Honest to God

Chapter 14: Loss of Faith . . and Hair

In 1959 John Robinson becomes the Anglican bishop of Woolwich, England, and scandalizes the British public by testifying in defense of Lady Chatterly’s Loverin a censorship case.  Three years later, just after I discover Henri Bergson, Bishop Robinson leans over to tie his shoe and throws out his back.  He’s immobilized for several weeks and spends the time writing a small book called Honest to Godthat again sends the British public and the Anglican Church into a frenzy.  I buy the book, curious what the fuss is all about.  It totally changes my life.

Robinson raises a simple question:  If God is “infinite,” that is, “without limit or boundary, then how can God be out there, separate from ourselves?  How can God be a He, a distinct person, a Being?   

Up until now, I’ve always spent a lot of time in chapel addressing Jesus in the tabernacle, his small house on the altar.  Our communication is enhanced by the aroma of incense, the darkness, the stained glass windows.  After reading Honest To God, I still go to the chapel regularly, but instead of talking to Jesus, I just sit there having bizarre arguments with myself:   

“Okay, Greg.  God is infinite, and Jesus is God, so it’s idolatrous for you to be reducing Him to some guy in the tabernacle.”

“Yeah, but it’s also idolatrous to think he’s notthere.” 

“But talking implies some kind of subject-object split between you and Him.”

“Who you calling Him?”

 By now my head’s spinning.  I’m wrestling with finite infinity, contradicting myself at every turn.  To liberate God from my mental shackles, I realize, I have to let go of everything I ever believed.  And then what’s left?   Nothing.  No thing.  God is no thing. Great!

By this time Red Cronan has had a nervous breakdown, so I have a new confessor, Father Nicolas.  I tell him about my crisis of faith.  He smiles knowingly.  “We all have doubts once in a while, Greg.  You’ll get over it.”  I talk to other guys who have read the book, hoping to find comrades in my confusion.  “I found it interesting,” one says.  “I thought the theology was a bit weak,” another tells me. What?   Don’t they get it?   Am I going crazy?

Father Mattingly is the shortest priest I’ve ever seen.  He speaks with a slight lisp as he explains to us how God revealed Himself in the scriptures by inspiring the Old and New Testament writers.  I listen to him as long as I can, then put my hand up.  He points to me, “Yes, Mister McAwester?”

“Father, what exactly do you mean by God?”

“Pwease?” he says, looking perplexed.  Then he smiles, as though late in getting a joke I just told.  He goes back to talking about inspiration.