{"id":39142,"date":"2012-09-26T12:00:02","date_gmt":"2012-09-26T16:00:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=39142"},"modified":"2013-01-31T13:00:35","modified_gmt":"2013-01-31T18:00:35","slug":"the-jewish-vicar","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/09\/26\/the-jewish-vicar\/","title":{"rendered":"The Jewish Vicar"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

An old Jewish man is hit by a car. As he lies in the road, dazed and bleeding, a woman rushes over, takes off her jacket, folds it, and puts it under his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you comfortable?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cMeh. I make a living.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was eight when my father told me this joke. I wasn\u2019t sure I understood it. Jews worried more about making a living than being run over. Was that it? One thing I was sure of was that the road was in Golders Green, in northwest London, where I grew up and was bar mitzvahed.<\/p>\n

Golders Green made me. Jews made me, with their jokes and their food and their pride and their warmth and their anxiety and their love of scholarship. I cannot be unmade, even though I haven\u2019t been inside a synagogue since my bar mitzvah. <\/p>\n

\nHow far can you go from Golders Green and still be Jewish? <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

In my twenties, I lived in a house in Stoke Newington, next to an Orthodox Jewish couple. I rarely saw the husband. The wife was melodramatic and rotund and loudly unhappy with her lot. She used to stand at her gate and engage passersby in one-sided conversation. \u201cI vont a man for dancing!\u201d she\u2019d shout.<\/p>\n

One Friday night, as I walked past, she asked me to follow her into her house. She didn\u2019t want me to dance; she wanted me turn the light on. In her religion, she explained, she couldn\u2019t turn the light on during Sabbath. Did I say her religion was my religion? No. I turned the light on. Where would it end?<\/p>\n

In my thirties, I moved to Orford, an ancient Suffolk village with a twelfth-century castle and a medieval church. I went there to live with the painter Helen Napper and, listeners, I married her. My wife wasn\u2019t Jewish. But I was. In fact, if you\u2019ll pardon the expression, I was the only Jew in the village.<\/p>\n

Then something happened. A couple who lived in Saxmundham invited us to a party. A Vicars and Tarts party.<\/p>\n

I told my wife I couldn\u2019t go. She asked why not, as if the answer weren\u2019t obvious. I told her it wasn\u2019t appropriate for a man like me to dress up as a vicar.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh,\u201d she said, \u201cbut it\u2019s appropriate for me to dress up as a tart.\u201d I went quiet. I knew this was an unfair argument. But I couldn\u2019t work out why.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a fancy-dress party,\u201d she said. \u201cYou pretend to be someone else.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d I said. \u201cWhere can I get a dog collar?\u201d<\/p>\n

We set off at eight o’clock on an autumn night. It must have been 1992, because my wife was pregnant with our daughter, who was born the following January.<\/p>\n

The road between Orford and Snape was unlit, with a heath on one side and a field on the other. We negotiated a bend. Suddenly, my wife was forced to brake. There was a small deer\u2014a muntjac\u2014dead in the road. It had evidently been struck by a car, because ahead of us, a car had swerved off the road and careered into a tree.<\/p>\n

We got out and ran to the car and knocked on the driver\u2019s window. The driver didn\u2019t move, so I opened the door. She was a woman of forty or so, bespectacled, badly shaken. Her passenger was unconscious.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cShe\u2019s not dead,\u201d said the woman. \u201cHer heart\u2019s beating. I checked.\u201d<\/p>\n

My wife told me to stay, while she drove to the nearest house and rang for an ambulance\u2014this was so long ago, no one had a mobile, and so recently I recall every detail of the next few minutes, before my wife returned.<\/p>\n

I suggested the woman get out the car. The air would do her good. She obeyed, wordlessly. She tried to light a cigarette. But her hand was shaking too badly. I took the lighter from her and lit her cigarette myself. Then she looked at me properly, for the first time. And was angry.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou think this proves there\u2019s a God, do you? \u2019Cos Cheryl and I are alive. I\u2019d say it proves there\u2019s no God. Cos a deer\u2019s dead. For no reason.\u201d<\/p>\n

Everyone says the same thing to me: Why didn\u2019t you tell her it was fancy dress? But everyone wasn\u2019t there. They don\u2019t know how intimidating she was. They don\u2019t know how much she wanted me to be a vicar.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d never been a vicar before. I had no training. I said, \u201cWe should be thankful for the things we should be thankful for. And sad about the things that make us sad.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s meaningless crap!\u201d she shouted but, as a vicar, I was obliged to forgive her. Then she opened the door of the car, and said to the unconscious Cheryl, \u201cAn ambulance is coming, darling. It\u2019s going to be okay. I love you very much.\u201d Then to me she said, \u201cDo I shock you? God hates gays and lesbians, doesn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/p>\n

I wasn\u2019t sure. I didn\u2019t know God\u2019s position, according to the Church of England. I tried to be gentle.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cI think perhaps He simply doesn\u2019t understand them.\u201d<\/p>\n

She liked this. She must have done. She shook my hand and told me her name was Maggie. What was mine? \u201cChris,\u201d I said, without thinking—for you don\u2019t think, do you, when someone asks your name, though later I thought, Chris, yes, of course I went for Chris, it\u2019s short for Christian. I told her I worked at Orford Church. She nodded. We fell silent.<\/p>\n

I looked at the muntjac lying in the road.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cCan I tell you a story?\u201d I said. \u201cAn old Jewish man is hit by a car. He\u2019s lying in the road, dazed and bleeding, when a woman rushes over, takes off her jacket and puts it under his head.<\/p>\n

\n\u2018Are you comfortable?\u2019 she asks.<\/p>\n

\n\u2018Meh. I make a living.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s anti-Semitic,\u201d said Maggie. She was angry again. I felt like crying. I was Chris, the anti-Semitic Jewish vicar. I\u2019d gone too far from Golders Green.<\/p>\n

Then my wife drew up in our car. And we waited with Maggie and Cheryl till the ambulance arrived. We never got to the party.<\/p>\n

A few months later, we left our baby daughter with her grandmother and went to Orford Church to see a production of Britten\u2019s Noyes Fludde<\/em>. Pinned on the noticeboard in the porch of the church was a letter addressed to \u201cThe Reverend Chris.\u201d It must have been there some time. I opened it.<\/p>\n

\u201cDear Chris,\u201d it read, \u201cCheryl and I would like to thank you and your wife for all the kindness you showed us the other night. Please ring us on 450264 as we\u2019d like to give you a bottle of wine. Yours, Maggie.\u201d<\/p>\n

I never rang Maggie. The Reverend Chris, Vicar of Orford, lived for half an hour on a Suffolk road, a hundred miles from Golders Green. Then he died and went to heaven, where I hope he\u2019s comfortable.<\/p>\n

\nJon Canter is the author of three novels,<\/em> Seeds of Greatness, A Short Gentleman and<\/em> Worth. He also writes comedy and drama for BBC Radio 4 and commentary pieces for<\/em> The Guardian. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An old Jewish man is hit by a car. As he lies in the road, dazed and bleeding, a woman rushes over, takes off her jacket, folds it, and puts it under his head. \u201cAre you comfortable?\u201d she asks. \u201cMeh. I make a living.\u201d I was eight when my father told me this joke. I […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":413,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[8761,8759,7317,1050,92,8760],"class_list":["post-39142","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-fancy-dress","tag-jews","tag-judaism","tag-london","tag-summer","tag-tarts-and-vicars"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Jewish Vicar by Jon Canter<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"September 26, 2012 \u2013 An old Jewish man is hit by a car. 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