“Normal service will be resumed in the near future.” Or so we hoped.

Everyone stood and stared nervously at their hymnbooks. No-one wanted to say anything, partly because there was nothing to say, and partly because when something like that happens, you just don’t, do you?

My dad was a Methodist minister. I say was, which is strange, because he still is, but I don’t think of him that way. He was a minister when we were little, going to church religiously (pun intended) every Sunday, but now he’s simply my father. The religion thing fell away (for me) a long time ago.

When I was little, I thought my dad was God - not in a “someone get that girl some therapy” way, but in a confused “my dad has a big beard and wears a long white cassock, and talks a lot about Jesus, and besides, everyone says Our Father…” sort of way. You don’t even want to know what that made me think about my brother, his only son. I was petrified that dad was on the verge of giving him away to save the world - but that’s another story.

The church that my father (ad)ministered was in the middle of London - a rough, shabby neighbourhood with a high quotient of ethnic minorities - Spanish, Portuguese, Irish, West Indian, African, India, Bangladeshi - which together made them more of a majority, I suppose.

But back to the church.

There was this man, John Shannon, an Irish man, angry and schizophrenic and alone, who would get steaming drunk on Sunday mornings before the pubs would open and then burst into the church during the intercessionary prayers (where the congregation prays for those in times of trouble and need) and would stand in the middle (circular seating arrangement: most progressive) and shout. And rant. And wail. And scream at the top of his voice in a broad irish accent:

“What about ME? What about ME? Why doesn’t God care about ME? God doesn’t exist! There is no f*****g God! WHAT ABOUT ME?!!”

Everyone stared at their hymnbooks and prayed, or at least kept very very quiet with their eyes mostly closed, which is almost the same thing, isn’t it?

No-one said a word. Everyone froze. For a few angry months in the late seventies, every Sunday morning service was punctuated by the sound of angry shouting, and the tense silence of people pretending not to notice.

No-one said anything to him, or to each other. Even my dad, standing in his white frock at the lecturn didn’t shout back answers to his grand theological questions, but let him say (or shout) his piece into the peace, and then gently ushered him into the vestry where the rest of the service would continue, led by the lay-preacher and accompanied by the muffled ranting of an angry man arguing with my dad, or God, or possibly both. Perhaps John Shannon was as confused as I was about the whole beard thing.

I’ve haven’t been able to deal with shouting since then. He was the most terrifying man I knew when I was growing up.

Anger scares me.

Vaughan’s playing Consequences over at his site, and I couldn’t resist joining in with the story above. Posted here too, because I’ve been meaning to write it here for ages.