My Teabag is Broken

Everyday, about 3 in the afternoon, I engage in the ancient ritual of drinking tea. I developed this habit after a trip to Europe, where tea or cafe in the afternoon was de rigeur. However, my afternoon teas are rarely attended with crustless finger sandwiches, scones and Devonshire clotted cream. It's usually me, a styrofoam cup, a dribble of hot water from the coffee machine, and a bag of mint-green tea.

I'm going to talk about broken tea bags, European tea orgies, and God, so hang in there with me.

We were in Bath, in England. Bath is a lovely city of museum-quality Georgian houses, a pretty river, a pretty Abbey (really, a cathedral), and the ancient Roman Baths. It was me, the Brain, the Big Cheese and the Missus. We'd enjoyed a leisurely afternoon inspecting the baths and had moved to the Pumproom above them for a full tea service. A Harry Potter-look-a-like waited on us, or I should say, we generally waited on Faux Potter to serve us. Young and cuddly-cute in that Harry Potter-way, I suspect he spent much of his time investigating some Faux Hermione's girlish magic in some nearby dark closet. Or maybe a Faux Snape. But I digress, almost to the point of slash fiction. I must draw a line somewhere.

Vincent Vega would no doubt say, "Harry Potter's not much of a waiter." I'll leave it at that.

High tea at the Pumproom was servicable (when served), though mildly inadequate. We'd not actually eaten lunch, so I was quite hungry. While I was still enjoying my little sandwiches, the larger, fattier tray of scones and cakes was brought to the table. I resigned myself to having to fill up on sugaries rather than tomatoes and cucumbers.

A few days later, we found ourselves in London, once again having tea. This time, we went to the rooftop of Harrod's, a reasonably respected location for good high tea. The service was impeccable (and highly managed) and the sandwiches were stellar. The tomato sandwiches, in particular, were note-worthy. Tomato sliced paper-thin, a sprinkle of salt, a crunch of pepper, and fresh wheat bread meticulously devoid of crust. These I devoured along with the other fingerling sandwiches of salmon, cucumbers, and egg salad. I commented to my partners on how happy I was with the tomato sandwiches. The Cheese, likewise, opined on their superiority.

The manager came to clear our table of the empty sandwich plates before the sweeter comestibles were brought to the table. Through my mind went the words, Ask for more. Ask for more. But I did not.

Apparently, however, Mr. Al-Fayed hires psychics at Harrod's. The manager stepped away from the table, then turned back and asked, "Would anyone like more sandwiches?"

"Yes, please," I replied, "I'd like another slice of tomato sandwich, please." The Cheese, not wanting to be left out, requested the same. The Brain and Missus, content, said nothing.

Now, allow me to descibe a plate of finger sandwiches at Harrod's precisely: a white plate, 10 inches across, with five finger-sized planks of sandwiches, 1 inch by 1.5 inches by 4 inches. Each sandwiches consists of a different subject: one tomato, one cucumber, one watercress and salmon, one egg salad, one ham or other sliced meat.

In asking for "another slice of tomato sandwich", one would suppose I would get the following: a white plate, 10 inches across, with precisely one finger-sized plank of tomato sandwich, 1 inch by 1.5 inches by 4 inches.

Harrod's, in addition to hiring psychics, apparently hires generous ones. The Cheese and I each received: a white plate, 10 inches across, with five finger-sized planks of tomato sandwiches, 1 inch by 1.5 inches by 4 inches.

The Brain and the Missus were quickly enlisted against their will to help reduce the number of tomato sandwiches extant on our plates.

As far as high teas go, that was the best one ever.

Now, God. Let's talk about this guy for a bit. I saw one of his bumper stickers yesterday. This is not hard in Dallas. God's made a fortune on bumper stickers. This one, in particular, was apologetically liberal, though. It said:

God is not a Republican (or a Democrat)

That's what I mean by "apologetically" liberal. Rather than make a simple, true statement (God is not a Republican), God apparently felt it necessary to apologize obtusely for this statement (by way of being fair to Republicans who thought God was a member of the G.O.P. and might be upset to learn he was not) by informing us that he's also not a member of the Democratic Party, either. One presumes, therefore, he has fled the major party system for the Libertarians or the Greens or whatever, but ran out of space on the bumper sticker to continue further disclaimers.

It occured to me that perhaps what God was trying to tell me on this bumper sticker of his was that he's not anything. That is to say, what God really wanted the bumper sticker to say was:

God is not Human

That'd about cover it, for humans anyway. Then it occured to me that this has a similar problem. He's correctly removed himself from the set of human possibilities, but forgotten to disclaim the other possibilities as well. He'd need to cover God is not Canine, for example, lest his bumper sticker consumers become schismatically confused.

A recursive loop of sorts ensues, with the bumper sticker becoming much to large to read while passing, let alone sitting in grid-lock for any reasonable amount of time. God, however, being God can come up with one bumper sticker that does the job:

God is not God

Whew!

The nice thing about this is that it's true. God is not God. God is. And God is not. That is to say, God is everything you cannot understand and God is not anything you can understand. To say you know God is to commit the ultimate lie, for your comprehension of God is so limited and so futile, only hubris of the highest order could bring you to that conclusion. You only know that you do not know God.

God is not what you think God is.

Likewise, you cannot possess a personal relationship with God, for God is ultimately impersonal, since a personal relationship requires a person -- a human -- to exist. To believe you can, again, is utter hubris. And pride goeth before the fall.

God is and is not.

Ah, but the Bible says that God created Man in his image. Quite true, God did create Man in his image, in precisely the same way that and with as much effort as the Sun creates its image upon a million, billion waves of the sea. We briefly reflect God, like a wave reflects the Sun. And we are as like God and as near to God as the image in the wave is to the Sun.

But to strive for God, to strive for the ultimate and unknowable, and to love and cherish and delude yourself about the very thing you can never know, that is beautifully, poetically human.

Now, my teabag is broken. Apparently, the box of mint-green tea currently in the office kitchen is faulty. The strings are improperly attached and come loose from the bag with the slightest tug. Meaning, I have to fish the teabags out of the tea with my fingers.

Oh, Harrod's, wherefor art thou?