Yours Truly Page 3

  ‘Wait here,’ they said, ‘until you have learnt the right words that must be used when the secret is told to others.’ And so he waited for many long weeks, until the words were his. Again, he was keen to be off and tell his friends about the Secret of Life he had found.

  ‘Ah no,’ they said, ‘for you have many more things to learn . . . People who travel with the secret must dress as we do and put on different clothes to speak about it.’ And so he waited, yet again, until he looked exactly as they looked and could have been mistaken for one of them. Once again he urged them to let him go, for the secret was very important.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ they said, ‘and then you can be on your way. There is a certain kind of behaviour that belongs to the People of the Secret, which you really must learn before you leave us.’ So he sat down again to study their behaviour, their customs, their mannerisms, and then, finally, they said to him, ‘Now you are ready to go.’

  As he hurried over the mountains and down the valleys, his excitement was overwhelming because of what the secret would mean to the people of his village. Finally, after many weeks, his own beloved home came into view, perched high on the mountain he knew so well. He ran towards the village, calling out as he went.

  The villagers looked down from the mountain in amazement. Who on earth was this strange-looking man running towards them, shouting so loudly and using such peculiar words? They became very worried and called the village elders, who urged the man to go away. The man shouted all the more, but not a single soul recognized him or understood what he was saying. Finally, as he wouldn’t go of his own accord, they took up stones to throw at him, telling him to go away and never come back.

  Battered and bleeding, the man set off on the long journey back to the town of the secret, weeping as he went about the rejection he had experienced and the lost opportunity to talk about the secret. When at last he reached the town, the man poured out his story of the bitter experience he had been through, but, to his amazement, the People of the Secret were not surprised.

  ‘You have been persecuted for the secret,’ they told him. ‘This is part of the price we have to pay. Never mind. Dry your tears and come settle down here with us, where it is safe and where the secret belongs.’

  The Plague

  The small town of Puffington is a pleasant location, one of the finest in the north-west. The snow-capped peaks of Montana can be seen on the far horizon and the land all around is fertile, with sweeping green pastures in the spring and a carpet of gold at the time of the barley harvest. It was at such a time, not many weeks before Thanksgiving, when something very strange occurred.

  There is a large wooden church in the centre of Puffington, beautifully crafted more than a hundred and fifty years ago. The Church of the Redeemer is painted white and gold, with a dazzling cross above an impressive bell tower. White steps lead up to the great wooden doors and nearly all the people of the town file into this majestic place at least once every Sunday.

  So it was, in the late 1980s, that they all heard an impressive sermon from their minister, the Revd Milton J. Swackhammer III, who fulminated at great length against the moral evils of American society. They all nodded their heads gravely as he listed the evils of the age: the drug culture, the sexual promiscuity, the blasphemy and violence now rampant in television and film. The whole congregation applauded when he condemned, in the most colourful language, the epidemic of HIV and AIDS as a plague sent by God in judgement on Sodom and Gomorrah.

  ‘This disease,’ he proclaimed, ‘is nothing less than the outer manifestation of an inner corruption. Every day, sinful men are being exposed, and their vile and secret sins are being revealed in all their hideous deformity! Who can escape from the wrath of God? No one!’ He banged the pulpit several times. ‘No one, for “The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness and wickedness of men”, Romans chapter 1, verse 18!’

  The Revd Milton J. Swackhammer, or ‘Rev Milt’ as he was known by his loyal congregation, loved the book of Romans, especially chapter 1. In fact, he read it a great deal more than the Gospels and knew it all by heart. ‘Men are now, in our time, in our age, before our very eyes’ – he didn’t mind embellishing Scripture a little now and then – ‘receiving in their own bodies the due penalty for their perversion! Romans chapter 1, verse 27.’

  Somehow, repeating the chapter and verse out loud gave everything a little extra authority and certainly made him look extremely knowledgeable, because he preached without notes and never once looked down at his large, open Bible. It was as if the words of Scripture flew up, flaming, into his mouth, to be blasted into the vaults of the great Church of the Redeemer in Puffington!

  The congregation loved his style, his fervour, his prophetic fury as he lashed contemporary culture time and again. The good people of Puffington would nod their heads, exchange glances and, at frequent moments, applaud and shout out, ‘Amen!’

  The day of his ‘Plague Address’, as it came to be known, was warm and sunny, and the people filed out of the church feeling a wonderful sense of well-being. The fruit in the orchards was ripe, the barley harvest was almost ready for gathering, all the businesses, banks, grocery stores, hotels and other businesses were thriving. Puffington was a prosperous place and there was a great deal of cause for rejoicing as the celebration of Thanksgiving drew near. That very Sunday, the church had received its largest collection on record, because the people had been moved by the plight of the nation and the urgent need to spread the message of salvation.

  The first peculiar thing that afternoon was a small spot appeared on the church treasurer’s forehead. Within hours it had grown and become quite a serious and unsightly lump. His wife called out the doctor and was amazed to see that he too was sprouting a large and very visible lump on his cheek.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said the doctor, ‘but this is nothing to what is hidden under here.’ He rolled up one trouser leg and showed her an appalling sore that extended all the way up his calf.

  ‘Is there a cure?’ she said frantically, because now her husband was also rolling up his trouser legs and exposing several bizzare-looking growths.

  ‘I’ll need to confer with the hospital of tropical diseases in Missoula tomorrow. This is clearly some kind of . . .’ – the doctor hesitated – ‘mysterious plague.’

  Rev Milt was relaxing in his bath that evening when he was troubled by the sight of what appeared to be three kneecaps emerging from the foam. Was he dreaming? He swept the foam aside and realized, to his horror, that a very large lump had grown on the side of his left knee. He jumped out of the bath and gazed in the mirror. There was a large spot on his forehead and a hideous lump growing from his ear.

  The strange thing was, not everyone in the church was affected. Many of the men grew lumps, and a few of the weal-thier women. Puffington’s well-respected accountant was one of the worst hit. He had a veritable mountain range of lumps across his bald head.

  Experts from the hospital of tropical diseases in Missoula arrived, wearing protective clothing, and examined the unfortunate victims in a special roadside decontamination unit. But this plague was like nothing they had ever seen.

  ‘Can any of you think of anything you have eaten or been in contact with, any plant or animal you have touched?’ asked the grim-faced scientist. But the victims shook their heads sadly as they stood in the showers and gazed at their lesions, spots and lumps, which were now multiplying at a terrifying rate.

  ‘We must trust the Lord in this time of terrible crisis!’ urged Rev Milt, but even as he said this, a very large lump appeared on his upper lip and he was no longer able to speak.

  Puffington was now desperately trying to keep the affliction secret, but it soon became national news that nearly an entire population of highly respectable men, and a small handful of very well-to-do and influential women, were in quarantine. Puffington became known as Plague City.

&nbs
p; It was the daughter of the local accountant who, remarkably, broke the spell of this dreadful curse. She was only twelve, but she was very clever and very good with numbers. She had often helped her father in his office and, as he was so severely debilitated (he couldn’t sit down because of the multiple lumps on his behind), she was going through his recent accounts for him.

  ‘Daddy!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve added all the figures up wrongly here!’

  Her father stumbled to her side. ‘Impossible!’ he said, but he was not entirely convincing. ‘Add up figures wrongly? What do you take me for?’

  ‘Well,’ said the girl, who was very direct and had beautiful clear and honest eyes, ‘I would take you for a cheat! You should owe $35,000 to the IRS, but it says here you only owe $7,500.’

  ‘When did I make such a terrible mistake?’ blustered her father.

  ‘You did it last Sunday evening,’ she said.

  With horrible clarity, he realized that the lumps on his head had appeared shortly after he had, not to put too fine a point on it, ‘cooked his books’. He immediately rang the church treasurer – the very first victim of the plague.

  ‘Mervyn,’ he said, ‘can you think of anything you did last Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Mervyn defensively, thinking of the six beers he had drunk before falling asleep in front of the television. ‘Having the occasional drink?’

  ‘No, no! Mervyn, think money. Did you do anything regarding . . . church funds, for example?’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Mervyn was becoming angry.

  ‘Think about it,’ said the accountant. ‘It may be your only hope.’

  Mervyn sat in his chair and stared into space, for he knew very well that he had, well, borrowed a little money on a short-term loan from the Church Reserve Funds that Sunday afternoon but, of course, he intended to pay it back very quickly, as soon as his cash flow improved.

  One by one, the hundreds of victims of the Puffington plague began to discover that the hideous lumps had appeared within minutes of some shady or reckless or unkind or mean or underhand financial act. Ladies who had refused to help a friend in desperate need or disinherited a wayward child to punish them; men who had kept secret accounts to spend on themselves, without their partners’ knowledge, or taken out loans to fund a gambling addiction; lawyers, accountants and businessmen who had played fast and loose with each other and with the IRS . . . the list was endless.

  The Revd Milton J. Swackhammer III was the very last to face up to the truth. That Sunday, after his thundering condemnation of AIDS victims, he had visited a very wealthy old lady and poured out his heart to her about his desperate need for a brand new car, which was essential to his ministry. He had greatly exaggerated his financial need: he had enough money to buy a new car himself, but not the huge SUV he had set his heart on. She gave him a very large cheque and he prayed with her, fulsomely, thanking God and blessing her for this ‘completely unexpected generosity’. He had come home, singing hallelujahs loudly, and run himself a very relaxing bath, which was when the ‘third kneecap’ had suddenly appeared.

  It was the accountant’s daughter, of course, who spoke the truth to them all.

  ‘What shall we do?’ they said, as if she were a prophet of God (although women were never allowed to speak in the Church of the Redeemer).

  ‘You have to put things right,’ she said very simply. ‘First with God and then with other people. Who knows? Perhaps he will take pity on us all in Puffington.’ They were very touched by the way she included herself in the suffering of the town, even though she was quite innocent. Indeed, the tears in her eyes as she spoke melted all the hardness of their hearts.

  The entire quarantined community gathered in the Church of the Redeemer to pray all night for forgiveness. They confessed their sins – not only their secret financial misdeeds but also, above all, their spirit of judgement and harshness towards others.

  As they prayed, one by one the lumps disappeared and the lesions vanished and the spots were washed away by a loving invisible hand. Every single man and woman agreed to make restitution to anyone they had cheated or hoodwinked or ignored or condemned unfairly. Rev Milt changed his tune too and was seen humbly welcoming people with AIDS into his home, which became a haven for anyone who was on the margins of faith and had felt wounded and rejected by preachers such as him. When he spoke in the pulpit of the Church of the Redeemer in Puffington, he described himself as a sinner who was desperately in need of grace.

  Rev Milt was soon soundly condemned and vilified by a preacher in the nearby town of Vaunting, who described him as an ‘ambassador from hell’ because of his liberal views.

  Needless to say, it wasn’t long before Vaunting was visited by a mysterious plague.

  The Greatest Discovery in the World

  A scientist was working alone in his laboratory for many years. His work often seemed pointless, because his research field was in a very obscure branch of biochemistry. But one amazing day, he began to realize his impossible dream: he had discovered a cure for cancer! He tested the drug many times over and each time, with every variety of cancer, it worked.

  He had, at last, discovered the miracle cure that the whole world had been waiting for.

  In a moment of crazy enthusiasm, still wearing his white coat, he ran down the local high street, shouting and cheering and, seeing the cancer charity shop, he burst in, laughing.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked the well-dressed lady at the counter.

  ‘Soon you won’t need to be here,’ he spluttered breathlessly.

  ‘Why ever not?’ said the other grey-haired lady, severely.

  I should explain that these two redoubtable women had been running the charity shop for nearly twenty years. They had collected hundreds of thousands of pounds in their time. They were extremely proud of their shop.

  ‘Now calm down,’ said the elder of the two women, with a kind smile. ‘Why do you think we won’t be needed any more?’

  ‘Because I have just found the cure for cancer.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I really have,’ he said, with tears in his eyes. ‘It’s all over. This is truly a universal cure!’

  The old ladies looked at each other in amazement. ‘Well, Irene,’ said the elder of the two, ‘this is a great day and it calls for a celebration!’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Irene. ‘It does indeed. Please come this way. We’ll open a bottle of Champagne!’

  Smiling, the happy scientist followed them into a back room. There, in the corner, was another door. Irene took the key from a hook high on the wall and opened it. ‘Do go in,’ she said, ushering the scientist before her.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ he said, but before he could turn round, the door closed behind him. He heard the key turn in the lock.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, at first quietly and then rather more desperately. He banged on the door. ‘Hey, hey, open up!’ he shouted, but there was silence.

  Gradually, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. He was surrounded by the bodies of men and women in white coats. One old scientist, clearly on his last gasp, raised a feeble arm. ‘Found the cure for cancer, did you? So did I – so did everyone here!’

  The eager scientist slowly realized in horror that finding the cure for cancer was not, in fact, good news for everybody.

  He banged on the door furiously, but no one came. No one ever came.

  Meanwhile, the wonderful ladies kept on running their charity shop with great kindness and efficiency, and continued to raise thousands of pounds. They were very well respected in the town and they had every intention of keeping it that way.

  An Atheist Troubled by His Doubts

  There was once an atheist who was troubled by his doubts. It started in small ways. He attended a lecture by a well-known scientist, a famous atheist, and was struck by his intemperate language. In the past, the old familiar scorn for religion had been a source of great consolation
to him, but now an awkward question was disturbing him.

  If science and reason were so powerfully on their side, why did these celebrated and brilliant men resort to insults, denigration and caricature? Was emotionalism, prejudice, evangelical fervour and bigotry, supposedly the preserve of religious people, also the defining characteristic of many atheists?

  Luckily, he was able to put such twinges of doubt behind him, because he was extremely dutiful in his non-beliefs.

  Before long, though, other doubts began to assail him. He studied the history of science, which was a serious mistake, as he began to realize that many eminent scientists over the last two hundred years, right up to the present day, believed in God. Of course, a great many did not and he would console himself with this fact but, nonetheless, his doubts began to multiply and breed. He discovered that some of the greatest intellects, including writers, artists, composers, scientists, statesmen, civil rights campaigners and visionaries of the last century, were men and women of deep religious faith. Were they all ignorant fools?

  Once again, he turned to his manuals of atheism to reassure himself and strengthen his convictions. He found plenty of invective against corrupt clergy, superstitious adherence to a bankrupt ideology, abusive behaviour and the widespread oppression of the innocent, over thousands of years.

  For a while this worked and he fed himself voraciously on a diet of books, pamphlets, documentaries and films, which deeply affirmed his conviction that religion was nothing but fraudulent tales and a tool to manipulate the people. Unfortunately, this train of thought led him to consider Marx’s dictum ‘religion is the opium of the people’ and, before long, he was very unwisely considering the legacy of Marxism and dogmatic state atheism, and the countless millions who had died in the twentieth century as a result of . . . corrupt officials, superstitious adherence to a bankrupt ideology, abusive behaviour and the widespread oppression of the innocent.