The Sir Toby Chronicles
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Every day a book review! This time, two books – a shorter companion volume to Crossways - Journeyings into the Emergent (see post below) completing the Sir Toby’s narratives introduced therein, and a longer volume bringing together all seven Sir Toby’s narratives to date. The Sir Toby Chronicles recount the adventures of a group of theologians who gather occasionally at the backpackers’ hostel of that name (Sir Toby’s) in Prague, to debate arcane matters of eschatology. A shifting number form a cabal, which engages itself on a mysterious task known as The Project – an attempt, apparently, to launch a postmodern theology for a church in a postmodern world. The plan is complicated by the constantly changing and evolving relationships between members of the cabal – which styles itself as a triumvirate, sometimes expanding to a pentavirate. Their schemings, machinations, internal feuds and conspiracies propel the story forward, as it bursts forth into a pan-European drama ranging from the Middle East to Finland’s Arctic Circle. We are taken on a whirlwind tour of Prague, Oxford (England), Paris, London, Cyprus, the author’s home town and countryside (Guildford and Surrey, England), the French Pyrenees, Lebanon, modern-day Israel and Venice, until the drama reaches an explosive conclusion in the Arctic wastes of Finnish Lapland. On the way, we are introduced to a community which reflects some of the wide-ranging interests of Open Source Theology itself, and the characters bearing a vague resemblance to some of the contributors. The historical period is indeterminate; a medieval setting also has overtones of Kafka’s late Austro-Hungarian Empire, and the story collides with present day realities. Despite the plots and stratagems, something like an inclusive community is suggested through Sir Toby’s, where misfits of all kinds and their opposing viewpoints can find a welcoming shelter. Do the seven narratives conclude The Chronicles? Given the Trappist’s astonishing ability to elude death through the murderous stratagems of the others in the cabal, it seems somewhat unlikely. It remains to be said that The Chronicles are collaborative in intent, sometimes in practice, and tribute must be paid to John Doyle who contributed about one fifth of the total, and set the course in the early stages for the narratival development. The Sir Toby Chronicles can be obtained from lulu.com at a recession-busting £2.93 (US$4.12) for the shorter, found here, and all seven stories for £4.31 (US$6.00) found here at cost price. Ideal reading material for those long sleepless nights, or delays at airports. |
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Re: The Sir Toby Chronicles
I had intended to return to Sir Toby’s on a fact-finding mission supporting the continuation of my imaginary Preface. However, my trip to Prague seems to have been put on hold. Here’s why. It seems I’ll be forced to rely on readily-available written sources and my own unreliable memory rather than the exhaustive — and exhausting — archives shelved in the Inn itself. More later…
Imaginary Preface (cont.)
Though it (allegedly) occupies material space in the actual city of Prague, Sir Toby’s became a portal to an alternate reality. If I’d been more attuned, however, I’d have recognized that the portal is multivalent. Though Peter and I walked in through the same front door, though our alter-egos shared pints together around the same table in the same great room, we weren’t quite occupying the same reality.
There’s another blog I frequent, devoted to new explorations in continental philosophy, named “Speculative Heresy.” This term I find particularly apt for the Sir Toby’s I came to occupy. OST provides a forum for serious discussion and debate about theological issues that the participants take seriously. The presumption, I believe, is that through informed and thoughtful dialogue some sort of closer approximation to the truth will emerge. Being an agnostic veering toward atheism, I confess that I regard many of these conversations with a sort of bemused detachment. At the same time, I find myself drawn to ideas around which theological debate once raged but which long ago lapsed into antiquarian irrelevance. Transubstatiation is one such idea: can something retain its material “accidents” while being transformed into some other substance? The nature of the trinity is another: can a single sentient being be comprised of two or more “persons”? I don’t think these questions are obsolete, nor do I believe they have been answered definitively. For me, Sir Toby’s provided a forum for taking on these topics in a sort of playful way, where discussants’ alter-egos could stake out presumably heretical postmodern positions on premodern theological concerns without fear of being burned at the stake. And so I introduced one such topic in my first comment as occupant of the Sir Toby’s alternate reality: instead of God being a figment of human collective imagination, what if we humans are figments of God’s imagination? I would subsequently explore other speculative heresies in the air of bemused detachment that Sir Toby’s afforded — or at least the version of Sir Toby’s that I had entered.
I’ve not spoken to Peter about the Sir Toby’s reality he came to occupy. However, based on his posts I’ve drawn certain inferences. I believe that, as I did, Peter found in Sir Toby’s a playful alternative to the serious theological discourse of OST. However, I think that for Peter the alternative constituted an escape from theologizing. We see in his initial contribution the beginning of an adventure story in which two Kafkaesque functionaries come to the inn with the intention of taking Peter’s alter-ego into legal custody. By the end of this initial installment his release is assured before the inn and its occupants dissolve into Peter’s imagination. In later episodes Peter would repeat this theme of capture and escape, of dissolution and rematerialization. In these adventures theological discussion too seemed to dissolve as the melodrama unfolded. Perhaps because Peter is a Christian who takes OST debate seriously, and perhaps also because Peter’s bio presents him as a sort of “professional” Christian, he relishes the opportunity for perpetrating imaginary escapes from his serious theological responsibilities.
Because Peter and I entered through the Sir Toby’s portal into somewhat different alternate realities, the potential for achieving a truly interactive narrative wasn’t, in my view, fully realized. Rather than building on one another’s stories and ideas in the , we often found ourselves talking around each other, even competing for control over the same threads. I’d be pulling one oar toward speculative heresy, while Peter would pull the other oar toward wild adventures. I’d occupy the inn and join the company of the imaginary theologians; Peter would escape the inn in dire peril and flee headlong into the larger world. Eventually the adventurous version of Sir Toby’s came to dominate while the speculative heresy version receded. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve been entertained by Peter’s flights of fancy, as I suspect have many other readers, and I’m sure the edited compilation is delightful. Still, I can’t help catching glimpses of this other Sir Toby’s from time to time, now receded into the nostalgic legendary past from which it once emerged… (Cue orchestra for the Brigadoon-Camelot medley and fade to grey.)
Are further installments in this imaginary Preface needed? Probably not. Still, I expect to write one more, thereby keeping this thread alive awhile longer and drawing readers’ attention back to Peter’s book, even though this post never made it onto the OST “front page” where the important and serious posts are given the prominence they deserve.
Re: Imaginary Preface (cont.)
I suspect you’re right about the new Calvinism, Peter, though I don’t really know what the “new” bit means. Surely my alter-ego the Sage would be intrigued by the old Calvinism, wherein he’s assigned to the category of “totally depraved and unatoned-for.” The atmosphere of “teasing playfulness” does permit a more relaxed way of addressing serious topics like this one. Potentially volatile disagreements can be defused by exploring “speculative heresies” to which no one need commit him-/herself in real life. Besides, if you really do find yourself feeling irritated with one of your fellow cabalists, you can always poison his ale or have him arrested.
Incidentally, I’ve begun tapping the basement floors and deploying metal detectors in search of hidden passageways leading to the Moderator’s Office. I’ll file an interim report outlining any anomalous findings.
Re: The Sir Toby Chronicles
Au contraire, mon frére. I could imagine that from among the Cabalistic multitude the Calvinist might well emerge. Entangled in theological discourse, the Calvinist could take a pratfall in the tulip field and utter the predetermined line of dialogue.
The Sir Toby correspondence
Of course just because a new Sir Toby’s adventure has been launched doesn’t mean my prefatory remarks are finished concerning the archives. In this installment I offer some behind-the-scenes glimpses of the collaborative authorial process, as carried on in email exchanges between Peter and me preceding the publication of Peter’s books. While ordinarily I make it a rule not to reveal private correspondence publicly, in this context I’m following well-established literary precedent.
On 22 Feb 07 I wrote an email to Peter in which I apologized for intruding in his latest Sir Toby’s adventure. I had anticipated that the interactive storytelling style established in the first two episodes would continue, but it seemed that Peter intended to tell this tale himself. In my email I wrote what could almost be used as a back-cover blurb touting his book:
“I think your fiction-writing is erudite, whimsical, and
basically a gas. Sir Toby’s would make a good serial in a 19th century
magazine, a mediocre television sitcom, or perhaps a book of
loosely-connected episodes. We’ve already seen the beginning story and the
Christmas tale; now the murder mystery. The surreal gnostic sensibility;
the post-medieval Prague with its tramways and Australians; the inn itself
with its hearth, its soup, its archivists, its dogs; the intriguing and
infinitely extensible cast of characters; the archaic literary style — I
love it. Theological ideas, both orthodox and heretical, form the backbone
of the tales, framing them in an imaginary world that allows perhaps a bit
more freedom — and overt violence — than is generally tolerated even in
virtual non-fictional realities.”
Seven months later I received an email from Peter:
“I’m putting together some posts from the OST website for a small publishing project (on line; I’m not expecting a huge take-up!), and there were one or two of yours that I’d like to use - the ones which provided links in the Sir Toby’s stories. Could I have your permission to use them?”
“Sure, go ahead,” I replied before continuing:
“Perhaps 6 months ago I tried sending you an email on the closed OST message system. I didn’t hear from you for a couple of weeks, then I realized that the system hadn’t preserved a copy of what I’d sent to you. Either I made a human error or the system failed me. And so I abandoned my quest. But now your email brings it back…
“At the time I was thinking about Sir Toby’s and wondering if you’d like to try co-writing a book based on the conceit. It’s an intriguing little alternate reality, surprisingly evocative after only a few brief visits. I believe the readers were amused and perhaps even enlightened a little. The Trappist [Peter’s alter-ego in the Sir Toby’s world] and the Old Man [my fictional persona] were clearly the most well-rounded of the cast of characters (not surprising given that we were the only contributors). Within the context of OST these episodes were almost tangential, an entertainment in the midst of heavy theologizing. But if we were to occupy Sir Toby’s more resolutely, I wonder what would happen? The post-preteristic theme that so dominates OST would recede, letting the conversations revolve around broader Judeo-Christian themes. The creative tension between the two main characters — the one a nearly-traditional Christian, the other a sort of heretical mystic — could generate some “emerging theology” couched in an eccentrically mythic sensibility that’s part medieval, part Kafka. Kind of a postmodern Screwtape Letters.
“If we were to entertain such a divertissement, I would imagine a writing process whereby one of us introduces a topic and carries it along for awhile, then sends it to the other for further elaboration and counterpoint. Back and forth it would go until the episode reached a plausible denouement or impasse. Kind of like the way we did it at OST. Do one episode at a time as the mood strikes, and stop when we feel like it.
“So whaddaya say? Do you have either the time or the inclination? Do you think it could be done? Is an immediate audience needed to provide creative stimulus? Can you see the roomful of theologians chiming from time to time, the dogs ceaselessly begging for bits of mutton from the nearly-empty bowls, the discourses on the Fall and the Law, the Resurrection and the New Man? Can you picture a handsomely bound little book on the new releases shelf at the local bookstore?”
In his reply Peter thought it might be worth a go. I asked whether we should consider decoupling the Sir Toby’s from OST, writing the new interactive episodes either in email exchanges or on a separate Sir Toby’s blog. After 3 days without a reply I proposed a writing strategy…
“I can picture a series of episodes loosely connected to each other but centering on theological discussion. As I said on OST during the first Sir Toby’s discussion, I tend to see the Judeo-Christian themes less through faith than through the imagination. Perhaps the creative tension between faith and imagination will be evident in the contrast between the Trappist and the Old Man. Not that the whole endeavor isn’t a work of the imagination…
“In the context of Sir Toby’s I resonate in particular with the strange juxtaposition of medieval and postmodern. So, for example, a topic like transubstantiation comes to mind. The Trappist might come forward with a more Protestant symbolic reading, but the Old Man would be captivated by the idea of a substance either changing its essence or partaking in two different realities. Of course you can envision the Trappist as you like, and have him pursue more contemporary theological discussions about, say, substitutionary atonement. But rest assured that the Old Man will find something heretical and odd in the concept.
“If we proceed I’d suggest that we take turns introducing a topic and getting the conversation started. Rather than having a fully-formed episode in mind from the beginning, the initiator can move the story forward up to a certain point, then stop and let the other guy improvise for awhile. Each of us speaks the lines of our own alter-ego, but either of us can interject in the voice of the well-dressed European, or the Antipodean, or the pale young gentleman, or whomever else we’d like to introduce. There may be inconsistencies as we go along, but if things go well we can always come back and edit later.
“How long would the episodes be? As written, the two most elaborate Sir Toby’s stories — Christmas and Revisited — are somewhere between 5,000 and 9,000 words long, which is plenty long enough. I could picture some episodes being no more than a page long. I’d suggest that they needn’t all be resolutely theological — if something catches our fancy we can run with it and see where it takes us. Each episode would continue until it’s done, however long that takes. Similarly, we can launch episodes until we can’t think of any more. If this project actually turns into a book I don’t believe it needs to be very long — 150 pages or so seems about right.
“I think writing these on OST might not be the right venue. It does encourage both speed and careful wordsmithing, which is good. But I think the site works best in a more straightforward discursive mode, revolving around explicitly evangelical concerns. Sir Toby’s occupies an intermediate realm between fiction and theologizing broadly construed, so maybe it should take shape in its own space. Maybe a dedicated and very basic Sir Tobys blog that both of us can post to and edit, either opening it to others’ comments or not. You could let people at OST or anyone else know what we’re up to, then send them to the blog if they’d like to watch, comment, make suggestions, cheer us on, etc. as we go along. Or we could keep it entirely private.”
Peter responded the next day, proposing that we continue writing Sir Toby’s inside OST…
“Part of the inspiration for Sir Tobys is, of course, the OST website - and its current concerns. The setting provides a medium for argument which avoids direct head to head encounter. That’s how it developed. Of course, it didn’t begin that way - as you supplied the brush-strokes which created he hostel - and the theological ruminations which were never really pursued. Even the five scrolls [an earlier Sir Toby’s episode which I’d introduced] was hi-jacked to my own polemical concerns!
“Polemic - I suppose that was a vital ingredient. Some of the contributors to OST provided good material for characters in the narrative. I think a driving engine for me became things I wanted so say about Andrew’s theological project, but was getting tired of off-loading onto discussion forums. At the moment though, the site isn’t throwing up much in the way of inspiration for interesting characters.
“I think I would lean towards the site as a medium for the narrative - even if, at least, there was the incentive of other people perhaps following the dramatised debates - and offering the opportunity for their involvement. I’d be for trying it out on the site. Also for just trying something! If it dries up, or doesn’t provide imaginative stimulus, nothing has been lost.
“Also, I think a key ingredient is some form of narrative drama - not just speeches from the key characters (although that’s important too). But how this develops depends on inspiration at the time.
I’m probably a little less confident than you - but why don’t you launch something? I’m sure I’ll be inspired to reply - though don’t assume too much about my positions. On the eucharist, I’m a lot closer to transubstantiaton than you would think!”
I responded as follows:
“It may be what attracts you to Sir Toby’s are the very things I’m trying to evade. I often had a sense that the Trappist was hoping to engage others in the inn, especially the well-dressed young westerner [a fictionalized Andrew], in conversation, often at the expense of his discussions with the Old Man.
As the Christmas episode was fading away the Old Man brought seven scrolls out of his pack. He might have unrolled each of them in turn, read them aloud, and discussed them if he’d thought anyone was interested. Alas, the only interaction from the gathered theologians was a brief interjection by the Trappist offering an orthodox interpretation of Genesis 6, followed by a demand for more soup. Discouraged, feeling tolerated and humored but generally ignored, the Old Man packed away the seven scrolls without unsealing them. Then he wrote an eighth scroll and, leaving it on the table, he walked away.
“Two months of silence elapsed at Sir Toby’s. During this interval I was shepherding my first and only post through OST, the one about true myth, for which I regarded the seven scrolls as a kind of fictional prelude. You graciously engaged in the myths discussion, though neither Andrew nor Paul Hartigan did… when the myth discussion had run its course, you brought forth the Revisited episode at Sir Toby’s. It began as a long speech by the Trappist about the Son of Man — clearly a polemic directed at the well-dressed young theologian. Then the Trappist collapsed. I read this opening salvo as your dramatization of the futility of your efforts to engage Andrew at Sir Toby’s. And so I wrote an operatic death-and-lamentation scene, waiting to see if you really wanted to kill off the Trappist, or whether Andrew would bring the well-dressed westerner to his rescue. At this point you veered the story to an entertaining espionage intrigue having no theological import that I could detect and current-events interest that would likely engage only British readers. I wondered if our friend down under knew any more about the Russian spy story than I did.
“After another month the Trappist finally unrolled the eighth scroll. Did it bear any relation to the context of the seven scrolls, all of which referred to alternative cosmogonies? Did it bear any resemblance to what the Old Man likely would have written on that scroll? No. Instead, when it was unsealed the eighth scroll turned out to be… another discourse on the Son of Man. Twelve days passed, during which no other theologian in the inn engaged in further conversation with the Trappist. I then entered the thread by channeling the Trappist, having him wonder whether the eighth scroll he had read might have been a forgery, or perhaps the Old Man had placed an enchantment on it, causing the reader to see in it whatever he wanted to see. I thought maybe this would open up a hermeneutical discussion about whether readers of the Scriptures see what they want to see, namely themselves reflected in the texts. “Nonsense,” the Trappist concluded. “All is as it appears to be.” With renewed assurance he advanced toward his uncertain destiny. Here the story ends: there are no further additions to this post and no subsequent visits to Sir Toby’s.
“So, upon reviewing the historical record in some detail, my interpretation is this: Sir Toby’s came into existence as a side room in the large house that is OST. From the beginning it has been haunted by the spectre of OST and those who occupy that larger house, especially its proprietor. Though the Trappist engages in conversation with the Old Man, he is always looking around the room for the well-dressed young westerner, launching into monologues that he hopes will lure the the young westerner into a dialogue that never materializes. Meanwhile the Old Man, for whom these internecene disputes mean virtually nothing, gradually finds himself turning into a ghost, haunting a room that can no longer detect his presence.
“For you OST would be a continuing inspiration for Sir Toby’s; for me I’m afraid it would not. The arguments you hoped would develop on Sir Toby’s never materialized; instead you were stuck with me. For you the real people of OST continued to inhabit their fictional alter-egos; for me the fictional theologians were coming into their own as occupants of Sir Toby’s. As I’ve said, I am not a man of faith; my engagement in theological debate is an exercise of the imagination. If I were to engage in debate and polemics I’m afraid it would turn into believer-versus-atheist discussions, and I feel pretty confident that OST isn’t a great forum for that sort of thing. If debates were to transpire at Sir Toby’s it would be the fictional Old Man talking — a mystical figure who explores the mysteries of religion not so much as a scientist or secular philosopher but as a kind of agnostic wizard.
“So is there anything to lose if I were to launch another episode at Sir Toby’s? I guess I stand to lose a fragile sector of the imagination to what Wallace Stevens called “the pressure of reality.” But let me think about it awhile — maybe I’ll have a change of heart and have the Old Man put something up at OST. Or, to flagrantly mix metaphors and split infinitives in one fell swoop, perhaps the Trappist can launch another boat on that nearly-dry stream and see if anyone will take off their shoes, roll up their cuffs, wade in and push it along.”
Peter’s response:
“First - as regards the content and forum for an on-going Sir Tobys narrative. I’m not really that interested in getting Andrew to contribute - though I wondered if he would. At the time, the story was given an extra lease of life for me by Andrew’s 2006 advent posts, which I was simultaneously vigorously objecting to…
“But the idea began to develop a life of its own. I was interested in developing fictional personae for some of the OST contributors - around the conceit that I was being a major obstacle to Andrew’s postmodern theology project. Serendipity got in the way - and the Russian mafia provided a subplot which became the main plot. I think I was just enjoying the sheer nonsense of it all - the more fantastic the storyline, the better. Andrew did attend Lincoln College Oxford as a student, but the aesthete reading Oscar Wilde in his rooms was a completely unplanned development. I don’t think Paul Hartigan was really in character in the story - apart from being rather prickly in debate - which suggested to me his role in the plot. I think you were somewhat in character in the story - though I hi-jacked your persona shamelessly in making you a kind of accomplice to Andrew - though at first unwittingly.
“As regards the eight scrolls - I’m afraid I wasn’t following you very carefully about these, and at the time wasn’t relating them to the five possibilities and the ‘true myth’ - though you’ll know I picked this interest up slightly in the story - when it was brushed aside by the Westerner as he propounded his own narrative theological line. So apologies if the idea was hi-jacked - but in the interactive story as it developed, you could always have turned the story back to your own interests. I didn’t have any overriding proprietorial rights to it!”
At that point I decided that the preliminary conversation could continue indefinitely without the two of us agreeing on how to get a Sir Toby’s book written and without our actually writing anything new. So I launched a new Sir Toby’s episode, again on OST, to see whether the collaborative writing project outlined in this email correspondence would take shape…
(To be continued — possibly. When I tried to submit this comment I received this message: “We’re sorry, but the spam filter thinks your submission could be spam. Please complete the CAPTCHA.” Maybe OST’s robotic editorial assistant has captured the essence of my remarks. I shall now type in the magical incantation in hopes of deluding the robot into believing that what I’ve provided here is worth publishing on the site.)
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
The email correspondence summarized in my prior installment unfolded between 6 and 12 September 2007. On the 12th I launched a new Sir Toby’s episode called “Invisibility Cloak”. As I recall, I intended to explore Jesus’ miracles, speculating on how he might have accomplished some of the seemingly magical deeds reported in the gospels. On that same day I cross-posted this new Sir Toby’s instlallment on my own blog, Ktismatics, introducing it with some background information about the Sir Toby’s conceit as it had evolved on OST. Sam Carr, a frequent contributor to both blogs, expressed enthusiasm for Sir Toby’s on my blog; in response I voiced my own skepticism:
“After reviewing the initial Sir Toby’s posts it seemed that The Trappist, Peter’s character, repeatedly shifted the conversation back to the Son of Man prophecy in Daniel, which is perhaps the keystone in Andrew’s theology. Peter is also a rather orthodox Christian, perceiving himself as a sort of anchor to Andrew’s more heterodox interpretation of the Gospel. And Peter also acknowledges being drawn by polemics and argumentation. In short, for Peter Sir Toby’s is a side room within Open Space Theology, the mission of which is to hash out an emerging post-evangelical theology. For me Sir Toby’s was a heterotopia that offers “tantalizing possibility” only if it veers into its own fragile realm between serious theology and the play of the imagination. More a place for conducting thought experiments exploring alternate theological realities, a place of divergence rather than convergence. I’m afraid it’s likely to be crushed by what Wallace Stevens called “the pressure of reality.” So, for example, this post about Jesus’s ability to render himself invisible is certainly not a mainstream topic in emerging evangelical thinking, so it’s likely to be subjected to orthodox correction — it’s not magic, Jesus had no apprentices who received secret knowledge, etc. Even more likely is that it will be ignored — as if by magic it had been rendered invisible…”
The next day Peter entered into the story I had begun on OST. However, almost immediately the thread seemed on the verge of unraveling, perhaps because the direction I’d intended to take the post remained ambiguous after the first installment. Peter’s Trappist enters Sir Toby’s, disguised behind a false mustache and carrying a “manifesto.” The Trappist asserts that this manifesto is the “central object” of concern among the principal characters at Sir Toby’s and over which he is about to precipitate “the climactic confrontation.” And what is the name of this manifesto? “Otherways” — it’s Andrew’s book, newly published at the time, based on OST theological discussions. Peter had written a review/critique of Otherways, but I had neither read nor commented on the book. The Sir Toby’s thread I’d introduced was being hijacked into yet another vicarious confrontation… with Andrew!
Sam Carr decided to join in the fun, creating his own alter-ego at Sir Toby’s and making it a threesome. Sam introduced a rather Eastern notion — that the visible world might be no more “real” than the invisible. In my next installment I ignored Peter’s lead entirely, interacting instead with Sam’s Eastern monk and exploring further the idea of invisibility. Then Peter returned with an extended and intriguing follow-up. Musing on the direction the thread was taking, Peter’s Trappist doppelganger realizes that he must “call on all of his powers of rhetoric and persuasion - subterfuge even - to address the dark powers which lay behind the seemingly innocuous vacuity of the discussion.” By the end of his long, erudite and amusing harangue the Trappist has shifted the visible/invisible antinomy toward the allegedly underlying theme: “Emergent!” Peter’s installment ends in a dramatic gesture by the Trappist:
“With a flourish, he drew from his cloak a copy of the manifesto which had been the true focus of the triumvirate’s deliberations, and from which the Elderly Sage had sought to distract attention by the smoke-screen of misleading theological controversy. “Thus,” thundered the Trappist with prophetic intensity, flinging the manifesto to the floor, “may the words of all heresy find their ultimate destination and doom!””
I wrote another installment, in which “the goateed Austrian” — a thinly-disguised analog for Freud — tried to interpret the Trappist’s obsession. Sam followed up with an attempt to restore some sort of continuity between the invisibility theme and the Trappist’s disguised subterfuge. Then Peter returned with… an escape plot!? The Trappist and the Sage fall through a trapdoor where they encounter the Westerner and the Antipodean. Muses the Trappist: “Disappearing monks, Viennese Alienists, characters from nursery rhymes - I think it is time that the Project was relocated from these dismal quarters and relaunched from somewhere more salubrious.” He leads a procession away from Sir Toby’s to another nearby inn where they can “relaunch the Project.”
And with that, Peter abandoned the Sir Toby’s post I had begun and launched his own, called “From Sir Toby’s to St. James’s”. In this new installment the Sage has been abandoned to his own ruminations, leaving the other three “conspirators” to consider the “manifesto;” i.e., Andrew’s book. Quite soon enough the discussion veers from postmodernism to an engagement of Andrew’s “critical realism,” the importance of Israel vis-a-vis Abraham in God’s historical trajectory, and so on — familiar themes to regular OST readers. Meanwhile Sam and I tried to salvage some sort of coherence from the other Sir Toby’s story, still running in parallel to this new one of Peter’s. Eventually the narrative dissolved into meta-narrative — interesting in its own way I suppose, but far removed from the original intent of the post. The St. James episode likewise soon “petered out.”
Back on Ktismatics I groused publicly about the turn of events, more or less washing my hands of the whole affair. Peter and I exchanged another brief round of emails in which we agreed that this latest Sir Toby’s experiment had not come off at all well. Peter and I contributed to each other’s posts in gestures of mutual goodwill. In the following months Peter would later return to Sir Toby’s — twice I believe — but these later adventures were largely solo voyages. It seemed that the collaborative writing project had come to a disappointing end. Not until I read Peter’s announcement in this post did I realize that he’d compiled the various Sir Toby’s adventures in a book.
(Next: Redidivus?)
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
Why, it’s all about Sir Toby’s, of course. I notice, Shiert, that your comment on this thread is one of three very terse remarks you dropped into the OST mix yesterday. Are you perhaps exercising taciturnity tactically, calling attention by abrupt contrast to the chronic verbosity which seems to plague so many of us here? Or perhaps you think I’m nursing a grudge or two, inasmuch as I do recall your having previously accused me of sinful pride. Out with it, man!
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
I never accused you of sinful pride; you only construed my neutral remarks as being an accusation. I would never judge you until I have fully purged my own character of its defects, which are too numerous to count but include sinful pride.
As for terse, yes, I believe that much of what is written here and everywhere else in theology and religion is verbose. This view will be further advanced in an upcoming book. But, I am coming to realize verbosity is a result of communication about something that can’t really be communicated in words—a real and infinite presence we call God. I think verbal comments should be measured by relevancy and materiality, and I am surprised no one has picked up on the fact that in a post-modern age, if that is what we are in, one tenet of the new philosophy is all things are relevant and all things are material. Really messy.
As for my original comment, oddly enough I have developed feelings for the people who post here. This is odd in that I have been arguing and writing that no real community can come out of an internet or virtual network. But I sense some level of anger, hurt, sense of betrayal, and just downright bad feelings coming from you in connection with Peter’s publication and or promotion of the Sir Toby Chronicles. My comment was just to say, I care about how you feel.
In my view, John, you have important things to say as a non-believer. In that regard, I am fully convinced you are a pseudo-atheist. This is the more apt term for what Rahner called the anonymous Christian, a term he is reported to have regretted ever using.
Be at peace, John.
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
Congratulations, Shiert, you’ve passed through the portal and entered into the heterotopia poised between fact and fiction. At the beginning of this string I declared my intention: to write an imaginary Preface for a book that describes imaginary characters, conversations, and adventures. In so doing I’ve recounted a series of historical events leading up to the (self-)publication of Peter’s book (an imprint of All-Is-Vanity Press?). You can verify much of the evidence I’ve compiled in these comments because it’s contained in publicly-accessible posts here at OST and on my own blog. I’ve also cut-and-pasted excerpts from correspondence that still exists, with date stamps, in my email archives (and, presumably, in Peter’s as well). In other words, so far I’ve stuck to the facts.
Now consider your response. You’ve interacted not at all with the content of what I’ve written. Instead, you made a meta-comment about verbosity. In good modernist style, you offered this critique without wasting even a single word saying it directly, allowing the reader to infer your meaning outside of language, between the lines as it were. Well done, you. But then you write this:
“I believe that much of what is written here and everywhere else in theology and religion is verbose. This view will be further advanced in an upcoming book.”
Is this statement paradoxical or ironic? For now let’s just call it funny. I can easily imagine someone — your own alter-ego, say, Shiert — uttering this line in theological debate at Sir Toby’s. And so your comment begins subtly drifting through the door entering onto a familiar alternate reality…
After acknowledging your critique of verbosity, you also confess to reading a variety of emotional motivations in what I’ve written here:
“I sense some level of anger, hurt, sense of betrayal, and just downright bad feelings coming from you…”
My appropriate next move is demurral: oh no, Shiert, you’ve misconstrued: it’s nothing but a series of historical facts I’m describing; Peter and I are totally objective collocutors, frequently seen hoisting an amicable pint or two together at Sir Toby’s; you seem to be exercising what Paul Ricoeur termed a “hermeneutic of suspicion;” etc. etc. This of course repositions me on the ultra-rationalist high ground, leaving you to roll around in the emotional sawdust that covers the floor ankle-deep but which all the theologians pretend isn’t really there (the dogs know!). At this point you’re reduced to confusion, perhaps to anger at my denial, perhaps to humiliation at revealing your touchy-feely sensitivity. And so you start imagining some other way the conversation might have gone, where I — or some more truthful and therefore more fictional version of me — start beweeping my outcast state, troubling deaf heaven with my bootless cries, hurling blunt yet heavy silverware across the Great Hall toward my foes…
And then there’s this:
“I am fully convinced you are a pseudo-atheist.”
I’m intrigued: people who say important things thereby reveal themselves as Christian, or only Christians can say anything important? Anyhow, now you’ve entered fully into an alternate reality, Shiert, a reality where the self-professed atheist is revealed as an anonymous Christian. This is a superb move. We could even outline a variant of what Jacob might accept as theological realism: someone can really be a Christian without knowing it or believing it. There’s a corollary, sort of Kantian in flavor: God can really exist without anyone knowing anything true about him/her/them. Or take (what I interpret as) Desert Reign’s counter-position: I am not real in and of myself; I become real only when people talk about me. The same could be said of God perhaps: real only when he’s the subject of conversation. These speculations might make for stimulating discussion among the Sir Toby’s theologians, even as the Inn and its occupants intermittently to go out of existence only to pop back in again…
I do appreciate your empathy and solidarity, Shiert, truly. I won’t deny your intuitions — though of course I won’t confirm them either. Even though we’re having this conversation virtually, I bet I’d enjoy quaffing a beverage with you at some post-medieval Eastern European public house…
Finally, it should be noted that each time someone writes a comment on this thread, the post about Peter’s book gains renewed visibility on the right-hand side of the OST interface, thereby making it incrementally more likely that someone will return to the post, read it, and consider actually placing an order with the publisher. Also, by my count this is the 13th comment written on this post — a post which, despite public grovelling by its author, has been consigned by the Proprietor to the purgatory of the right-hand column, never gaining the center-stage visibility of such other recent posts as, say, the one entitled “Richard Rohr on the Emerging Church,” which since its publication one month ago tomorrow has generated not a single comment. There’s a certain perverse scientific curiosity involved: is there a “tipping point,” a critical mass of cumulative commentary that shifts a post leftward on the page?
And someday I may still write the post I claimed I wasn’t too embittered to write in our prior discussion on Peter’s (barely coherent) book review about a guy from Holland who wants to install some sort of Exodus theme park on Mars…
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
Just noticed this thread when Desert’s patent Universal “Desert” Locator wandered through Sir Toby’s in determined accord with its self-programmed randomised algorithms. Upon my receiving the result, my hat was off in an instant and on reading “There’s a corollary, sort of Kantian in flavor: God can really exist without anyone knowing anything true about him/her/them. Or take (what I interpret as) Desert Reign’s counter-position: I am not real in and of myself; I become real only when people talk about me. The same could be said of God perhaps: real only when he’s the subject of conversation.” I immediately realised that some people run faster than others and I need to catch them up. The cake, to mix metaphors, is never fully eaten in Sir Toby’s - there is always more being made by the great hostess. The beauty of universal openness is that sentient beings define themselves as well as each other. A cloud of knowing perhaps? I am not only who I am, I am also my wife, my children my town, my work place, my body, my world, my God. All the things I organise, they are in me and I in them, the aim of which is that I not only fully know, as scientists of the world and other power hungry seek, but also that I be fully known. That is the ultimate existence.
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
Desert, I’m quite sure you’d find a place at the table at Sir Toby’s. You need a name. We could extrapolate from your nom de plume, something about deserts: the Egyptian, the Copt, the Eremite, something along those lines? Or we could do something with your theological position: the Spinozan? the Panpsychist?
I like Sir Toby’s best when it (dis)embodies this sense of emergent mutual realization of which you speak. There’s an unpredictability, a sense that any stable configuration is only temporary. I think Peter taps into this aspect when he has characters go missing and start showing up in seemingly random places around the world. On the other hand, I think he also likes being the one who pulls the strings. This is a tension playing itself out in each of us: am I the playwright, or the actor strutting and fretting the lines written for him, or perhaps part of the theatre where the play writes itself?
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
I invite members to doctor and complete this kernel creatively, in particular where I have made reference to unspecified cabal members. I am not here long enough yet, nor have I read enough of the Sir Toby narratives to know who’s who.
It had been a cold evening of desultory conference at the famous inn. The die-hard theologians had been lamenting not their pure inability to conclude but their inability to be willing to conclude any of their arguments, though some, paradoxically, had already concluded that the cabal of Sir Toby’s should crystallize itself into what it always was - a figment of the imagination of an airline passenger already having enough difficulties trying to eat goat’s cheese and mixed salad in between two other people without any of it falling out onto his lap or not going cleanly into his mouth - and cease to exist.
Some stated mournfully that the moment this happened, it would be true that it had never existed and therefore no one would be able even to remember it and that if anyone subsequently claimed to remember it, it would be lie, a fiction. One said that they would eat their words but another responded that their words would ultimately eat them. All of them shared the one bitter irony that they were able to will anything positive and creative except to come to a conclusion. They were, alas, like the poor fly on the window pane, always climbing up then falling back down again, the full glory of the day in front of them but, for a reason or reasons they could never know, utterly unattainable. Even the dogs on the floor bickered over pieces of straw and other scraps, until one of the theologians, more angry with himself than with them, kicked them all out unceremoniously.
“Why don’t I paint a picture of us all?”, one of the more illustrious of the bunch offered.
“For what purpose?” the others responded unanimously. “Do you think you can paint a complete picture any more than we can come to but a single conclusion to our debates?”
A clever one interjected: “And what would be the difference between you and us who are not you in the painting? You want to paint a picture of all of us but how can you pose for yourself? The painting will be still but you were moving all the time you were painting it. Would you include yourself by imagination only? If so I must protest. You would be depicting us as we really are whereas you would be able to depict yourself in any way you chose. This is very one-sided!”
“To demonstrate my artistic skill”, and then after a pause “and because we are worthy subjects” came the unexpectedly obvious reply.
“That is too categorical an assertion” muttered several, “worthiness is a debatable concept. And anyway, where would you hang the painting, here on the walls of Sir Toby’s where it will disappear along with the rest of us, in an airport lounge where everything has lost its meaning, subserved to that non-purpose of everyone which is simply not to be there, or somewhere else?”
So the evening wore on. The murky candlelit atmosphere was presently interrupted by a banging at the door. “What da ya want” came the hostess’s brawling accusation.
“I want to come in!”
The voice was unknown to any of the other cabal members. A dog sniffed at the new man’s cloak in case there was something worth licking.
“Open up, open up! What kind of business is this that locks out its clients?”
The Highland voice had a tone of innocent disdain. Sure enough, the door had been bolted without anyone realising. Hurriedly, the hostess threw back the bolt and the door clattered open to admit a stout, medium height fellow dressed in a sable cloak, moist on the shoulders from the recent rain. Mysteriously at first, his head was nearly invisible, surrounded as it was with a ball of mist and fog. Only the vaguest shape of a head could be made out. The ball of mist dissipated slowly further away from his head until, about a metre away, the surrounding air was clear. The hostess looked in astonishment and as she tentatively pushed her hand towards him, she could feel the moisture condensing on the skin of her hand and a tingling sensation like so many miniature piano hammers knocking out a concerto on her fingers. She half expected her hand to go right through his head but, reassuringly, she touched his face and it was as solid as anybody else’s.
“That’s all right” the stranger comforted her, “I take a lot of getting used to.”
“What’s your name, stranger” one of the cabal called out “and what’s your business?”
“And what’s that diabolical, miscreated - thing - on - errr - around yer head” chimed another?
“My name is Oflan’gan” answered the stranger with an air of indignation. His voice seemed muffled, distorted rather, with a tinny, reverberant quality, perhaps due to the mist surrounding his head. Perhaps it was sound of many voices all in one. “As to my business, I am a theologian if you are.”
“We certainly are” came a voice from the shortest of the cabal members, with a kind of overtone of ‘there’s strength in numbers’ - or was it ‘the more the merrier’?
“Not too categorical an assertion then?” riposted Oflan’gan, who must have been standing outside a considerable while listening to their conversation that evening. There was an embarrassed silence as some of them realised how difficult it had become to live up to any definitions of themselves, let alone the particular ambiguity they had attributed to themselves of ‘non-defining theologian’.
Oflan’gan helped out by continuing “This haze around my head, this cloud, I’ve had for many months now but I haven’t always had it.” Most of the cabal settled to listen to the story, in the hope that it might divert them from their present frustrations and if nothing else to allow them an instant to capture the fleeting moment of creativity once more. A few wondered if it might not be simpler just to go off and read the Rime of the Ancient Mariner yet again.
“I do admit that it is so unusual that any of you might be considered as orthodox in comparison. Yet its origin is terribly simple. And I mean terribly. Disappointingly. For it happened over nothing other than a tennis match I was watching.
“It started off innocently enough, a game of doubles, a net, an umpire, four players with racquettes and a ball. The Umpire declared ‘Let play begin!’ But soon the ball went off court and was apparently by a coincidence (though I suspect the Umpire had intended it) knocked back into play by one of the spectators. After several more volleys to and fro, more spectators became involved and many of them seemed to have their own racquettes. The ball was just whizzing back and forth in seemingly random patterns, never stopping. Then the Umpire threw many more balls into the court, thousands if I am not mistaken, and not one of them ever stopped moving. Even the Umpire had a racquette. By now, some people had several racquettes each, which they had tied to their feet as well so that they could field more tennis balls back and forth.
“The whole stadium was in an unrhythmic rhythm, everything was perfectly timed whilst nothing was in time. I didn’t join in with that marvellous game, but after I left, I realised that my head was surrounded with this cloud. It is like the cloud of balls at the tennis match and I know that it will cease only when the match itself ceases. No tennis match will ever be the same for me again.”
As he continued, one of the other cabbalists got too near Oflan’gan and his head partially entered the cloud. At that point Oflan’gan’s voice seemed to alter slightly…
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
This is highly irregular. Of course the General Editor can sort the Oflan’gan narrative into the appropriate section of the appropriate volume. However, I agree that we must pause to consider the precise nature of the irregularity.
In this (ponderous and pedantic) thread we already confront a temporal irregularity, namely the construction of a Preface to the Sir Toby’s Chronicles after the Book has already been published. Now, inside the (seemingly interminable) unfolding of this Preface, Sir Toby’s itself is suddenly made manifest!
Let’s review what transpired just before the anomalous Sir Toby’s fragment materialized inside the Preface. A commenter had (mercifully) interrupted the (long-winded) prefatory discourse with a terse question, prompting the writer of the Preface to reply. The writer entered into a temporary fugue state during which he offered this speculative heresy:
“I am not real in and of myself; I become real only when people talk about me.”
Is it conceivable that we’ve just witnessed a manifestation of this very phenomenon as applied to Sir Toby’s Reality? It seems that the chronicling of that Reality, and the Prefatory chronicling of that chronicling, together established the conditions making possible the irruption of the Reality itself!
Regarding the content of this fragment, at first I was tempted to assign it to the nebulous category of “back story” for this new Theologian. However, the text does present the narrative thrust and the hint of future developments characteristic of a nascent Episode. Perhaps the General Editor should withhold judgment temporarily to see what develops?
Re: The Sir Toby correspondence
“Why did Bruce Wayne become a caped crime fighter? …The narrative past is subordinate to the present: it accounts for the present, it determines the present, it gives meaning to the present.”
Do I discern the seed of another back story among the Sir Tobyites?
Redivivus?
While the “Invisibility Cloak” and “St. James’s” episodes revived Sir Toby’s, they also revealed rather starkly the obstacles to carrying on a project through truly interactive collaboration among multiple authors. I had introduced a topic for discussion among the fictional theologians; Peter had his Trappist alter-ego express disinterest in the topic while pursuing a completely different line of flight. At the time I found this development both irritating and disheartening: Peter seemed incapable of following through with the experimental revivification of Sir Toby’s which we had discussed via email correspondence. The collaboration, it seemed, was finished.
Peter would subsequently author two more Sir Toby’s adventures: as I recall, both focused primarily on cloak-and-dagger intrigue interspersed with brief travelogues. I contributed perhaps once to each thread, but it was clear that Peter was following his own lead in unfolding these tales. I, on the other hand, introduced no new episodes of my own. In effect, Peter took ownership of Sir Toby’s, both through the exercise of his own vision and through the my own retreat into monastic silence.
On OST, as on many other blogs, someone writes a post in order both to establish his or her position on an issue and to stimulate discussion of that issue. Through give-and-take among author and discussants the thread may eventually deepen the ideas expressed in the post while extending them in unanticipated directions. It’s this kind of emergent collaborative creativity that I value most highly in blogs. It’s also what I’d hoped Sir Toby’s could become: a sort of collaborative, emergent, theologically-oriented, semi-fictional alternative reality. Instead, Sir Toby’s had become a context in which individual writers could spin out their own stories through a series of installments, not unlike the serial fiction that Dickens and Dostoevsky used to write.
Having already written two novels (still unpublished, alas), as well as maintaining an active blog of my own, I couldn’t really generate much creative energy to write short stories on the installment plan as Peter was doing. Frankly, for me it seemed like a step backward from something more innovative and more provocative that for a time had flickered into existence only to be extinguished. And so I relegated Sir Toby’s to the status of failed and finished experiment.
I was surprised when Peter posted his book announcement. I’d had no inkling that he’d been working on compiling the existing Sir Toby’s episodes into a book. Had I known I probably would have objected. Why am I not named as co-author? After all, it was my idea in the first place. This is barefaced plagiarism! And he has the nerve to call himself a Christian! And so on. A few days later I cooled off and took a deep breath. I realized that Peter would never recoup his self-publishing investment through book sales. This had been an act of love on Peter’s part (and probably a bit of an ego boost as well). Sir Toby’s really did serve as the unifying theme for some entertaining writing on both Peter’s and my part — Sam Carr too on the Invisibility Cloak episode. I wonder if it could happen again? Could Peter and I make another go of it, regarding these early episodes as forerunners of a collaborative writing project of greater scope than previously envisioned? Alternatively, could we revive Sir Toby’s as an ongoing fictionalized commentary about the ideas and individuals who populate the nonfictional OST, with Sam and possibly others contributing to the conversation?
After I began writing this imaginary Preface, Peter started a new Sir Toby’s episode here on OST. Called “Sir Toby Redivivus?”, it’s in the earliest stages, so I’m not sure where it’s headed. My expectation, though, is that Peter will have the Trappist and his associates continue pursuing “the Project,” which consists mostly of the Trappist critiquing Andrew’s distinctive theology while being enmeshed in melodramatic intrigues of one sort or another. I wish him well on this venture, though I doubt I’ll have much to contribute. Maybe if he keeps at it he can find the right balance of fiction and theology which, in my view, has not yet been fully realized in the Sir Toby’s world.
Will I, acting in parallel, revive my own vision of Sir Toby’s? I think it unlikely that a truly collaborative writing format can be sustained. The theological ideas that spark my desire to write seem either to bore Peter or to inflame his zeal to preach to me — or perhaps against me. This antagonism could serve as the basis for impassioned and creative disputes between my Sage and his Trappist. I fear, though, that the whimsical fog of unreality that permeates Sir Toby’s would evaporate in the heat of the battle. What’s needed is some balance between theological aloofness and literary commitment. But that’s my picture of Sir Toby’s; it doesn’t necessarily coincide with Peter’s.
Now that I near the end of this imaginary Preface I find that I’ve written a lot of text. One might infer that I’ve been enjoying myself, that maybe some spark has been rekindled in me. Maybe it’s true. For some time now I’ve been trying to reconceptualize a book I’ve already written but which I believe doesn’t really accomplish what I’d intended. I wrote it as straightforward nonfiction, rather scholarly in tone but with what I regard as some rather startling ideas and some snap in the writing style. Still, I think I can do better: make it less cautious and more extreme in the ideas it puts forward, yet more speculative, even more whimsical, in attitude. I wonder: what if I framed it as an extended convocation of the fictional cabalists gathered at Sir Toby’s? I probably wouldn’t write it in installments here at OST. And while I’d miss the Trappist’s adversarial commentary, I have come to know his views quite well. I’ve previously put words in the mouths of the Westerner and the Antipodean and the Eastern Monk: why couldn’t I do the same with the Trappist? After all, I have spent quite a bit of time thinking about what makes him tick, seeing things from his perspective. Creating fictional versions of real people: it’s what fiction writers do…
Re: Redivivus?
Wow,,, So this is what it’s come to? One intellectual beating the other intellectual down? With neither of you having even the remotest view of anything even close to the Truth? You’re like little gods trying to justify yourselves among yourselves. Where does God Almighty fit in? Or does he?
You all struggle to change the simple into something very complex. You debate on and on about an emerging church that’s sinking before your eyes, But you don’t see it. You’re all lost within yourselves. You make me very happy that the God you perceive is not the God I know.
Re: Redivivus?
“So this is what it’s come to? One intellectual beating the other intellectual down? With neither of you having even the remotest view of anything even close to the Truth?”
Yes, Araslyn, I believe you’ve already gotten the hang of it.
Re: Redivivus?
Hmm, yes, well, I see… The jury should note that the cited bit of public correspondence is dated 12 February 2009. And the date of the post announcing publication of the book? 3 March 2009 — a mere 19 days later! It’s taken me twice that long to craft an appropriate Preface for the book (which, I’m told, can be acquired here). Subterfuge and calumny, Your Honor, not to mention blatant hornswoggling! Why, the scoundrel should be…
But before he could conclude his tirade, the Old Man spluttered and choked and fell to the ground clutching his throat, his eyes rolling disturbingly (if somewhat comically) around in their sockets.
“Quick, somebody call an ambulance! The Old Man is having a conniption!”
Re: Redivivus?
I suspect that conniption fits are a lot more common in the US than in our part of the world.
Notes for an Imaginary Preface
A number of possible responses to this announcement have crossed my mind. Since I’ve always regarded Sir Toby’s as occupying that indistinct space between reality and fantasy, that’s what I offer here. I imagine that Peter, in the process of compiling this book, had asked me to write a Preface: what might I have said?
Though I’ve not researched the matter, I suspect that Sir Toby’s had been mentioned on OST before I first started commenting on this site two and a half years ago (can it really have been that long?). I’m referring now to the “real” Sir Toby’s, which is a hostel in Prague owned and operated by paulchen, a friend of Peter’s whom I believe was once a regular contributor to OST discussions. I had just overcome my initial hesitancy to make a fool of myself in the online threads here when Peter put up a post entitled “OST in Prague.” Dated 12 October 2006, the post begins thusly:
“OST conversations continued in Prague last weekend, where Annelise and I enjoyed a very pleasant meal with paulchen, his wife and sister. The chicken roulade accompanied by a light red wine was in all respects a good choice. Emerging theology is shy of definitions and conclusions, averse to systems and summaries, but the mixture of postmodern and neomodern discussion proved entertaining. The backpackers’ hostel The Czech Inn is thoroughly to be recommended to any wishing to try it. Sir Toby’s also held out attractions, and no doubt Miss Sophie’s also - each overseen by paulchen.”
In the two paragraphs that follow, Peter offers abbreviated observations about Prague, noting especially the contrast between the city’s medieval architecture and the structural reminders of Kafka’s uncanny modern presence. “An extraordinary city,” Peter concludes, “a wonderful weekend.” On the subject of OST theological conversation, however, Peter elaborated not at all. For nearly a week this brief and enigmatic post remained uncommented-upon. Finally my curiosity could be quelled no longer. In the comment box I asked Peter two brief questions: “What theological events took you to this place? Is there anything to report discourse-wise?” “Yes, tantalizingly vague, Sam Carr added later that day; …just too tantalizing!” On the following day Virgil chipped in with a personal memoir concerning an unpleasant encounter with the Prague police. Peter maintained his silence, and so I wrote another comment:
“I begin to suspect gnostic messages embedded in Peter’s brief verbal sketch, alluding perhaps to some mysterious cabal of theologians converging on this picturesque yet corrupt outpost of the medieval. The allusion to Kafka is the key to the riddle, alerting the, er, alert reader that everything isn’t quite what it seems. Coded phrases can be detected in the text: “best kept secrets,” “hovering between east and west,” “astonishingly complete and perfectly preserved,” “religious conflicts,” “light red wine.” And Sir Toby and Miss Sophie — just who are these two mysterious personages, and how did they come under the dominion of the eminence grise in this affair, this “paulchen.” We await further enlightenment from our reticent guide…”
This one seemed to have done the trick: a day later Peter responded. After issuing the standard demurrals – “It was actually just a weekend break,” etc. – Peter acknowledged something significant about himself: “I do tend to fantasise; a social event can very easily become a conference of international significance in my mind, with a bit of linguistic tweaking.”
Immediately afterward paulchen arrived on the thread: “we did talk about OST though… we did talk about theology a bit.” At this point paulchen introduced the theological topic he and Peter had discussed, which over the subsequent two days unleashed a string of comments on the thread involving several participants, including paulchen, Peter, Sam, and one Stacy Barton, a fiction writer and playwright extending a plea for a more narrative-based theological discourse.
I, however, had gotten captivated by the fictionalized Sir Toby’s which we had begun to sketch out before the serious theologizing commenced. I should note that, while as a younger man I had spent a decade of my life as an evangelical, it had been some twenty years since I had engaged in theological discussions of the sort that unfold themselves regularly on OST. To me OST itself seemed like some sort of dizzying confluence poised between the medieval and the postmodern. I was still new to the blog world, and the near-anonymity of the theological discussants contributed to my already-heightened sense of the unreality of the online conversations and debates. I suppose that’s why I veered far off-topic with a new comment that began like this:
“Stepping in from the weak cold rain that had been falling for as long as anyone could remember, John hung his cloak on the peg by the door and slumped into an empty chair by the fire. The wench brought him a beaker and, raising it in good cheer to the assembled theologians, he quaffed deeply and spoke.”God knows I’m not an emotional man, nor a kindly one. Some might deem me cautious; others, arrogant.” John waived his hand dismissively. He filled his pipe and, plucking a glowing twig from the edge of the fire, slowly coaxed the dried leaves to smoldering life. Not without irritation did the others wait for the emissary to continue. “Wouldn’t this be more…,” John hesitantly began. “Imagine if all this were imaginary? The cabal, the inn, even the endless rain, each one of us – all conjured by the imagination.”…”
First to reply was Stacy the storyteller and narrative theologian: “see? stories. they dont explain; they tell what we wonder.” Then came Peter with a longer reply, of which I reprint only the opening:
“By now the weak rain had hardened into a persistent drizzle. Obscure breeds of dogs were nipping at the feet of the inn’s increasingly numerous clientele, all seeking refuge from the inclement weather outside. An occasional yelp arose above the steady murmur of conversation as the dogs were kicked unceremoniously aside. The theologians pondered at the profundity of the remark that had just been offered by the wise elderly man with the flowing grey beard, who now quaffed contentedly at his Daicka. At that moment, a sharp rap at the door interrupted the reverie. P. looked up. Someone must have been telling lies about P, for without having done anything wrong, he was arrested that murky evening…”
And so it was that Sir Toby’s first opened its doors onto an alternative reality within OST, a homely and congenial place for any visitor who wished to participate in ongoing interactive storytelling as a respite from, or perhaps an extension of, the serious theological discourses and disputes for which the site has achieved its well-deserved reputation. As I look back on these earliest manifestations of what would become the Sir Toby Chronicles, I see again with clarity not only the promise extended by this strange portal, but also the forces that would — in my view anyway, if not in Peter’s; of course neither of us can speak for the other occasional contributors and readers — preclude the full realization of that promise…
(Further installments in this imaginary Preface to Peter’s book may or may not follow.)