The Resurrection of the Body Read Free

to say: This is a conceit. This is not so.
    I sat at the front of the hall and listened to the choir’s intense, quiet singing. Despite my attempts to listen, to return to the prayerful state in which I had begun this service, disturbing thoughts kept running through my head. Only yesterday an intelligent, middle-class woman had come to me saying she was disturbed by the erotic nature of Christ’s passion. I understood at once what she meant; the same thing has from time to time troubled me. There are many erotic images of Christ on the cross, and the combination of art and death has many sexual overtones . But there is nothing erotic whatsoever in real suffering , only obscenity. Christ’s death is not obscene because we give it meaning. In order to come to terms with death, surely every death must have a meaning.
    I had to bring the service to a close. I spoke briefly, saying that what had happened today had profoundly shocked us. Words, I said, were inadequate; but we could also express ourselves in silence. We were silent, then, for perhaps five minutes. Then I said the blessing, and the service ended. We filed slowly out of the hall; nobody said anything to me. The choir followed me into my office, as did Tessa, the deaconess. We said a quick prayer together, and then embraced one another. Tessa in particular seemed dreadfully upset, and I could see tears glittering in her eyes. She put her arms around me and we held one another closely for a moment, giving and receiving comfort.
    We went outside. Police vans blocked the road and there were policemen everywhere taping off the area; a small crowd gathered on the pavement. The sun had gone in, the sky darkened and a few drops of chill rain fell.
    Above us, roaring in the sky, was the familiar sight and sound of the police helicopter. I stood in the road and watched it circling overhead, the sound of its rotors uncomfortably loud. The police cars were leaving; after a while the helicopter too drifted away towards the East.
    A policeman came and asked me to help lock up the church. They asked for the keys so that they could have access when the forensic people came. I said that they could get a set now from one of the churchwardens, but they were free to ask me at any time. I locked up the church, and they left a policeman standing guard at the door.

T he Accusations Begin
    Harriet was waiting for me at the entrance to the vicarage. She had heard what had happened, and her face was tense and anxious. I walked into the kitchen. I could hear the children running round upstairs; their voices sounded very distant and otherwise the house was in silence. My wife put on the kettle. Its hissing and gurgling sounded unnaturally loud after the silence of the church; I looked out into the garden and watched the daffodils dancing in the cold wind.
    Harriet looked at me and asked, in her quiet, understanding way, ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
    I said, ‘Later.’ I took the cup of tea that she had made and retreated into the dining room.
    Almost immediately the doorbell rang. I closed my eyes; I wasn’t sure that I could face anyone just now. Harriet came to the door and said that it was Sidney, a member of our congregation, and that he wanted to speak to me urgently. I said that I would see him for ten minutes.
    Sidney lives just a few streets away from us in a flat in the house where he was born; as a child he endured the worst of the Blitz, and he had often recounted his experiences to me. He looked very awkward and ill at ease in my study in his baggy, crumpled clothes. He looked at the paintings on the walls and the photos on my desk, staring round at this, what must have seemed to him, extraordinary luxury. Sidney’s flat, which I had visited, was small and dreary, and he had hardly any possessions. Although we were by no means rich, I was so often made to feel uneasy about my comfortable, middle-class lifestyle when so many of my congregation were so poor.
    He said,