A letter to Anselm

A latticework on which to grow
Dear Father Anselm: It’s been 900 years since that dawn of April 21, Wednesday in Holy Week, when you fell asleep in Christ. You may be surprised to learn of the fuss that is being made about you, with major conferences in England, Italy and New England, and glasses raised wherever Christian philosophy is prized.

We know you ordered your friend Eadmer to destroy the parchment quires on which he wrote your biography and to let you sink, as far as a powerful abbot and archbishop of Canterbury is allowed to sink, into oblivion. But, thank goodness, Eadmer honored your wish in letter only, making a secret copy before he destroyed the original, though he suffered pangs of conscience for the deception.

 

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