The motion to admit theologians
By longstanding tradition, the monthly meeting of the Philosophers Club rotated among the afterlifes, with the sole exception that one of the fall meetings was always held on the south balcony of Valhalla. Humankind had invented and staffed and populated so many afterlifes that decades separated meetings in the same place, and nobody minded at all. But every fall – Valhalla. The colors across Europe were always splendid, and everyone thrilled to the sight of the great flocks of birds wheeling and dipping southward.
Bertrand Russell was standing at the marble railing, idly packing his pipe and enjoying the view, when Voltaire approached him. “I suppose you know,” he said after an exchange of pleasantries, “that Blaise intends to demand action on his motion to admit theologians.”
Russell rolled his eyes. “I do. The vote will be closer than it ought to be, but my count has him losing.”
“He thinks the events in Paris makes it even more urgent.”
“Blaise is a fool. It makes it more urgent that theologians disappear right off the earth once for all. They have no standard for truth, they have no way of testing a claim. They assume a god, they assume his characteristics, they presuppose that the Bible is true when everybody with a lick of brains knows about two-thirds of it is nonsense, then …”
Voltaire held up his hands: Stop. “You don’t need to convince me. Wasn’t I saying that more than 200-years ago?” He continued. “But we are to hear an appeal for the motion from a special guest — Abraham.”
Russell’s hands stopped and he stared at Voltaire, appalled. “Abraham?”, he croaked. “The Abraham? The one who was willing to gut his son?”
Voltaire nodded.
Russell raged on. “The Abraham who founded three religions that can’t stop killing each other? The madman-son-of-a-bitch Abraham?”
Voltaire glumly nodded again. “That’s the guy. And I’m picking-up whispers that at least some people are thinking of switching their votes. A gesture of goodwill, and all that.”
Russell gasped, then straightened-up. “His membership privileges entitle Blaise to bring a guest, but nobody, not even a regular member, has a pro forma right to address the meeting. He must be recognized by the chair.”
“Hannah,” Voltaire said, “intends to recognize him — if the motion comes to the floor.”
“So, someday,” Russell said slowly, “I could be sitting next to that smarmy little Moolah bastard, trying to eat lunch and listening to him instruct me about the importance of my worldview?’”
“Moolah?”
“Something like that. He’s big in the American south. Insufferable little bug.”
“I guess you could,” Voltaire said. “Me, too, I suppose,” he added sadly.
The two men stared out toward Europe, indifferent now to the brilliant, smoldering colors, their eyes locked on the pall over Paris. “John Dewey,” Voltaire began, “chairs the Membership Committee this year. He says he can table the motion if Friedrich will go along.”
“Friedrich,” Russell snorted, “would probably prefer to decide the matter with swords.”
Voltaire grinned.
“So,” Russell said. “Should I go talk to him?”
Voltaire’s eyes widened in surprise. “No,” he said firmly. “Your prestige doesn’t reach that far. I doubt that he will ever forgive you for the trashing you gave him in your History. Besides,” he added, “Hannah says Friedrich is firm against the motion, but thinks she can persuade him in favor of just tabling it once he understands the politics of it. She’s going to prime him with an explanation, then put him at the table with Blaise and Abraham so he’s good and seething when John calls for objections to voting the motion.”
“It won’t be disposed of once for all, though. We’ll have to consider it sometime in the future.”
“Probably,” Voltaire agreed, “the stupid are like the poor — they will always be with us. Bertrand,” he added gently. “Don’t make a scene. Nobody minds a bit that we’ve been eternally banned from Paradise ever since you pinched that waitress; awful food anyway. But it would be very bad for you if we couldn’t return here, to the eternal home of the warriors. What are we philosophers, if not warriors? Soldiers fight a battle; we fight for minds and claim millennia. Look at what Plato achieved, even if he was dead wrong and died a slave! That Moolah guy who so irritates you is right about the importance of – What was it? Worldview? – even if his worldview is the worldview of a naive idiot child. I really just came over to let you know what’s afoot, and to ask you not to make difficulties. It will work out fine.”
Russell looked at his old friend, the warrior who had survived prison, exile, countless arrests and death threats — and prevailed to be buried at the Panthéon. “Fine,” he sighed. “But don’t expect me to shake our guest’s hand. That won’t happen.”
“Of course not,” Voltaire said. “Of course not. What decent man would?”
And matters played out exactly as Voltaire and Arendt had plotted, amid polite conversation and tinkling glasses. Friedrich got a bit loud at one point, then abruptly turned to face the podium as Martin Heidegger began his much-anticipated talk about phenomenology. The motion was tabled and membership was not expanded to admit theologians, but neither were they decisively rejected. Noting how few people stopped to shake Abraham’s hand, all of them second-tier men, Russell believed the motion would have failed. Everyone agreed that the fall colors were the best ever; even Plato was heard to whisper something about “the form” as he gazed across the balcony at the brilliant foliage. Nobody mentioned the unpleasantness in Paris.