the bells; the choirs, the alleluias; the chanting of creed, the singing of psalm. As Richard Geer’s cynical lawyer sings, in the musical Chicago, “Give ‘em that old Hocus Pocus…”.
And that’s what all the internecine bickering, fighting, crusades, sectarian conflict, holy wars are all about: arguments over How to “do” God.
And people are getting sick of it. Apart from anything else, religion is failing to deliver on the certainty thing. And why? Because life is uncertain, it is chancy, unpredictable, random, fickle – that’s what makes it so interesting… and, at times, so shite.’

‘And what about your lot? Are you not “peddlers of certainty”?’

‘No! The Church of the Latter Day Sinners worship at the altar of doubt.’.

And so saying, Myra got up, announcing ‘I need pee.’ and disappeared behind a bush. When I say “disappeared”, I don’t mean that she de-materialised before my eyes. No she just got up and walked over to the bushes, with a creaking of leather and a sound of zip-fasteners.

And she didn’t completely disappear. I could still see bits of her, like pieces of a jigsaw through the winter branches, as she squatted unconcernedly. Presently, I heard a soft splashing sound and a tiny rivulet emerged and meandered slowly down the hillside. And then my spiritual guide (for it is as such that I am beginning to see Myra) spoke to me from the centre of the bush – in mid pee:

‘Well, how about it then?’
‘What?’
‘The calendar – are you going to do it?
‘But you are still one short.’
‘You, George, could be November.’
‘ME! But I’m a man!’
‘Yes George, I know – when you’ve been in the religion game as long as I have you pick up on these things.’
‘But your calendar is all women.’
‘I didn’t say that. We do have males in our congregation. What do you think we are: some sort of feminist coven?’
‘Well, it’s just that you never said anything about men.’
‘Oh yes, in fact the split is about 50/50 – or to be specific, 4 men and 5 women. You’ll make the numbers even.’
‘But look here, Myra, I’m not sure that I want to join your church.’
‘You haven’t been to one of our services yet.’
‘But you said that all the participants in this calendar business had to be church members.’
‘Don’t worry about that, George, I’ll make you an honorary member for the duration of the photo-shoot – same as Wanda.’
‘Who’s Wanda?’
‘One of the barmaids I was telling you about.’
‘And what about the other?’
‘Chloe? Turns out she’s staunch R.C. and the priest has threatened her with eternal damnation is she touches our lot. You’re not a Roman Candle are you, George?’
‘No, C of E.’
‘Oh you’re all right then. Very relaxed, your lot. I don’t know why they call themselves “Protestants” – they never protest, at ‘owt.’
‘All the same-‘
‘Right that’s settled, then.’ Zips zip. Leather creaks - and here comes Myra.
‘But Myra, if I am to be November who’s going to take my photo?’
‘George, George, there you go again: getting bogged down with detail. It’s simple: you set up the photo with one of the other men as model, then you take his place – and I take the photo.’
‘Well I suppose it would work but-‘
‘Come on, I just happen to know that there is a very acceptable hostelry in the vicinity. I’ve got a membership form in my pocket – we can fill it in over a pint.’