Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Narnia, or the quotes from the Bible I have used.
Author's Note: This was written largely as an interlude between my struggles with a simple Susan-Lucy bonding fic; for some reason, light-hearted seems so much harder than tragic. This very short piece was inspired by Allegri's heavenly setting of the Miserere, and is a sequel of sorts to "The Woman on the Platform". Once again, there is no mention of anything Narnian but hopefully it's clear who is who.
I would like to stress that this is NOT a Susan "redemption" fic. This is post-LB Susan, yes, but does not come under the redemption genre.
Also importantly, I sincerely hope that no Christians are offended by my considerable use of Christian imagery and text, despite my own atheism. I take the view that, in a world where Narnia is real and Aslan says what he says, there is really only one conclusion to be reached. I also hope that no one will hesitate to correct what I am sure are my many mistakes concerning Christian services, never having been to one myself.
And finally, some of my own views on Christianity intrude upon this particular offering. Again, I truly mean no offence.
Miserere
The Reverend Patrick McConnell mounted the steps of the pulpit feeling strangely at ease. A pleasant surprise, for usually he was a nervous speaker, feeling the weight of the many eyes watching him closely from the pews – the shrewd, watchful eyes of Mrs Pinkerton, searching for some sign that could be spun into a web of convoluted gossip; the mild hope in the eyes of Jack Clements, hoping that the service would be short so that he could manage an extra hour down at the pub; the occasional glance of the spinster Miss Evangeline Brookes, who mostly kept her eyes on her Bible so that she could point out his mistakes to him later. Of course, many of the eyes watching him were far more benign, but even a bishop is apt to see the worst in situations.
Today, however, rueful thoughts about the moral fortitude of his congregation did not concern the Reverend McConnell. Indeed, the first thing he noticed as he reached the pulpit was the sun shining through the stained glass window above the door – the one showing the Crucifixion. He followed the Lord's eyes down to where they appeared to be staring and saw, with a start, something he had not at all expected.
She was sitting in the front row.
She had wandered into his church only a few days ago, dishevelled and covered with dust. He'd been in prayer himself at the time, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She had only been inside for a few minutes before turning and leaving – fleeing, the Reverend McConnell thought. He had not expected to see her again.
She had made a profound impression, but the Reverend McConnell could not pin down the reason. She had been beautiful, yes – even covered in all that dirt and dust – but it wasn't that. There was just something about her. He even wondered whether it was divine inspiration.
But now – he was sure it was her. She was looking far from dishevelled, with a smart black dress and elegant gloves, also of black. He supposed she was in mourning. She stared directly ahead, and something those eyes – those deep, deep eyes – made the Reverend McConnell change his reading.
This was a momentous occasion – a first, in fact. The Reverend McConnell was not a proficient public speaker; indeed, many of his congregation would have said (quietly, and not in public) that he was inept. He always rehearsed his readings for hours the night before, and spent the entire morning re-reading them. He felt this was the only way to avoid disaster.
But today, something made him change his mind. He didn't know how appropriate it was – his wife was the biblical scholar, not him – but it seemed so eminently right.
"Today's reading," he said, in his quavering Irish lilt, "will be from Psalm 51."
There was a murmur throughout the church. Miss Brookes gave a scandalised gasp, and quickly flicked through her Bible to find the new psalm. Psalm 51! What did he mean by it? The girl in the front row – woman, really, but there was something very young about her – did not react.
"Have mercy upon me, O God," began the Reverend McConnell, "according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions."
He was surprised to find his voice suddenly strong and heartfelt. He searched in his heart for a reason, but no, he had not transgressed lately, or not to his knowledge. It had to be the Lord's will. Today must be special.
"Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin."
The girl in the front row looked directly up at him, and he saw a flicker in those unfathomable eyes.
"For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when though judgest."
Her mouth opened slightly, as though in shock. There was horror in the eyes now, but the Reverend McConnell was no longer looking at her. He was captured in the words, far more than ever before.
"Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me. Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom."
The girl half rose, but then sat down again. Miss Brookes, next to her, gave her a disapproving glare. This girl was interfering with her concentration, already severely tested by the Reverend McConnell's unprecedented decision this morning.
The Reverend McConnell was reaching new heights. He himself was surprised – indeed, shocked – at such a sudden display of passion, but to him it was far more explicable than to Miss Brookes. It was clear that this morning, he was truly doing God's work.
"Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation, and uphold me with thy free spirit."
Tears were streaming down the girl's face. Miss Brookes was horrified. Had the girl no shame?
Suddenly, the girl stood, and slowly made her way to the aisle. It was a slow, broken walk, and with tears falling from the eyes that had so bewitched the Reverend McConnell, the girl left the house of God and disappeared into the street beyond.
Miss Brookes reached a height of indignation. Really, she thought to herself. This was too much. First the Reverend McConnell, and now this surely godless girl. She pursed her lips in deep disapproval, and, feeling suitably virtuous, returned to her careful study of the Bible in her lap.
Meanwhile, above them, the Reverend McConnell had not even noticed the girl's flight. His voice rose higher and higher, and he appeared almost to be in an ecstasy of devotion.
The congregation devoutly listened to his impassioned pleas, and remained in respectful silence when he finished. They felt that the Reverend McConnell was now surely possessed with renewed piety, and each thanked God for the reinvigoration of their church.
And several blocks away, a young woman dressed all in black let herself into her apartment, and collapsed, sobbing, onto the floor.
Please review and let me know how I did with this. If I have offended (I really hope that I haven't), please let me know.