One More Dispute Between Church and State
By David Macpherson
In a box of plastic chess pieces, two pieces bumped into each other. With the lid closed shut, no one could tell black from white, so all the pieces greeted each other with a wary sense of companionship. “Good day,” said one piece, “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing.”
“I am a bishop,” the other said , “You may kiss my ring if you wish.”
The first piece said, “You are kidding naturally. Because you do not have arms or hands, so have nothing to wear a ring upon.”
The bishop said, “I acknowledge it. But still, some form of respect to my office is in order.”
“What sort of respect must I give a thing who is a bishop because he can move diagonally on a board? “ the other piece asked.
“The sort of respect given to one blessed by god. You might scoff my friend but yes, I have been seen and touched by God. How else can I explain the miracle of the game? We are set up, we are compelled to fight upon the slate. We are slain and put into this dark wooden purgatory and whether we lose or are victorious, we are blessed with inevitable resurrection. We are set to battle again, amen. I am not a bishop for the way I move on the board but because I understand and accept the truth of our place in the holy end game of the lord’s stratagem.”
The other piece said, “So I must prostrate myself to your personal belief and revelation?”
“No,” the bishop said, “You must prostrate yourself because I am willing to share my belief and revelation with you.”
“I will say only that you are terribly uninformed.”
The bishop said, “Do you know something? Are you one of the higher powers. Are you the king?”
The other piece said, “The king? I work for a living. I am but a knight, humble and strong. I am the arm of the king.”
“Which king is that?”
“Which ever king who shares the same color as I am. The one who allows me to protect him with my sword and my steed.”
“You are a horse head who moves two up and one to the side. You can jump other pieces, but you are just a horse head.”
“No, I am the one who inhales deeply from my nostrils and smell the steel, the copper in all the spilled blood. The one who finds beauty in the tipping over of the enemy; I hear the snap as they hit the hard board. That is where god lives. In the lives lost. We are not resurrected to play again by the whim of a god. We are our own reinforcements. The new fresh troops.”
“My poor misguided child, how can you justify war without the presence of God?”
“Justification? War is the justification. We only use words like God’s War, and The Lord’s Will to make it look pretty, to make the metal taste sweeter.”
The bishop said, “You are a monster.”
The knight said, “You are a pompous buffoon.”
“Idiot.”
“Dolt.”
“Fiend.”
“Sycophant.”
Pawns. This last was said by someone else. Someone not one of them. The voice sounded again, “You are both but pawns, like the rest of us.” The two became silent, wanting to see who was maneuvering the board. Who was playing this gambit. They waited with undiscussed attention as the next move in this cramped game was to be played.
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David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
By David Macpherson
In a box of plastic chess pieces, two pieces bumped into each other. With the lid closed shut, no one could tell black from white, so all the pieces greeted each other with a wary sense of companionship. “Good day,” said one piece, “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing.”
“I am a bishop,” the other said , “You may kiss my ring if you wish.”
The first piece said, “You are kidding naturally. Because you do not have arms or hands, so have nothing to wear a ring upon.”
The bishop said, “I acknowledge it. But still, some form of respect to my office is in order.”
“What sort of respect must I give a thing who is a bishop because he can move diagonally on a board? “ the other piece asked.
“The sort of respect given to one blessed by god. You might scoff my friend but yes, I have been seen and touched by God. How else can I explain the miracle of the game? We are set up, we are compelled to fight upon the slate. We are slain and put into this dark wooden purgatory and whether we lose or are victorious, we are blessed with inevitable resurrection. We are set to battle again, amen. I am not a bishop for the way I move on the board but because I understand and accept the truth of our place in the holy end game of the lord’s stratagem.”
The other piece said, “So I must prostrate myself to your personal belief and revelation?”
“No,” the bishop said, “You must prostrate yourself because I am willing to share my belief and revelation with you.”
“I will say only that you are terribly uninformed.”
The bishop said, “Do you know something? Are you one of the higher powers. Are you the king?”
The other piece said, “The king? I work for a living. I am but a knight, humble and strong. I am the arm of the king.”
“Which king is that?”
“Which ever king who shares the same color as I am. The one who allows me to protect him with my sword and my steed.”
“You are a horse head who moves two up and one to the side. You can jump other pieces, but you are just a horse head.”
“No, I am the one who inhales deeply from my nostrils and smell the steel, the copper in all the spilled blood. The one who finds beauty in the tipping over of the enemy; I hear the snap as they hit the hard board. That is where god lives. In the lives lost. We are not resurrected to play again by the whim of a god. We are our own reinforcements. The new fresh troops.”
“My poor misguided child, how can you justify war without the presence of God?”
“Justification? War is the justification. We only use words like God’s War, and The Lord’s Will to make it look pretty, to make the metal taste sweeter.”
The bishop said, “You are a monster.”
The knight said, “You are a pompous buffoon.”
“Idiot.”
“Dolt.”
“Fiend.”
“Sycophant.”
Pawns. This last was said by someone else. Someone not one of them. The voice sounded again, “You are both but pawns, like the rest of us.” The two became silent, wanting to see who was maneuvering the board. Who was playing this gambit. They waited with undiscussed attention as the next move in this cramped game was to be played.
- - -
David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
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