“Kerugma?”
“Yes,” said the Reverend Roberts disdainfully. “From the Greek. Meaning ‘proclamation’ or ‘proclaimer.’”
“Right.”
“The young people attend a group called the Retreat at the community halls. That’s tonight, actually.” The Reverend Roberts glanced at his watch. “Starts in half an hour.”
“Ah. Right. Well, maybe I should…
“Check it out?”
“Exactly.” Israel got up to leave. “And anyway, I should let you get back to doing your sermon-”
“Bloody sermon,” said the Reverend Roberts, glancing at the accusatory commentaries on the table. “But just hold on a minute.” He put a heavy hand on Israel’s shoulder and pushed him back down into his seat.
“What?”
“You’ve been here sitting, listening to me talk about my troubles-”
“Which was very helpful,” said Israel, brandishing his sheet of A4. “For my investigation.”
“That may be,” said the Reverend Roberts. “But tell me, how the devil are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Israel.
“I was worried about you the other evening,” said the Reverend Roberts, leaning back.
“Really, I’m fine.”
“You didn’t seem fine, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Well, it was the…shock, I suppose, of Pearce, and…Anyway, I’m fine now.”
“Are you sure? I know that grief can be a terrible shock.”
“Yes. Well. I went to see the doctor, actually.”
“You did?” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Yeah. He gave me a prescription for some SSRIs.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They’re tablets. Like Prozac, apparently.”
“Yes. I know. Not personally. Pastorally, if you like. And you’re going to give them a go?”
“Yeah, I think so,” said Israel. “I haven’t picked up the prescription yet, but I think it might make a difference…”
“With what?”
“Well. Just…everything, I suppose. You know, that sort of feeling…”
“I’m not sure I do know exactly which feeling you’re talking about, actually,” said the Reverend Roberts.
“That sort of feeling of not…I don’t know. Failure, I suppose.”
“Failure?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I feel like I’m a failure.”
“Oh. But doesn’t that rather depend on your definition of success, Israel?”
“I don’t know. I suppose.”
“So what’s success?”
“I don’t know. Someone who succeeds at what they’re doing. A businessman or J. K. Rowling or-”
“It’s just money and fame, then, is it?”
“No,” said Israel.
“So you can have a successful social worker or a window cleaner or a bus driver?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And what would make them a success?”
“Doing their job well, I suppose. Enjoying it. Making a contribution.”
“And what is there to stop you doing that in your job?”
“I don’t know. I just…It doesn’t feel right. I just feel I don’t fit in, I suppose.”
“Mmm.”
“I just feel…The milieu here, the-”
“The milieu?” The Reverend Roberts laughed again. “The milieu!”
“Yes.”
“You know, Israel, maybe you don’t fit in here. Milieu!” He slapped his thighs with mirth.
“What’s wrong with ‘milieu’?” said Israel.
“Israel! Nobody says ‘milieu,’” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Well, I do,” said Israel.
“Sorry, sorry,” said the Reverend Roberts, chuckling. “Seriously. Where do you think you would find your milieu, Israel? Where would you thrive?”
“I don’t know.” Israel thought for a moment. “Vienna in the 1920s? Or Paris. Les Deux Magots?”
“Ah, yes, the old café cultures,” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Conversation and intellectual stimulation,” said Israel.
“There’s always Zelda’s,” said the Reverend Roberts.
“It’s hardly the same.”
“No. But there are cafés down in Belfast now. They’re everywhere. Starbucks.”
“Yes, but-”
“I know, I know. I’m joking.”
“It doesn’t seem that funny, being stuck here,” said Israel.
“I know what you mean,” said the Reverend Roberts. “We are rather on the edge of things, I suppose.”
“Exactly.”
“In a funny way that’s what makes it attractive, though, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Feeling isolated, removed, yearning to connect to the center? Being here, it’s a kind of metaphor, really, isn’t it?”
“A metaphor for?”
“I’m not sure,” said the Reverend Roberts. “Our need for redemption? That desire to resolve that sense of alienation from ourselves that I think we all have, and that derives from our recognition and knowledge of our own destructive impulses?”
“Erm…”
“I think living here excites in me that same feeling that religion or art or music or literature raises and simultaneously answers in us, and yet not completely answers…Do you know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” said Israel. “Although I never thought of Tumdrum as a metaphor, I must admit.”
“Well, maybe you should,” said the Reverend Roberts. “It might help answer some of your sense of-”
“Having sort of lost the thread a bit,” said Israel.
“Yes,” said the Reverend Roberts. “Yes. And do you think drugs are going to help you pick up the thread and make you feel like a success?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just…feel like…I’m not…at home. I don’t seem to have found what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.”
“Well, I think we can all identify with that feeling!” said the Reverend Roberts, with a sigh. “Ardens sed virens.”
“Sorry?”
“‘Burning yet flourishing,’” said the Reverend Roberts. “It’s the motto of the Presbyterian Church.”
“Right,” said Israel. “It’s different for you, though, isn’t it? You have a calling, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t often feel like it,” said the Reverend Roberts.
“Really? But you’re like the preacher to Kierkegaard’s ducks, aren’t you? The man up the front, telling people they can fly?”
“Mmm. You know, Israel, usually, to be absolutely honest, I feel like one of the duck congregation myself.”
“Oh.”
The two men gazed again outside at the blankness beyond the kitchen windows.
“I think we’re all destined to live our lives in darkness, don’t you, Israel?”
Israel coughed nervously.
“The Bible promises us that God will divide light from obscurity, yes. But not necessarily in our lifetimes, I think. It’s amazing to me, actually, that more people don’t…”
Israel huffed. The reverend sighed.
“But! Enough of this sort of talk,” said the reverend. “Come on! Onward! I’ve got a sermon to write, and you’ve got a young woman to try to find. Let’s not indulge ourselves.”
“Right enough,” said Israel, standing up again.
“If you need any help, let me know,” said the Reverend Roberts, reaching for a commentary.
“Likewise,” said Israel, shaking the reverend’s hand.
“I appreciate that,” said the Reverend Roberts. “Thank you.” And “Now,” he continued, to himself as Israel let himself out, “Prevenient Grace: where to begin?”
20
The Retreat, as the Reverend Roberts suggested, was indeed held in Tumdrum’s community halls, a bizarre, dilapidated warren of buildings just off the town’s main square. The halls had metastasized over the years from their original simple 1930s wooden incarnation into a horribly deformed redbrick and concrete monstrosity that sprawled lazily and decrepitly across a large area surrounded by brown weeds and broken paving stones. But of course, like a church, the community halls were more than a mere building; you couldn’t really judge Tumdrum Community Halls on the basis of their looks alone. Which was fortunate, because they really were quite horrid.