It’s been a day dealing with the Archbishops of Canterbury, and I can’t say it’s improved my mood any.
The first archbishop was Anselmo, who bears the twin burdens of being both dead and a cat. The non-cat version of Anselm drifted into my life less than a year ago, when I found myself waking up in a different bed and a different bedroom. It was cool (air conditioning! Wow!) and it was dark, and there was no Smith. (Smith was / is an ancient orange cat who reliably got me out of bed and out the door by yowling for food at the crack of dawn.)
After thirty years of waking up in sweat and tropical sunlight, a cool, dark bedroom was utterly delightful. Too delightful to get up and get sober, by which I mean go to my AA meeting. I soon learned, however, that the cool, pleasant dark becomes a hellish, windowless cave, about 9 o’clock.
That’s when Anselmo popped in, since I had been reading about him—Cristopher de Hamal devotes the first chapter in Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Anselm. Anselm was born around 1033, became a monk, then an abbot, and finally the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1093. He was also a theologian, and he cooked up the least convincing argument that I have ever heard for the existence of God. Here it is, straight from AI and a Google search:
Fortunately, my Anselmo has lost any taste he had for theology. Either that, or he figures I’m a lost cause. His job, at any rate, was to get me out of bed and into the world, and he used cajolery, flattery, and at times pure reason to get the job done. It often came down to a simple question: Yes, there is absolutely no reason to get out of bed, but staying in bed is worse. Now, what are you going to do?
For months I got out of bed, usually cursing Anselmo and telling him that I’m not an obedient monk but an old man with a touchy bladder. “Fuck you,” I tell Anselmo, and he remarks benevolently that I should really make the bed, when I get back to the bedroom. I can lie down on it immediately once it’s made, but it would be nice to have it made. So I do this, and then put on my shoes, since I’m now on my feet. I won’t be going to the meeting, of course, but it’s nice to have my shoes on, just in case.
Anselmo’s job is done twenty minutes later, when I am walking coffee in hand towards the bus station—where I may or may not take the bus. Which I do, of course, since I’m there—and who’s fault is that?
On rare occasions I called Anselmo’s bluff—I went back to bed with my shoes on. Not often, but it was worrisome, so Anselmo turned himself into a cat. He’s five years old and a street cat, which means he has a healthy appetite and a sharp eye. If the bladder doesn’t get me on my feet, Anselmo in his cat transmogrification will.
So I go off to my meeting, as I did this morning, and then I cast my wits about, looking for something to occupy my mind. How Rowan Williams came into my view I don’t know.
I didn’t know much about him except that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury and was generally if genteelly loathed by most of my friends. “Genteelly” because anyone who knows Williams in probably Anglican / Episcopalian, and those people don’t do hate very well. They try to tamp it down.
So there was my second archbishop of the day, and that’s when I said, finally, no.
No—not to God, since I get down on my knees and pray night and day (this is true, but only for five minutes or so—less time than it takes to make coffee in the Greca. My knees are worse than my bladder…)
I said “no” to the Archbishop after I had read that he and Richard Dawkins had had a debate, and all of the comments on the YouTube page said the same thing: how lovely to hear two erudite, charming men go at each other tooth and nail in the soothing atmosphere of the Oxford Union.
I said “no” to the archbishop and I said “no” to Dawkins. I will say “no” to you, as well, if you start talking about God. I will say “no” to ANYONE who speaks about God, and if I’m not careful, I’ll say more. I’ll say what you don’t want to hear.
I’ll tell you that you’re a blasphemer, a heretic. I say “no” to the Archbishop, and I say “no” to the Pope. Even when he says this, which I entirely agree with:
No—you do not have the right to speak for God.
No—you cannot put words into God’s mouth.
No—if you have no respect, Archbishop and Pope, for God … well I do. He got me sober, and I’m damn glad, and that’s why I get down on my knees. As a plumber friend of mine said, I need to see what I’m doing. So yeah, I’m grateful that I can get on my knees, and beyond grateful that I can stand up again and hang my head at a reasonable level. God brought me to my knees (damn, here I am talking about him!) and he got me on my feet again. I’m grateful, but I’m still saying…
No--God is not love. And shame on you, you should know better. I put my hand on my wallet and identify the nearest exist (which may be behind me, as the flight attendants say) when you talk about God’s love. God is also hate, and perhaps indifference as well. I don’t know what God is, and neither do you. And yes, I yearn for God, and for that love that is vital and always…withheld? Elusive? There in abundance, but I cannot see it? Anyway, I say, as you can imagine…
No.
You don’t get to talk about God to me. And if you, Pope Leo or Archbishop Williams, have spent your life talking about God then…
No, you are not men of God. Or rather, you’re no more a man of God than I am. But Leo? Williams? You’re not theologians and thinkers.
No—you’re whores.
Whores selling cheap tricks to the spiritually horny.
Oh, and by the way?
Apologies to the whores.
