More Short Stories: The Goodness of God

 

This is based on a true story, and took place in a district church over five years ago, which I was told by a very reliable witness, and I have no reason to doubt him. It has been lightly dramatized, but the key statement by the Vicar in question was given almost exactly as here. The names of the church, the vicar, and the mourners have been changed, and in fact the mourners did not walk out of the church, but just sat there in stunned silence until the end of the service. 

The name I have given to the church is designed to call to mind the accounts in St Matthew's gospel of a place of darkness, where people are cast out, and where there is (as the King James version has it), a wailing and gnashing of teeth. The church in question is very low Anglican, very charismatic evangelical, and sits very lightly to liturgy. I was so shocked at hearing the tale, and I wanted to craft a story which both told of it, and also expressed my own deep seated antipathy to this harsh and judgmental Christianity. The title, needless to say, is ironic.

The Goodness of God

St Matthew‑of‑the‑Wailing Teeth stood sombre against the grey Bristol sky, its Victorian stonework streaked with decades of rain. The locals had long joked about the nickname, reputedly taken from those narrow lancet windows along the nave like a row of clenched teeth. Inside, the church felt gentler: polished pews, brass memorials, and the great east window of Christ weeping, His glass‑blue tears catching the morning light.

 Arthur Penrose’s funeral filled the place. He had been a grandfather of the old Bristol kind—steady, generous, fond of allotments and long walks with his dog. He had not been a regular churchgoer, but his daughter wanted a proper Anglican service, and St Matthew’s was the family parish.

The band and singers began “The Goodness of God”. Many mourners didn’t know the hymn, but they stood politely, some mouthing the refrain, others simply listening. The words, “all my life you have been faithful”, seemed to settle softly over the congregation, a comfort rather than a declaration.

The Reverend Joel Scarriot stepped into the pulpit, with no vestments but just a grey suit - only his dog collar indicating his status as a clergyman. He was new to the parish, an enthusiastic charismatic with a reputation for sermons that ran hotter than most Anglicans preferred.

He began well. He spoke warmly of Arthur’s kindness, his humour, his devotion to his family. People nodded. A few smiled through tears. For a moment, grief felt held.

Then his tone shifted.

Friends,” he said, “we must speak honestly before God. Arthur was a good man, yes, but goodness alone does not save. Without accepting Christ, there is no entry into eternal life.”

A ripple of unease passed through the pews.

Reverend Scarriot continued, voice tightening. “It grieves me to say it, but Arthur did not know the Lord. He has gone to Hell.”

There was gasps from the mourners. A stifled cry. Arthur’s eldest son stiffened, colour rising in his cheeks. The widow clutched her handkerchief so tightly it tore.

But the Vicar pressed on. “You, those of you still living, have a choice. You can avoid his fate. You can turn to Jesus today. Do not leave this church without securing your salvation.”

The congregation began to move. First a few, then many. Coats rustled. Feet scraped. Someone whispered, “This is cruel.” Another said, “Not today. Not like this.”

Arthur’s daughter rose, guiding her mother toward the aisle. Her voice trembled. “Dad deserved better.”

Within minutes, half the church had emptied. The band fell silent. The guitarists stopped playing. The electronic keyboard player lowered his hands. Reverend Scarriot faltered mid‑sentence, staring at the departing mourners as though they were the ones committing a transgression.

Outside, in the churchyard, people gathered beneath the budding trees. The spring air felt cold. Some cried openly. Others shook their heads in disbelief. A few simply stood in stunned quiet.

Inside, the great east window glimmered. Christ’s glass‑blue tears fell upon the empty pews where comfort should have been offered, where love had gathered seeking gentleness and found instead a wound.

And in that hollowed‑out church, it seemed, for a moment, that the weeping Christ was grieving not only Arthur, but the words spoken in His name.