The cameraman didn’t have to say it, but it felt official, as if the sound of his voice was important – an integral part of the day’s proceedings. His eye, completely covered by the rubber eyepiece, took in the rare scene: a militant atheist giving a sermon from a pulpit.
They had been given clearance at diocesan level to film part of The Magnum Opus in the church, the presenter (and writer) and director preferred to go straight to the bishop rather than risk refusal at parish level. As a consequence, they could pretty much go anywhere, film anything and stay as long as they liked. They had filmed segments on the roof, in the undercroft – even the organ loft. It had been a last-minute decision to also use the pulpit, instead of merely standing or sitting in the nave. It was, after all, such a beautiful piece of medieval stonework: stolid, but with a grace and lightness in the detailed panels, the shots of which had already been taken. The director had chosen a slow zoom that would draw the attention from the place to the man, from the setting to the message.
Brigham Dreyfuss began in his ponderous mid-Atlantic tone, taking on a somewhat mockingly sanctified air: “The effect, as we have seen, was that the unflinching belief in falsehoods –beliefs in things that could not be proven, beliefs in gods and spirits and saints and a whole host of fairy stories– had to eventually give way to the truth. And as we have also seen, the rise of enquiry, of empirical study and the Scientific method, and the surety that these things provided, suddenly made everything clear. The claims of religion were nothing more than superstition: insidious mumbo-jumbo that did little other than misdirect, to detract from reality – what was to be the hard-won reality of study, verification and acceptance. And this story is played out so very wonderfully, in the minds of men even today. The fact that places like these are no longer frequented, that they are usually empty, and on a Sunday morning, shows that religion is truly dead. The darkness of occluded thinking had to give way to the lightness of certainties that we call Science. There is victory in truth!”
“And… cut!”
The camerman didn’t have to say that either, especially as he was merely an operator, but someone had to tell the presenter that the take was done. The director would just let things run. His mind was full of hundreds of things, on a succession of multicoloured clipboards, but was strangely absent-minded at the beginning and ending of takes. It was as if these things were so obvious they did not require his attention – something for the technicians and cameramen and best boys and grips to worry about. Except the crew didn’t have any of those, except for the cameraman.
“How was that?” he asked from his lofty heights. “Again?”
Without taking his eye from the eyepiece the cameraman gave the thumbs-up. Next to him, the soundman checked through his headphones. He nodded. It was a wrap.
How he had enjoyed using the pulpit. He recognised that it had given him a secret tinge of delight. Standing before a receptive congregation, unable or unwilling to answer back, was not the same as delivering a lecture, or presenting a paper. Although both occasions warranted listeners, here in the house of God he felt he could dictate. Who, after all, would question the very words of God?
These thoughts irritated him and he sniffed before making his way back down the steps. The would-be celebrity atheist was very please with the way things were going. He was sure this would be a major piece of television, a confirmation of his high standing in the minds of colleagues, the producers, his students and even the blessed viewers. As a result of this, his first TV series, his popularity would bourgeon ensuring he was able to sell more books, DVDs, make appearances on talk shows and at conferences and book signings…
From the large oak vestry door came the blackened figure of the vicar. He held it open so that the runner could carry through a rattly tea tray complete with large brown ceramic teapot, some coffee, milk, a sugar bowl and nearly a dozen mismatched teacups and saucers. She approached the crew, but wasn’t sure where to place the tray.
The vicar saw her difficulty. “Here, Janice, on the front pew; as long as you’re careful.”
She then set-to, with milks and sugars and spoons, recalling the orders: in fairness, the crew slugged down their brew without giving it much thought. In the break they took to wandering through the Norman church like tourists. The director took a call that began with an overly theatrical “Darling!” and took it outside for privacy.
“Erm… Mr Dreyfuss, it was…?” She had only forgotten the main man’s order: how could she? A blush came to her cheeks.
“Dear me–” came the brief response and a frown, “it was no milk.” The celebrity went to pick up the teapot.
As he leaned forward, the vicar leaned in to stop him. “No-no, allow me. Please.”
The celebrity looked askance at the white haired vicar; mindful that they had gone over his head to secure today’s filming and that the matter upon which he had just waxed lyrical was probably an incendiary subject to a serving man of the cloth.
“Thank you!” The response felt forced.
“Tony.” He held out his hand.
“Professor Brigham Dreyfuss.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I was not a little interested in your sermon just now. I could hear it on the speaker in the vestry.”
The celebrity laughed. “I’d hardly call it that.” He slurped his black tea across some rather old and slightly malformed peg-like teeth. “What was it that interested you?”
“It was more its appropriateness than my interest, I suppose.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he gestured to the pew on the other side of the aisle, “if you wouldn’t mind.”
They sat together, although the proximity to an official representative of a recalcitrant force of unthinkers made him screw up his face a little – what rubbish was going to be proffered in defence of the old faith now?
“I’m afraid we have no biscuits. I’m afraid all the money, even for that sort of thing has gone on the roof.”
This useless apology added further irritation. “No matter. What was it you wanted to say, erm, Tony?”
He smiled. “This piece is for a new series, is that right?”
“Yes it is. The Magnum Opus. These are some of the final concluding remarks.” He smiled. “It’s all about how Science has overturned religion. The journey from darkness to light.”
“Hmm… How interesting. I look forward to seeing it.”
“You do? I’m afraid I haven’t got very good words to say about Christianity. We finished examining that particular faith in January. I think it’s already been edited.” He looked at the man in his funny black clothes again. “Was there something… in particular…?”
“Oh, yes. It was what you said, right at the beginning, if I’m not mistaken, about religion being unflinching faith?”
“Unflinching belief – in falsehoods. That’s right.”
“Ah. Quite so. I suppose it was the word, ‘unflinching’ that captured me.”
“How?” He didn’t really want to know, but felt it was the civil thing to ask, and apart from the vicar there was only young clueless Janice to speak to.
“Well, I don’t know how much you know about this church, but it is dedicated to St Thomas.”
“And what relevance does that have? In what I said, I mean.”
The vicar nodded and took a quick refresher. “Quite a lot, actually. You do know the story of St Thomas, I presume.”
“You might say I have an incomplete knowledge, but I have the feeling you are about to tell me.”
“Quite so. You see, in the biblical narrative, Thomas was the only disciple not to have seen Jesus after the resurrection. The others were quite insistent that they had seen him alive and well, but Thomas was not convinced. He infamously said that unless he could put his finger in the nail marks of his hands, and his hand in the spear wound of his side, then he would not believe. That is, of course, how we have arrived at our term, a Doubting Thomas. A full week later he was again with them and then Jesus appeared, even though the door was locked, and says “Peace be with you!” He then told poor Thomas to put his fingers in the hole in his hands, and to place his hand in the spear wound. Thomas’s only response was, “My Lord and My God!” to which Jesus said that it was easy to see him and to believe, but more blessed still would be those that could not see and yet still believed.”
He paused. The two men looked at each other. The vicar was used to silence. He encountered it every morning in his regular morning devotional in the old empty inner city church.
But the silence felt awkward for the Cambridge professor. Feigning a little obtuseness, he grimaced again, before letting out a small laugh. “It’s a pretty story: very moving, but exactly in what form is it relevant to my earlier words?” It was beginning to feel like a late afternoon tutorial with a particularly dim-witted student.
“Yes, it is a lovely story. It’s so lovely that years ago we were donated a lovely copy of the Caravaggio painting of The Incredulity of Saint Thomas– there, behind you.” The atheist turned around to see, indeed, the painting that he had not noticed at any time that day. “As I said, it is a copy, of course. Victorian, I believe.”
The professor was about to make his excuses, but paused, probably out of bare respect.
“So, to the story: it has relevance to your remarks. A great deal. You see Thomas was ‘a doubter’. Here you have to remember the scene where he is essentially refuting the words of the others, his trusted companions. They are maintaining that Jesus has just risen from the grave. But this thing is impossible! Dead people don’t get up and introduce themselves, do they? So he utters his memorable words, “Unless I see the nail marks,” etc, etc. What he’s really looking for, you understand, is undeniable proof. He will not believe what is clearly impossible unless he sees it with his eyes and feels it with his hands. In that way alone is the thing irrefutable.”
“I see. So you’re trying to tell me that there’s some sort of relevance in this Christian story of seeking verification of the miraculous? But the story itself is unverifiable – it could be a simple fabrication made centuries later.”
“Really, that’s not the point. The point is in the meaning: for the individual, believer or not. I think, perhaps, that you have been spending an awful lot of time and energy looking for external verification, or even validation, without considering the implication. The certainties I imagine you have examined all of your life have been the certainties beyond the vagaries of the self. I imagine they have been rather existential certainties – beyond doubt.”
“The only truth is empirical truth. It must be verifiable. That goes, whether I believe in it or not. My belief is irrelevant.”
“Yes, you are right. And as far as the story is concerned, that moment came with Thomas’s meeting with the disciples. He refused to believe outlandish claims; even about the man they loved and dearly wished to be alive. He wanted proof. He demanded it. But the important point was not so much that he saw it. It was that he touched it. In all of the narrative, he is the only person to have touched the transcendent Christ – the most important person, the most important thing in the universe in all time. And from all the humans that have ever lived, only one unworthy and unbelieving person was considered the right person to touch Jesus after his resurrection. An unbeliever.”
“But I simply do not believe this! None of it! I don’t believe there was a Jesus, that he lived and died, as it is maintained, or that he arose from the grave… any of it! It’s just not possible. Unbelievable!” He was about to go on, but realised this was going to be a useless charge. “Look, this is all very interest…”
“You are right! It’s just not possible.” The vicar reply silenced him. “But, again, this story is all about the meaning, not about who sat where around the table. If you remember, the last words Jesus said on the matter where that those who did not see and still believed were blessed. I don’t think this was about blind faith – ‘unflinching’ belief, as you said. No, this particular thing takes a great deal of effort. To simply accept something because someone else says it is so is actually quite easy. That is unflinching. That is blind. History is littered with the corpses of those who gave their lives for ideas that were not their own, but about which they had unflinching belief. To believe something, without relying on anyone else to say it is so, is hard. I’m also not referring to delusional belief. That’s actually quite easy, too. I could introduce you to a one or two parishioners who foster beliefs of the most delusional kind. No, to believe without proof, without delusion, without external verification of any sort, is hard. There's a lot of doubt involved. In fact, it may be more doubt than belief. But that is why it is blessed. It’s hard, and it is an isolated and lonely belief; like the empty pews of this church.”
“I’m sorry. This is clearly absurd. Thank you for the tea, vicar.” And with that the professor walked swiftly to the back of the church without turning around and left through the smaller west door into the street. His series was successful, his books sold, his lecture tours were written up in newspaper columns – he even received an honorary degree conferred by an Australian university.
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