and I need hardly point out to a young man of your intelligence,’ he was adding, ‘that fornication is worse than Russian roulette because a person other than yourself is also involved in this potentially suicidal gamble. Don’t risk it, Nicholas. Wait for marriage. It may be the toughest exercise in self-restraint that you’re ever called to make, but very often the most worthwhile things in life can only be achieved with considerable effort by people who have the strength and wisdom to act as mature human beings, not selfish children.’
I nearly tied my tongue in a knot in my haste to say: ‘Right. Actually I’m getting married. In fact I’m unofficially engaged.’
‘You are? But that’s wonderful – how very exciting!’ said the Bishop, sagging with relief. ‘Who is she? Do I know her?’
‘Rosalind Maitland.’
‘Oh, an excellent girl – what a splendid choice! And how pleased your father must be!’
‘Um.’
Wait a minute – you’re signalling there’s a fly in the ointment – ah yes! Now I see what you were driving at: you’re strongly tempted to try a spot of premarital sex.’
‘Well –’
‘No, hang on, I’m on the wrong track again, aren’t I? I’m talking too much – time for me to shut up and listen. Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s bothering you?’
This was the moment I had been dreading. ‘Well …’ But disclosure was now impossible. After his resounding approval of Rosalind I could hardly admit I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I should have been about marrying her. And I certainly couldn’t admit that it was not Rosalind Maitland of Starrington Magna whom I found sexually irresistible but Tracy Dodds of Langley Bottom. A long and desperate silence ensued.
‘I’ve got it!’ said the Bishop suddenly. ‘You’ve sown a few wild oats and your conscience is troubling you. Well, of course young men do sow wild oats, even young men who want to be ordained; we’re all liable to succumb to temptation, even the best of us. You’ll remember St Paul’s words, of course. “Let him who thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles.’
What you have to do now, Nicholas, if you repent – and I’m sure you do or you wouldn’t be here seeking my help – is to put the wild oats firmly behind you, set yourself a high standard of conduct for the future and ask God’s grace to enable you to be a first-class husband to Rosalind. Getting married to an excellent girl who loves you is without doubt the best possible course you can take.’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles.’
‘Meanwhile I do see you still have the problem of abstaining from sex, even though chastity does become easier when there’s a definite end to it in sight. Of course it would be easy for an old buffer like me to say to a young man like you: “The solution is to take cold showers and work hard.” It would be easy – but it would be wrong. It would imply a view of man based on the Pelagian heresy, the view that man can improve himself by his own efforts without God’s grace. But grace is all. And prayer is vital. I presume the Theological College has at least given you some useful teaching about prayer even if it hasn’t been busy lecturing about sex?’
I seized the chance to race away from the subject of my sex-life. ‘Well, to be honest, Uncle Charles, I’ve found the College’s teaching on prayer a dead loss. It doesn’t connect with anything I do at all.’
The Bishop, who had been so commendably open, now began to close up. He loved that College as a child loves a favourite toy. He had rescued it from the slough of sloth into which it had slumped during the years following my father’s retirement. He had nurtured it, poured his precious time into it, attended every governors’ meeting he could, redesigned its syllabus, basked in the glow of its rising reputation. To hear this cherished fiefdom repeatedly criticised by a mere ordinand was to experience the trial of his Christian patience to its limit. ‘And what, may I ask,’ he said dryly, ‘do you “do” when you pray?’
‘Flip a switch in my head and tune in.’
There was a pause. Then Uncle Charles said: ‘Have you discussed this with your father?’
‘Don’t need to.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s one of the subjects we don’t have to talk about in words.’
‘I think most discussions are more profitable when conducted in words,’ said the Bishop, now speaking very dryly indeed, ‘and since your father’s such a distinguished spiritual director –’
‘He says he can’t be my spiritual director because he’s too emotionally involved.’
‘Ah well, yes, I’m sure that’s right, but nonetheless I’d have thought that on such an important subject as prayer he … well, never mind. Remind me: who’s your personal tutor at the College?’
‘Dr Hallet, but he’s hopeless.’
‘Dr Hallet is the most Christian man!’
‘Yeah, but he’s hopeless. Doesn’t dig the mystics.’
After another pause Dr Ashworth said: ‘Do you still see Father Peters at Starwater?’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t discuss prayer with him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s too tied up in Anglican-Benedictine convention, sort of old-fashioned, you know, square. I did try talking in my code-language once, but –’
‘What code-language?’
‘The symbols I use for ultimate reality – for you know, kind of, God. But Father Peters just said what Dr Hallet said – warned me that I was talking like a Gnostic and ought to watch it. Well, so what if I do talk like a Gnostic if that’s the best way I can put my experiences into words – experiences which can’t actually be put into words anyway? Some of those Christian Gnostics in the old days were very good, holy men and I don’t see why we should write them off just because they didn’t quite conform to the Church’s idea of orthodoxy.’
‘The Gnostic heresy,’ said the Bishop, who had written a book on the subject, ‘Very nearly destroyed the Early Church.’
I felt like saying: ‘Too bad it didn’t succeed,’ but fortunately I resisted this temptation to take a swipe at that man-made idol THE CHURCH, and made a mighty effort to rein myself in before Uncle Charles had apoplexy. I knew what had happened. After the conversation about sex, when I had been obliged to remain buttoned up, I was now lashing out in an unbuttoned frenzy at the Theological College and the Church in order to let off steam. Normally I would never have divulged my sympathy with the Gnostics to anyone who wore a clerical collar.
‘Sorry, Uncle Charles, I know you must be thinking I’m a heretic, but –’
‘No, no – just a trifle unusual,’ said the Bishop courteously as he prepared to play the champion of orthodoxy and bring me to heel. ‘Of course,’ he remarked, ‘it’s an axiom of spiritual direction that each soul is different and that each soul must therefore pray in the method best suited to it, but I think you should always bear in mind, Nicholas –’ Here the full episcopal power was switched on ‘– that psychic gifts can be a danger to those following the spiritual way. For example, they tend to foster arrogance. Instead of writing off Dr Hallet as hopeless and Father Peters as old-fashioned, you should approach them with more humility and consider the possibility that they might well have something important to teach you. You should also remember that undisciplined contemplative prayer can be dangerous and should never be undertaken without the guidance of a spiritual director.’
‘Yes, Uncle Charles.’ Abandoning the incoherent patois of the under-thirties I adopted a crisp, formal tone.
Satisfied that his chilly