Athanasius, Pope Leo, Sting, and the God Who Laughs Last:
Athanasius, Pope Leo, Sting, and the God Who Laughs Last:
A Monologue on Providence
The Man Without Permission
They said Athanasius was African. Then they added—almost apologetically—“but no known image of him exists.” As if history itself needed to clear its throat before proceeding. No face. No portrait. No complexion to debate. Only a voice. And yet his nickname survives the centuries: the Black Dwarf. Explain that to me.
A Voice Against Empire
He was Bishop of Alexandria—under pressure, under empire, under threat. He was asked to soften the truth, to make it more palatable, more negotiable. He answered by sharpening it. Christ is God. Period. A simple sentence, and yet a theological earthquake.
For this, they exiled him—once, twice, five times. Five removals. Five attempts to erase a conscience. Five efforts to delete truth by distance. But truth is stubborn like that. It kept sneaking back into the city. Athanasius returned again and again, not because he was powerful, but because what he carried could not be buried.
Doctrine Without a Face
All the while, there was still no image of him. No statue. No fresco. No face to venerate or contest. Just “Bishop of Alexandria.” Just fire. Just doctrine standing barefoot before empire.
History Clears Its Throat Again
History, as it does, fast-forwards. A balcony in Rome. White smoke. A new Pope. And then history clears its throat again and adds—almost casually—“by the way, his grandparents were Black.” Do you see it yet?
The faith that left Africa, that later came to be labelled the White man’s religion, returns wearing a fisherman’s ring. Speak, Lord. Your true servants listen.
The Humour of God
I have long suspected that God possesses the greatest sense of humour imaginable—the kind that waits centuries before delivering the punchline. For reasons I cannot fully explain, the closing lines of Sting’s Wrapped Around Your Fingeralways accompany this thought: Soon you’ll find your servant is your master, and you’ll be wrapped around my finger.Somewhere along the way, I realise I have travelled from Athanasius to a Police song, without meaning to.
Empires and Plot Twists
Empires love scripts. God prefers plot twists. They crown truth with thorns. They bury it under doctrine. They seal the tomb. And God waits. Then, in the fullness of time, He whispers—almost gently—Reverse it.
Not by force. Not by violence. Not by protest. But by time. Time is God’s last card.
The Long Reversal
Athanasius without a face. Leo with Black grandparents. And a God who keeps folding history until all pride is laid low before His throne, until the margins become the message, until the servant becomes the master.
Following the Sound of Laughter
And I laugh. Because how did I go from Alexandria, to the Vatican, to a singer from Wallsend? I followed the sound of laughter. God’s laughter. The God who always laughs last.
I rest my case.
— Don Kenobi
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