If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have praised the purple vine,
My slaves should dig the vineyards,
And I would drink the wine.
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And his slaves grow lean and grey,
That he may drink some tepid milk
Exactly twice a day.

If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have crowned Neaera’s curls,
And filled my life with love affairs,
My house with dancing girls;
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And to lecture rooms is forced,
Where his aunts, who are not married,
Demand to be divorced.

If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have sent my armies forth,
And dragged behind my chariots
The Chieftains of the North.
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And he drives the dreary quill,
To lend the poor that funny cash
That makes them poorer still.

If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have piled my pyre on high,
And in a great red whirlwind
Gone roaring to the sky;
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And a richer man than I:
And they put him in an oven,
Just as if he were a pie.

Now who that runs can read it,
The riddle that I write,
Of why this poor old sinner,
Should sin without delight-
But I, I cannot read it
(Although I run and run),
Of them that do not have the faith,
And will not have the fun.
          (G. K. Chesterton – 1913)

Ah, yes. What better way to return from my hiatus than with a little Gilbert Keith Chesterton? I cannot think of a more fitting return.

Anyway, I’ve been reading this poem a lot lately. And thinking about it’s meaning. I believe it is possibly more relevant today than when it was first penned. I don’t know if Higgins was a real man or not, but there are many more Higgins’ roaming the streets today than there was in 1913.

I want to break this poem down, give my own interpretation to it, and see if any of you agree. So, here goes…

“If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have praised the purple vine,
My slaves should dig the vineyards,
And I would drink the wine.
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And his slaves grow lean and grey,
That he may drink some tepid milk
Exactly twice a day.”

No doubt, if I had been a heathen I would have been a drunk. Why not? I’m sure it was this sort of heathen that the prophet had in mind when he wrote the book of Lamentations. Drink away, who cares? But these Higgins’ of the twenty-first century are rarely alcoholics. They worship health and fitness. Surely drink is a far better god than these. I happened upon a television show the other day where the whole cast was a bunch of lesbians who run a gym. They spend their whole heathen lives in the pursuit of a perfect body. Knowing full well that before long the body will become dust. I’m not saying that health and fitness are not important things. They are. And when placed in their correct position of value they can be great hobbies and stress relievers. But, for someone with no religious beliefs whatever these pursuits make a fickle and sweaty god to worship. They fore go the goodness of wine and the wholeness of beer in order to make muscular lumps appear on their stomachs. And the diets these types keep…. wow! You can count me out. If I were a pagan I would drink alcohol whenever I liked, following absolutely no schedule. But these people are pleased only with tepid milk, Gatorade’s, or V8’s. And only at certain times of the day or month. Seems to me a routine of silly sacrifices to the god within.

 ”If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have crowned Neaera’s curls,
And filled my life with love affairs,
My house with dancing girls;
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And to lecture rooms is forced,
Where his aunts, who are not married,
Demand to be divorced.”

Many of today’s heathen men and women do, in fact, worship sex. This particular stanza, at least to me, takes a stab at those who do not. The heathen who abstain from sex because they think it dirty, or belittling. The kind who belong to a high society of aristocrats who could never stoop down and sleep with the rabble. I picture a middle-aged statesman who never goes to the movies, never watches television, and never dates. He busies himself with the affairs of state. He spends his life lecturing on the university circuit. Taking advice from old maids who, though they are not married, demand that the right to divorce be protected for the lower class of women who are. He’s not interested in sex, but he understands that the “poor” like that sort of thing.

“If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have sent my armies forth,
And dragged behind my chariots
The Chieftains of the North.
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And he drives the dreary quill,
To lend the poor that funny cash
That makes them poorer still.”

The heathen pacifist. This is a strange creature indeed. He will not engage the working man in battle because there is nothing worth fighting for. He’d rather they busy themselves with sex (see above). Instead of leading armies into battle and driving soldiers, this guy pens essays. Essays that talk about the horrors of war and the silly reasons that mistaken men fight them. He doesn’t sack cities. He makes a living writing about why it is wrong to do so, even for the right reasons. He generally takes the proceeds from his esteemed pen and forms foundations with them that are supposedly “charity”. He starts “Planned Parenthood” or the “ACLU”. They give money to those who need an education instead. Or worse, they give condomsto the school kids so that they can keep busy. And eventually end up at his headquarters, Planned Parenthood, to procure a holy abortion. Modern human sacrifice to the god of promiscuity.

“If I had been a Heathen,
I’d have piled my pyre on high,
And in a great red whirlwind
Gone roaring to the sky;
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And a richer man than I:
And they put him in an oven,
Just as if he were a pie.”

Our Higgins must keep his nose to the proverbial grindstone. He may be a lot of things, but he is never free. He isn’t free to think, and he isn’t permitted to play. When a man must invent doctrines and pile mistake upon mistake he doesn’t have time for Tom Foolery. He’s got plenty of money and power, but he can’t spend the money and can’t really exercise his power. Except maybe in the form of a press release. His “handlers” drive him onward, as a lion tamer drives the beast. Or, and more likely, as a chef puts his pie to baking.

“Now who that runs can read it,
The riddle that I write,
Of why this poor old sinner,
Should sin without delight-
But I, I cannot read it
(Although I run and run),
Of them that do not have the faith,
And will not have the fun.”

Poor Higgins. It’s a shame that so “big-hearted” a man as he can do nothing but lament the sad chains of Christianity, and it’s walls of dogma that it uses to imprison it’s followers, and remain chained to his dogmatic materialism. We now see Higgins for what he is, we see him after all his make-up has been removed and his pomp has been striped away. We see a sinner and a heathen. We look upon a man who claims to have no creeds and cannot have any fun. A man who isn’t even free to be a bad Christian, or a worse Muslim. A man who has no gods to blaspheme. We are left with a glimpse of the slave that Higgins has become. He cannot enjoy God, and yet he cannot even enjoy the temporary delights of sin. Because he believes in neither.