Philip K Dick - The Transmigration of Timothy Archer

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Philip K. Dick

The Transmigration of Timothy Archer

1982

An Ode for him

Ah Ben!

Say how, or when Shall we thy Guests

Meet at those Lyrick Feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the triple Tunne?

Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each Verse of thine

Out-did the meate, out-did the frolick wine.

My Ben

Or come agen: Or send to us,

Thy wits great over-plus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it;

Lest we that Talent spend:

And having once brought to an end That precious stock; the store

Of such a wit the world should have no more.

-ROBERT HERRICK, 1848

BAREFOOT CONDUCTS HIS seminars on his houseboat in Sausalito. It costs a hundred

dollars to find out why we are on this Earth. You also get a sandwich, but I wasn't hungry that

day. John Lennon had just been killed and I think I know why we are on this Earth; it's to find

out that what you love the most will be taken away from you, probably due to an error in high

places rather than by design.

After I parked my Honda Civic in the metered slot I sat listening to the radio. Already all

the Beatles songs ever written could be heard on every frequency. Shit, I thought. I feel like

I'm back in the Sixties, still married to Jefferson Archer.

"Where's Gate Five?" I asked two hippies going by.

They didn't answer. I wondered if they'd heard the news about John Lennon. I wondered,

then, what the hell I cared about Arabic mysticism, about the Sufis and all that other stuff that

Edgar Barefoot talked about on his weekly radio program on KPFA in Berkeley. The Sufis

are a happy lot. They teach that the essence of God isn't power or wisdom or love but beauty.

That's a totally new idea in the world, unknown to Jews and Christians. I am neither. I still

work at the Musik Shop on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley and I'm trying to make the

payments on the house that Jeff and I bought when we were married. I got the house and Jeff

got nothing. That was the story of his life.

Why would anybody in their right mind care about Arabic mysticism? I asked myself as I

locked up my Honda and started toward the line of boats. Especially on a nice day. But what

the fuck; I had already made the drive over the Richardson Bridge, through Richmond, which

is tawdry, and then past the refineries. The bay is beautiful. The police clock you on the

Richardson Bridge; they time when you pay your toll and when you leave the bridge on the

Marin side. If you arrive in Marin County too soon, it costs you big bucks.

I never cared for the Beatles. Jeff brought home Rubber Soul and I told him it was insipid.

Our marriage was breaking up and I date it from hearing "Michelle" one billion times, day

after day. That would be roughly around 1966, I guess. A lot of people in the Bay Area date

events by the release of Beatles records. Paul McCartney's first solo album came out the year

before Jeff and I separated. If I hear "Teddy Boy," I start crying. That was the year I lived in

our house alone. Don't do it. Don't live alone. Right up to the end, Jeff had his antiwar activity

to keep him company. I withdrew and listened to KPFA playing baroque music better left

forgotten.

That was how I first heard Edgar Barefoot, who impressed me initially as a jerk-off, with

his little voice and that tone of savoring his own cerebral activity immensely, delighting like a

two-year-old in each successive satori. There is evidence that I was the only person in the Bay

Area who felt that way. I changed my mind later; KPFA started broadcasting Barefoot's taped

lectures late at night, and I would listen while I tried to get to sleep. When you're half asleep,

all that monotonous intoning makes sense. Several people explained to me once that

subliminal messages had been inserted in all the programs aired in the Bay Area around 1973,

almost certainly by Martians. The message I got from listening to Barefoot seemed to be: You

are actually a good person and you shouldn't let anyone else determine your life. Anyhow I

got to sleep more and more readily as time passed; I forgot Jeff and the light that had gone out

when he died, except that now and then an incident would pop into existence in my mind,

usually regarding some crisis in the Co-op on University Avenue. Jeff used to get into fights

in the Co-op. I thought it was funny.

So now, I realized as I walked up the gangplank onto Edgar Barefoot's cushy houseboat, I

will date my going to this seminar by John Lennon's murder; the two events are for me of a

seamless whole. What a way to start understanding, I thought. Go back home and smoke a

number. Forget the wimpy voice of enlightenment; this is a time of guns; you can do nothing,

enlightened or otherwise; you are a record clerk with a degree in liberal arts from Cal. "The

best lack all conviction" ... something like that. "What rough beast ... slouches towards

Bethlehem to be born. " A creature with bad posture, nightmare of the world. We had a test on

Yeats. I got an A-minus. I was good. I used to be able to sit on the floor all day eating cheese

and drinking goat's milk, figuring out the longest novel ... I have read all the long novels. I

graduated from Cal. I live in Berkeley. I read The Remembrance of Things Past and I

remember nothing: I came out the door I went in, as the saying goes. It did me no good, all

those years in the library waiting for my number to light up, signifying that my book had been

carried to the desk. That's true for a lot of people, most likely.

But those remain in my mind as good years in which we had more cunning than is

generally recognized; we knew exactly what we had to do: the Nixon regime had to go; we

did what we did deliberately, and none of us regrets it. Jeff Archer is dead, now; John Lennon

is dead as of today. Other dead people lie along the path, as if something fairly large passed

by. Maybe the Sufis with their conviction about God's innate beauty can make me happy;

maybe this is why I am marching up the gangplank to this plush houseboat: a plan is fulfilled

in which all the sad deaths add up to something instead of noth-ing, somehow get converted

to joy.

A terribly thin kid who resembled our friend Joe the junkie stopped me, saying, "Ticket?"

"You mean this thing?" From my purse I got out the printed card that Barefoot had mailed

me upon receipt of my hundred dollars. In California you buy enlightenment the way you buy

peas at the supermarket, by size and by weight. I'd like four pounds of enlightenment, I said to

myself. No, better make that ten pounds. I'm really running short.

"Go to the rear of the boat," the skinny youth said.

"And you have a nice day," I said.

When one catches sight of Edgar Barefoot for the first time one says: He fixes car

transmissions. He stands about five-six and because he weighs so much you get the

impression that he survives on junk food, by and large hamburgers. He is bald. For this area

of the world at this time in human civilization, he dresses all wrong; he wears a long wool

coat and the most ordinary brown pants and blue cotton shirt ... but his shoes appear to be

expensive. I don't know if you can call that thing around his neck a tie. They tried to hang

him, perhaps, and he proved too heavy; he broke the rope and continued on about his

business. Enlightenment and survival are intermingled, I said to myself as I took a seat-cheap

folding chairs, and al-ready a few people here and there, mostly young. My husband is dead

and his father is dead; his father's mistress ate a mason jar of barbiturates and is in the grave,

perpetually asleep, which was the whole point of doing it. It sounds like a chess game: the

bishop is dead, and with him the blond Norwegian woman who he supported by means of the

Bishop's Discretionary Fund, according to Jeff; a chess game and a racket. These are strange

times now, but those were far stranger.

Edgar Barefoot, standing before us, motioned us to change seats, to sit up front. I

wondered what would happen if I lit a cigarette. I once lit a cigarette in an ashram, after a

lecture on the Vedas. Mass loathing descended on me, plus a sharp dig in the ribs. I had

outraged the lofty. The strange thing about the lofty is that they die just like the common.

Bishop Timothy Archer owned a whole lot of loftiness, by weight and by size, and it did him

no good; he lies like the rest, underground. So much for spiritual things. So much for

aspirations. He sought Jesus. Moreover, he sought what lies behind Jesus: the real truth. Had

he been content with the phony he would still be alive. That is something to ponder. Lesser

people, accepting falsehood, are alive to tell about it; they did not perish in the Dead Sea

Desert. The most famous bishop of modern times bit the big one because he mistrusted Jesus.

There is a lesson there. So perhaps I have enlightenment; I know not to doubt. I know, also, to

take more than two bottles of Coca-Cola with me when I drive out into the wastelands, ten

thousand miles from home. Using a gas station map as if I am still in down-town San

Francisco. It's fine for locating Portsmouth Square but not so fine for locating the genuine

source of Christianity, hidden from the world these twenty-two hundred years.

I will go home and smoke a number, I said to myself. This is a waste of time; from the

moment John Lennon died every-thing has been a waste of time, including mourning over it. I

have given up mourning for Lent ... that is, I cease to grieve.

Raising his hands to us, Barefoot began to talk. I little noted what he said; neither did I

long remember, as the expression goes. The horse's ass was me, for paying a hundred dollars

to listen to this; the man before us was the smart one because he got to keep the money: we

got to give it. That is how you calculate wisdom: by who pays. I teach this. I should instruct

the Sufis, and the Christians as well, especially the Episcopa-lian bishops with their funds.

Front me a hundred bucks, Tim. Imagine calling the bishop "Tim." Like calling the pope

"George" or "Bill" like the lizard in Alice. I think Bill de-scended the chimney, as I recall. It

is an obscure reference; like what Barefoot is saying it is little noted, and no one re-members

it.

"Death in life," Barefoot said, "and life in death; two mo-dalities, like yin and yang, of one

underlying continuum. Two faces-a 'holon,' as Arthur Koestler terms it. You should read

Janus. Each passes into the other as a joyous dance. It is Lord Krishna who dances in us and

through us; we are all Sri Krishna, who, if you remember, comes in the form of time. That is

his real, universal shape. Ultimate form, destroyer of all people ... of everything that is." He

smiled at us all, with beatific pleasure.

Only in the Bay Area, I thought, would this nonsense be tolerated. A two-year-old

addresses us. Christ, how foolish it all is! I feel my old distaste, the angry aversion we

cultivate in Berkeley, that Jeff enjoyed so. His pleasure was to get angry at every trifle. Mine

is to endure nonsense. At financial cost.

I am terribly frightened of death, I thought. Death has de-stroyed me; it isn't Sri Krishna,

destroyer of all people; it is death, destroyer of my friends. It singled them out and left

everyone else undisturbed. Fucking death, I thought. You homed in on those I love. You

utilized their folly and pre-vailed. You took advantage of foolish people, which is truly

unkind. Emily Dickinson was full of shit when she prattled about "kindly Death"; that's an

abominable thought, that death is kind. She never saw a six-car pile-up on the

EastshoreFreeway. Art, like theology, a packaged fraud. Downstairs the people are fighting

while I look for God in a reference book. God, ontological arguments for. Better yet: practical

argu-ments against. There is no such listing. It would have helped a lot if it had come in time:

arguments against being foolish, ontological and empirical, ancient and modern (see common

sense). The trouble with being educated is that it takes a long time; it uses up the better part of

your life and when you are finished what you know is that you would have benefited more by

going into banking. I wonder if bankers ask such questions. They ask what the prime rate is

up to today. If a banker goes out on the Dead Sea Desert he probably takes a flare pistol and

canteens and C-rations and a knife. Not a crucifix display-ing a previous idiocy that was

intended to remind him. De-stroyer of the people on the Eastshore Freeway, and my hopes

besides; Sri Krishna, you got us all. Good luck in your other endeavors. Insofar as they are

equally commendable in the eyes of other gods.

I am faking it, I thought. These passions are bilge. I have become inbred, from hanging

around the Bay Area intellec-tual community; I think as I talk: pompously, and in riddles; I

am not a person but a self-admonishing voice. Worse, I talk as I hear. Garbage in (as the

computer science majors say); gar-bage out. I should stand up and ask Mr. Barefoot a

meaning-less question and then go home while he is phrasing the perfect answer. That way he

wins and I get to leave. We both gain. He does not know me; I do not know him, except as a

sententious voice. It ricochets in my head, I thought, already, and it's just begun; this is the

first lecture of many. Sententious twaddle ... the name of the Archer family's black retainer in,

perhaps, a TV sitcom. "Sententious, you get your black ass in here, you hear me?" What this

droll little man is saying is important; he is discussing Sri Krishna and how men die. This is a

topic that I from personal experience deem significant. I should know, because it is familiar to

me; it showed up in my life years ago and will not go away.

Once we owned a little old farm house. The wiring shorted out when someone plugged in a

toaster. During rainy weather, water dripped from the light bulb in the kitchen ceiling. Jeff

every now and then poured a coffee can of black tarlike stuff onto the roof to stop it from

leaking; we could not afford the ninety-weight paper. The tar did no good. Our house

belonged with others like it in the flat part of Berkeley on San Pablo Avenue, near Dwight

Way. The good part was that Jeff and I could walk to the Bad Luck Restaurant and look at

Fred Hill, the KGB agent (some said) who fixed the salads and owned the place and decided

whose pictures got hung up for free exhibition. When Fred came to town years ago, all the

Party members in the Bay Area froze solid, out of fear; this was the tip-off that a Soviet

hatchetman was in the vicinity. It also told you who belonged to the Party and who did not.

Fear reigned among the dedicated but no one else cared. It was like the eschatological judge

sorting the sheep, the faithful, from among the ordinary others, except in this case it was the

sheep who quaked.

Dreams of poverty excited universal enjoyment in Berkeley, coupled with the hope that the

political and economic situa-tion would worsen, throwing the country into ruin: this was the

theory of the activists. Misfortune so vast that it would wreck everyone, responsible and not

responsible alike sinking into defeat. We were then and we are now totally crazy. It's literate

to be crazy. For example, you would have to be crazy to name your daughter Goneril. Like

they taught us at the English Department at Cal, madness was funny to the patrons of the

Globe Theater. It is not funny now. At home you are a great artist, but here you are just the

author of a difficult book about Here Comes Everybody. Big deal, I thought. With a drawing

in the margin of someone thumbing his nose. And for that, like this speech now, we paid good

money. You'd think having been poor so long would have taught me better, sharp-ened my

wits, as it were. My instinct for self-preservation.

I am the last living person who knew Bishop Timothy Archer of the Diocese of California,

his mistress, his son my husband the homeowner and wage earner pro forma. Some-body

should-well, it would be nice if no one went the way they collectively went, volunteering to

die, each of them, like Parsifal, a perfect fool.

DEAR JANE MARION:

Within a period of two days, two people-one an editor friend, the other a writer friend-

recommended The Green Cover to me, both of them saying the same thing in effect, that if I

wanted to know what was happening in contemporary literature I had god-damn well better

know your work. When I got the book home (I had been told that the titular essay was the best

and to start with it), I realized that you had herein done a piece on Tim Archer. So I read that.

All of a sudden he was alive again, my friend. It brings fierce pain to me, not joy. I can't write

about him, since I'm not a writer, although I did major in English at Cal; anyhow, one day as a

sort of exercise I sat down and scratched out a spurious dialog between him and me, to see if I

could by any chance recapture the cadence of his endless flow of talk. I found I could do it,

but, like Tim himself, it was dead.

People ask me sometimes what he was like, but I'm not into Christianity so I don't

encounter church people that often, al-though I used to. My husband was his son Jeff so I

knew Tim on a rather personal basis. Frequently we talked theology. At the time of Jeff's

suicide, I met Tim and Kirsten at the airport in San Francisco; they were briefly back from

England and meeting with the official translators of the Zadokite Documents, at which point

in his life Tim first began to believe that Christ was a fraud and that the Zadokite Sect

possessed the true religion. He asked me how he should go about conveying this news to his

flock. This was before Santa Barbara. He kept Kirsten in a plain apartment in the Tenderloin

District of the City. Very few people went there. Jeff and I, of course, could. I remember

when Jeff first introduced me to his father; Tim walked up to me and said, "My name's Tim

Archer." He didn't mention he was a bishop. He did have on the ring, though.

I'm the one who got the phone call about Kirsten's suicide. We were still suffering over

Jeff's suicide. I had to stand there and listen to Tim telling me that Kirsten had "just slipped

away"; I could see my little brother, who had really been fond of Kirsten; he was assembling a

balsawood model of a Spad Thirteen-he knew the call was from Tim but of course he didn't

know that now Kirsten, along with Jeff, was dead.

Tim differed from everyone else I ever knew in these respects: he could believe in

anything and he would immediately act on the basis of his new belief; that is, until he ran into

another belief and then he acted on that. He was convinced, for example, that a medium had

cured Kirsten's son's mental problems, which were severe. One day, watching Tim on TV

being interviewed by David Frost, I realized that he was talking about me and Jeff ...

however, there was no real relationship between what he was saying and the reality situation.

Jeff was watching, too; he did not know that his father was talking about him. Like the

Medieval Realists, Tim believed that words were actual things. If you could put it into words,

it was de facto true. This is what cost him his life. I wasn't in Israel when he died, but I can

visualize him out on the desert studying the map the way he looked at a gas station map in

downtown San Francisco. The map said that if you drove X miles you would arrive at place

Y, whereupon he would start up the car and drive X miles knowing that Y would be there; it

said so on the map. The man who doubted every article of Christian doctrine believed

everything he saw written down.

But the incident that, for me, conveyed the most about him took place in Berkeley one day.

Jeff and I were supposed to meet Tim at a particular corner at a particular time. Tim drove up

late. Running after him came a gas station attendant, furiously angry. Tim had filled up at this

man's station and then backed over a pump, mashing it flat-whereupon Tim had driven off

because he was late for his appointment with us.

"You destroyed my pump!" the attendant yelled, totally out of breath and totally beside

himself. "I can call the police. You just drove off. I had to run all the way after you."

What I wanted to see was whether Tim would tell this man, a very angry but really a very

modest man in the social order, a man at the bottom of the scale on which Tim, really, stood

at the top-I wanted to see if Tim would inform him that he was the Bishop of the Diocese of

California and was known all over the world, a friend of Martin Luther King, Jr., a friend of

Robert Kennedy, a great and famous man who wasn't, at the moment, wearing his clericals.

Tim did not. He humbly apologized. It became evident to the gas station attendant after a bit

that he was dealing with someone for whom large brightly colored metal pumps did not exist;

he was dealing with a man who was, quite literally, living in another world. That other world

was what Tim and Kirsten called "The Other Side," and step by step that Other Side drew

them all to it: first Jeff, then Kirsten and, ineluctably, Tim himself.

Sometimes I tell myself that Tim still exists but totally, now, in that other world. How does

Don McLean put it in his song "Vincent"? "This world was never meant for one as beautiful

as you." That's my friend; this world was never really real to him, so I guess it wasn't the right

world for him; a mistake got made somewhere, and underneath he knew it.

When I think about Tim I think:

"And still I dream he treads the lawn, Walking ghostly in the dew, Pierced by my glad

singing through ..."

As Yeats put it.

Thank you for your piece on Tim, but it hurt to find him alive again, for a moment. I guess

that is the measure of greatness in a piece of writing, that it can do that.

I believe it was in one of Aldous Huxley's novels that a character phones up another

character and exclaims excitedly, "I've just found a mathematical proof for the existence of

God!" Had it been Tim he would have found another proof the next day contravening the

first-and would have believed that just as readily. It was as if he was in a garden of flowers

and each flower was new and different and he discovered each in turn and was equally

delighted by each, but then forgot the ones that came before. He was totally loyal to his

friends. Those, he never forgot. Those were his permanent flowers.

The strange part, Ms. Marion, is that in a way I miss him more than I miss my husband.

Maybe he made more of an impression on me. I don't know. Perhaps you can tell me; you're

the writer.

Cordially,

Angel Archer

I wrote that to the famous New York Literary Establishment author Jane Marion, whose

essays appear in the best of the little magazines; I did not expect an answer and I got none.

Maybe her publisher, to whom I sent it, read it and flipped it away; I don't know. Marion's

essay on Tim had infuriated me; it was based entirely on secondhand information. Marion

never knew Tim but she wrote about him anyhow. She said something about Tim "giving up

friendships when it served his purpose" or something like that. Tim never gave up a friendship

in his life.

That appointment that Jeff and I had made with the bishop was an important one. In two

respects, official and, as it turned out, unofficial. Regarding the official aspect, I proposed and

intended to carry off a meeting, a merger, between Bishop Archer and my friend Kirsten

Lundborg who represented FEM in the Bay Area. The Female Emancipation Movement

wanted Tim to make a speech on its behalf, a speech for free. As the wife of the bishop's son,

it was thought I could pull it off. Needless to say, Tim did not seem to understand the

situation, but that was not his fault; neither Jeff nor I had clued him in. Tim supposed we were

getting together to have a meal at the Bad Luck, which he had heard about. Tim would be

paying for the meal because we didn't have any money at all that year, or, for that matter, the

year before. As a clerical typist in a law office on Shattuck Avenue I was the putative wage-

earner. The law office consisted of two Berkeley guys active in all the protest movements.

They defended in cases involving drugs. Their firm was called BARNES AND GLEASON

LAW OFFICE AND CANDLE SHOP; they sold handmade candles, or at least displayed

them. It was Jerry Barnes' way of insulting his own profession and making it clear that he had

no intention of bringing in any money. Regarding this goal he was successful. I remember one

time a grateful client paid him in opium, a black stick that looked like a bar of unsweetened

chocolate. Jerry was at a loss as to what to do with it. He wound up giving it away.

It was interesting to watch Fred Hill, the KGB agent, greeting all his customers the way a

good restaurateur does, shaking hands and smiling. Hill had cold eyes. According to the talk

on the street he had the authority to murder those under Party discipline who seemed restive.

Tim paid hardly any attention to Fred Hill as the son of a bitch led us to a table. I wondered

what the Bishop of California would say if he knew that the man handing us our menus was a

Russian national here in the U.S. under a fake name, an officer in the Soviet secret police. Or

perhaps this was all a Berkeley myth. As in the many preceding years, Berkeley and paranoia

were bedfellows. The end of the Vietnam War was a long way off;

Nixon had yet to pull out U.S. forces. Watergate still lay several years ahead. Government

agents rooted about the Bay Area. We independent activists suspected everyone of conniving;

we trusted neither the right nor the CP-USA. If there was any single hated thing in Berkeley it

was the smell of the police.

"Hello, folks," Fred Hill said. "The soup today is minestrone. Would you like a glass of

wine while you decide?"

The three of us said we wanted wine-just so long as it wasn't Gallo-and Fred Hill went off

to get it.

"He's a colonel in the KGB," Jeff said to the bishop.

"Very interesting," Tim said, scrutinizing the menu.

"They're really underpaid," I said.

"That would be why he has opened up a restaurant," Tim said, looking around him at the

other tables and patrons. "I wonder if they have Black Sea caviar, here." Glancing up at me,

he said, "Do you like caviar, Angel? The roe of the sturgeon, although they do sometimes

pass off the roe of Cyclopterus lumpus as caviar; however, that is generally of a reddish hue

and larger. It is much cheaper. I don't care for it-lumpfish caviar, I mean. In a sense, to say

'lumpfish caviar' is an oxymoron." He laughed, mostly to himself.

Shit, I thought.

"What's wrong?" Jeff said.

"I'm just wondering where Kirsten is," I said. I looked at my watch.

The bishop said, "The origins of the feminist movement can be found in Lysistrata. 'We

must refrain from all touch of baubled love ...'" Again he laughed. "'With bolts and bars our

orders flout and-' " He paused, as if considering whether to go on. " 'And shut us out.' It's a

pun. 'Shut us out' refers both to the general situation of noncompliance and a shutting up of

the vagina."

"Dad," Jeff said, "we're trying to figure out what to order. Okay?"

The bishop said, "If you mean we're trying to decide what to have to eat, my remark is

certainly applicable. Aristophanes would have appreciated that."

"Come on," Jeff said.

Carrying a tray, Fred Hill returned. "Louis Martini burgundy." He set down three glasses.

"If you'll excuse my asking-aren't you Bishop Archer?"

The bishop nodded.

"You marched with Dr. King at Selma," Hill said.

"Yes, I was at Selma," the bishop said.

I said, "Tell him your vagina joke." To Fred Hill I said,

"The bishop knows a real old vagina joke."

Chuckling, Bishop Archer said, "The joke is old, she means.

Don't misunderstand syntactically."

"Dr. King was a great man," Fred Hill said.

"He was a very great man," the bishop said. "I'll have the sweetbreads."

"That's a good choice," Fred Hill said, jotting. "Also let me recommend the pheasant."

"I'll have the veal Oscar," I said.

"So will I," Jeff said. He seemed moody. I knew that he objected to my using my

friendship with the bishop in order to get a free speech-for FEM or any other group. He knew

how easily free speeches got tugged out of his father. Both he and the bishop wore dark-wool

business suits, and of course Fred Hill, famous KGB agent and mass killer, wore a suit and

tie.

I wondered that day, sitting there with the two of them in their business suits, if Jeff would

go into Holy Orders as his father had; both men looked solemn, bringing to the task of

ordering dinner the same intensity, the same gravity, that they brought to so much else: the

professional stance oddly punctuated on the bishop's part with wit ... although, like today, the

wit never struck me as quite right.

As we spooned up our minestrone soup, Bishop Archer talked about his forthcoming

heresy trial. It was a subject he found endlessly fascinating. Certain Bible Belt bishops were

out to get him because he had said in several published articles and in his sermons preached at

Grace Cathedral that no one had seen hide nor hair of the Holy Ghost since apostolic times.

This had caused Tim to conclude that the doctrine of the Trinity was incorrect. If the Holy

Ghost was, in fact, a form of God equal to Yahweh and Christ, surely he would still be with

us. Speaking in tongues did not impress him. He had seen a lot of it in his years in the

Episcopal Church and it struck him as autosuggestion and dementia. Further, a scrupulous

reading of Acts disclosed that at Pentecost when the Holy Ghost descended on the disciples,

giving them "the gift of speech," they had spoken in foreign languages which people nearby

had understood. This is not glossolalia as the term is now used; this is xenoglossy. The

bishop, as we ate, chortled over Peter's deft response to the charge that the Eleven were drunk;

Peter had said in a loud voice to the scoffing crowd that it was not likely that the Eleven were

drunk inasmuch as it was only nine A.M. The bishop pondered out loud-between spoonfuls of

minestrone soup-that the course of Western history might have been changed if the time had

been nine P.M. instead of nine A.M. Jeff looked bored and I kept consulting my watch,

wondering what was keeping Kirsten. Probably she had gone in to have her hair done. She

fussed forever with her blond hair, especially in anticipation of momentous occasions.

The Episcopal Church is Trinitarian; you cannot be a priest or bishop of that church if you

do not absolutely accept and teach that-well, it's called the Nicene Creed:

"... And I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord, and Giver of Life, Who proceedeth from the

Father and the Son; Who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified."

So Bishop McClary back in Missouri was correct; Tim had, in fact, committed heresy.

However, Tim had been a practicing lawyer before he became a rector of the Episcopal

Church. He relished the oncoming heresy trial. Bishop McClary knew his Bible and he knew

canon law, but Tim would blow golden smoke-rings around him until McClary would not

know up from down. Tim knew this. In facing a heresy trial, he was in his element. Moreover,

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PhilipK.DickTheTransmigrationofTimothyArcher1982AnOdeforhimAhBen!Sayhow,orwhenShallwethyGuestsMeetatthoseLyrickFeasts,MadeattheSun,TheDog,thetripleTunne?Wherewesuchclustershad,Asmadeusnoblywild,notmad;AndyeteachVerseofthineOut-didthemeate,out-didthefrolickwine.MyBenOrcomeagen:Orsendtous,Thywitsgrea...

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Philip K Dick - The Transmigration of Timothy Archer

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