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My Week: Archbishop of Canterbury
A Satirical essay
by Hugo Rifkind
The Times
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/faith/article3085077.ece
Monday
I am standing still outside my kitchen. I am deep in thought.
"Good news, Mr Archbishop sir," says my cleaner, passing by with an armful of baubles for our tree. "That nasty red wine stain on the living room floor? I think I've shifted it." I clasp my hands together. "A miracle!" I intone.
The cleaner stops. "Well," she says. "Hold on. I wouldn't go that far. Just a dab of Vanish and a spot of bleach, to be honest." I laugh, gently. "And yet," I say, "a miracle it may be. For in a modern, Anglican communion, are we to be so afraid of the prosaic? Does it matter if the burning bush, as beheld by Moses, was merely a smouldering twig? Did Jesus feed the five thousand? Or merely provide a snack, for eleven-ish? Is our faith so fragile that we cannot bear it to be so?" The cleaner puts a hand to my forehead. "I think you're having one of your turns," she says. "I'm going to call Archbishop Sentamu."
Tuesday
John Sentamu, who is my very good friend the Archbishop of York, calls me back. "Rowan?" he says, gravely. "What is this I hear? Do the scriptures trouble you?" I tell him I have simply been working on updated versions of my favourite Christmas carols, in order to connect all the better with modern Britain. In illustration, I sing him the one about the first Noël that the strictly figurative angels did say, which was to chaps who were almost certainly actually goatherds, on a night that was most probably quite warm.
"Oh dear," says Archbishop Sentamu. Probably he feels it ought to rhyme.
Wednesday
"One of those miracles again this morning Mr Archbishop sir," says my cleaner. "Look at that. The man has been and delivered the milk." "Praise be," I say, without looking up from my writing. "Tell me, can you think of anything that rhymes with star?" My cleaner suggests car. Another miracle! An interview later, on Radio 5 Live, during which I explain my growing belief that the three Magi were merely a device of legend. Alas, time is short, so I have no time to discuss my views that the Sea of Galilee was really shallow, and that Lazarus was merely suffering from a nasty head cold.
Thursday
After a difficult day of work, I have completed my second verse.
They looked up and saw a star / Had it happened today It could have been the headlights of a car.
And to the Earth it gave great light / As a comet, meteor or other perfectly natural phenomenon might.
Friday
Archbishop Sentamu calls and I sing him my new second verse. When pushed, he tells me I've got the rhyming thing licked, but could use some work on rhythm and scansion.
"I shall reconsider," I say. "Ah! I do adore Christmas!" My friend John is momentarily silent. "About Christmas," he says. "Where exactly are we on the Virgin Birth, the date, the star, the Three Wise Men and the animals?" I think about this. "Respectively," I muse, "I would say that they were wholly irrelevant, merely convenient, utterly coincidental, figuratively fictitious and probably outside."
"Right," he says. "So you reckon a guy was born in a barn, there was nothing identifiably special about him, and we don't know when it happened?" "Exactly!" I enthuse. "The greatest story ever told!" "Although," I add, after a few moments, "I doubt we can be certain about the barn."
END
