Godless in London
By Rick Steigelman


Day Six— London, England. My mother and I set our sights on St. Paul’s Cathedral. We separate to pursue our preferred methods of getting there (with Mom taking the subway and me venturing forth on foot). When I arrive at the front door of the church, Mom greets me, fuming. St. Paul’s, she tells me, now charges an entrance fee. Evidently, this had not been the case when last she visited, some years earlier. Her protest is going to take the form of boycotting the place.

As for myself, I’m thousands of miles from home, and a couple of quid and a few P are not going to keep me from visiting St. Paul’s Cathedral. When I offer to pay Mom’s way, her outrage magically disappears and she beats me to the door.

We fall in line in admiring the wonder of Wren before descending into the crypt. After kicking about the dead for a while, we start back upstairs. As we near the top of the steps, we find our ascension greeted by a swelling of choral music that has come to fill the majestic cathedral. The Lord, it seems, has found us.

Unbeknownst to Mom and I, a church service is scheduled to begin shortly. It is sometimes easy to forget that the great churches of Europe are practicing parishes, and not merely in the business of sticking it to tourists.

A church service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. Not even a pagan could pass on such an opportunity. I take a seat.

After a prelude consisting of another fifteen minutes or so of captivating music, Mom and I are feeling sated, and we decide to get out before the sales pitch commences.

I figure that if Jesus really wants to redeem our wayward souls, He can pop by the pub and make His case over a pint. And, He knows, we certainly could’ve used Him later that evening over at The Bricklayer’s Arms, Gresse Street, when we find ourselves run up against a quiz bowl game slanted against us.

We have stumbled upon this place, while in pursuit of another, and are taken by its idyllic upstairs setting of sofas, comfy chairs and tables arranged for maximum socializing effect. It feels like somebody’s living room. And it’s looking like a party.

Mom and I grab a corner spot at the bar, which provides a good vantage point for surveying the entire scene.

We then discover that we’ve arrived just in time for the pub’s Tuesday night quiz bowl contest. The winners are to receive free pints. I roll up my sleeves.

Mom and I start off at a torrid pace, nailing dead-on the first four questions (out of thirty). It is at this juncture that an anti-American bias rears its provincial head. Name the MP from Luton? What the hell’s going on up in Luton that they need their own military police?

Next question: name the city in which this year’s Junior Croquet Royal Championship is to be held. For the love of God, you’ve got to be kidding me? In the name of fairness, then, how about the following question being, in which city is the annual Poulon Weedeater Independence Bowl played? I’ll give you Shreveport, Louisiana and a third straight American victory over the British (following up on the less significant triumphs of the Wars for Independence and of 1812).

Well, the Weedeater Bowl doesn’t make the list of questions. Perhaps had they asked a thirty-first question, as a tie-breaker. But they don’t.

And though I suspect that the name of the MP from Luton is to be found in neither Testament, and that the Junior Croquet Royal Championship earns no mention, either, I am equally confident that if anyone can pull these answers out of thin air, it would be God’s Kid. Those are no ordinary genes, after all.

But He is not there for us. Mom and I go into a freefall and finish last. We pay our bar tab and leave.

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