Arguing with God

It was a time of religious upheaval. Newspapers and social media bristled with angry conflict. Out in the streets, atheists and religionists jostling with one another on every corner. History was lurching forward in its usual way.

The cultural wars went in cycles. An eternal tug-of-war, back and forth, up and down, swinging left to right, with one side winning and the other side losing, every few years.

There were lulls in the religious conflict when life settled down into something resembling peace. Church choirs sang hymns while police cars chased criminals—all the usual business of metropolitan life. At some point, Tomasz Kowalski Bosso came into the world; better known as “Tommy”. This, then, is Tommy’s story, a story about a young motorcycle fiend with an extraterrestrial Harley-Davidson, who rebelled against his parents’ religious beliefs and spent most of a lifetime arguing with God.

Tommy was big and muscular but rather soft in the middle. He had prominent tattoos, wore a leather jacket with a skull-and-crossbones badge, and liked to pretend he was mean. On a big, noisy motorcycle, he rode around town—ROARrrrr! When he was on public display, he did a reasonably good job of imitating a real biker.

Tommy cut a momentous figure; he looked scruffy and existential astride his hog, but he never joined a gang or became a real criminal. He wasn’t a real biker, only a “wanna-be biker”. Mostly, he got on with his life. Sort of. He roared around highways and streets, but when you observed him up close, you could see he was rather timid, introspective and deeply troubled. Not much of an outlaw. Hardly a danger to society.

Tommy’s early life was ordinary but rigorous and strict. Raised as a Polish Roman Catholic, he rebelled against his parents and, of course, turned against religion—any religion—as a teenager. At some point, he started to argue with God, something which came naturally to his kind. Perhaps that is what happens to introspective bikers. Perhaps it’s a Polish thing?

Tommy rejected the boring services, the uptight moral rules, his parents’ naive faith, the pompous hierarchy, the congregation’s conservative values. He complained to his parents that they had been brainwashed, and needled a female cousin who was determined to become a Carmelite nun. When he was alone, he threw insults heavenward. He did this until those vehement denunciations became a habit. It was who he was. He couldn’t stop complaining about God. He was always muttering angrily about something religious, it seemed.

Tommy’s arguments with God started in his late teens. He would carry on long, rambling monologues, ostensibly directed against the Deity. There was so much evil in the world. And he knew who was responsible: God! God was the problem! Even though He didn’t exist! Tommy shook his massive fist at the heavens!

“Ahhhggggrrrr!” he thundered, addressing the Almighty in the most offended tones. “I have a headache! I lost my job. My girlfriend hates me! People are starving in Africa! Why is there so much pain and suffering in the world? It’s all your fault! And I don’t even believe in you!” And he raised his beefy arms and shook his thick fist again and again and swore that he would get even with God—if He existed, that is.

As time went on, Tommy became something of a crank. He did not do things halfway: he wasn’t aiming at becoming a lukewarm agnostic; he embraced extremism. (It was the fashion at the time.) “You see,” he said, continuing his conversation with the Almighty, “I am not going to believe in you. I am becoming a militant atheist! I’ll show you!”

He joined a local chapter of the Atheism Forever Club and bought a lapel pin with the club’s emblem and pinned it proudly to his shirt. His Polish family was horrified but club members thought it was cool to have someone who looked as if he were a biker join their inner circle. They got together at regular intervals and shared atheist tracts at the local library.

But meetings with his brethren were not enough. Whenever he was feeling lonely or inadequate, Tommy would get on his motorcycle, wring back the throttle and—rrrrRRRROAR!—ride out into the countryside. He was different from the rest of his family! He was his own man now! He was a free-thinker! Why did people cling to old-fashioned religion! Every intelligent person saw that religion was nothing but superstition. He was for science, not religion! People had to grow up and face the truth, he told himself.

One afternoon, when Tommy was particularly upset, he jumped on his bike and fled to a lonely field at the edge of town. He held his new atheist lapel pin above his head, and yelled up at God: “See, I don’t believe in You any more. And You can’t make me!” And he swore a little.

He flinched a bit. After all, he had been raised in a pious Polish family. He half-expected a lightning flash directed towards him. Maybe the earth would be suddenly wrapped in darkness. Maybe the ground beneath his feet would crack open and swallow him whole. But nothing happened. Nothing at all: no thunder, no lightning, no earthquake, no sudden descent into darkness. The world did not come to a stop. The drowsy summer day continued on just as before; trees swayed in a slight breeze; a small cloud sailed aimlessly by; humming insects lazily circled from plant to plant as if there was nothing at all to be concerned about.

Tommy sped away in a cloud of billowing smoke, his mechanical chrome horse glinting in the bright sunlight. He thought proudly to himself, “I’m like the new Nietzsche! God has died! Maybe I have murdered Him!”—rrrrRRRROAR! And so his life went.

But Tommy was—in spite of all the posturing—a complicated young man. Despite his strengthened atheist convictions, he continued to argue with God. Somehow, he couldn’t stop admonishing the Almighty. He felt he needed to do it. Indeed, he argued just as much as before, almost every day.

“Prove to me that You exist,” he would say, angrily. “Go on, I dare You! I may do something drastic. You’ll see!”

“Either You come down here and do something miraculous, or I won’t believe in You,” he taunted. “Show me that You exist and You win the argument. Otherwise, I win!”

“But I don’t believe in You anyway,” he added at the end of his heavenward conversations, to assuage his atheist’s conscience.

Tommy’s poor Polish mother, who went to daily mass and dutifully said her rosary, heard what he was saying and was appalled. She looked up at him and piously read a verse from an old family Bible: “Thou shalt not put thy Lord to the test.”

“I don’t care,” Tommy retorted. “I am going to prove to you that God doesn’t exist,” he shouted, and slammed the door on his way out.

Still, for all his grandstanding and the infernal noise of his motorbike, Tommy was, by temperament, unsure of himself and leery of public causes. He became frustrated by the atheist club meetings and the long-winded philosophical arguments. When he lost his atheist lapel pin, he didn’t bother to buy a new one.

But Tommy still argued every day with the God he didn’t believe in. “Listen up, Mr. God,” he continued to yell, “I’m giving You an ultimatum! You come down right now and prove to me that You exist! Otherwise, I win the argument!”

Perhaps God was speaking to the young man—but He would have had to use a divine loudspeaker to get through the racket made by that motorcycle—rrrrRRRROAR!!!

Whatever was afoot, the heavens remained silent. No matter what the young man said, no angels with fiery swords came to slay him; no frightening voice spoke from within the darkness; no turn of fate made him question his deeply felt atheism. Politically, a dangerous new religious conflict was looming on the horizon, but other than that, everyday life continued as before.

One day, Tommy met an old-fashioned priest dressed in a black cassock with a Roman collar who would not stand for any nonsense. He looked Tommy in the eyes and told him that he would go to Hell if he didn’t cease and desist from his sinful ways! Tommy replied haughtily that he was having a personal argument with God, and if God didn’t perform a miracle very, very soon, he was going to show that Presumptuous Theological Person that he meant business! He would do something utterly sinful and blasphemous. He told the pastor, breathlessly, that religion was a myth, the opium of the people, a hoax and a psychological crutch. He warned him not to meddle in other people’s business.

Next day, Tommy hatched his plan. “Hah!” he said triumphantly as soon as he got up, “I am going to do something really bad! Let’s have a contest, Mr God! I’ll set the rules! If you are really God, do something to stop me; otherwise, I win the contest!” His plan was ingenuity itself.

Like any self-respecting biker, Tommy had several large tattoos. But this time, he would get a blasphemous, evil tattoo! One that would teach God a lesson! “Just you wait and see! I will win the contest!” he shouted heavenward to the God he didn’t believe in. “I am going to tattoo Your most Holy and Sacred Name on the soles of my feet. So that I can rub it in the dust everywhere I go. So that I can step on you and tread your name underfoot and grind it into the dirt whenever I feel like it! Hah! Try to stop me! I dare You! You can’t do anything about it, because You don’t exist. I am going to win the argument!”

Even Tommy was surprised by his own vehemence. He had formulated the plan in his mind: he would get the word Yahweh tattooed on one of his feet! And, he thought, to make matters even worse, he would steal one of his mother’s holy cards with a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and he would put that on the other foot! And he would walk on these religious symbols every day to show his superiority!

Still, for all his bluster, Tommy was cunning. Religious riots were breaking out at regular intervals, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself as the world’s worst blasphemer. In the present political climate, it was safer to be careful. Putting the tattoo on the soles of his feet would keep his blasphemy hidden from busybodies. Even his mother! No one else would know! Except God—if He existed.

Furthermore, the tattoos would make such sacrilege marvellously convenient—blasphemy made easy! He would just have to stand there in his boots and shuffle along outside, enjoying the secret satisfaction of grinding the Holy Name of God and the image of his Beloved Son into the dirt every day. The biker inside him admired his own cleverness! “I win!” he shouted to God.

And so, in a reckless, fateful moment, Tommy the wanna-be biker took his money to a shady tattoo artist, made him promise to keep quiet, and had the Holy Name of God and the image of the Sacred Heart inked into the soles of his feet. Everything was done in colour, in bold outlines, and IN CAPITAL LETTERS! The ordeal was excruciatingly painful. But Tommy gritted his teeth, held himself motionless, and got it done. The tattoo artist swaddled his feet in bandages and gave him a ride home, but he couldn’t walk properly for days.

But it was worth it. After a few weeks of healing, the biker looked up at the sky, rubbed his feet in the dirt, and said to the God that he didn’t believe in: “Hah! I showed you! Try to do something about it! You’re a loser! I won the argument!” His triumph gave him exquisite pleasure every time he stomped his feet along the pavement! No matter how many times he did it!

Of course, nothing happened. He wasn’t struck by lightning; the earth did not open up and swallow him whole; the Archangel Gabriel did not fly down from Heaven with a sword to smite him. Life was the same as it had been before. His daily life was humdrum and boring, as it always had been. Except that events in the world at large were taking a very dark turn.

More riots and skirmishes broke out. Terrorists bombed a post office, and the religious wars started up with renewed intensity. Gangs of thugs used religious differences as an excuse to beat up rivals. Tommy had given up on his leather jacket; he hardly rode his motorcycle any more. He wanted to shrink into invisibility, to be inconspicuous. Mostly, he took the bus to work and quietly hid at home. He sat in the darkness of his mother’s basement and got angry with God for allowing all this civil strife to happen. Despite his atheist convictions, he was careful not to choose sides in the wider political conflict.

Then, the leader of one religious army referred to atheists as the “spawn of Satan”, telling his faithful soldiers to eradicate them entirely. As the war dragged on, Tommy pleaded with God: “Don’t you dare let your followers find me!” His words were almost a prayer. But then he would catch himself and say, less confidently than usual, “I don’t believe in You anyway!” And he would stomp his feet.

Luckily for Tommy, the atheists eventually won the war, beating back the religious fundamentalists. But conflict wasn’t quite over. A war is like an ocean-going ship with a turbulent wake; violence always follows violence. There were show trials, atrocities, hasty executions, mutilations, people burnt to death, horrible crimes done out of revenge.

Finally, Tommy came out of hiding. “Hah! At least I’m safe this time!” he thought to himself. “It’s a good thing I outgrew all that God stuff!” And he looked heavenward and shook his fist at the God he didn’t believe in. He was relieved the right side had won.

Except that the hostilities lingered for a long time. Spies came out, combing the city for secret religious believers. They paid a lot of money for a good tip. For thirty pieces of silver, the shady tattoo artist told a police informer that Tommy was a secret believer; indeed, he was so pious, he said, that he had had the name of God and even a religious image tattooed on the soles of his feet!

“The worst kind,” the atheist police officer growled. That evening, a gang of atheist thugs came to the door and dragged Tommy away.

“But I’m an atheist! Just like you!” he protested, terrified.

“Oh sure,” the gang leader said, “that’s why you have the Holy Name of God and an image of Jesus tattooed on your feet. We know how to deal with religious fanatics like you!” he sneered. “We’ll teach you a lesson!” They beat him, held him down, cut off both his feet, and threw them in an alleyway, leaving him for dead.

Except that Tommy didn’t die. Operating in the shadows was a secret group of religious fanatics. A member of their group had infiltrated the atheist police, and thinking that a man with such devout tattoos must be one of them, they spirited Tommy away, bandaged his legs, and nursed him slowly back to health.

They could not replace his feet, but they did what they could, fitting him with prostheses and giving him a wheelchair and crutches for when he was tired. After a while, he could hobble around quite convincingly and wheel his way this way and that.

Until the political tensions subsided, Tommy led a hidden life. He got stronger and stronger physically, but, intellectually, he was in disarray. He had no idea what to believe. Mostly, he was morose and silent. He wasn’t an angry atheist any more, but he wasn’t quite a believer, and he wasn’t done arguing with God.

Years passed. Peace came, thankfully, to the city streets and the far-flung towns. The religious wars were now a thing of the past. Tommy had fled far away, to a distant city, to get away from all his bad memories. His mother had long since died, and he was alone. He had a government pension and a unit in low-cost housing. He often spent his time on a street corner, sitting in his wheelchair, begging for spare change. Quietly, to himself, he kept arguing with God.

“All right, God,” he would grumble, “You took away my feet forever! That’s bad enough! But then You sent Your followers to save me—to, er, punish me, I guess. All right, all right, I got carried away! You win! I am sick of their damn kindness! Damn!”

In truth, the footless beggar half-believed and half-disbelieved. Sometimes, he conceded to himself that he had lost the contest with God. At other times, he insisted (a little too vehemently and perhaps a little too drunkenly) that he was still an atheist. He didn’t go to church or read the Bible, but he wasn’t vociferous or zealous about atheism either. Mostly, he was wary and kept to himself. He never mentioned what had happened to him in the old religious wars. He had, over the years, learned to say nothing. It was safer that way. Who knew when the world would suddenly collapse into religious chaos again.

One day, when he was wheeling himself by the old Polish cathedral, Tommy noticed long lines of pilgrims streaming in. He hadn’t been inside a church for an eternity, but he had nothing to do and, on a whim, decided to go inside to watch the spectacle.

“Must be a special religious feast,” he thought, venturing inside to see what was going on.

As he wheeled himself around the cavernous interior, his old atheism unexpectedly reared its head. “So, Mr God, You won the contest!” he mumbled sarcastically. “I lost my feet! I don’t care! If You’re so special, do something marvellous to impress me right now! Go ahead! I dare You! Bah!”

Even Tommy was surprised at the intensity of his interior outburst. He looked savagely around, daring God to do something special, but, as usual, nothing happened: no earthquake, no flash of lightning, no descent of angry angels. The tedious singing continued as before.

A procession appeared, approaching his pew.

“What’s that?” he asked an old woman. She reminded him of his deceased mother.

“Ssshhh!” The bent figure whispered sternly in an unmistakably Polish accent. “It’s the relic of an unknown saint who was killed in the religious wars when everyone had to worship in secret. He was so holy that he had the Holy Name of God and an image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus tattooed on his feet! Ssshhh!”

There, right in front of him, Tommy beheld his own feet, positioned prominently on plush red cushions with gold tassels, and carried by in an ornate reliquary! There they were, his own feet, cut off at the ankles, with the blasphemous tattoos turned heavenward. Surrounded by altar-boys swinging thuribles and swirling clouds of incense, the handsome young priest held the bejewelled reliquary high as the procession passed.

Tommy felt sick to his stomach. “Those are—” he protested, but people turned and gave him disapproving looks. “Ssshhh, show some respect!” someone whispered.

Perplexed, amazed, and feeling faint, Tommy watched his feet disappear along the nave followed by a trail of jubilant pilgrims, as organ music played triumphantly.

“I give up,” he sighed, his heart beating fast. He glanced heavenward. “Sir, Mr Almighty, You win,” he whimpered.

He bowed his head and, trembling, made a heartfelt sign of the cross.

Louis Groarke is Professor of Philosophy at St Francis Xavier University in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. His story “Be Prepared” appeared in the January-February 2021 issue, and several of his poems have also appeared in Quadrant, most recently in the October issue