The Curse of Ichabod

Pastor Boris stood behind the lectern at the front of the church and read from the big black Bible into the black microphone that was on a tall black stand.
"A reading from the book of Haggai. 'The silver is mine and the gold is mine,' declares the Lord Almighty. 'The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house.' God wants to bless us financially. He will provide us with more than we need. Our cup will overflow, Brethren. You don't have to worry about God providing enough money to pay the bills at the end of the month because he always will." Angie could stand it no longer. She interrupted the sermon.
"There's not enough money in the Common Purse," she said.
"But the house is paid for," said Pastor Boris.
"The gas bill isn't, and the council tax, the water and the electricity are all £100 a week. We can't go on for much longer."
"We've carried on for years without running out of money," said Pastor Boris, still smiling.
"That was when these people had jobs," said Matthew. "Now they're all state pensioners. The household income has fallen by three quarters. According to my calculations, the Common Purse will run out of money in exactly 21 weeks time."
"My husband and I are pensioners. We gave this church an enormous amount of money and I think we should be respected as having paid our way."
"I sold my hi-fi in 1976."
"Mr and Mrs Hoosheet," said Angie.
"None of this Hoosheet rubbish. Our name is Horshit. Please pronounce it correctly," said Mrs. Horshit.
"Yes it is," said Mr. Horshit, "pronounced like horse and shit. And please, I hate being called Asian. I am Ozzian."
"Mr and Mrs Horshit," said Angie. "Thanking you for the enormous amount of money that you gave to the church in 1976 isn't going to pay the £1100 gas bill that we have got now."
"That is horse shit," said Matthew, sniggering.
"What shall we do?" asked Pastor Boris.
"We could start by selling your car," said Angie.
"My car has to be 4 wheel drive or it won't get up the hills in winter. It's got to be great big or I couldn't get all the bags of bread in it when I go to the shop at closing time on a Friday. It has to be brand new because, if it breaks down, I've got no idea how to repair it."
"It cost £40,000 and you only use it once a week to go to the bread shop."
"My wife goes shopping in it as well."
"It gets used twice a week, then. A very poor investment of £40,000."
"This church has always been like that," said Matthew. "How much did it cost to build the International Christian Centre? £1.5 million. How many sandwiches did it give out on Thursday? Twelve."
"It was all right when everybody had jobs," said Stanley. "You could waste loads of money then."
"The International Christian Centre gave jobs to people who couldn't get jobs anywhere else," said Maria.
"It gave jobs to university graduates in their 50s," said Stanley, "like Angie and Matthew."
"The money wasn't all wasted," said Maria. "The people who worked in the International Christian Centre lived on the farm and put all the money into the Common Purse. In fact, the people who built the centre lived on the farm and put all of their money into the Common Purse. We got the money back."
"That's the only way we could afford a huge centre like that," said Stanley. "All we had to do was buy an old church and pay for new windows, new heating system and new insulation."
"It's still a lot of money to pay for 12 sandwiches on a Wednesday," said Matthew.
"All right, I'm selling my car," said Pastor Boris. "It's a low mileage 3 year old Range Rover with a full service history. A bargain at £30,000."

Gary and his dad were looking for somewhere they could abandon their old car. Gary had a Ford Fiesta that was a beautiful purple rosewood colour but every time his dad had repaired it he had used black touch up paint, the original colour being unobtainable. Instead of being a beautiful colour, the car looked like a half sucked sweet. The bodywork was good for a ten year old car, the engine was mechanically sound but no one wanted to buy it. Gary had been promoted at work and now had a company car. Gary pulled over to the side of the road about a hundred yards from the farm.
"Don't park it here," said Dad. "Someone'll crash into it at night. Along there. Drive on to the farm." Gary drove up the narrow lane that led to Piddledon Farm. There was a gate at the end of a path that was very much wider than the gate. "Park here, Gary. The road's wide enough. The car won't block the gate." It was a fine day. Gary and his dad left the car with the keys in the ignition and walked back to the town.

At dinner time, Valerie and Pastor Boris came into the dining room excited.
"Someone just provided us with a car," Valerie said. "It's there by the side of the gate. They left the key in the ignition and all the documents in the glove compartment."
"There's nothing wrong with it," said Pastor Boris. "160,000 miles on the clock and a full service history. Paintwork's a bit of a mess. Just needs a respray."
"Forget about a respray," said Angela. "It works, doesn't it?"
"We got it for nothing," said Valerie. "We didn't tell anybody we were short of money. How did they even know?"
"God knew," said Pastor Boris. "God inspired someone to give us their car. God put it on their heart that we needed it. People who don't live in community are worldlings. You wouldn't expect them to be so very generous."
"Very few worldlings are very generous," said Valerie.
"I knew the Lord would provide," said Pastor Boris. "The silver is mine and the gold is mine, says the Lord Almighty."
"Don't get too excited," said Angie. "The money we got from selling your Range Rover will last nine months. We're going to have to find some other way of raising money in the summer."
"Why don't we turn the farm into a holiday home?" asked Stanley. "We could have families and people coming here for holidays. We could rent it out."
"Where will we live?" asked Angie.
"It's the summer," said Stanley. "it would be warm enough to camp on Bournemouth sea front from May to August."

Matthew returned to his room to see his room mate, Charlie, looking at the screen of a geriatric lap top computer which might have been 20 years old.
"The farm hasn't got any money anymore," said Charlie.  "I'm looking for somewhere else to live."
"What have you seen?"
"I see Christian Flatshare is spreading its wings. It used to just be in London. Then it was London and Birmingham. Now it's in Bournemouth and Southampton. It's everywhere. Mind you, I can't say these tenancies are any use to me. I don't want to share a house with two single women who are in their thirties." Matthew's eyes lit up.
"Where is this house? Could you email me a link to the advert?"
"Matthew, what is it about you and women? How can you fancy someone that you've never even seen?"
"It would be like Blind Date. I can't imagine sharing a house with two young women without finding at least one of them very attractive."
"I agree with you, Matthew. I can't imagine you sharing a house with two young women without finding one of them very attractive."
"But I might find both of them very attractive. I might be torn between two lovers and feeling like a fool. How would I know which one of them God wanted me to marry?"
"Matthew, you're insane."
"Everybody falls in love."
"Not as often as you do, mate. What's wrong with you?"
"I am 50 and I have never had a girlfriend. I yearn to be kissed."
"But you're celibate."
"The celibate ring I wear on this finger is a peace treaty, it is a line in the sand. I won't fight a war with the women at Piddleon Farm. I will be celibate. I had to learn not to embarrass women by saying nice things about them all the time. I had to get rid of that part of me that wanted a girlfriend the way that I wanted a sports car."
"Did your vow of celibacy work?"
"Not a chance. That's why I want to give it up. Charlie, do you ever yearn to be kissed?"
"Matthew, if you yearn to be kissed you have become a worldling."
"Charlie, you've been married. Surely, you yearned to be kissed once."
"Marriage is about having lots of children so that they can become little soldiers of Zion and build up the kingdom brotherhood. It's not something you're supposed to enjoy."

Colin was leading the Tuesday night Love Feast in the small cottage a quarter of a mile from the farmhouse. The Love Feast itself, the steak and kidney pie followed by rhubarb crumble, would not be served until Colin had finished leading an hour of worship.
"Lift up your hands and point at the fields, the farmhouse and the chapel," he said. "Bless them, bless the fields of Piddledon farm, bless the farmhouse, bless the chapel where we have our Sunday morning meetings." People pointed their hands in the right direction and there was a chorus of, "Bless them, bless them, bless the fields, bless the farmhouse, bless the chapel." Colin's wife, Rachel, stood up to speak.
"Why are you letting the devil destroy your church? In Jesus' name, we command the demons to flee." She waved one of her hands up and down excitedly. "Get your hands off this church, Satan, get down, get down, you demons, get out, get out. Stop destroying this church." Nobody joined in this time. Everybody was quiet. "Aren't you going to join me in my prayer?"
"Colin," said Stanley, "you and your wife are the Ministry of Change. It is your job to make sure that nothing in this church ever changes."
"I am the leader of the no campaign," said Colin.
"There are only two people in it," said Bob. "I am a drug addict. I have spent my whole life denying reality. You are addicted to this church. You are denying reality now."
"In 5 years time the church will be legally bankrupt," said Matthew. "It is very close to liquidation."
"You have to face facts, Colin," said Stanley, "things can't go on the way that they did before."
"God gave me a vision," said Rachel. "There was a ship in a storm. God held up his hand to protect the ship, so that it wouldn't be destroyed. God is holding up his hand to protect Piddledon farm, the farmhouse, the chapel, the church businesses and the International Christian Centre. They will not be destroyed."
"It's not the devil who's doing this," said Matthew, "it's God. We always taught that the church is not a building. How can we expect God to bless us if we've got more buildings than anybody?"

A few weeks later everyone had moved out. Matthew was sharing the flat he had seen advertised with 2 single women who were in their 30s. Carol was making some soup and was peeling a carrot.
"Is that weight watchers'soup?"
"Why?"
"Are you trying to lose weight? Is that why you're always making soup?"
"Yes."
"I assure you, you don't need to. Carol, have you got a boyfriend?"
"Why?"
"Just making conversation."
"I have not got a boyfriend and I don't want a boyfriend." Matthew realised that his quest for love would have to wait until another time.

Stanley was bedding down in a sleeping bag in a bus shelter on Bournemouth sea front. A man in a brown suit with a red tie came up to him.
"Hello. I'm from Bournemouth council. I see you have converted this bus shelter into a dwelling. You need to apply for planning permission. It needs an EPC."
"What's an EPC?"
"An Energy Performance Certificate. If this is a dwelling, it must be fully insulated and achieve band E to comply with the Minimum Energy Efficiency Standards." A strong gust of wind blew and a huge wave crashed on the sea. "And I don't think it does."

Colin had helped Pastor Boris and Valerie to put up a tent. The tent completed, Colin wondered if the hunger that he felt for an evening meal was shared by the others.
"Fancy some chips from the shop on the pier?"
"Oh yes please, Colin," said Valerie, handing him a £20 note. As Colin walked along the pier he was met by a man wearing what looked like a woman's brown parker and a sun hat.
"Hello there, are you all right?"
"Hello," said Colin.
"Have you just moved here?"
"Yes. We've got a couple of tents set up on the beach."
"Can you help me out?"
"I think you should help us out. We're all in the same position, aren't we?" The man in the brown parker looked at Colin thoughtfully.
"There's no real reason to feel sorry for homeless people, Sir, but if I can get the public sympathy, it's very useful. When people see a homeless person they get emotional, people aren't always logical when they're emotional. They can be manipulated."
"I might help you out," said Colin, "if you can do something for me in return. Can you tell me where all the free food centres in Bournemouth are?"
"I don't go there. Full of really rough people, drug addicts and the like."
"I thought that if you were starving it wouldn't really matter if the centre was full of rough people, you'd go there anyway."
"Starving? No, Sir. You can get a chicken dinner at the kiosk on the pier for £3. I'll take you there, if you like." The man led Colin to the kiosk.
"Three chicken dinners," said Colin. "And what do you want?"
"I'll have some cheesy chips. I'll be honest with you, Sir. Could you give me £20 to get a bed at the hostel for tonight?"
"No I can't, I haven't got any money."
"A problem easily solved, Sir. Do you have a card?"
"Yes."
"I'll show you where the nearest cash point is." The man led Colin from the pier across the main road to the cash machine. Colin drew out £50 and gave the man £20.
"Can you give me another £5?"
"I only have a £10 note."
"I'll give you £5 change." A middle aged woman came down the street with an angry scowl on her face.
"Don't bring people to this cash point machine," she said. "You've done it again."
"He was walking along to the pier."
"I know he was walking along the pier.
"It wasn't as bad as it looks." Colin turned to the woman.
"He seemed very friendly and very genuine to me."
"He is very friendly and very genuine," said the woman, "and he does this every day." It was a relatively sleepless night with everybody kept awake by the roaring and tossing of the sea. At ten o' clock the man in the brown suit spoke to the homeless man in the brown parker.
"I've been told that you make £30 a day begging."
"Yes, I would say I make at least that."
"If you make more than £1100 a year you should fill in a tax return and send it to the Inland Revenue."
"If somebody buys me a meal, does that count?"
"If somebody buys you a meal that counts as a taxable benefit."

Angie was staying on the farm to keep an eye on the tourists who were staying there. One of the children was playing with his football in the kitchen. The football bounced off one of the fluorescent lights. It knocked a pan from the cooker on to the floor.
"Ichabod!" Angela shouted at the child. "Get your football out of the kitchen. It's dangerous. Go and play with it in the garden." The boy burst into tears. "What did I say?" Ichabod's mother explained.
"He's not used to grown-ups telling him he can't do things." The man in the brown suit arrived at the farm. He met some Eastern European people who were working in one of the fields. He walked up to a big, burly man with dark hair who was wearing a white office shirt and dirty jeans.
"What do you do here?" he asked.
"We look after the animals."
"Do they pay you the minimum wage?"
"I think so."
"Have you got your own bank accounts?"
"No, it all goes into the church bank account and they just give us our meals."
"That sounds terrible. That sounds like modern slavery." Angie, who had been sitting in the caravan which she used as an office, swung open the caravan door and stood on its steps holding a sleeping bag.
"Merhdad, if you want to report me for modern slavery I will give you this sleeping bag, because you will be sleeping in a bus shelter on Bournemouth sea front tonight."

At six o' clock that night a terrifying wail came out of the farm kitchen. Angie came running in to see a married couple standing next to Ichabod who guiltily looked at a dirty football that had landed in a tray of steaming stew that had just come out of the oven.
"My wife wanted to cook a meal today for all the people who are staying on the farm. And look at it now."
"I'm sorry Mr. Spoors. I shall get you some pizza. We have some lovely pizzas in the fridge. And vegetables. And I will cook some rice." Mrs. Spoors was still crying. "But I spent all day cooking that lovely meal and I wanted everyone to share it. People are tired of pizzas and rice. They've had nothing but your pizzas and rice all week." Mr. Spoors had a book he had taken from the big bookcase in the dining room.
"I want somewhere quiet to read," he said. "I can't read in the farmhouse. It's full of noisy children."
"Go and sit in my caravan," said Angie. "It's very quiet. You can sit there while I cook the dinner." Ichabod was playing with his football in the garden. He saw Mr. Spoors sitting in the caravan reading a book. He slammed the football into the caravan window, right in front of Mr. Spoors. To the boy's delight, the window did not break but made a terrifying noise. He bounced the football off the window again and again and again.