Which one will you choose, and why?
For many people, the choice will be a “no-brainer,” to use the American jargon. Burns, the 250th anniversary of whose birthday we celebrated January 25, is the obvious candidate. After all, he is a charming, romantic writer who swept Edinburgh off its feet following the publication of his first book of poems. He will be convivial company. He will certainly cast an eye over the ladies, many of whom will feel pleased, while others will feel endangered. Some will probably feel both.
The dour, taciturn Knox — if his reputation is anything to go by — will cast a dark shadow over the proceedings, and when he gets exasperated by the small talk, he might rise to his feet to preach in a foghorn voice. (It might not be a good idea to sit Mary, Queen of Scots, next to him.)
So that’s that settled, then.
But it’s not as simple as that, is it? John Knox isn’t merely a bad-tempered old “git,” whose influence has been malign. He was certainly a man of his bloodthirsty times, and yet on occasion, he transcended his times by his vision and action.
The great Reformer’s dream was of a school in every parish, where people could read or hear the Scriptures in English rather than Latin; and “the lad o’ pairts” — it was always “he” in those days — could go to university, however poor his family might be.
Knox laid the foundations of Scotland’s enviable education system. He is one of the founders of our modern nation. To present him simply as Richard Meldrew in kilt and dog collar, casting gloom over a cowering nation, is to re-heat old Scottish mince.
To help you further in your choice, here are some shots from an imaginary film about the dinner.
The butler announces Robert Burns. You have no idea which of his partners he will arrive with. (Even though this is happening in Edinburgh, you should resist the temptation to quip: “You’ll have had your supper, Burns!” A poor joke.) The poet accepts the offer of a dram, and starts chatting up the ladies, watched by their uneasy men. When John Knox is announced, you tense up a bit. (Better not ask the great Reformer who his “partner” is.) You are astounded to discover that Margaret, the wife of the 50-something preacher, is only 17 years old. Burns immediately clocks this, and Knox snarls, “Hey, are you looking at my bird?” (Actually, I just made that sentence up.) Over dinner, you are surprised to hear Knox speak in a marked English accent. You’re amazed to learn that he was an ordained Catholic priest. He shows guests the marks on his wrists, incurred when he was a galley slave. He explains his democratic idea of the priesthood of all believers, and there is an awed Edinburgh silence when he expounds his revolutionary belief that if sovereigns aren’t acting well, Christians have a duty to try and overthrow them.
Knox holds the guests spellbound as he talks about desperate battles with Mary of Lorraine’s French troops in Fife, after which she exulted: “Where is now John Knox’s God? My God is now stronger than his, yea, even in Fife, yea, even in Cowdenbeath.” (I just made up those last four words, but the rest is true.) What is fascinating to you is that Knox and Burns warm to each other as the wine and conversation flow. They are very different people, but they recognize each other as radicals. Christian radicals.
But Burns surely isn’t a Christian? After all, even as he listens to Knox’s ideas, he is trying to play footsie under the table with the Reformer’s attractive young wife. But, as Donald Smith points out in his fine new book, God, the Poet and the Devil, Burns’ belief in God is strong, even though at times he is overwhelmed by the mystery of God and the difficulty of finding language to speak of the divine.
What the poet railed against was not religion, but hypocrisy, even as he himself acknowledged his own failures to live up to his highest ideals.
So there we have it. For me, the genius Burns edges it over the heroic but equally flawed Knox. The poet’s Christian humanism, with its evident passion for life, appeals to me.
But there are many others from various backgrounds I would like to invite to the Edinburgh banquet of delights.
Tell me, what would your guest list look like?
Ron Ferguson is a former pastor and leader of The Iona Community now living on Orkney Island (Scotland) as a writer and broadcaster. The column first appeared in The Glasgow Herald and is used by permission.
