Vaulting Ambition
It was a sunny day at the end of March, and the residents of Ardenvale were gathered around a cross in the heart of St Micheal’s church, nestled amongst trees on the banks of the River Arden.
They were there to remember the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, and to mourn him, as they did every year.
”I have honestly no idea why it’s called Good Friday,” Gordon Ainsworth, Chief Administrator for Ardenvale, said. “The way I see it,
Jesus was having a very bad Friday.”
The surrounding people groaned, none of them really sure whether Gordon was trying to be funny or was just an idiot.
They didn’t say anything though, as Gordon was the second most important man in town, behind the MP, and had the power to arrest them.
The Reverend Elias Blackwood, who led the service, was particularly miserable. Not because Jesus had been crucified, but because he foolishly allowed some local people in town to strip the altar the night before, unaware of their true intentions.
He was taken aback by their willingness to do it, and so agreed. It was only after the service had finished that he exited the church and discovered they had made a clean getaway with the loot, which they probably sold on eBay for a tidy sum.
So now, he was inconsolable. He didn’t mind this. He believed you should be miserable on Good Friday, overjoyed on Easter Sunday, and somewhere in the middle on Saturday.
His trendy young progressive Youth Pastor Sally, on the other hand, had the opposite view. This was one of the many things they disagreed on.
The service was relatively successful and tonally appropriate apart from the fact that Sally’s husband decided to base his iteration of Pontius Pilate on Micheal Palin’s interpretation during the reading for some reason, which fouled Elias’ mood even more.
The vicar persevered, however, delivering an edifying sermon, ignoring the fact that at least half of his congregation were asleep.
Eventually the service ended, and the congregation gathered round the back of the church for Hot Cross buns. Sally initially wanted the organist to play ‘Hot Cross Buns’ on the organ, but Elias vetoed it, considering it to be too crass.
Chris Johnson, a humble Administrator, eyed the piles of buttered buns.
”Do they have to have raisins in?” Chris said. “I don’t like them.”
”I do not know, I’m afraid. But it could be worse,” Gordon said, joyfully biting into a bun, “you could be being crucified.”
Chris picked up a bun and tried his best to pick out the raisins and cast them aside.
”Of course, you could still be crucified,” Gordon said. “If the woke brigade finds an unfortunate Tweet, you posted ten years ago.”
“Hmm,” Chris said, biting into his current-less bun.
Somewhere else, Sally Davies bit into a bun, savouring the taste. She looked up to see Elias giving her an icy stare.
“I am still angry at you for even suggesting we play the ending of Monty Python’s Life of Brian during the service,” Elias said to Sally before munching on a hot cross bun.
“I thought we could do with a bit of cheering up,” Sally said.
“We do not need to be ‘cheered up’ on Good Friday,” Elias said. “We should spend the day in quiet reflection.”
”I take it you’re not going to the screening in the Town Hall tonight, then?” Sally said.
Elias flared. “Of course not. I do not understand how you could like the film as a Christian.”
”Because it’s funny?” Sally said.
Elias glowered at his youth pastor before taking another bite out of his bun.
”I’ve bought the Crème Eggs for Sunday, by the way,” Sally said.
Elias narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
“Why?” Sally said. “The kids will love them.”
”They have nothing to do with the festival of Easter,” Elias said. “Unlike the buns.”
”I’m still bringing them in anyway,” Sally said. “It’s a waste of money otherwise.”
Sally walked over to her husband and friends, being silently observed by Elias.
Soon it was time for everyone to leave, and they decided to bask in the sun and walk back to town along the river.
Elias walked along behind, annoyed by how happy everyone else seemed to be on Good Friday.
He observed his youth pastor, laughing gleefully with her fellow trendy twenty-something Gen Z’ers
He did not understand why she was the way she was. Considering her father-in-law was the Chief Traditional Whip of the House of
Lords, he was just glad she hadn’t radicalised him into crossing the floor and becoming a Progressive.
One day he would finally tame her. He just didn’t know how.
The Robinsonverse 