1 November 2001
Dear Bishop Hackle:
Harry, Harry, Harry, what can I say? Your latest book is a stinking turd of a tome, 300 pages of pure theological poop. The Being of My Ground--come on, sir, such plagiarism is downright embarrassing. If you're trying to out-Tillich Tillich I'm afraid the retired bishop of Newark whose name rhymes with 'wrong' has already published the most laudable effort to date with his Why Christianity Must Change Or Die. Moreover, he has the virtue of being readable. Keep that in mind when the next gullible editor offers to print another volume of Hackle heresy. I'm sure the last sucker is desperately searching the want ads in hopes of locating a new job.
I have to admit, though, the option of a non-personal deity sounds terribly attractive. It allows the religious addict the benefits of a god-fix while eliminating any accountability to an actual God. Not a bad deal if it were true, but we both know better--yes, even you. The Trinitarian implications of the incarnation present a serious problem to your theology, especially the physical resurrection of Jesus. History claims over 500 firsthand witnesses to the fact; you can't offer a single credible soul to convincingly establish the contrary.
Flat-lining will ultimately prove one of us wrong. If it's me, nothing is lost. If it's you . . . well, you're screwed. Yet, this divine being who supposedly doesn't exist is known to have a scandalous sense of humor. He's takes unusual delight in redeeming the very worst of sinners. Thus, I pray regularly for the exquisite pleasure of joining him in a raucous round of holy laughter at your expense some day. Irresistible grace is, after all, irresistible.
Have I ever told you about Weird William Wasselheimer? Wasselheimer was a gnomish paraplegic who used to bob around in the Swift River Y-pool on a float tube like a human buoy. Friends of his would tote him to the water, tie off the tube to tree with thirty yards of nylon rope and and then wade him up to the head of the hole, whereupon he would drop a small anchor in order to maintain position while casting. If William wanted to change locations he'd simply hoist the weight and flow downstream a few yards--lift and drift, lift and drift--'til he finally arced back to the riverbank.
The man was a blasphemous wretch who constantly railed against our blessed triune Creator for making him short of stature and for complicating matters by taking his legs in a go-cart accident. Physical appearance, however, had little to do with William's weirdness. Rather, he acquired the moniker by carrying a tiny mouse in a large coffee mug whilst prospecting the river. In a contrived Mr. Rogers tone of voice, he'd ask anyone within shouting distance, "Like to pet my mousie, mister? I know ya would." Furthermore, he regularly fished with a full compliment of "rodentia-flies." Everything from nymphs to parachutes were dubbed with pinkish grey fur, and the dries always sported wings shaped like the ears of a . . . oh, you get the idea. Tell me this guy wasn't bonkers. But the miserable twit caught trout with those ties--lots of them.
Did I say he was torqued at the Trinity? Too mild. William virtually made a career of cursing the Most High--Father, Son and Holy Spirit--right up until the day he decided to become an atheist. He figured if he couldn't have God on his own terms, he'd have no god at all. Interestingly enough, the only significant difference between his thinking and yours was the extent of scholarly sophistication by which it was expressed.
Here's where Wasselheimer's story gets even stranger. The entire episode is utterly absurd, but apparently he tried to ride a huge beaver earlier this summer. Harry, please don't ask the obvious question; I can't provide the answers. The "why" and "how" have never been forthcoming. All I know is this: beavers are dangerous animals, quite prone to attack under certain circumstances. As close as I can figure the one William attempted to mount simply took evasive action, then circled around for the kill in some kind of underwater self defense maneuver. I've had these critters charge at me in the Cady Lane stretch, and once I had to shove my rod in the river to keep a big male from slamming straight into my leg. If I'd been bitten I would have been in serious trouble. William was not so fortunate. He was chomped in a place too embarrassing to mention, resulting in the immediate need for reconstructive surgery.
Supposedly the doctor did a competent job (trust me, I had zero intention of personally examining the surgical handiwork myself) but, sadly, a life threatening infection set in. By the time I heard about the whole affair from a fishing buddy and made my visit to the hospital, poor Mr. Wasselheimer was rapping hard on eternity's door. Ironically, he possessed an acute awareness of God's reality, but no sense of His presence--something, lo and behold, he desperately desired in his final hour. I did not argue the bankruptcy of his former unbelief; I simply shared the risen Savior with a fallen sinner. As we sought the Lord together Weird William passed away in peaceful silence.
The prospect of dying had forced William to face the disconcerting possibility of meeting someone on the other side and, suddenly, knowing the Lord whom he had previously dismissed became the most pressing issue of his rapidly dwindling life. Harry, for reasons I won't explain in a letter, I truly hold you dear in my heart and bring you before the throne of sovereign grace on a daily basis. My prayer is that you'll renounce your doctrinal defecations, repent, and find salvation in the very Person whom you deny before it's too late. Most people are not afforded the opportunity for a death bed conversion. Wasselheimer was just plain lucky, in a providential sort of way.
Tight lines,
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E mail Perry Fuller at darkcahill.com
�copyright 2001, Perry Fuller
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