Free Murdering Ministers by Alan Beechey

laughed. “I can see I’m not going to win you to my point of view,” he said cheerily. “Not yet. But why don’t you stay and worship with us? There’s a group coming over tonight for fellowship and praise.”
    But Oliver knew he needed to escape Tapster’s presence. The brief interview had polarized his opinions: Tapster was either very genuine or very fraudulent indeed. If the former, Oliver had no quarrel—and, decidedly, no article. Every time he came close to losing all patience with organized religion—usually after reading about the private lives of American televangelists—he remembered the many, many people who had led exemplary lives of sacrifice, or even given up those lives, in the name of their God. Whatever he chose to believe or not believe for his own life, Oliver felt it was impolite to challenge another person’s faith, and he refused to toss his tiny satirical pebbles at the vast bulk of Christianity for fear of hitting Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Mother Teresa.
    But if Tapster was a humbug, and he could prove it, then a right good Ferreting would seem to be in order. Perhaps Paul Piltdown could be coaxed out of his diplomacy this evening?
    As Oliver came down the stairs, he was surprised to see Paul waiting with Heather Tapster in the entrance hall. Heather glanced up at him and then hurried toward the kitchen. The occasional atonal rumble from the front room suggested that Billy Coppersmith had been left alone, and was testing his abilities on the piano.
    â€œAh, Oliver, good,” said Piltdown quickly. “I came back because I realized you wouldn’t know how to get to the manse. I’ve been waiting to take you away.”
    â€œYou needn’t have troubled yourself,” Tapster said with some surprise at seeing the minister. He had ducked into the bathroom after the meeting to wash off the traces of honey. “I’d have been happy to give Mr. Swithin directions.”
    â€œNo trouble, I assure you, Nigel,” Piltdown continued with a weak smile, his hand on the front door latch.
    Oliver collected his coat, thanked Tapster politely for his hospitality—Heather did not return—and followed Piltdown through the front door. They set off at a brisk pace along the dimly lit Plumley streets.
    â€œYou seem pretty settled here,” Oliver commented as they passed a group of carol-singers gathered on a corner around a portable harmonium.
    â€œOh yes, I have a perfect record. Every couple I’ve married in the last three years is still married. And everybody I’ve buried is still dead.”
    â€œTell me about the United Diaconalist Church.”
    â€œWell, as a separate religious group, the Diaconalists go all the way back to the English Reformation. We started as part of the Baptist movement, but the Diaconalists formed their own church in the early eighteenth century.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt was a protest against factionalism. Fifty years later, after an argument over the need for church unity, we divided into the General Diaconalists and the Reformed Diaconalists. But then a few years later, half of the Reformed Diaconalists—the New Reformed Diaconalists, that would be—united with the General Diaconalists to become—”
    â€œThe United Diaconalists. I see.”
    â€œNo, the Particular Diaconalists. We didn’t become the United Diaconalists until earlier this century. That was when the Particulars—or, by then, the Reformed Particulars—joined up with the New Independent Diaconalists. They were an offshoot of the Strict Reformed Diaconalists, who were left over from the Reformed Diaconalists when the New Reformed Diaconalists split.”
    â€œSo the United Diaconalists are now everybody?”
    â€œWell, there are still some members of the Strict Reformed Diaconalists who were not part of the Independent Diaconalist movement. All that’s left of them is a family of