I’m not good at talking about my feelings, as you know, and I don’t even know whether I’ll give you this letter, but setting all this down feels like the right thing to do. I’m going for a walk now, after a night of no sleep, but this time, for the best of reasons.
Yours,
Rust.
Beside Robin, the young black woman was wiping away tears.
‘And a few short hours after that, while I slept, Rust was taken home,’ said Jonathan Wace. ‘He died hours after the sign he’d been given, which had caused him a night of joy and of the peace that had been denied him so long…
‘It was only later, while I was still grieving for him, still trying to make sense of the events of that night, that I realised Rust Andersen had died at the time of Holi, an important Hindu festival.’
Now the cinema screen behind Wace was again showing the film of joyful people in colourful robes, throwing powder at each other, laughing and dancing, packed tightly together in the street.
‘Rust didn’t like crowds,’ said Wace. ‘He wandered on from city to city after Vietnam, looking for his peace. At last, he settled on a patch of uninhabited land, and he eschewed human company. The joy of communing with other people was one he partook of sparingly and usually unwillingly, only out of need for money, or food. And as I thought about Holi, and I thought about Rust, I thought how incongruous it was that he should have returned to God at such a time… but then I saw how wrong I was. I understood.
‘Rust would find Holi in the life beyond. All that he’d missed: connection, laughter, joy, would be there for him in heaven. The Blessed Divinity had sent Rust a sign, and in taking Rust on that day, the Divinity had spoken through him to all who knew him. “Rust has no further to seek. He has achieved what he was set upon the earth to do: to gain knowledge of me, which in turn, teaches you. Celebrate the divine in the confident belief that one day, you too will find the happiness he sought.”’
The riotous colours faded again from the cinema screen and a picture of many divine figures took their place, including Shiva, Guru Nanak, Jesus and Buddha.
‘But what is the Blessed Divinity? Of whom am I speaking, when I speak of God? Which of these, or countless others, should you pray to? And my answer is: all, or none. The divine exists, and men have tried to draw the divine in their own image, and through their own imaginations, since the dawn of time. It doesn’t matter what name you give Them. It doesn’t matter what form of words you give your worship. When we see beyond the boundaries that separate us, boundaries of culture and religion, which are manmade, our vision clears, and we can at last see the beyond.
‘Some of you here today are non-believers,’ said Wace, smiling again. ‘Some of you came out of curiosity. Some doubt, many disbelieve. Some of you might even have come to laugh at us. And why not laugh? Laughter is joyous, and joy comes from God.
‘If I tell you today that I know – know beyond doubt – that there is life beyond death, and a divine force that seeks to guide and help any human who seeks it, you’ll demand proof. Well, I say, you are right to ask for proof. I’d rather face an honest sceptic than a hundred who believe they know God, but are really in thrall to their own piety, their insistence that only they, and their religion, have found the right way.
‘And some of you will be discouraged if I say to you that nothing on this earthly plane comes without patience and struggle. You wouldn’t expect to know or understand the laws of physics in an instant. How much more complex is the originator of those physical laws? How much more mysterious?
‘Yet you can take a first step, now. A first step towards proof, towards the absolute certainty I possess.
‘All that’s needed is to say the words the Wounded Prophet spoke, a quarter of a century ago, which gave him the sign he needed, and which led to his exultation, and his ascension to heaven. Will you say only this: “I admit the possibility”?’
Wace paused, smiling. Nobody had spoken.
‘If you want a sign, speak the words now: “I admit the possibility.”’
A few scattered voices repeated the words, and a titter of nervous laughter followed.
‘Together, then!’ said Wace, now beaming. ‘Together! “I admit the possibility!”’
‘I admit the possibility,’ repeated the congregation, including Robin.
The attendants began applauding, and the rest of the congregation followed suit, swept up in the moment, some of them still laughing.
‘Good!’ said Jonathan, beaming at them all. ‘And now – at the risk of sounding like the lowest of low rent magicians –’ more laughter, ‘– I want you all to think of something. Don’t speak it aloud, don’t tell anyone else, just think: think of a number or a word. A number, or a word,’ he repeated. ‘Any number. Any word. But decide on it now, inside the temple.’
Forty-eight, thought Robin, at random.
‘Soon,’ said Wace, ‘you’ll leave this temple and go about your life. If it should happen that that word, or that number, forces itself upon your notice before midnight tonight – well, it could be coincidence, couldn’t it? It could be chance. But you’ve just admitted the possibility that it is something else. You’ve admitted the possibility that the Blessed Divinity is trying to talk to you, to make Their presence known to you, through the chaos and distractions of this worldly clamour, to speak to you by the only means They have at Their disposal at this time, before you begin to learn Their language, before you’re able to strip away the dross of this earthly plane, and see the Ultimate as plainly as I, and many others, do…
‘If nothing else,’ said Wace, as the images of deities on the cinema screen behind him faded, and Rust Andersen’s smiling face reappeared, ‘I hope the story of the Wounded Prophet will remind you that even the most troubled may gain peace and joy. That even those who have done dreadful things may be forgiven. That there is a home to which all may be called, if they only believe it is possible.’
With that, Jonathan Wace gave a little bow of the head, the spotlight vanished and, as the congregation began to applaud, the temple lamps began to glow again. But Wace had already gone, and Robin had to admire the speed with which he’d absented himself from the stage, which, indeed, gave him the air of a magician.
‘Thank you, Papa J!’ said the blonde girl who’d spoken to Robin earlier, mounting the stage and still applauding as she beamed around. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I’d like to say a word or two about the UHC’s mission here on earth. We seek a fairer, more equal society and we work to empower the most vulnerable. This week,’ she said, moving aside to let a new film appear on the cinema screen, ‘we’re collecting for the UHC’s Young Carers’ Project, which provides holidays for young people who’re caring for chronically ill and disabled family members.’
As she talked, a number of film clips began playing, showing a group of teenagers, firstly running along a beach together, then singing around a campfire, then abseiling and canoeing.
‘At the UHC we believe not only in individual spiritual enlightenment, but also in working for the betterment of conditions for marginalised people, both inside and outside the church. If you’re able to do so, please consider giving a donation to our Young Carers’ Project on the way out, and if you’d like to find out more about the church and our mission, don’t hesitate to talk to one of the attendants, who’d be delighted to help. I’ll leave you now with these beautiful images of some of our latest humanitarian projects.’
She walked off the stage. As the doors hadn’t opened, most of the congregation remained seated, watching the screen. The temple lights remained dim, and David Bowie began to sing again as the stationary congregation watched further film clips, showing homeless people eating soup, beaming children raising their hands in a classroom in Africa, and adults of diverse races having some kind of group therapy.
We could be heroes, sang David Bowie, just for one day.
11
Six in the fifth place…
Shock goes hither and thither…
However, nothing at all is lost.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Strike, who was eager to hear how Robin’s first trip to the temple had gone, didn’t receive her first few attempts to contact him because he was sitting on the Tube, with a carrier bag from Hamleys on his lap. Robin’s fifth attempt to contact him finally came through when he’d left the train at Bromley South, and was on the point of pressing her number.
‘Sorry,’ was his first word. ‘Didn’t have reception. I’m on my way to Lucy’s.’
Lucy was the half-sister with whom Strike had grown up, because she was his mother’s child, rather than his father’s. While he loved Lucy, they had very little in common, and outsiders tended to express disbelief that they were related at all, given that Lucy was small and blonde. Strike was undertaking today’s visit out of a sense of duty, not pleasure, and was anticipating a difficult couple of hours.
‘How was it?’ he asked, setting off along the road under a sky that was threatening rain.
‘Not what I expected,’ admitted Robin, who’d walked several blocks away from the temple before finding a café with seats outside where, due to the chilliness of the day, she had no eavesdroppers. ‘I thought it’d be a bit more fire and brimstone, but not at all, it’s wall-to-wall social justice and being free to have doubts. Very slick, though – films shown on a cinema screen and David Bowie playing over the—’
‘Bowie?’
‘Yes, ‘Heroes’ – but the big news is that Papa J was there in person.’
‘Was he, now?’