A Lot Like Eve Read online

  A Lot Like Eve

  For Mum and Dad,

  with love

  And for all the women and men

  in the Community at Ty Mawr

  A Lot Like Eve

  Fashion, Faith and Fig-Leaves:

  A memoir

  Joanna Jepson

  Muddy

  ‘The glory of God is a human being fully alive’

  (St Irenaeus)

  And so to be children, growing

  younger into our humanity.

  Born between thorn and nail,

  we must live now, here –

  eyes wide amid the hurting;

  daring to find a love

  deep in the poison garden,

  learning our steps in the barefoot way,

  dancing muddy into eternity.

  Patrick Hobbs

  Contents

  In the Beginning …

  Prologue

  1The Insiders

  2Baptism

  3Exile

  4Angels and Demons

  5Good News Crusaders

  6Tongues

  7Revival

  8Poisoned Pens

  9The First Leaf

  10Not God’s: Mine

  11Kafir and Caliphates

  12Laying Out the Bodies

  13Alastair

  14About Face

  15Undoing

  16Hot Worship Leaders and Godly Wives

  17At Home in a Stable

  18Fish Out of Water

  19Napkins, Nails and Piercings

  20Saved through Childbirth

  21Turned Tables

  22Captain Sensible

  23Hippy Chick and Punk Boy

  24The Time of Your Life

  25Tractors and Silence

  26Stealth Nettle Farming

  27Ground E

  28Valentine Message

  29St Bob, Patron Saint of Curates

  30Thursday Morning Crem Rota

  31A Holy Place in the World

  32Nuns’ Tea Party

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  In the Beginning …

  Paraphrased from Genesis, Chapters 1, 2 and 3.

  God said, “Let us make people in our image, in our likeness, and let them tend the earth and every creature in it.”

  God took some of the dust of the ground and breathed the breath of life into this creature and called him Adam. God took the man to the Garden of Eden, a place of delight and bliss, so that he could work in it and care for it, telling him, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; except the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil: you must not eat the fruit of that tree for when you eat of it you will surely die.”

  But God saw the man alone and realized that this was not good, and so God said, “I will make someone to partner with you fully.” Yet none of the animals and creatures were suitable. And so, making the man fall into deep sleep, God took one of the man’s ribs and from this rib he shaped and breathed life into a woman. When God brought the woman to him the man recognized her: that he belonged with her and could rely on her and flourish with her.

  And this is how God created human beings, breathing life into them, creating them male and female so that together they would reflect God. They were naked and it was good, without shame or fear. Then God blessed them and told them to flourish as they cared for the world and all that was in it.

  God looked over all that was created and it was very good, and so, on the seventh day when all creation was complete, God rested.

  But there was a sly and devious creature, a serpent who wanted to sow doubt and division into the harmony of the garden, and so he asked the woman, “Did God really say that you mustn’t eat from any tree in the garden?”

  The woman answered, “We may eat the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said not to eat the fruit from the tree that’s in the middle of the garden – we mustn’t even touch that – or we will die.”

  And even though God hadn’t said that they mustn’t touch it, the doubt sowed by the serpent was beginning to work its poison … Soon the woman’s doubts would alienate her trust in God, and God would be alienated from her: made out to be her accuser.

  Swiftly the serpent delivered a blatant blow of untruth. “You will not surely die … for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

  It was a promising prospect, and looking again at the fruit, the woman saw that it looked ripe and delicious. So she took some and ate it. Then turning to Adam she gave some to him too, and he also ate it.

  At that moment their eyes were opened. But it wasn’t anything like the serpent had suggested. They realized they were naked and the shame was unbearable. So, reaching for fig leaves, they wove coverings for themselves.

  Later that day they heard the sound of God walking in the garden and so they hid, taking cover from his sight in the thick of the trees. But God missed them and called out to Adam, “Where are you?”

  Adam called back, “I heard you in the garden and I was afraid because … because I’m naked; and so I hid.”

  God asked him, “Who told you that you were naked? How could you know that? Unless … have you eaten the fruit I told you not to?”

  *

  The game is up. There’s nothing he can do to hide any more – except blame the woman and blame God for putting the woman there. So in fear and desperation Adam tries to deflect, “The woman you put here with me – she gave me the fruit and so I ate it.”

  God turns to the woman, “What is this that you’ve done?”

  And she too, feeling cornered, retorts, “It was the serpent! The serpent deceived me and I ate.”

  God turns to the serpent, “Cursed are you beyond all creatures and animals! You will crawl on your belly and eat dust for the rest of your life. And I will make you and the woman and her children and your offspring to be enemies. They will crush your head and you will strike their heel.”

  God looks at the woman and says to her, “I will increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth. You will desire and long for your husband, and he will rule over you.”

  To Adam, God explains, “Because you listened to your wife and ate from the tree that I told you not to, the ground you work will be cursed. It will demand all your strength to produce the harvest you need. There will be difficulties and toil, thistles and thorns that you will have to overcome. You will sweat in your pursuit of the food you need until the day you die and return to the ground from which you came, for dust you are and to dust you will return.”

  And then God makes warm garments out of animal skins for Adam and Eve, and he clothes them.

  Prologue

  There was a uniform for these kinds of occasions. That much I knew. It wasn’t something that I was used to wearing and, as I smoothed my hand nervously over the soft suede – checking that it absolutely did cover my backside – I flinched at the drops of rain soaking into the fabric. Despite the puddles of November rain glistening orange beneath the glow of the street lights, the street still looked cold and inhospitable, the bright shop windows invading the blackness of a lonely High Street shut down for the night, indifferent to the temptations on offer. I’d obeyed the crude rules as far as I knew them, dismissing the multitude of long, floral skirts and comfy jeans hanging in my wardrobe until I found the only thing that would meet the requirement: a damson suede mini-skirt. Paired with a Lycra bodysuit that stretched over my curveless frame I had assessed my reflection in the mirror earlier: short skirt: check. tight top: check. stilettos: groan. My belief that high heels should be confined to weddings and the catwalk was compromised by a pair of high-heeled Mary Janes. The whole ensemble felt like a chore, a collusion with the regul
ations set out for seventeen-year-old girls, and completely impractical ones at that, I thought, as I grabbed the skimpiest jacket I owned and headed out to the bus stop.

  Those who’d devised the uniform weren’t thinking of our wellbeing when they dictated that we wear as little as possible on a rainy November night. They weren’t thinking about the queue in which we’d stand, freezing, as we tried to curve round into the sheltered alley in front of Marks and Spencer’s emergency fire exit doors, our bare legs mottled purple from the cold. It was all about the paradise above: where the disco balls sparkled and flashes of strobes dazzled the punters clamouring for space on the dance floor. Where music obliterated all angst about mock exams, and lurid colours would disguise the blueish hue of my thighs with their shifting shades. This is what it was for: The promised land of cocktails and flirtation. Where I would be transformed from mousy and timid into sassy and kissable.

  As the rain began to drizzle down the lank strands of my self-cut fringe I looked up at the blacked-out windows and felt the muffled pounding of the dance anthem behind them, the thumping beat at odds with the panicked beat of my heart.

  I’m seventeen and queuing – no, longing – to get into TIME nightclub, and I’m terrified. The queue shuffles forward towards the corded red rope that stands between us and the enveloping heat of hundreds of dancing bodies at the top of the stairs. Being under age is neither here nor there; I have put off this moment for too long. Schoolfriends had been frequenting Smokey Joe’s and other clubs since we were fifteen. If I was to survive with a place among my peers I had to make my way through this rite of passage and emerge the other side, accepted and validated.

  Even in heels my best friend, Jane, and her schoolfriends were all at least half a foot shorter than me, which made hiding at the back kind of tricky. I also soon saw that it was a downright bad plan. As the girls were waved in two by two I suddenly realized what this would mean: that it would be just Jane and me, and our fake ID.

  But that wasn’t the worst thing. It wasn’t putting that shiny little card with its casually rearranged DOB to the test, nor was it fear of being asked by the bouncer what my date of birth was and having to calmly retort with a lie.

  Because I knew that it wasn’t the fake ID that was being put to the test. It was my face.

  Jane stepped towards the taller bouncer and without flinching looked at him defiantly, daring him to question her credentials. But Jane, once described by a boy as the nearest thing to perfection that he’d ever seen, possessed credentials that would never be challenged. The bouncer, still gazing at Jane, lifted the rope across for her to pass by. I silently begged her to just keep eyeballing him long enough for me to slip past unnoticed but the other bouncer stepped in front of me, and, staring at my face, cut me off from the shelter of Jane’s beauty.

  I held up my ID but without bothering to even look at it he smirked at his colleague and closed the rope in front of me.

  This was it: this was the moment that Jane had coached and prepared me for, the moment where I would confidently shake my hair and muster the flirtatious indignation becoming of a legitimate clubber. But I knew that if I said something there would no longer be any hiding the plastic blocks and metal wires of convoluted orthodontistry that filled my mouth. So I stepped forward instead, trying to affect a silent confidence, challenging his mistake with my bold expectation that I would gain entry. But he shook his head and turned to Jane. “Not her.”

  ‘Not her?’

  I am relegated to the third person; not even dignified with a refusal to my face. Instinctively I set my lower jaw into the most pronounced under-bite I could muster, hoping those few millimetres would be mistaken for normality, but the bone-chilling wind had already set my teeth chattering and as I strained my jaw forward I felt the sting of my teeth breaking into my lip.

  Jane turned back and grabbed the wrist of the taller bouncer, her eyes flashing wild and alive with indignation.

  “What’s the problem? She’s with us.”

  The taller bouncer, clearly enjoying Jane’s attempt to reach out, smiled cockily at the paunchy one as she continued her protestations.

  “You’ve got to let her in, you’ve let the rest of us in!”

  “She’s got ID. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  I look to see whether the Jane-effect is having any sway on her wrist-clamped subject but he was laughing. As the other one put out his hand to restrain her she twisted round towards him. But before she could unleash her arguments afresh he moved his head in my direction, stared at my contorted mouth and bleeding lip, then turned back and leant into Jane’s face,

  “NOT HER.”

  Within moments our altercation by the rope was overtaken by the group of revellers behind me anxious to get on up into the whirl of TIME’s throbbing masses. Stepping back from the rope I dodged my face between their jostling heads so that I could shout to Jane, reassuring her that I’d be fine, that I’d get to the bus stop, that I’d get home okay. Half running down the High Street in my stupid clumpy heels and bedraggled suede skirt, I concentrated on thinking up an excuse to give my parents for having returned so soon after going over to Jane’s. I wondered how I would have told them the truth: that I was barred from the one place that could give me the affirmation I was looking for – and that I didn’t even qualify to be a wallflower. How could I tell my parents that my face didn’t fit – my face literally didn’t fit; the bones in my jaws growing out of sync with each other, my teeth protruding so far that hiding was impossible. If we were telling the truth that night – illegal clubbing, under-age drinking and deceiving parents aside – I wonder how they would have refuted the judgement I’d received. I wondered how they would go about digging down to retrieve the ambitions and hopes, inspiration and passions that I had forgotten about myself while standing in front of the rope. How might they have restored me to the vast truth that who I am is so much greater than my misshapen jaws?

  But I knew I couldn’t tell them the truth. So with aching feet I climbed onto the chilly bus, and hauled my bruised hopes home.

  ***

  As a child I used to puzzle over the story of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden, which, according to the paintings in my Children’s Bible, was like a sunnier version of my grandparent’s green and blossoming garden in Oxford. I was perplexed, not by the similarities with its stream and overhanging willow tree, nor by the boughs laden with apples, but by the fact that apparently nobody had ever tried to find it. I mean, I was OK, for the time being I had trips to Granny and Granddad, but not everyone did. Why, I wondered, did nobody search out that Middle Eastern paradise so distinctly located by the rivers running from it and the fiery sword-wielding man-beast on the front gate? It had to be hard to miss, even if you weren’t looking for it. What was the likelihood of people going about their hot and dusty journeys through the belly of Babylonia and not one day coming across an overgrown enclave of lush blooming vegetation? And, in their excited search for the way in, what were the chances of them not discovering a path, at the end of which flames a sword in the clutch of a roaring cherubim? That would be news, right? But there’s been no word. No photographs of Indiana Jones-type heroes wrangling with the angelic bouncer on the door or, better still, bypassing the angel and parachuting in at last to the bliss of the Lost Paradise of Eden. As my mother shook her head at my persistent questions, I kept puzzling over and over in my mind. Surely somebody’s found a way back.

  It took a few years for me to realize that the Eden of my Bible picture books was not the kind of sprawling oasis of roses and apple trees I could expect to find along the grid references of a map. That it doesn’t exist like some kind of free love commune nestled at the mouth of the Tigris and Euphrates. That its truth doesn’t lie in proof that Adam and Eve were actual people living in an actual garden called Eden. It took a while for me to realize that the truth of this paradise with all its love, nakedness and fearlessness resonates much deeper into the human spirit than creatio
nist propaganda ever will. Because, beyond stories about apples and fig-leaf bikinis, it becomes our story too: the story that we are trying to live here in the twenty-first century. It reminds us what human beings are created to be – unafraid and connected, whole and exhilarated by generosity. It’s a picture of what relationship can be when you’re at home in your own skin, at ease with yourself, not cringing in shame or wizened by jealousy and resentment. The story of Eve and Adam’s nakedness speaks of peace within themselves and with each other.

  As far as our lives go, it isn’t a state we enjoy most of the time. I am not always at one with those around me. My attempts to be the consistently loving wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and priest that I want to be are continually flummoxed, and mostly I’m too attuned to the sating of my own needs and surmounting my own fears to be present to those I encounter. All isn’t well. And how I know it isn’t well is because somewhere in me is a memory of Eden. There are moments of recollection when I connect with others and the fragmented parts of myself come together for a while and echo a memory that tells me I’m Home. It’s a sort of ancient remembering in the soul that reminds me that all the pocks of fear and inadequacies gashed across my life are exactly that – blights and sabotage that I recognize and can name because deep down I know it wasn’t meant to be like this.

  How else could suffering be named if we had no blueprint for peace and truth? I remember it.

  You have moments of remembering it.

  And Eve and Adam remembered it too as they experienced for the first time the cold hostility and curdling shame of their nakedness before each other and their God.

  For a while it had all been good and Adam and Eve had been gloriously happy reflecting the image of the Creator. But then came the moment when the serpent offered them another possibility: why settle for that when you could be the Creator? Why stand under the waterfall when you could harness the power of the entire river? And so, reaching to grasp control, they bite into the fruit that promises to make them like God. They lose their place and they lose their bearings.