He Met a Man Who Claimed He Was God

 

 I overheard on the bus that a young transient who had been roaming the city, hanging around public spaces as long as he could, a devotee of crystal methamphetamine (ice), was now in jail. He had been loitering in the choir loft of a church (somewhere in the downtown area; possibly even the one I go to) and was found naked from the waist down. I believe I have seen him on the bus before; our driver even thinks he may be stalking her, as he seems to know where she goes even when not on the job. Apparently, he claims that he is “God” and even uses that to try to intimidate people. It set me wondering what would happen to him if he ever ran into someone like Turnbull, the ethical atheist in Chesterton’s The Ball and the Cross, when he runs across a madman who claims to be God, and the lunatic gets a reaction he didn’t expect.

 

He looked across at MacIan and said: “Oh, I can't stand this!”

“Can't stand what?” asked his opponent, eyeing him doubtfully.

“Shall we say the atmosphere?” replied Turnbull; “one can't use uncivil expressions even to a—deity. The fact is, I don't like having God for my second.”

“Sir!” said that being in a state of great offence, “in my position I am not used to having my favours refused. Do you know who I am?”

The editor of The Atheist turned upon him like one who has lost all patience, and exploded: “Yes, you are God, aren't you?” he said, abruptly, “why do we have two sets of teeth?”

“Teeth?” spluttered the genteel lunatic; “teeth?”

“Yes,” cried Turnbull, advancing on him swiftly and with animated gestures, “why does teething hurt? Why do growing pains hurt? Why are measles catching? Why does a rose have thorns? Why do rhinoceroses have horns? Why is the horn on the top of the nose? Why haven't I a horn on the top of my nose, eh?” And he struck the bridge of his nose smartly with his forefinger to indicate the place of the omission and then wagged the finger menacingly at the Creator.

“I've often wanted to meet you,” he resumed, sternly, after a pause, “to hold you accountable for all the idiocy and cruelty of this muddled and meaningless world of yours. You make a hundred seeds and only one bears fruit. You make a million worlds and only one seems inhabited. What do you mean by it, eh? What do you mean by it?”

The unhappy lunatic had fallen back before this quite novel form of attack, and lifted his burnt-out cigarette almost like one warding off a blow. Turnbull went on like a torrent.

“A man died yesterday in Ealing. You murdered him. A girl had the toothache in Croydon. You gave it her. Fifty sailors were drowned off Selsey Bill. You scuttled their ship. What have you got to say for yourself, eh?”

The representative of omnipotence looked as if he had left most of these things to his subordinates; he passed a hand over his wrinkling brow and said in a voice much saner than any he had yet used:

“Well, if you dislike my assistance, of course—perhaps the other gentleman——”

“The other gentleman,” cried Turnbull, scornfully, “is a submissive and loyal and obedient gentleman. He likes the people who wear crowns, whether of diamonds or of stars. […] But it is not appropriate to me that I should have God for my second. God is not good enough. I dislike and I deny the divine right of kings. But I dislike more and I deny more the divine right of divinity.”