Other Voices Magazine

The Monthlies

Winner September 2009

It was one of those perfect autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. P.D. James

Which God is That?
By: Ian S. Wright

He stood at the large gothic door with its wrought iron hinges greeting the students as they filed past him into the chapel. Were it not for his clerical collar, he would have looked like any other professor on campus for, though he had the vestments that would have shown him to be a person of high position within the church, on this particular day he preferred to be more casual. He loved this time of year and, even more, this day in the university calendar.

The dew had been heavy the previous night and now, just before 11:00 a.m., the greenness of the grass and the ivy on the ancient brick walls still glistened in the morning sunlight. The leaves on the trees that lined the surrounding streets and avenues had begun to don the hues of reds, oranges and yellows that paint the early autumn life in the college town and enough of them had now fallen to give that distinctive aroma that arises as they are trampled and kicked along the walkways. The air was still with only a whisper of a wind and its coolness chilled the young people in their sweaters with their knapsacks slung over their shoulders most looking bleary-eyed from their escapades the night before. His heart stirred within his core. There was something viscerally euphoric about the beginning of each fall term; it was like yet another new beginning, some kind of off-kilter New Years. As he stood there shaking hands he reflected that it had always been that way for him; every fall since he had walked the same path into the same chapel so many years ago. Now as a professor he had the opportunity as part of this first week of the freshman term, the only time in their entire university life that they were required to be in this building, to address these young minds for half an hour before they set off to join the rest of the campus at the big game and then on to the rest of their university lives.

“I don’t believe in god.” A young man in an oversized tweed jacket a scarf wrapped around his neck and hands shoved deep into his pockets had stopped on the steps of the church. There were several days, maybe longer, of growth on a pubescent face. The hair was disheveled and the priest couldn’t quite tell if the look was intentional or not.

In general the priest didn’t mind questions, in fact he invited them. He loved the enthusiasm of the first year students, their excitement, their trembling ambition, their willingness to explore and take on the world. These inquiries reminded him of the ones he’d had at a similar time and place, but at this moment it was getting late and the service was about to begin. The boy was clearly looking for a fight. The priest paused a moment considering whether to take the bait, then asked kindly: “Which god is that?”

His boyish face hardened and his eyes narrowed. “You know, the god who cares more about rules than he does about people. The god who sits enthroned up there in the clouds while his people are suffering down here on earth. The god who stands in judgment on those who are just trying to find a little pleasure in the midst of their struggles. The god who’s more interested in converts than in caring for people. The god who tells stories that stretch the boundaries of believability and which only some kind of imbecile could . . .”

The young man continued on, but the bell of the chapel began to peel announcing the eleventh hour and his words were lost in the call to worship.
The priest stood there silently for a moment as the sound on the final chime hung in the crisp autumn air. He then looked at the young man and smiled. “I don’t believe in that god either.”

Ian Wright lives and writes in Vancouver

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