The Short History

A sermon delivered in Christ Chapel by the Rev. Dr. Alan P.R. Gregory, Associate Professor of Church History

If it was possible to dedicate sermons -- which it isn't --I would dedicate this one to Dusty. It contains an idea of which he approves in a manner of which he may not!

Since it was an English lecture -- and, if I remember rightly, one on Jonathan Swift -- I suppose it wasn't entirely non-sequitur. Still, it was a little desperate. But, then, teachers get desperate. The air was heavy, the dust motes floated toward the ceiling on a conveyer of sunlight, and we all dozed, our thoughts following the dust into vacancy. The girl next to me, hauling her eyes open, picked up a pen, put it down, and threw in the towel to boredom. Down by the podium, our rather shabby English professor was beginning, very slightly, to squeak. I know the feeling, when every word seems to drop at your feet. When you long to be anywhere but where you are. It's not long before your vision narrows, like you're retreating on a subway car, and your arms begin to tingle, and the audience appears to float away on the thickening clouds of boredom, all of which are billowing from your own mouth. Just under the top of your skull, there's a little gnome running in circles shouting, "what shall I do?" "what shall I do?"

Normally, you come up with nothing but today this guy did. He clapped his hands. "You may not know this," he said, "but four years ago, I helped stop a hoax. A real scam. A practical joke on the whole of academia. No, on the whole of human culture." We sat up. "You probably missed this," he continued, rather primly. "I had emails about it every day, from colleagues, deans, students -- and, of course, from the supposed publishers. I can say quite definitively that whole departments were nearly derailed, distracted, obsessed by the anticipated release of a book with the title, A Short History of Excrement. The adverts, at least the one I received -- almost everybody seems to have got a different one -- the adverts promised the definitive exposure of literary theory and offered me the possibility of discovering at least fifty of what it called "excremental moves" in my own course syllabus. When the alarm had reached hysterical proportions, several colleagues fled, taking unexpected sabbaticals in places without telephones. Then I, yes, I, satisfied myself and -- I'm proud to say -- the vast majority of my peers that A Short History of Excrement was nothing more than an irresponsible, ridiculous prank perpetrated by a bunch of graduate students somewhere in Idaho. So you see," he concluded, wagging a finger, "there's something to be said for a literary education." "Nice try," I thought, "lame in the end, though." We all went back to sleep.

Sometimes -- quite often, actually -- he knew what she was thinking and, when she spoke, he wanted to laugh with recognition, seeing it beforehand. When they went their separate ways, busy over Eden, he would say, "before a shadow touches this rock, I will be here again." And he was. She would tell him what she'd seen, exploring the new world; he thought he could travel forever in those eyes, without a whisper of doubt. "I have heard," she'd say, "and he could hear it, too. No question." Their thoughts passed between them like good coin. Not an ill sound between mind and speech. Not a thing, to make them say, "what's he up to?" or "where's she gone now, stealing away, leaving only words like crumbs, trailing the wrong way?" But the serpent said, "you don't know the half of what you can do, do you? You don't know the power of words. You see, you can live in one world and have her in another, of your own making? You can blind her with language, make yourself invisible, disappear in a shower of words. You can always be somewhere else, leave her chasing phantoms. Always, you can have her in the dark. You know the saying, "Better a dog than a wise woman, and better a doll than a bloodhound." You can be like a god, and you won't believe the fun they have. Everywhere and nowhere, fishing with promises, alluringly unreliable. Hiding in a cloud of expectations, then 'bang', never there where you've said you'll be. It's a great life. That's language for you -- and you've got it. Be creative. Fly like an eagle, tell fibs, and leave everyone else in the prison-house." That's what the serpent said to Adam and, in similar fashion, to Eve. And they fell for it.

He was wrong about the book. Entirely and, though he'd never admit it, willfully, wrong. The work entitled A Short History of Excrement was published. It did exist. I know, I have seen it and for a few sublime minutes, I actually held a copy. I found it first at a gas station, one of those places on the highway where it's always windy, where you can't see any houses for miles and wonder how anyone gets to work there. That morning the wind nearly ripped my door off. I filled the car and dragged myself to the store, swaying like a drunk. Inside, it was abruptly peaceful, the clatter of maddened signs stopping at the door. A girl sat on a stool next to the register reading a book with a white cover. Eventually, she noticed me and stood up with a smile all the way from Paradise. "Must be good," I said, glancing at the book. "It's better than that." She grinned like she was on to some cosmic joke missed by the rest of us. "It's changed my life." I started to laugh but she meant it.

She left the book on the stool. All I could read was the title, A Short History of Excrement, then she handed me a receipt. "Have a nice day," she said. Damn it, she meant that, too. I couldn't get the book out of my mind nor could I run down a copy anywhere. I couldn't even find anyone who'd heard of it. So, a week later, I drove the miles back to the gas station. I went in the store but the girl wasn't there. Instead, there was a big greasy guy with a surly face. "There was a girl here last week," I said, handing him a twenty for the gas. There was ugly pause before he replied, "She don't work here no more." "You don't know where she went, do you?" "She left," he looked down at the register. "She didn't leave a book like lying around, did she?" He gave me a look that would clot blood and tossed the change on the counter. He watched me as I went out the door. He was still watching me when I got in the car. And when I drove off the forecourt, I saw him in my mirror, still watching. Without taking his eyes off me, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

In a clearing, while a pink glow from the departing sun still shone among the trees, the Lord God walked at the appointed time, in the cool of the day. As always, true to the pulse of his promise, he arrived for good conversation with the Adam and the Eve. But, today, they were hiding, deep in the shading leaves, out of sight, trembling at the call of God. They'd have sung like birds in answer, if only it would distract Him, if only it would let them slip away under the cover of disguise, flying from the question that from now on will pursue them for ever, "Where are you? Where are you?" Some time of an awkward silence and they shuffle out, shamefaced. They hid again, then, in words, becoming the humanity we know so well -- "it was not me," "I was just scared," "it was the serpent." Lies, evasions, excuses, each one carrying them a little further from Eden. And the serpent clutched the tree so hard it shook, chortling in his joy, fondly doting on the spawn of deception, from which he is called "the father of lies." It's all a very long time ago. Yet, we return sometimes in moments like Paradise, the surprise of truth told.

I met my wife when I was sixteen. She was beautiful. I was not. Nervously, I poured a bottle of lemonade -- yes, lemonade, for goodness sake -- down the front of her dress. She said she would meet me again, the next evening, outside the garden center, near my home. I thought, "yeah sure." I went anyway, though, on the remote off chance. Call it a utopian gesture, standing up for all the socially retarded. But she was there. As promised. She spoke the truth, as sure as sunrise. That's what it's like, telling the truth: to be with your words, to turn up, as promised.

I have always liked cities in the early morning, when the streets are quiet, and the buildings relaxed, having brushed off the antics of humanity. That morning I strolled in ease, only the flap of a box tapping a window in the cool breeze, as an echo to my lazy thoughts. There was a screech of brakes. A car bounced round the corner ahead, thumping on the curb, then off again, missing a stop light. There seemed about five people wrestling on the back seat. As they came level with me, the rear door swung open and an Asian guy threw himself half out the car, the others trying to drag him back in. He looked at me, for a split second our eyes met.

He got an arm free and threw something. It bounced past my feet and over to the wall. When I looked back, he was back in the car, the door was shut, and they were headed off, fast as all hell. By the wall, was a book. I picked it up, holding in my hands something I'd wondered about for months: A Short History of Excrement. I was so excited, I forgot about the man in the car. On the title page, it said, A Short History of Excrement and, underneath, in smaller type, "the book of all bullshit: a taxonomy of lies. For the good of humanity, a truthful, complete, and practical exposure of deceit." There were about 700 pages, closely printed as if the publisher had worried about losing a mere fingers-end of space. The was a chapter on "Political Poo," another on the "Effluent of Economics," a long section on the "bowels of the law," another on "Psychology: the Anal Stage" which led to major chapter on "Medical Mierda." Technology was represented under the simple heading "Windows Number 2." Some 150 pages were devoted to religion, including an investigation of "Theology's 95 faeces."

I'd just started on the political section when someone said, "I'll have that, sir." A man with a jaw like a tank, some very dark glasses, and a bulky suit, held out a paw for the book. "It's for your own safety," he went on, "the item has been in touch with a rare form of natural toxicity." I had read enough of the Short History to recognize that as "the device of misplaced fear." "I'll be fine," I said, "I can take the risk." He punched me in the stomach and I shut up like a jack knife. That was the last I ever saw of the Short History. A year later, though, I received an email from someone claiming to have read it all. He also claimed that a conspiracy of international scope had been mobilized for its suppression. A special task force engaged by Interpol and the FBI had destroyed every copy. Many of the small number of readers had disappeared. Sources close to the President said they were gravely concerned about a future impossible for bullshit. I tried to reply to the email but kept getting those "Mail Undeliverable" reports. A few days ago, I wanted to try again but the whole thing has been deleted from my hard drive.

As she opened the door, she could see her friend sitting by the bed, looking out the window. It was bright outside but the light seemed to slam up against the glass and stop, as if it was too weak or too ashamed to penetrate the gloom inside. "I'm here," she said, shutting the door. Her friend turned. She was as thin as a bird, her eyes protruding from a face almost wasted to bone. "I can't stay long," she sat down on the bed, next to a bottle of pain killers. "I just wanted to see you before I left. I'll only be gone a month then, when I come back, I'll be straight over and we'll have a lot to talk about." She stopped. It was a lie. There was a barely a week's worth of life left in that room. On that lie, though -- not a bad one, just a convenient untruth -- on that lie, she slipped out of the room, away from that sad gaze, hidden behind words. Suddenly, she felt bad, a flat taste in her mouth. You might say there was a moment of truth, sitting on that bed, deciding whether to stay or to go, which had nothing to do with opening the door and leaving. She shook her head, "I'm sorry. It's Goodbye, isn't it. I wanted to say Goodbye."

Only monsters give stones when asked for bread. Well, maybe, but we do it often enough. We do it every time we lie, manipulating with words like traps, slipping out of the way of our neighbor's need for truth: talking but absent without leave. In every conversation, there is hidden, unspoken plea for truth, for trustworthiness. And in each friendly word there is a silent assertion, "you can rely on this; take it to the bank; have it on good faith." All the more so when we say, "I promise;" "I love you;" "trust me;" "don't worry;" "this is what you need." Such phrases are pledges of presence, promises that we accompany our own words, that they come with the heart's fair intent. I'm not talking about being right, we are wrong or only half-right about so much, I'm talking about being honest: honest such that our words stand for our wills, that they are not screens for a fearful or cunning absence.

This is taxing, to be trustworthy, to stand in the full glare of our neighbor's need to trust, not to slip away despite all fair inducements and every pressing darkness. In this way, God is truthful, who utters his Word as his own self-gift, who comes in good time, through storm and sin, as promised. We all lie, of course we do, we can't really imagine a world in which we didn't, in which the texture of language is not marred by falsehood. Even the sketchiest History of Excrement would be a full and close-packed text. Always, though, and out of the very primacy of our need for truth, out of the lonely world that lies create, the question still presses: do we have the courage to be worthy of trust. When will we, like the incarnate God, be one with our word in the spirit of truthfulness? True speech is the very image of this Triune God and, whenever it is spoken, we arrive in Eden.

Picking up the bread and offering the wine, Jesus promises his presence. He will turn up, always with these visible words, he will be there. We will not have to go looking, to call, as God does for us, "where are you?" This we may know, these words bear the full heart of God, the unshakeable will, a glad and loving presence. We come to this table for honest speech. Hearing it, finding grace where grace was promised, we are schooled to truth in the faithfulness of God. When the procurator asked, "What is Truth?" Jesus was silent. Silent because his presence is the answer. The Word has come from his eternity and turned up on time. As promised. Our new Eden is to stand with him: to bear the troublesome vocation to honesty, the difficult presence of the "yea," and "nay" that is truly ours. Christian life begins in promises. "I turn to Christ," "I reject evil." From that beginning, we spend our lives trying to give these words the presence of our hearts. Or, to put it another way, when the final edition of A Short History of Excrement is at last published, we hope not to find that we've all ended up in the footnotes.

Amen.