Though your sins ...

(This article originally appeared nowhere)

The nervous man adjusted his collar then shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He was standing in the churchyard, behind the grimy gravestone of Thomas Carnhill, who had died in 1906. He glanced at the faded epitaph, "he liveth a life without shame" and smiled at the irony. The faint sound of voices drifted over, triggering a trickle of fear and he flattened his body against the stone, out of view of the small group of people arriving at the Church. They were early, the most shameless always were. They were early in order to claim the high ground, morally and physically, finding seats high in the gallery, from where they could pass judgement without fear, protected by their advantageous position.

The man shifted his position and squinted through the mulberry bush. Each were dressed to excess. Sleeves were worn long, covering up the hands and the ladies wore dresses that swirled around the ankles. And all wore hats, even the youngsters, with their designer baseball caps. The idea was to cover up as much as possible. This was not a modesty, because these were not modest times. It was not a fashion, because surely no fashion as uncomfortable as this could catch on and the cause for the discomfort was that this was mid July and already the climbing sun was warming up the morning air.

No, the key to this behaviour was the calendar. It was a very special day. Today was Sinday. No, not a misprint for Sunday, though the days did coincide. It was a special kind of Sunday and it only came round once a year, around 40 days after Pentecost. It was a day when one particular Bible verse, in Isaiah, came to life, literally. Though your sins are like scarlet ... Except, on this particular day, one's sins were displayed to the watching world in every colour of the rainbow, from red to violet. Literally.

For many it was a badge of pride. A big blue badge, blue being the designated hue. Earlier in the day one could see a phalanx of young men striding through the town center to the financial quarter, dressed in pinstripes but stripped to their waists, proudly displaying their chests, some bare, some hairy, but all glowing in degrees of blueness. Some, the especially greedy individuals, were tinged with shades of indigo, others had huge violet paunches. Bystanders weren't usually quite so ostentatious and most were displaying the familiar green tinge of envy through gaps in their clothing or on their cheeks. Everyone had some orange colouring in some part of their body, some of them were positively pulsating like belisha beacons. Orange was the colour of lust and it seemed that it was the one that carried the least shame, except for the most straight-laced. Which brings us back to the Church worshippers.

The man hadn't moved from his position and continued to observe. Still the people arrived in their unseasonal attire. Some of them, either brazen or confident or just plain unaware, had flesh proudly displayed. He could see the swirls of colour, mostly pale and insipid and was shocked in one case to see a middle aged lady in a short sleeved blouse, with arms as angry red as the sunset. She hurried up the stony path, arms pumping, her red face indicating that perhaps she was just plain angry and didn't care who knew. He averted his eyes and returned to his hiding place, slumped along the back of the gravestone.

This was a Church that was well known in the town. The minister was well respected not just by his own flock, but in the community too. He was a familiar figure, on his rusty old bike, making pastoral visits or just shopping. Always friendly and approachable he was affectionately known about the town as Red Vic, on account of his blazing unkempt red hair. He had a word for anyone who asked and was never backwards in explaining his faith to any who wanted to hear. Of course not all did and he did make a few enemies, some even tried to spread malicious rumours about a dalliance between him and a daughter of one of his parishioners. For his own Church people this was just jealous nonsense. They idolized him, perhaps too much so. They were proud of his standing among the townsfolk and bathed in his reflected glory whenever he came up in conversation. It had got to the point that they tended to live their Christianity through him and neglected their own standing before the Lord. Which was why, on Sinday, they still had much to cover up, many secret shames that they would have preferred to remain secret.

The man reflected on these things as the clock on the steeple moved to 11am and the last of the worshippers had shuffled embarrassingly through the arched entrance of the Church. He knew of the shames of these people. He knew of Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, whose marriage was falling apart, among allegations of abuse and alcoholism. Mr. Hargreaves, the deacon, had a problem with pornography. And at least a dozen of the younger couples were living in sin, something that hardly raised an eyebrow these days, but a sin nonetheless.

But, most of all, he knew of his own secrets, secrets etched on his chest, hands and face in a sickly permatan that was an unquestioning orange hue, the colour of lust. And he also knew that his time had come. He stood up and brushed the grass and dust off his clothes. He took out a comb and swiftly passed it through his flowing red locks. Then, gathering himself and after a swift prayer for mercy, he adjusted his white collar and took the first step on the stony path towards the entrance.