Hallowed Be Thy Name

Marjory felt some nagging concern about the appointment of the new minister. After all, their former minister had been with the parish for nearly forty years, and it was enough of a wrench to place their spiritual well-being in the hands of a stranger. But she felt substance to her worries when the throaty roar of a motorbike outside heralded his arrival. He strode up the central aisle, buckles clinking on his motorbike boots, surplice fluttering behind him.

Marjory reached for her hymnal in anticipation of the service, reassured by the musty smell of the pages in her leather-gloved hands. She had to admit that the congregation had grown somewhat over the last few weeks, even if the worshippers appeared young and unkempt. Marjory always believed that she would be committed to the earth in the church she had attended from childhood. Recently she had wondered if she would outlast the church as she entered her ninth decade, and the renewed vitality was a comfort.

She leafed through the tissue-thin pages until she found the first hymn. O God of Earth and Altar by G K Chesterton (1874-1936). At least the hymns had remained old-fashioned. The organ swelled and she stood to sing, her papery voice drowned out by the others. As she sung, the bass notes of the organ surged through the church and hummed in the wood of the pews. The new organist had somehow increased the volume of the old pipe-organ, and had a fondness for the dramatic and gothic. Last week, during the youth service, he had even played a song called After Forever, by a band called Sabbath.

Dust-motes danced like angels as they sung, and after the third hymn, it was time for the reading and the sermon. The readings followed little set pattern, and this week it was from Revelation 13:18. Unusually the minister himself would read, rather than one of the church officers.

‘Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the Beast,’ boomed the minister, ‘for it is a human number…’ He was tall and thin, darkly long-haired with a handlebar moustache.

‘…and blood came out from the winepress, as far as one thousand six hundred stadia.’ He closed the book and leafed through the notes of his sermon.

‘Some say that young people are born to be wild…’ Marjory heard a murmuring amongst the congregation, towards the back, at this first line. The sermon seemed to be about youth lawlessness, a matter of some concern in the community.

‘Breaking the law is not acceptable…’ There were more suppressed whispers behind her.

The sermon was now coming to a close, reassuring words designed to restore confidence in the community. And there was a rumble of whispering as the minister reached his conclusion, ‘...sometimes it can seem as if we are living in a wicked world, with our old people living in fear of the dark.’

‘That concludes the sermon for today.’ The minister smiled. The organ roared once more for the final hymn. O Jesus I Have Promised by John Bode (1816-74). Another fine old traditional hymn, designed for the sombre notes of the organ.

This was followed by the Lord’s Prayer, which Marjory had indeed learned at her mother’s knee.

‘Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name….’

‘Bingo!’ A voice hissed from the back. Marjory couldn’t believe it.

The minister glared disapprovingly and began the prayer again.

‘Our Father, who art in Heaven…’

They stood as the minister raised his hands and intoned the Benediction. And then they all filed down the aisle towards the church door. A bucket-seated motorbike was tilted on its stand outside the gates, flames painted on the fuel-tank, outlining the words Heaven’s Angels.

‘Marjory, how delightful to see you,’ said the minister as he shook her hand outside. He was quite a pleasant chap after all, thought Marjory as she lingered, waiting on her friend Edie who had arrived late and was at the back of the church, among the last to file out.

Then she saw a young man with long hair, whispering intently to the minister. She could overhear what he was saying.

‘I got them all. Bingo!’ he said. ‘Last one was Iron Maiden, Hallowed Be Thy Name. Judas Priest, Breaking The Law. Iron Maiden, Fear of the Dark. Steppenwolf, Born To Be Wild. Black Sabbath, Wicked World.’

The minister frowned. ‘Yes, but the last one was the Lord’s Prayer. Those words are in it anyway.’ He reached inside his surplice and slipped something out of a pocket, handing it over to the young man. It was a half-bottle of whiskey with a black label. ‘Try not to shout out next time.’

Marjory’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe it. Then she saw her friend Edie, shaking hands with the minister, last in line. Edie hobbled across on her walking stick, smiling as she saw her friend through her thick bifocal glasses.

‘Marjory, how are you?’

‘Not too bad, all things considered,’ she replied. ‘But what about this minister. Isn’t it a disgrace?’

‘Oh, him and his motorbike.’ Edie smiled. ‘Well, let me tell you about something. On Friday night, those youths started up again, smashing their bottles and burning things just like every night. In my garden as well. I didn’t know what to do!’ She stopped for breath. ‘I was going to phone the police but they don’t even bother any more. Then I heard this noise. It was a motorbike, like that one.’ She pointed with a shaking hand.

Marjory watched as the minister mounted his motorbike and kick-started the engine.

‘In fact, it sounded just like that one,’ said Edie. ‘More than one of them. I don’t know what they did, but those lads haven’t been back. I had the first proper night’s sleep in goodness knows how long.’

From the nearby car park there was the roar of more motorcycle engines.

Maybe the new minister wasn’t so bad after all.