8 | Love`s Anarchy

�
ove’s �narchy
You Are Wanton; I Am Lost
Mark Eddy Smith
©2010 by Mark Eddy Smith
www.lovesanarchy.com
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No
Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. To view a copy of this license, visit
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Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.
Anarchy symbol, crucifix and crocuses: istockphoto.com
Crayon drawings courtesy of Jaime Keoki Fulton
Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are from the New Revised Standard
Version of the Bible, copyright 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the
National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA. Used by permission. All
rights reserved.
For Bob, who named me.
“The simultaneous cry of ‘You must change your life!’
and ‘Welcome home.’”
—Linford Dettweiller, of Over the Rhine
ta b l e � � c o n t e n t s
ME
My Goals
1.Find a Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
14.The Winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
The Trucker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
Lost in the Woods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
15.The Spring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257
2.Find a Job . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
Who Is for Hallelujah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Introduction to Tolkien’s Ordinary Virtues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
3.Find a Church . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Playing Narnia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
My Rules
4.Be Good . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Pleased to Meet Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Trailing into Nonsense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
5.Listen Closely . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Listening Prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
6.Go Mad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Go to Hell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
Virgil’s End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
My Consequences
7.Love’s Providence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
Bears All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
8.Love’s Anarchy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
9.Love’s Beginning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
YOU
Nuts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 448
Propositional Statements About God
10.You See . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
I Am the Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
11.You Respond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197
God’s Role in Evolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
12.You Indwell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
Unaware . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Revisioning Our Past
13.The Fall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
Good and Evil to Its Core . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
Chapter One . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228
Reevaluating Our Present
16.Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281
The Lion & the Donkey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
17.Resurrection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301
de gelidis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304
The Christmas Serpent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305
US
18.Ascension . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307
How the Bumblebee Learned to Fly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316
Propositional Statements About People
19.We’re Lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
Letter to the World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328
20.We’re Anxious . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
A Holy Whole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338
21.We’re Divided . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
Ersatz Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
Reviewing Our Progress
22.Consider the Queers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
Confession . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
23.Suffer the Unborn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373
Blurred Vision . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380
24.Break the Bread . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
The Return of the Queen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
Reinventing Our Future
25.Grace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 407
Amor Omnia Vincet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 410
26.Peace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411
Love Over Gold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413
27.Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 427
Thurnglad’s Meadbowl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 434
10
Warning! This book, which you have already started to read, is the work of a fool.
It is solipsistic, peripatetic and unnecessarily polysyllabic.
Possible side effects may include boredom, frustration and chronic bemusement.
Continue reading at your own risk.
12
My Consequences
Love’s Anarchy
13
8 | Love’s Anarchy
“Where gods get lost.”
—Patti Smith, Beneath the Southern Cross
You don’t know me. How weird is that? I remember in sixth grade being
shocked when a substitute teacher lumped me in with a group of students
suspected of some wrongdoing. The regular teachers all knew that I would
never do such a thing, and I had come to believe that the “good kid” aspects
of my character were somehow etched into my features. How very wrong
I was and continue to be.
How many of us feel misunderstood? If only you knew me, we think,
you would understand why I do the things I do, say the words I speak, and
imbibe the drinks I drink. You would know that I intended all these things
to work together for the good, or at least I wish I had, and it’s the wish that
counts, isn’t it?
We are wrong about so many things. We’re wrong, and sometimes we’re
sorry. But most of the time we believe we’re right, and we don’t understand
why other people seem so blind to the obvious truth.
I have this profoundly (odd? delusional? true?) notion that my life is a
story. I can’t begin to guess who you the readers may be, let alone in what
genre my story is being written, but I’m concerned to meet you the author.
Partly, I suppose, I want to ask you whether my ending will be a happy
one, whether the tale I’m living out is a comedy or a tragedy, a pastoral or
a postmodern study in irony.
14
My Consequences
Love’s Anarchy
15
If my story is character-driven, then it all depends on what sort of
asking for help. Jesus said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of
person I am, but do I even get a choice in that? If plot-driven, does it matter
a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God” (Mat-
who I am?
thew 19:24, Mark 10:25, Luke 18:25), so, would you pray for me? Would you
It’s been said that all writing is autobiography, in which case the char-
speak through me, break my heart and release me from this tiny cell?
acter of you the author matters more than who I the protagonist might
be. This book, which you are for some reason continuing to read, is certainly
autobiographical, because mine is the only story I have the (right? knowledge? arrogance?) to tell, but my most bizarre notion is that you my author
and you my reader may be one and the same.
The central tenet of Love’s Anarchism is that the author of The Book
of Life (hereinafter referred to as “God” and/or “you”) approaches me not
from above but from below. In other words I, as a privileged, white, straight
male who has everything all figured out, look in vain for a God who is more
privileged, whiter, straighter, maler and more put-together. Rather, God
comes to me as you.
1
Heh. No offense. I only mean to say that if any or all of those adjectives
fail to describe you, if you come to me broken, ashamed, oppressed and
desperate, then you are more likely to provide me with a glimpse into the
character of my author than any of my peers or superiors. God, in order
to suffer alongside of you, to identify with you fully, has become you, and
you invite me (and all my peers and superiors) to do likewise.
So, while much of this book is addressed to you, it’s not actually written for your benefit. Love’s Anarchy is intended for people such as myself
who have wealth, security, privilege and power, and who can’t seem to free
ourselves from these four words that describe the walls of our cage.
I’m rightly ashamed to ask for your prayers, but, according to various
twelve-step programs, the first step is admitting you have a problem and
<Skip footnotes>
16
You (2010)—a found poem
1
You and Me—
You Are the Dark,
You Are the Sun,
You Are Wonderful—
You Can Call Me Al.
You Can’t Count On Me.
You Cannot Lose My Love.
You Could Be Happy.
You Dance.
You Did Not Have a Home
(You Did Not Have a Home):
You Did That for Me.
You Don’t Believe;
You Don’t Know How It Feels—
You Get What You Give—
You Gotta Get Up:
You Just Haven’t Earned It Yet, Baby,
You Know That . . .
You Know That I Love You.
You Learn,
You Little Fool—
You Make Me Smile. . . .
You, or Your Memory.
You Oughta Know
(You Oughta Know)—
You Picked Me
(You Picked Me)—
You Raise Me Up
(You Raise Me Up)!
My Consequences
Love’s Anarchy
You Should See the Way It Feels.
You Stand by Me.
You’ll Never Walk Alone.
You’re Aging Well;
You’re All I Have.
You’re in the Air;
You’re Not Alone.
You’re the Only One.
You’ve Been Loved.
You’ve Got to Show
Your Belgian Things,
Your House and Mine,
Your Misfortune,
Your Possible Pasts,
Your Voice at Tidewater, &
Your Weak Hands
<Return to main text>
17
18
My Consequences
19
Love’s Anarchy
My Goals
“I know a couple of words are all you need.”
—Harrod & Funck, Stop and Stare
ME
20
My Goals
Find a Girl
21
1 | Find a Girl
“Tell me how’s the way to be.”
—Lissie, Everywhere I Go
I never intended to spend 17 years in Illinois. If you had asked me,
when I was attending the University of New Hampshire, to name one place
I would least like to live, I would have answered, “A suburb of Chicago.”
Some people claim that God has a sense of humor. Much of the available
evidence suggests you have a mean streak.
I moved to Illinois in pursuit of my one true—the girl of my dreams—
but perhaps I should start a little closer to the beginning . . .
My favorite family story is the one that presaged our move to New
Hampshire. My dad (a native of the state) was in the Coast Guard when
he met my mom in Cleveland, Ohio, where I was born. Two years later, my
sister, Beth, was born in Oakland, California. After that the Coast Guard
sent us to Honolulu, Hawaii, then to Brownsville, Texas, and finally to
Falmouth, Maine. By now I was six, repeating kindergarten and making
my first real friends. We lived in a proper neighborhood with kids about my
age, and before long I had an honest-to-goodness best friend and a bicycle.
Every once in a while we would take a weekend trip over the state line to
the old family homestead that had stood largely unoccupied for the past
50 years. It was a good life, until our parents “got saved,” and Dad began
to feel your call to quit the Coast Guard and make the family homestead
our actual home.
Mom, as the story goes, felt no such call. She was a city girl, and had
no desire to make a permanent home with the mice and the bears and the
22
My Goals
Find a Girl
23
party-line phone. Although it had been his life-long dream to move back
in mock horror and disgust. It was an odd game, because the thought of
to his home state, Dad responded to Mom’s reservations by letting it go.
kissing her was not at all disgusting to me.
Not long after, as the story goes, Mom was praying and heard your call
One day, my parents threw a party, and there were a lot of kids in my
herself. And so, on a snowy Easter weekend in 1975, we did the impossible:
room. I was in a puckish mood, and when she lunged at me, I thought it
We moved home.
would be funny to push her away with rather more than the usual force,
Sure, I missed my best friend, the epic, neighborhood war games
since my bed was directly behind her. Also present on my bed (unbe-
and playing kissing tag with the girl across the street, but in their place I
knownst to me) was a brass piggy bank. She hit her head. There was blood.
got a hundred acres of field and forest bounded by two rivers and a long,
She was crying, surrounded by concerned friends, while I stood frozen in
dead-ending dirt road. A mountain, half a mile to the south, provided a
genuine horror. They corralled her out of my room, heading downstairs so
landmark to guide me home whenever I wandered aimlessly through the
that adults could tend to her wound. As she passed me, she said, “I don’t
woods, which was often.
love you anymore.”
I got to see a lot more of Dad, now that he was no longer out to sea for
I trailed them wretchedly. In the empty living room, the gaggle of
months at a time. We were an idyllic, bucolic, nucleic family of four, and
sympathetic children paused. I paused with them, standing a few feet away.
although Beth, two years my junior, would sometimes complain that I did
Suddenly, her face emerged from the crowd. She was smiling. She yelled,
nothing but “eat, sleep and read,” she and I spent a lot more time together
“I still love you!” and she lunged at me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but
than we would have in the presence of plentiful other friends. We played
I’m pretty sure that was the moment I fell in love with her.
cards and built makeshift clubhouses and somehow failed to notice that
we were suddenly poor.
Some weeks later we met outside, and no one else was around. She
leaped into my arms, trying to kiss me. This time, I didn’t push her away.
She disengaged and backed up. “Hey, you held me up,” she said, sounding
Several things happened after we moved to New Hampshire that
confused and possibly betrayed. “No, I didn’t,” I said.
would have a profound effect on the course of my life. Later that year I
Yes, I did.
invited Jesus into my heart; in 1976 Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak founded
Game over.
Apple Computers; in 1977 my family started attending an Episcopal
I lost.
1
Church pastored by a Rev. Goodheart; and in 1978 I watched a seven-yearold girl step out of the back seat of a four-door pickup truck.
We had this game, this girl and I, where she would yell, “I love you!”
lunge at me and try to plant a kiss on my lips. In response, I would recoil
It would take me a few years to work up the courage, but after an
overnight youth group party in which . . . No. I need to back up. You’ll see
why I’m reluctant in a moment.
24
My Goals
Find a Girl
25
We had several of these overnight youth group parties, held in the
I had wanted to start this story here, but that would have painted a very
new parish hall of the Episcopal Church. There were maybe twenty of us.
different picture of me. Writers by definition create an alternate reality, and
One time, I forgot to bring a pillow, and one of the girls offered to let me
for all that our stories may be true, they are not necessarily honest. Some of
share hers.
that is inevitable—stories need to be slightly more concise than real life—
I didn’t get any sleep. Intoxicated by the smell of her hair, I spent the
and I’m still omitting volumes of pertinent information, but just in case it
whole night breathing it in. Her hair was also soft. Taking care not to tug,
isn’t absolutely clear: My behavior was unbelievably fucking creepy. I don’t
I ran my fingers over it and drew strands to my lips. As far as I could tell,
want to diminish that fact as I return to the original point I was trying
her sleep was untroubled.
to make: The conversation we had that night, as silly and insubstantial as
The next time there was an overnight party, I found another girl to
sleep beside, and I spent the night trying to kiss her on the lips while she
it was, persuaded me that I wanted more than a covert, unilateral kiss: I
wanted a relationship. Thus, I resolved to tell her how I felt.
slept. At one point she ran her hand over her face as though scratching an
I spent the twenty-four hours leading up to the next sleepover at war.
itch. She didn’t seem to wake up, but I was unsuccessful in my attempts.
I didn’t have a tenth of the courage needed to confess my love to her, and
A week or so later she was visiting Beth, who had invited me to join
yet I was enflamed with it. Like a swollen appendix, it needed to come out,
them in playing a board game. I sat down at the dining room table across
lest it burst and spew bile all over my intestines.
from the girl I had tried to kiss. At some point I noticed she was staring
So I wrestled with my courage. I may have slapped it a few times. I
at me. I stared back. After several moments, she said, “You bastard.” My
shook and cajoled it, imploring it to wake up and do its job. By the end of
feelings of guilt suggested to me that perhaps she had been less asleep than
the day, as I got in the car to be driven to the church, I had won: My cour-
I had imagined, but it was also possible that she was calling me a bastard
age was awake and alert and poised for action. I was even starting to look
for some more immediate reason that I had completely missed. I grinned
forward to it, allowing myself to imagine that maybe she wouldn’t reject me,
like an idiot, trying not to let my expression betray my guilt, and eventually
but feeling that even if she did, at least she would know she was loved.
we returned to the game.
She didn’t show up that night, and it would be a long time before I
The sleep-over after that, the girl who had once claimed to “still love”
worked up the courage again. A couple of years later, her family moved
me attended. My heart leaped like a wolf who smells rabbit. By the time we
to Illinois. They came back to visit twice, and we went to visit them once.
were supposed to settle into our sleeping bags, I had managed to position
During two of those visits, I spent time with her boyfriend. We got along
myself next to her. I couldn’t wait for her to fall asleep.
amazingly well considering how much I despised him.
She never did. Instead, we joked and giggled with each other until
the sun rose.
I had a more or less constant string of crushes throughout the ensuing
years, but I never acted on them. No one else could quite hold a candle to
26
My Goals
Find a Girl
27
the girl I loved, and besides, I’ve always followed (perhaps to a fault) the
But a little later, she happened to sit down beside me, and we struck
adage, “It is better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to
up a conversation. As it turns out, she was a senior Art History major. We
open it and remove all doubt.” Also, I’m apparently somewhat clueless.
talked for an hour, maybe two, and I witnessed the most amazing trans-
I went on one date in high school and another in college. My usual
formation as we talked: Right before my eyes she was changed from an
difficulties in sustaining conversations made the first one just painfully
annoying stereotype into a stunningly beautiful woman. When her friends
awkward, while the second ended with my date going home with a friend
decided to leave, she waved them on. “I’ll catch up,” she said.
of mine. Enough said.
We continued our conversation.
There was one girl in high school that I liked enough, possibly, to say
Soon we were alone on the porch, everyone else having left or retired
something, but I didn’t want to bother my courage again, and I figured
inside. She was still sitting on the bench by the wall; I was leaning against
that if it was meant to be then my courage would awaken when the time
the railing across from her. I don’t remember what we were talking about
was right.
at that point (we had already covered favorite artists, favorite books and
At our graduation ceremony we were told to line up double file, prefer-
family histories), but finally she stood up and said, “Well. . . .” She walked
ably with partners of similar height. “Hey,” I said, to the girl I really liked
toward me with an odd bounce in her step and a friendly smile. I grinned
(who was considerably shorter than me), “Wanna be my partner?” I was
back, understanding that she needed to go catch up with her friends. I
laughing as I said it, intending it to be taken as a joke, but the eagerness
held out my hand.
with which she said “Yes,” took me by surprise. “Oh. Okay,” I replied. That
She stopped.
was easy, I thought. Too bad she’s going to college 3,000 miles away. We sent
Her smile faltered.
a couple letters to each other the following year, and she attended a party
She regarded my hand,
at my house the following winter break, but my courage refused to take
shook it,
any further steps, and we haven’t spoken since.
and walked away.
But the most devastating example of my cluelessness occurred at a
graduation party my junior year in college. I knew only a handful of people
I stood there for several minutes, alone on the porch, while my brain
laboriously struggled to put two and two together.
there, but I remember noticing when a certain young woman arrived. I
I blinked.
gave her a cursory glance and immediately dismissed her as a Freshman
I didn’t even know her last name.
Business Major, a common stereotype on campus. They were blonde and
petite but not quite pretty; a little baby fat around the cheek bones; ditzy,
driven and ambitious. Not my type.
The following semester, I decided to turn my back on you. I had numerous rationalization: I wasn’t “growing in my faith,” for one thing, and I
didn’t have a supportive faith community to help keep me in the Way. But
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29
mainly I blamed you for my ineptitude with women. It’s not that I was
see Beth, I was disappointed that she was alone when she met me at the
awkward around girls; I had no more difficulty talking to women than I
airport. She drove me to her apartment, then showed me around the
did with men, but romance eluded me. Why I blamed you, or for what,
complex. “This is the gym. . . . Here’s the pool. . . . This is where I get my
I’m not certain, but my suspicion was that I had somehow been fitted by
mail. . . . Oh, look, I got a Christmas card from my friend who moved to
my religion with Puritanical blinders and that therefore . . . what? I didn’t
Illinois six years ago.”
know, but I thought eschewing religious beliefs altogether might allow me
Close enough.
to react more appropriately the next time a romantic opportunity arose.
The pertinent result of my atheism was the creation of a hole in my
As my final semester of college drew to a close, I concocted a scheme. I
heart—oft-remarked-upon by a certain kind of Christian—a God-shaped
would buy a sports car and move to Seattle. Along the way, I would stop at
hole. My desire for a romantic relationship intensified in proportion with
the houses of various friends and spend the night, and when I was “passing
the perceived size of this hole, and I decided that what I had always lacked
through” Illinois I would visit the family of my sister’s friend. I would tell
was a conviction that the object of my attraction was “the one,” who was
her I loved her, and we would live happily ever after.
worth any price to win. All I needed was to choose “the one.”
Of all the people I’d ever known, two stood out as possible contenders.
Aside from the obvious one (given the stories I’ve told) was someone with
I didn’t call ahead until I was actually in Illinois. The following is a
transcript of the conversation I had when the girl herself answered the
phone:
whom I’d spent some time on a seventh-grade band trip to Boston. She was
“Hello?”
the yang to my first love’s yin. She taught me the definition of necrophilia
“Hi . . . This is Mark.”
and told horrific stories about rats, and was just sexy as all hell. God. But
“Who?”
of course I chose (as is my wont), the sun instead of the moon, even though
“Mark, from New Hampshire.”
the moon is often more alluring.
“ . . . I’m sorry, I don’t think I remember you.”
It’s a cliché that neither is attainable.
“Beth’s brother.”
Her endless peals of laughter reminded me of that sleepover, and
For Christmas Mom and Beth conspired to buy me a plane ticket to
assuaged (somewhat), the tightness that had been building in my chest.
Seattle, where Beth had moved two years prior. As the day of departure
Within half an hour I was sitting in her living room, laughing and talk-
approached, I somehow got it into my head that my chosen one (who was
ing with her and her siblings, overwhelmed by the realization that there
a good friend of my sister), would also be there. The likelihood was mini-
was no way in hell I was going to tell her the real reason for my visit.
mal, but the thought grew until it seemed inevitable. It would certainly
Her mother told me I looked tired and invited me to take a nap. I
be a sign from the universe that I had chosen wisely. As glad as I was to
accepted her invitation, laid down in another room and did not go to
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My Goals
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31
sleep. Instead, I said, “Um. You know how I’ve always hated those scenes
Round about three o’clock, I took a deep breath and held it without
in made-for-TV movies where someone who’s ignored you their whole
closing my mouth. She waited expectantly, but no sound issued from my
life needs something from you and suddenly they’re all like, ‘Um, God?
throat. For twenty excruciating minutes she waited as I hemmed, hawed,
I know I haven’t talked to you in awhile, but . . .’ Well. Ahem. Um. God?
stammered, stuttered, and laughed at my helplessness.
I know I’ve been an atheist for most of the past year, but I just traveled a
thousand miles to tell this girl I love her and I just can’t do it. Is there any
chance you could help me out?”
For each of the next three days her parents (separately or together) suggested I ought to spend at least one more night with them. Three glorious,
fun-filled days ensued, in which it turned out that I really liked this girl
that I didn’t actually know as well as I had imagined.
At long last, I managed to say, “I’ve been in love with you for the past
ten years.”
She said, “Whoa.”
She said some other stuff, but the pertinent part was, “I don’t know
what to say.”
So the next day I climbed into my sports car and continued on to
Seattle, where I hung out with Beth for a few days before she headed to
It may seem like a non sequitur (not for the last time!) to say I had never
New Hampshire for the summer, leaving me with her apartment. I landed
heard of Contemporary Christian Music before, but during one of those
the first job for which I applied, and started attending the church that Rev.
days, we went to a Christian bookstore where she bought Rich Mullins’
Goodheart now pastored.
Winds of Heaven, Stuff of Earth. I remember trying to etch into my memory
Several weeks later, after a phone conversation with Mom (to whom I
the tableau in her kitchen, of me talking with her and her mom while we
had revealed the real reason for my trip just prior to the conversation tran-
listened to a track entitled If I Stand:
scripted above), I suddenly shook my head as though a wasp had landed on
If I stand let me stand on the promise that you will see me through,
and if I can’t let me fall on the grace that first brought me to you.
And if I sing let me sing for the joy that has born in me these songs,
and if I weep let it be as a man who is longing for his home.
The third evening found us playing gin rummy with a younger sibling,
who eventually went to bed, leaving us free to talk till all hours. Realizing
that my moment had come, if I only had the courage to seize it, I wasn’t
really paying attention to her tales of boys who had confessed their undying love to her in a variety of inane and/or comic situations, including one
who had proposed marriage in lieu of asking her out on a date.
my nose. Wait a second, I said to myself. What the hell am I doing in Seattle?
This was just supposed to be a ruse!
By then I owned every album that Rich Mullins had released. I put
one in the CD player. Track five was a song called Alrightokayuhhuhamen,
a song about saying “ ‘Yes’ to the Lord.”
There may have been dancing.
The next day I gave my two weeks’ notice at work, and two weeks later
I drove the 2,000 miles back to Illinois in 32 hours. I spent another day
or two with the woman who still didn’t know what to say, then traveled
another 80 miles east, where I spent a month with a couple who attended
my church in New Hampshire during the summer. Through them I was
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My Goals
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33
introduced to Wheaton College (aka the “Evangelical Mecca”) and Church
The tuggings didn’t cease, and, so long as they seemed aimless, I was
of the Resurrection (a charismatic Episcopalian church of some 60-80
happy to continue to follow them—just like the Israelites continued to
congregants). I was deeply impressed with both institutions.
follow the pillar of smoke by day and the pillar of fire by night.
But my lifestyle was unsustainable. I had no job prospects, and no
During that month, I developed a habit of taking long, aimless walks,
concrete plans for the future. I was living off my credit card and making
listening, at each street corner, for “a word behind you, saying, ‘This is
periodic trips to the college attended by the object of my affection. It was
the way; walk in it’” (Isaiah 30:21). If I felt a tug to the right, I would turn
about an hour away (45 minutes via the Interstate, but I avoided toll roads
right. Similarly, a tug to the left would impel me left. No tug at all meant I
in those days), but, while she was always gracious and friendly, there came
continued straight on. These “leadings” never led me anywhere in particular,
a time when I realized that my visits were becoming intrusive. For her
but I thought of them as training exercises—as your way of getting me
upcoming birthday, I resolved to bestow the present of my absence.
accustomed to your bridle.
There came a day when I was feeling particularly restless, so I walked
Sometimes the tug would come mid-block, and I would cross the street,
to a comic book store and browsed. A rack of greeting cards accosted me.
but one time the tug came, not streetward, but houseward. I stopped. It
While I had no intention of spoiling my absence present, there was no
was a compact, gray house with red trim. There was a for sale sign in
harm in looking, right? I found the perfect card—it showed a cat beneath
the yard, and no indication that anyone was home. Nevertheless, I balked.
an astronomical sky saying, “For your birthday, I wanted to give you the
“No, Lord,” I said.
I had heard stories of Christians feeling led to approach total strangers.
Usually they would struggle internally, then acquiesce, only to have the
sun, the moon, the stars.” Inside, it read, “Unfortunately, God doesn’t
accept MasterCard.” I chuckled, but reluctantly put it back in the rack and
returned to the house of my hosts.
stranger break into tears when accosted with the greeting, “God told me to
Later that evening, I decided I wanted to see a movie. I had no money,
talk to you.” I had heard the stories, but I was gripped with fear. Talking to
and theaters didn’t accept credit cards in those days, but I had a free ticket
people (let alone strangers) is not my strong suit. Perhaps you’ve noticed.
to the cheap theater in town. I drove there, decided I didn’t like the movie
I’m haunted by my “No” to this very day. I so wanted to be tractable
they were showing, and proceeded to head out toward a multiplex that I
and obedient. I sometimes wonder whether my life went off-course that
passed whenever I visited the woman of my dreams. I was passing a shop-
day, and the past 20 years have been an endless wandering in the wilderness,
ping center when I remembered that I had no money and that theaters
like that of the Israelites who refused to enter the Promised Land for fear
didn’t accept credit cards in those days.
of the giants who lived there.
I pulled into the shopping center, wherein was located a record store.
As I was browsing, I checked out the latest album by the Indigo Girls, a
band my admired had mentioned in passing that she admired. They had
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My Goals
a newly released album (Nomads Indians Saints), but I had no intention of
buying a copy for her (at least not until well after her birthday), but as I
Find a Girl
35
The next day, when I showed up at her dorm room, she said, “What
are you doing here?”
read the song titles on the back of the cd, I had the eerie sense that I had
I said, “I just wanted to say ‘Good-bye.’ I’m headed off, either home
heard them somewhere before. Slowly, it dawned on me that I was hearing
to New Hampshire or back to Seattle, and I didn’t want to leave without
them at that very moment, in the lyrics of the album piping through the
saying, er, ‘Good-bye.’”
store’s sound system.
I decided it was a sign from God and purchased the album. The next
I chose New Hampshire, mostly because it was half as far as Seattle.
day, I returned to the comic book store and bought the card. While I was
I lived with my parents, got a job typesetting ads at the county newspaper,
there I picked up a Green Arrow® comic book. Then I drove to her college,
and attended a local congregational church. I hadn’t given up all hope of
where I planned to leave the card and the cd with the dorm receptionist
romance with my chosen one, but for the moment I was content to live on
(it was a big dorm). That way, I could still gift her with my absence, but
the sidelines for awhile.
give her a present as well.
I parked a ways off campus (where the parking was free), read the Green
Arrow® story, signed the card, and headed for her dorm.
It wasn’t a bad life, but I found myself missing, of all things, Church
of the Resurrection. So I concocted another scheme. I would apply for
graduate school at Wheaton College.
Had I been blindfolded, and simply walking in a straight line, I literally
Since I had no job prospects and was behind in my payments, I left the
would have bumped into her. I didn’t know anything about her schedule or
sports car in New Hampshire. My parents drove me to Wheaton, dropped
where her classes were held, but she was returning from an art class, and
me off at the Billy Graham Center, along with my luggage, and entrusted
as I came to the end of the street on which I had parked, she was walking
me to my fate. I followed a tug into the Billy Graham center, sure that
perpendicular to me, her art portfolio under her arm. Since I wasn’t actu-
I was walking the path you had set before me, only to find the tuggings
ally blindfolded, I slowed down when I saw her, then walked up behind.
become, it seemed, horribly confused once I got inside. I felt tugged to
When I drew even with her, I said, “Happy Birthday.”
the right, to the left, backwards and forwards, as if a half-dozen invisible
She shrank from me as though I were King Kong, and my heart sank
into my toes.
She recovered quickly enough, and we walked to her dorm. She
children were pulling at my sleeves to Come look at this, or Check that out,
or Hey, look over here!
I didn’t share their enthusiasm. Rather, I felt completely lost.
thanked me for the gift, and we talked for awhile, and then she said, “I
think I need a break from your visits.”
In my mind, I said, “I know.”
Church of the Resurrection, in the year I’d spent back in New Hampshire, had swollen to a population of 300 and were meeting in a high-school
auditorium. In October, I decided to join one of the small groups, called
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My Goals
clusters, that had started forming in my absence. I phoned the cluster leader
for directions to her house but didn’t bother to write them down.
The day for the meeting coincided with my purchase of Rich Mullins’
then-latest album, The World as Best as I Remember It, Volume 1.
I figured it would take 15 minutes to walk to the leader’s house
(assuming I didn’t get lost), but when the time came to leave, I hadn’t yet
finished listening to the album. There were two songs left, and I couldn’t
pull myself away. The penultimate song was entitled I See You. The refrain
was, “Everywhere I go, I see you.” The final song was a reprise of the first:
Step by Step—“And step by step you’ll lead me, and I will follow you all
of my days.”
At last, I pulled off my headphones, wiped the tears from my eyes, and
rushed out the door.
I know this isn’t quite accurate, and the directions weren’t really all
that complicated, but my memory tells me that I walked a straight line
(over train tracks and through people’s back yards) to the cluster leader’s
house. I didn’t remember the house number she had given me, but there
were a lot of cars there, and worship music was emanating from the windows, so I knocked. It was the right place. At the end of the meeting there
was another round of singing. The final song the worship leader played
was Step by Step.
Present at that meeting was my future ex-wife.
My first ex-girlfriend skipped that meeting, for some reason, so I didn’t
meet her until the following week.
<Skip footnotes>
Find a Girl
37
Lost in the Woods (2002)—based on a true story from 1783
1
Sarah Witcher pouted and tried to force tears, but it was too late: her parents
were already walking into the woods. She looked back at the log house, the one
where her sister was sitting in front of the fire doing nothing exciting at all, and
suddenly she was walking after her parents, toward Uncle Jacob’s log house, where
Uncle Jacob was sitting in front of the fire waiting to tell her a ghost story.
It was a fine Sunday morning, full of sunlight and butterflies, and surely there
were fairies in the forest, just out of sight, waiting to play hide-and-go-seek. She
ignored them as long as she could, but it was a long way to Uncle Jacob’s, and at
some point she stepped off the trail without really noticing. When she did notice,
she paid no mind, because it was good to be all by herself in the green and brown
and yellow where the fairies lived. When she could no longer pretend she hadn’t
noticed, she ran back toward the trail.
But the trail wasn’t there, and she wasn’t sure if it was just to the right or just
to the left. She didn’t want to cry for help, because she wasn’t sure she was lost,
and also her parents would be angry. So she sat down quietly under a friendlylooking tree and pretended she was neither lost nor frightened. She crossed her
legs, put her hands in her lap and sighed as if to say, “Well, here I am, right where
I’m supposed to be. Pretty day, don’t you think?”
When she finished weeping, she tried to think what to do. Papa always said
that if she ever got lost, she should stay put and he would be along shortly. It was
very important that she not move at all, or else he might never catch up with
her. She was sure there was something else, something she was forgetting, but
though she furrowed her brow until her forehead ached, her memory had nothing further to offer.
She looked around, to keep her mind occupied, taking note of the moss that
covered the ground like a green springy quilt, and a lot of little fir trees, and
bigger trees behind them, whose names she didn’t know. The air smelled fresh
and vibrant, heavy with the smell of things waking up from their long winter
nap. She breathed in the smells hard through her nose, again and again, until her
head felt light. She leaned against the tree and looked up at the lacey branches
crisscrossing the blue sky. Without really noticing, she fell asleep.
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My Goals
When she woke up, the tree beneath which Sarah sat was waving its branches
furiously, trying to get the black clouds to go away and leave the little girl alone. But
black clouds never listen to anybody, and soon their rain was streaming through
her hair and behind her ears and alongside her nose. She curled herself into a
ball as tight as she could, but the rain was like rivers on her head. Big rivers, like
when snow melts in the spring.
She smiled a little, thinking of rivers in her hair, and she thought of how
Mama always said she laughed else she’d cry, and she tried to think more queer
thoughts about the rain. She thought, maybe there’s fish in the rivers in my hair.
Papa said that sometimes salmons swam upstream to lay their eggs and when
they were finished they were so darn tired they just about died.
Suddenly the thought wasn’t so amusing; she didn’t want dead fish in her hair.
So she shook her head, like a dog will when it wades out from the pond, but then
forced herself to stop. If they were dead, they already must have laid their eggs,
and she didn’t want to shake out the eggs. When they hatched, maybe they’d
want to be her friends. If there were a lot of them she’d give them names out of
the Bible, like Jacob and Rachel and Abraham and Joseph and Deborah and Isaac
and Samson and Noah. Except that Noah made her think of floods, and her smile
faded. Except that it also gave her the idea that they could put on Bible plays, her
baby salmon friends and her, and they could all play their own people.
She hoped they liked to be rocked, because she was shivering, and she couldn’t
stop.
Then in the darkness she spied a darker shape, and her heart leapt with hope.
“Papa!” she screamed, and would have gotten up, but her legs were asleep. The
shape stopped moving, and she put out her arms for a big Papa hug. But when
the shape got closer, she saw that it was just a big old dog, all wet and sniffling
at her feet. She hugged it anyway, but it wasn’t the same as hugging Papa. It was
warm, though, and when it curled up around her, she found herself growing so
comfortable that she fell asleep once more.
John Witcher smoked his pipe and stared into the fire. Sarah had been missing
for two days, and he was remembering how she used to love to play peek-a-boo.
She had seemed actually to believe that when her hands were over her eyes she
could not be seen. He knew this because when Millie’s eyes were covered, Sarah’s
eyes would grow wide with panic until the hands were swept aside, and the panic
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39
turned to rapturous relief. He was thinking, She might be sitting at the kitchen table
right now, giggling under her breath, the game perfected, just waiting for the right moment
to yell, ‘Peek-a-boo!’ and uncover her eyes. He was thinking, She’ll get a spanking she
won’t soon forget if I find out she’s doing anything of the sort.
He looked at Millie, her eyes swollen from continuous crying, and reached
over to pat her knee. It was hard on a woman, losing a child. It wouldn’t do to tell
her there’d be more, or that they still had Rebeccah. Best just to let her grieve;
she’d get over it in time.
There were 18 families in Warren, New Hampshire, and every one of them
had joined in the search or helped out in any way they were able. Even old Joe
Patch, who was the first to pioneer the place. Old Joe was afraid Sarah’s spirit
would haunt the woods if they didn’t do their best to find her. Now folks were
coming in from the surrounding towns, even from across the Connecticut River.
Two days they’d been searching, and although by now it was hopeless, for Millie’s sake they intended to continue the search tomorrow. It humbled a man to
think that complete strangers would lay off spring planting to help a neighbor
find their child.
He listened to the rain on the roof and shuddered, picturing it falling on
her unprotected face. Suddenly he was standing, and Millie was looking up at
him, expectantly. He turned quickly to the hearth and tapped his pipe against
the stones, knocking the plug of tobacco into the ashes. Trying to keep his voice
light and steady, he said, “Well, there’s some corncobs that need greasing. I’ll be
back as soon as I’m able.”
Millie murmured in response to John’s familiar joke. She hadn’t slept the past
two days, and she hardly felt real anymore. Over and over she was reliving the
moment she had asked Rebeccah, their eldest, where Sarah had taken herself
off to. She had isolated every emotion that had flashed across Rebeccah’s face
like lightning across the side of the mountain: surprise, confusion, the glint of
humor at the suspicion her parents were having fun at her expense, concern, more
confusion, mounting horror and panic at the realization that Sarah had been
unaccounted for for hours. All this before Millie had the chance to move from
mild curiosity to confusion. Always the scene ended with Rebeccah’s quavering
voice: “I thought she was with you.”
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My Goals
She had always imagined (pridefully, she saw now) that they were blessed.
Other folks lost children, some to ill fortune, some to ill health, some to evil
spirits, but she had always believed the Witchers immune. She had held on to
that belief for two days, and at last she understood it wasn’t true. They were
cursed, like everyone else in this god-forsaken land, and all their lives would end
in grief without solace. It was God’s judgment, maybe, though what their sins
had been, she couldn’t say.
She sat stiff in her rocker, clutching some rag, some plaything of Sarah’s,
some futile talisman, while her husband wept in the outhouse, great whooping
howls. Rebeccah, all but forgotten, hunched by the fire, looked up with alarm.
Millie ignored her. It was past time she learned that even a man could be undone
by grief.
No doubt he blamed himself for Sarah’s wandering off, blamed himself for
not teaching her better, for passing on his wanderlust to his child the same way
he had passed on his jutting ears. He would pretend it didn’t affect him, just like
he pretended a stillborn calf was no worse than a lost button, though he wept
at night, his back to her, assuming her asleep, and staining his pillow with saltrimmed tears. Or else he’d excuse himself to the outhouse with a joke.
Wasn’t it strange that she could think of no children in all the Bible who died
but God sent some prophet, or even His only Son, to raise them from the dead?
Nowadays children died on the right and to the left, and where were the prophets
with the power to raise them? With weird clarity, as though she were actually
hearing the words, she remembered what Jesus had said to Jairus: “It is because
of your great faith that I have done this.” Was lack of faith the sin for which they
were being judged?
She pondered the thought, turning it over like a yard of possibly worthless
cloth, until suddenly she was arrested by a new idea. Could it be that it was not
yet too late? A wild hope bloomed awkwardly in her heart as if out of some duncolored wort that no one would guess might be beautiful. Batting away the fear
that this hope, too, might disappoint, she rose and went to the bed, and knelt down
to pray. Rebeccah joined her, and Millie imagined their prayers being hastened
to heaven on John’s rising wails.
From her perch atop the cabin, Rebeccah watched Mr. Heath arrive precisely
at noon the following day. She knew it was noon precisely because the sun was
Find a Girl
41
shining straight down the chimney she was leaning against and into the cauldron
on the fire. The fact that she had never seen him before did not strike her as odd:
strangers were coming from all quarters to help search for Sarah. What struck
her was that he looked like a madman. He wore his hair loose and it was curly
enough to be wild. His clothes seemed to be of uncured leather, and to have been
sewn together by a drunk man in the dark. She had seen Indians more fashionably dressed. But he didn’t walk like a madman. Despite the shoddiness of his
attire, his gait was strong and purposeful, as if his approach were the harbinger
of God’s wrath. Even from the distance of several rods, his eyes seemed to burn
like living coals. She became sure, as he neared, that his gaze would consume her,
revealing to all that she was to blame for Sarah’s death.
She had been making excuses for herself, but it was true—she had known
from the beginning that her parents would never allow little Sarah to accompany
them on a Sunday sojourn. It was her own selfish desire for a few hours’ solitude
that had convinced her otherwise. Her own laziness had kept her from stepping
out of doors to make certain all was well. This morning she had awakened on the
floor beside her mother, who, though exhausted, was still on her knees, praying
hopelessly.
As the man she would later learn was named Mr. Heath stepped up to the door,
never spying her on the roof above him, she felt caught between the desire to run
away, nevermore to be seen, and to drop a rock from the chimney on his head.
Such was her state of mind when she heard Mr. Heath’s first words when
her mother answered the door: “Give me some dinner, and I will find your
daughter.”
Joseph Patch sat with the crowd gathered at the Witcher’s kitchen table and
studied the stranger, only half-listening to his words. The man had walked from
Plymouth, some twenty miles to the south, and the gist of his story was that he
had dreamed three times in the night that he had seen the girl under a tree, alive
and awake, but Joseph was interested more in Mr. Heath’s manner than in his
story. He was the kind of man, maybe, for whom one could buy a drink at a tavern,
and he’d tell one’s fortune. A man like that was looking for another treat. He
would have nothing but good to say about the future of anyone buying his drink.
Men like that were common enough. On the other hand, there were some who
heard God’s voice and spoke it true, without regard for how people would take it.
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43
These were rare, but it was wise to listen when they crossed one’s path, let alone
when they had walked a fair distance to deliver their message.
Joseph’s dilemma was this: if Mr. Heath was of the former, he should be run
out of town, maybe tarred and feathered for trying to bilk a grieving family. But
if the latter, it was imperative that someone believe him and act on his words. So
he studied him with all the concentration with which he had studied out this
land before he pioneered it. The man’s getup and wild hair were to be ignored.
The volume of his voice, likewise, was of little help. It was a man’s eyes that gave
him away, darting to the jug, or licking his lips. The good ones would take a push
to betray themselves like that, and Joseph Patch figured the time had come for a
push. Still, he knew he’d best be careful. If the man was the genuine article, he
might be offended, and call down God’s curse upon the town for its unbelief. He
cleared his throat.
“Would you care for a swallow, Mr. . . . Heath was it?”
The silence was sudden, and the man’s eyes turned toward him slowly. They
were ominous eyes, but Joseph Patch had faced down a painter once, a cat almost
as big as himself, and that at night, and both of them caught unawares. For most
of a minute no one cleared their throat or shuffled their feet.
At last, with an effort, Joseph spoke again. “I reckon you could use some
company—someone who knows the woods.” His words sounded thick, as though
he himself had been drinking, but the man’s glowering eyes softened, and he felt
a great weight lift, though he hadn’t marked the heaviness before. Mr. Heath
smiled, like sunrise on a mountain, and everyone laughed, though doubtless they
knew no reason for it. “I’d be glad of your company, sir,” said Mr. Heath, just as
handsome as you please. For Joseph Patch, soon to be sixty-seven years old, it was
as though he was a child again, and his father asking him on his first hunting trip,
and he, too, found himself laughing.
it would return the following night. She had never thought to wonder whose dog
it was—as far as she was concerned, it had been hers. Of the days she had spent
keeping close to the tree, amusing herself with daydreams, she remembered only
that she had been hungry and, after the puddles from the first night’s rain dried
up, thirsty as well. The only other memory she had was of her parents, upon her
return in the arms of Joseph Patch.
Her mother, upon seeing her, had simply fainted. Her father had remained
standing, fuming silently, and that had disturbed her, but the townsfolk, who
loved this part of the tale better than any other, noticed something Sarah likely
never would have. They were fond of teasing her father for it: He was smoking
so furiously that the bowl of his pipe had burst into flame.
Sometimes, even when she was old and had grandchildren to dote upon, she
would find herself lying in bed after a difficult day, and the smell and the warmth
of the dog that had saved her life would surround her, and sorrow would well in
her breast, for not even her husband had ever made her feel so loved.
Later in her life, Sarah would be called upon often to tell of her adventure.
She enjoyed the tale, but in truth, she remembered little of it. She had spent
three nights under a tree in the later part of spring, and but for the kindness
of a passing dog, she surely would have died. Every night it had returned to her,
curled up around her, and kept her warm and protected. Although this had not
seemed strange at the time, she was often surprised, looking back, at how trusting she had been. She had never been afraid of it, nor had she ever doubted that
<Return to main text>
Joseph Patch told a different story, though never in Sarah’s presence:
“T’wa’nt no dog tracks, I can tell you that much. . . .”
Near dusk, the evening after Sarah’s rescue by Mr. Heath and Joseph Patch,
a black bear loped toward a tree. When he found the spot empty, he stopped
abruptly, sending ripples coursing through his pelt. Motionless for several minutes,
he then rose to his hind legs and sniffed the wind, peering about with nearsighted
eyes. He could smell the two men who had come for the girl cub, and his nose
wrinkled with disgust. He dropped to all fours and for several more minutes
simply stared at the ground. At last he lumbered to the tree, curled up at the roots
where Sarah Witcher had sat, and tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep.
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2 | Find a Job
“You might surmise that I ran there, but I really only crept.”
—Vigilantes of Love, On to Bethlehem
“Whoa—you write good!”
“Well, I’ve been to school before.”
It was my first day of class in New Hampshire, and I was surrounded
by three or four other first graders who had left their seats to admire my
penmanship. One of them warned me to look out for Darrell, lest he sit
on me. Given my shyness and the unfamiliar environment, you might
surmise that I felt awkward and self-conscious surrounded by kids I didn’t
know. On the contrary, I felt welcomed and accepted, a feeling that would
last, more or less continuously, for the next eight years. In 2002, one of my
classmates organized a 20th junior high reunion that roughly half of our
class (of about 30) attended.
In fifth grade, my teacher told me (in a meeting with my parents
regarding some standardized tests I’d just taken) that I could do whatever
I wanted when I grew up. Inspired by The Lord of the Rings (which I had
gotten for my birthday the summer before) and A Wizard of Earthsea
(which I would read the following year), I decided that I wanted to be a
writer. The only person to whom I mentioned this goal was Darrell (who
had never attempted to sit on me). He said, “I’d buy a book you wrote.”
“Thanks,” I said. What I failed to add, till now, was, “That means a
lot to me, Darrell.”
My first serious attempt at a story is lost to history, but it involved
(predictably enough, if you’re familiar with the Earthsea series) a man in
a small boat talking to a dragon perched on the bow.
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I parted ways with my classmates after graduation, taking advantage of
Providing our two steers with water involved taking two buckets down
an opportunity to attend a college preparatory school called Holderness. It
to the river, filling them with water, then lugging them back to the stalls.
was there that I started taking my writing (more or less) seriously, by treat-
If you’ve ever done this sort of thing, you know how heavy water is. If you
ing every writing assignment as a creative exercise. As an example, for my
haven’t, you’d be surprised. My tendons would be whining pitiably before I
sophomore history class I wrote a paper on Uganda from the perspective
was halfway to the barn. I consoled them with the thought that one day they
of Idi Amin’s pet vulture. I don’t recall the contents of my final paper for
would be extraordinarily strong and muscular. They weren’t convinced.
that class, but I still have the teacher’s response: “Mark—I hope that you
When my tenth birthday arrived, I asked my parents if I could take
can keep your obvious love of writing as you move on to U.S. [History] &
the day off from that particular chore. I was surprised when they said,
Advanced English courses. Of course, certain other teachers might not have
“No.” Mom even went so far as to write a short story about it for a Sunday
the same appreciation (or should I say ‘tolerance’) for your style.”
School curriculum. The moral of the story was that animals still need
My senior year, the Advanced Placement Composition teacher wrote
water, even on birthdays.
on my final vocabulary test, “You are never content to take the easy route.
I wasn’t happy about it, but I did as I was told, and while my muscles
Please don’t give up. Becoming a writer is terribly hard—but you have
never got as big as I had promised them, and the pain never really went
a rare talent for it; keep it up always.” He had written “Wonderful” next
away, I somehow developed a deep affection for carrying things.
to the sentence, “The lugubrious old woman invited us all to the funeral of
Most of my early jobs involved helping Dad paint houses, shingle roofs
an ant she had accidentally stepped on.” Wonderful is not a word I would
and build things like decks (and one summer, even a house), or he would
use to describe a sentence that ends with a preposition. Were I to retake
send me off on my own to do yard work for various people. My first inde-
that test today, I would write, “Having accidentally crushed a carpenter
pendent job was as a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant within walking
ant beneath the well-worn sole of her slipper, the lugubrious dowager
distance, where a waitress once complimented me on taking pride in my
conscripted her housecleaning staff to sit shiva for the unrecognizable
work, even though it was “ just washing dishes.” Mom gave me a copy of
smear.” If this book accomplishes nothing else, at least it allowed me the
Brother Lawrence’s book, The Practice of the Presence of God, in which the
opportunity to recast that sentence.
author speaks of doing dishes to the glory of God.
Once I got my driver’s license, it was my job to drive myself, my sister,
I had plenty of opportunities to explore other possible “careers,” several
and two other “day girls” to Holderness. That may seem like an easy, incon-
of which bear mentioning. Moving to New Hampshire meant that there
sequential gig, and in some ways it was, but Holderness was geared toward
were gardens to weed and from which to remove rocks, and animals to
keeping boarding students occupied, not providing communiting day kids
provide with food & water and behind whom to shovel.
with sufficient rest. We had classes six days a week, assigned jobs (mostly
bussing tables and washing dishes) and mandatory sports. Oh, and did I
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mention that Holderness was 30 miles away? Having my driver’s license
Joining driving, writing and carrying stuff in the top five on the list of
meant that I didn’t have to ride with seniors, as I had my freshman year,
things I love to do is working with Macintosh computers. In 1984, when
when I’d routinely left the house at 5:30 in the morning not to return until
Apple had introduced the Macintosh, I was a sophomore at Holderness. I
10:00 at night. From those three seniors I learned how to identify classic
got to play with a display model during a family vacation in Cleveland, and
rock bands on the radio, as well as the names of the band members, and
MacPaint struck me as nothing short of miraculous. Unfortunately, it was
more importantly, I learned how to relax under stress. Did I mention that
entirely out of my price range, but a magazine ad displaying an exploded
most of the 30 miles were winding back roads? The predominant speed
view of a mouse on the screen of the more affordable Apple //c convinced me
limit was 35 mph, and the driving senior routinely pushed the needle up to
that it was a suitable alternative. I had spent the following summer saving
65. I know, because I sat directly behind him, and in the early morning and
up for it, only to be convinced by a family friend (a professor of Economics
late evening darkness I could see the speedometer reflected clearly in the
and Dad’s cousin’s antithesis) that Apple was a “fly-by-night company” that
driver’s side window. The importance of deep, slow breaths, the acceptance
would fold within a month. Following his advice, I bought an IBM PCjr
of the fact that I had no control over the situation, the understanding that
instead—a model that was discontinued within a month.
relaxed I had a better chance of surviving a crash, and a resignation toward
I taught myself BASIC on that machine, staying up long into the
the very real possibility of my death, were all things I learned from those
night puzzling out the various commands and syntax until I was able to
seniors my freshman year at Holderness. Lessons I did my best to pass on
create a rough equivalent of MacPaint using the numeric keypad in lieu
to Beth and my two other passengers my junior and senior years.
of a mouse.
So, add driving to writing and carrying things on the list of things I
love to do. Hence, my favorite employment opportunities were moving
When I graduated from Holderness, my parents threw me a party,
jobs. Dad and I specialized in moving pastors and their families to and
where Dad’s cousin warned me that society would try to “plug me in,” and
from New Hampshire. We’d rent a truck and drive to New Jersey, western
that once I was plugged in, I would find it very difficult to unplug. He was
New York or St. Louis. I’m one of the few people I know who are disap-
speaking, not only as a restaurateur, but as a pilot, real estate agent and
pointed when people hire professional movers rather than soliciting help
writer who would later produce a reggae album. Although I was in the
from their friends.
process of leaving behind my childish belief that one could learn from
Washing dishes never quite made the list, but when Dad’s cousin
someone else’s advice, I decided to do my best to take his words to heart and
Lloyd (and his wife Mary) decided to open their barbecue restaurant up
approach my four years at the University of New Hampshire (unh) solely
for breakfast, they hired the Smith family to help them do it. Dad was the
as an opportunity to have other people tell me to spend time writing.
cook, Mom the baker, Beth a waitress and me the dishwasher. (Yeah—we’re
a close family, and we complement each other nicely.)
When I first arrived at UNH, I was ecstatic to find a room that was
half-filled with brand new Mac Plus computers, freely available for student
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use. All the jobs I held at UNH were related to Macs, either as a computer
When the need for a chauffeur to drive students to the mall was
cluster attendant (where I once accidentally hit the big red button that shut
announced, I eagerly took (and passed) the driving proficiency test. At
off power to all the computers) or at the campus computer store (where
last I was in my element. When the geology class went on a field trip to
my supervisor was continuously telling me that coming in late would not
Mammoth Caves in Kentucky, some 700 miles away, I volunteered to drive
be acceptable in the real world). The phrase in current use that describes
one of the vans. I even learned some geology.
people like me is Apple fanboi.
On the way down, we stopped at a motel. By now I had gotten to
My junior year, having sold my PCjr for $500 (about a fifth of what
know the kids, and felt more comfortable around them. I was in a frolic-
I had put into it), I bought a Macintosh SE. The last time I pulled it out,
some mood and suggested we play Duck, Duck Goose. Remarkably, this
it still worked. In fact, I wrote much of my first published book on that
suggestion was greeted with enthusiasm. After a few rounds, we changed
machine some thirteen years later.
the game to Red Rover. I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever had so much
fun. Afterwards, one of the teachers thanked me earnestly for brilliantly
My summer jobs during college were considerably less Mac-centric.
wearing the kids out so they’d behave through the night. Ha!
After my freshman year I was asked, through Holderness faculty contacts,
to be an RA for a gifted and talented program at Franklin & Marshall
My first post collegiate job (which I already mentioned in pass-
College in Pennsylvania. F&M had but one Macintosh—an original model
ing) was as a graphic designer at a print shop. I was hired ahead of six
with 128k of memory. It was a slow, clumsy machine, but I was thrilled
Graphic-design-degree applicants because of my experience with Macs
just to be typing on it.
(which included a wide selection of pirated software). The owner liked my
The funny thing about my relationship with kids is that they immedi-
English degree because he wanted a designer who could spell, but he also
ately respect me. Being a 6´2˝ male seems to have that effect. However, as
was impressed by my aptitude with computers. When he asked if I knew
gifted children, they quickly saw past my imposing stature and realized
how to set leading characters in a tab, I echoed every other applicant by
they could get away with most anything when I was their sole authority
saying “No,” but when he showed me how to do it, I distinguished myself
figure. When other RAs complained that my study hall was too noisy, I
from the crowd by saying, “Oh, cool!”
was reprimanded and lectured on the importance of keeping discipline.
Urgh. During the next study hall, I explained the situation very seriously
to my charges, and they responded by goofing off with the specific aim of
Here’s an entirely gratuitous example:
French Silk Pie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50¢/slice
making me laugh. It took all my willpower, but I managed to glare them
A steal at twice the price.
down. I don’t know that any more studying got done that evening, but at
Most people (such as myself before the interview) would simply type
least they were (relatively) quiet.
space-period-space-period-space-, etc. (or, more egregiously, period-period-
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period-), but the more elegant/accurate/professional solution is to set a
bedroom a local family was letting, and much of the remainder was spent
right-aligned tab at the desired position and apply space-period as leading
on textbooks.
characters (leading characters not to be confused with leading (pronounced
Finding a job was difficult, since my only mode of transportation other
“LED-ing”) which is the amount of space between lines of type (in the case
than my feet (which provided their fair share) was an old 3-speed Schwinn™
of this paragraph: 19 pt.)).
that some friends had found for me. Unfortunately, suburban sprawl does
The owner hired one of the Graphic-Design-degree applicants to act as
not lend itself to biking to work.
a gopher/office manager. One day, three weeks or so after we’d both been
The lack of income, coupled with the culture shock (I had never heard
hired, this young man approached me. He was wearing a suit, whereas I
the term “evangelical”) was such that I wanted to drop out of grad school
was “office casual” in a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. He said, “What
before the semester was half over, but a handful of teachers and support
was your major, again?” When I said, “English,” he said, “What were you
staff convinced me that God would see me through, and so I soldiered
wearing during the interview?” I said, “Pretty much what I’m wearing now.”
on, though the only coursework I continued to do was for the class on
He walked away bemused. Poor guy. After I left, the owner started the
Old Testament Theology, in which the only assignments were two page
search process all over again.
précis on sections of Genesis. It was the closest thing I had to a writing
When I returned to New Hampshire, I landed a job as an ad designer
assignment.
for the local newspaper. The SE/30s there were a step down from the Mac
Actually, having just looked up the meaning of the word précis, I find
IIs at the print shop, but it was an enjoyable job nonetheless. I had interned
that it denotes an abstract or summary of a text. It’s probably a good thing
there in high school, back before they transitioned to computers.
that I took it to mean “themed free-writing exercise.” At any rate, what I
I was also doing some freelance design work and, in my spare time,
handed in received good grades from Professor Bullock.
writing. I found an antique pen in a box of letters postmarked the first
decade of the twentieth century, bought a few bottles of different-colored
In October (about the time I attended my first cluster meeting) I
ink, and taught myself calligraphy (or at least a reasonable facsimile
started my first serious attempt at a novel with the line, “In her dream, she is
thereof). I wrote a letter a day (mostly unsent) to my one true, a fair number
always falling.” At the time I wrote it, I had no idea who “she” might be.
of poems, and a whole mess of nonsense.
That was almost twenty years ago.
She’s an eagle.
When my parents dropped me off at Wheaton College, in the summer
of 1991, I had $1,300 to my name. The first $1,000 went to the required
My efforts to keep society from “plugging me in” met with limited
third-of-a-semester’s tuition, $175 went to the first month’s rent for a
success. I had a typically large debt load, comprised of student loans, car
payments, computer payments and credit card debt—about $30,000 all
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told (including the $2,000 I still owed Wheaton for that one semester). I
never want to have a family?” Believe it or not, I was taken aback. Of course
managed to eschew a job for several months (with the exception of tutor-
I wanted a family. . . . I just was hoping to find someone willing to share
ing my soon-to-be first girlfriend’s daughter, for which I was paid a weekly
my life of poverty (or who was independently wealthy).
wage of $24 plus two home-cooked meals).
Soon enough, however, I started dating my future ex-wife, and my
I left my bedroom apartment when I quit grad school, and slept in
resolve to remain unplugged crumbled completely. I took a full-time job
basements and living rooms until my first girlfriend’s publishing contacts
as a graphic designer for La Leche League International (LLLI), an orga-
led to a freelance copy editing job. I made $10,000 that year and was able to
nization that supports breast-feeding mothers. I visited a credit counselor,
start paying rent, send money to creditors, and eat on a regular basis. When
consolidated my bills, and embarked on the road to financial stability.
it came time to file my taxes, I owed $1,000. Having failed to set aside any
money for the IRS, I mailed in my forms without attaching a check.
I sent a letter to Wheaton College explaining the circumstances of my
departure from the Biblical Theology program, and asking them to forgive
When the copy editing gig was over, I found part-time work as a
my remaining debt. They agreed, but noted that they would report their
church secretary. My freelance work continued sporadically, consisting
forgiveness to the credit bureau as a defaulted loan. Thanks, Wheaton
mainly of proofreading books for some of the many Christian publishers
College.
in the area, but it wasn’t enough: I was behind on all my bills, and, while
Meanwhile, my tax bill had ballooned from $1,000 to $2,500 on
it was not the only factor, my financial irresponsibility played a part in my
account of late fees, penalties and interest. I was shocked when I received
first breakup.
the bill, but I dutifully set about paying it. I brought the balance down to
In spite of my debt, I was moved (perhaps by a sermon) to ask the priest
$750 before they decided to garnish my wages. My starting wage at LLLI
at Church of the Resurrection what he thought of the idea of my eschewing
was $8/hour, which was barely enough to keep me fed, sheltered and up-
a paying job in favor of writing full-time and trusting God to provide. The
to-date with my bills. If I recall correctly, the irs took 75-80 percent of
arts were well-respected (and well-represented) both in the congregation
three paychecks.
and among the leadership, so I was surprised and disappointed by his wise
These experiences (along with others involving parking tickets and
advice, to whit: If you do that you will simply end up being a burden on other
overdraft fees) demonstrated to me how the world penalizes poor people
people. He didn’t pray with me; he didn’t seem to seek God’s direction, he
who aren’t scrupulous with their finances. Not that I was ever impoverished,
just told me (essentially) to focus on being a functioning member of society.
or homeless, but the world is set up for the wealthy to amass more wealth,
For such a Spirit-led church, and such a Spirit-filled leader, it seemed like
and to take away from the poor what little they have. The road to financial
a horribly pragmatic response.
success is steep and sandy, and if you don’t apply the accelerator slowly and
Soon after, I was talking to a friend, explaining my plan to focus on
writing without getting roped into a full-time job. She responded, “So you
steadily, you’ll slowly slide further down the hill.
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Despite my fear of becoming well and truly “plugged in,” I loved work-
Finally, after more than a year of working for him, he fired me over
ing for LLLI, and within a year I was making $9/hour. I loved the work, I
the phone. “Fine,” I said, and hung up. Thirty seconds later, he called back
loved my coworkers, and I was learning a lot of things I never expected to
to retract. My last remaining coworker answered the phone. “I’m sorry,”
know, but when I was offered $14/hour as an art director for a small real
he said. “Mark just left. He looked kind of pissed.” After he hung up, we
estate marketing firm, I felt I had no choice but to jump at the chance.
shared a good laugh. Then I gathered up my stuff and left.
I’m still a little sore from the experience. That was, let’s see, about 15
years ago. The owner still owes me $630.
Several months later, I returned for a visit. I was flat broke, and I was
hoping to collect on some of the money he had owed me from before I
He had some good traits. He was a devoted husband; he had good
took him up on his offer to fire me. He wasn’t in the office when I arrived.
taste; he was charismatic; and he encouraged creativity and big thinking.
In fact, the only person there was a lonely temp designer who (once I told
He was also a dishonest sleaze ball.
him I was a former employee) had some questions for me that I was all
I didn’t pick up on this latter trait as quickly as perhaps I should have.
too happy to answer.
When he asked me to scan receipts and edit the numbers on them, I took
When the owner returned, he looked at the two of us. His eyes nar-
it as a Photoshop™ challenge and rose to the occasion with glee. It took
rowed. He invited me into his office and asked what I had told his employee.
an inordinately long time to figure out that I was cheerfully committing
I was all too happy to tell him. His face turned an alarming shade of red,
a series of crimes.
but he managed to remain cordial. He asked me why I was there. I asked
One day the fax machine repairer came in to fix the fax machine. It
him for the money he owed me. I have no doubt that he took great satis-
was not his first visit. He asked the three of us who still worked there
faction in telling me he didn’t have any money to give. I told him I was so
whether any of us knew whether the owner paid his bills. I volunteered
broke I couldn’t put gas in my tank. He had compassion on me. He pulled
the information that a few of our paychecks had bounced, whereupon he
out a wad of cash an inch thick, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to me.
took the fax machine and left. When the owner returned, he asked where
I thanked him and left.
the fax machine was. I told him what I’d said. He fired me. Thirty seconds later, he retracted his dismissal. This pattern would repeat perhaps
Honestly, I think my satisfaction was greater than his. I walked back
to my car grinning like the Cheshire cat.
a dozen times.
He wanted me to be loyal to him. Now, I prize loyalty above many
The two or three years that followed were filled with a glorious pro-
other virtues, but not (in most situations) above honesty. I’m also choosy
fusion of jobs and lack thereof. A friend of mine from church drove a
about the people to whom I offer my loyalty. “Boss” does not automati-
semi-tractor trailer for Fannie May® Candies. During the busy holiday
cally qualify.
seasons, he would take on a “trucker’s helper.” I passed the written exam
for a commercial driver’s license and helped him drive a semi all over
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Illinois (and sometimes as far as Rochester, New York) delivering choco-
My ex-wife and I had an on-again, off-again relationship from the
lates. Fanny May® had a policy based on Deuteronomy 25:4: “You shall
beginning, and in the eleven years between asking her out and proposing
not muzzle an ox while it is treading out the grain” (also 1 Corinthians
marriage, we spent more time off than on. Thus it was in pursuit of yet
9:9, 1 Timothy 5:18). We couldn’t take candy home, but while we were on
another woman that I applied, in 1998, for a job as a graphic designer at
the job we were allowed to eat as much as we wanted. I would have sworn,
InterVarsity Press (IVP) where this fourth woman worked. Things didn’t
before I took that job, that it was impossible ever to get sick of chocolate.
go so well with her (I’ll spare you the details of the soap opera that ensued),
I’m better, now, thank you.
but it was beginning to occur to me that you were using my attraction to
That same friend did some moonlighting as a mover. One time he
these women in the same way that a cart driver uses a carrot to lead the
helped me load the truck but couldn’t take the time off to drive it to the
donkey. I appeared to be exactly where you wanted me to be, even though
family’s destination, so he sent me off on a solo trek to Florida. In February.
rarely a month went by that I wasn’t planning to move back to New Hamp-
Yes, glorious really is the right word.
shire the following year.
At some point, I applied at a temp agency. Soon, I had assignments that
I took cuts in pay and freedom working at IVP. The average wage in
would last months, and my income was skyrocketing. I loved temping—I
my temp jobs had been $17/hour, whereas my starting salary at IVP was
could take vacations whenever I wanted; there was continual variety; and
$32,000 (about $16/hour). What I got in return were stability (which was
I hardly ever showed up late because (I found) I can generally get myself to
a negative, as far as my long-term goals were concerned), and community
work on time for the first six months of any given assignment. Since most
(which was an unexpected positive). These were my kind of people: bookish,
of my jobs were short-term, I rarely reached the point of complacency.
funny and occasionally passionate. IVP was like a church to me. In a good
But the best time, during that period, was a two month stretch of
unemployment during which I had enough money laid by to cover all my
way. Church five days a week. In time, my whole life would be centered
around the job and my friends there.
expenses. It was the middle of summer, and I felt no stress for my future.
For the first seven years of my exile in Illinois, I had called nine separate
My writing thrived. I made significant progress on my novel, and my appe-
residences home. Now, I could afford a studio apartment without needing
tite for living that way full-time was fully whetted.
to split the rent with a roommate or two (or, on one occasion, five). I moved
My ultimate dream, throughout my tenure in Illinois, was to move
to Oak Park, a suburb much closer to Chicago and much less insular than
back to New Hampshire and devote myself to writing. Two things stood
Wheaton. In so doing, I was leaving behind a large segment of my previous
in the way of my dream’s fulfillment: my desire to be debt free; and my
life, which had been focused around Church of the Resurrection.
desire to find true love.
I also, for the first time, had health insurance. I used it to talk to a
therapist about the bouts of depression that had plagued my adult life. The
conclusion we came to was that I had an anger problem. Namely, I didn’t
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feel any, except in the rare instances when it was absolutely justified. Any
trilogy ten or a dozen times since fifth grade, so I set about to remedy the
room for doubt would invariably drape whatever fuel there was for rage in
editors’ situation by organizing a weekly luncheon dedicated to reading
the smothering blanket of depression.
the series aloud, starting with The Hobbit.
My therapist said, “Anger is your power.”
After one reading session, in July of 2001, Cindy, one of the editors in
At the time, I had no idea what she meant, and since this was about the
question, informed me that the author of the Tolkien book had found a
time that my sports car died, I had to interrupt the conversation in order
different publisher. A different author had been asked to write a different
to divert my co-pays into making payments on my new sedan.
book but had protested that there wasn’t enough time before the movie’s
release in December. The editor wanted to know if I would care to take a
Three years later, the tension between my long-term writing goals and
my short-term (but lengthening) career goals precipitated a bit of soul
searching. My writing had atrophied. Even my weekly writers group was
shot. She said I’d need to have it done by September.
If I recall correctly, I said yes before she finished asking the question.
(Bonus points if you catch the reference.)
dwindling out of existence after ten vibrant years. Through my pursuit of
true love and debt freedom I had finally acquiesced to society’s desire and
was firmly “plugged in.”
Of course, September of 2001 brought more than the completion of
1
my first book, but complete it I did. Flush with that success, I returned to
The search results from my soul brought to mind my freshman year at
my novel and finished a draft. I gave it to a couple of people at IVP to read.
Holderness. I figured if I could survive that experience as a teen, return-
The head of the editorial department, Andy, (who had read The Lord of
ing home after 16 hour days, often with homework still to be done, then I
the Rings several times), said that the theme of my novel was isolation. Or
could surely, as an adult, work full time and still spend substantial amounts
was it alienation? Regardless, it was not what I had wanted to hear, but
of time writing.
also, he was right.
My novel was nine years old at the time, and for several months, I rev-
IVP was no longer publishing fiction, so it was a bit of a moot point,
eled in our reunion. I was tired, but I was happy. I was often late to work,
even if I had harbored some hope that they’d make an exception in my
but I was writing.
case, once they fell in love with the book.
Then I discovered that a few of the editors at IVP had never read The
Lord of the Rings.
The Peter Jackson movies were on their way, and I was appalled at the
idea that these editors might see the movies without having read the books,
particularly since IVP was planning to publish a book about The Lord of
Two other genres IVP doesn’t publish are poetry and memoir. Some
friends and I decided to do something about that. We started a publishing
entity of our own that would eventually be called WordFarm. To date we’ve
published 13 volumes of fiction, poetry and literary nonfiction.
I get to be the fiction editor.
the Rings to coincide with the first movie’s release. I myself had read the
<Skip footnote>
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My Goals
Introduction to Tolkien’s Ordinary Virtues (2001)
1
The Lord of the Rings!
Frodo Baggins, at the council of Elrond, saying, “I will take the Ring, though
I do not know the way.”
Gandalf the Grey sliding into the abyss, crying, “Fly, you fools!”
Sam Gamgee, a gardener from the Shire, “turning into a creature of stone
and steel, which neither weariness, nor despair, nor endless, barren miles could
subdue.”
The mere recollection of these phrases can move me to tears. I have been reading this tale since I was eleven years old, taking it from my shelf every year or so
and returning to Middle-earth, drinking its virtues, pulling sustenance from it the
way a tree draws earth with its roots. I never grow weary of it. As I get older and
learn more of what sort of person I am and continue sojourning in the rich soil of
the Shire and the high tower of Minas Tirith, I discover that many of my notions
of what is good and right and noble in this world have their source in that one.
Visiting Middle-earth is like returning home, a blessing made all the more
poignant the farther I feel from my real one. Some of my oldest friends live there,
and I learn more about them every time we meet. Some, like Sam, are simple
and accessible, and yet their deeds are awe-inspiring. Others, like Tom Bombadil
or Treebeard, only grow more mysterious and inscrutable. It is a vast, carefully
detailed world, wondrous evidence of the capacity for imagination with which
our Creator has endowed us. Tolkien delights in describing every flower and every
stand of trees, every curve of the river and every turn of the trail. His delight is
so infectious that whenever I am hiking through some corner of this world that
is still worthy to be called “unspoiled,” much of what I see and hear and smell
reminds me of Ithilien, Lothlórien or the Shire, as if I had actually been there
and were now returning.
In Middle-earth I have found a training ground, a place where I can apprentice
to those whose gifts of charity, wisdom, kindness, mercy, love and faithfulness far
surpass my own. Soon after reading The Lord of the Rings for the first time, I was
in a Sunday school class in which we read a section of the Old Testament. I made
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the observation that it sounded a lot like Tolkien. My Sunday school teacher gently
corrected me. “No, Mark,” she said, “Tolkien sounds a lot like the Bible.”
This is not incidental. Tolkien was a devout Catholic from early childhood.
He believed that his history of Middle-earth was on some level essentially true,
that he was not so much inventing it as discovering it. I am not suggesting it was
inspired in the biblical sense of the word, but I do believe that God had a hand
in writing it, working through the circumstances of Tolkien’s life, speaking to
him through his intuition and endowing him with wisdom to understand the
intricacies of the plot of the ongoing story called Creation.
C. S. Lewis credited a late-night conversation with Tolkien and another friend
as being the crux of his conversion from a guarded theism to an enthusiastic
Christianity. The essential insight he gained from them was that myths are not
by definition lies. The story of Christ is a “true myth, a myth that works on us
in the same way as the others, but a myth that really happened.” Part of Tolkien’s
argument went like this:
We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us,
though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of
the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed, only by
myth-making, only by becoming a “sub-creator” and inventing stories,
can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the
Fall. Our myths may be misguided, but they steer however shakily
towards the true harbour. (reconstructed by Humphrey Carpenter,
J. R. R. Tolkien, p. 151)
Tolkien never preaches. He is not offering a sermon but telling a story. He gives
the characters freedom to take on a life of their own, to make their own decisions
as it were. He hated allegory of any kind but made a distinction between allegory
and applicability. In his foreword to the Ballantine paperback edition (I use the
95th printing for references throughout, with occasional references to the eleventh
printing of The Silmarillion, citing volume number and page) he writes, “The one
resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination
of the author.”
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My Goals
Here then is my humble attempt at searching out some of the applicabilities
of The Lord of the Rings. Middle-earth is so self-contained, so fully and minutely
realized, and yet at the same time so removed from what we fondly refer to as the
real world, that we may learn more easily from it than by studying the convoluted
facts of our own history. Along with The Silmarillion, which details the cosmology,
mythology and tragedy leading up to the War of the Rings (as well as volumes of
Lost and Unfinished Tales), we can see the beginning, the middle and the end—a
complete story. Again, Tolkien’s work copies the Bible in this large scope. While
it can never supplant the Bible, it may do its part to supplement it, so that we see
again, from a different perspective, the same essential and eternal truths.
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3 | Find a Church
You said, ‘I still love you.’”
—Dar Williams, February
“Dad, can I take Communion at church, today?”
I was seven, and we were driving to our Baptist church in Maine. My
dad thought for a moment. “Why do you want to take Communion?”
“Sometimes I get a little hungry in the middle of the service.”
The following week (after he explained the concept to me), I was
<Return to main text>
allowed to snack on a die-shaped crumb of white bread and a thimbleful
of grape juice. The mystical aspects of the experience were on a par with
the culinary, but I didn’t know any better; as far as I was concerned, I had
just taken a step toward adulthood.
If memory serves, there was snow on the ground when I asked to be
allowed to partake of the Eucharist, which places the incident mere months
before our move to New Hampshire, which coincided with Good Friday
in the liturgical calendar. My parents had noticed a rough-hewn cross
standing outside an Episcopal church not far from the family homestead.
Draped with purple fabric and bedecked with black balloons, it drew my
parents’ attention, and that’s where we attended Easter morning.
(Is there any significance whatsoever to the fact that the man who
constructed that cross came to visit today (the Wednesday after Easter,
thirty-five years later)? I can’t help but believe there is, but I can’t begin
to explain why, or how, or huh? These things happen. I attach to them an
amorphous significance. So.)
I don’t remember noticing the cross that day, but it stood outside the
church for years after that, and I remember it well from other occasions.
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My Goals
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What I primarily remember that first Easter morning is sunshine, flowers,
probe) in order to train as an acolyte. I was taught by Mr. Shepherd and
new grass and multi-colored balloons, men and boys in dark suits, women
Mrs. Grace.
and girls in pastel dresses, some with matching bonnets. I almost believed
In case you’re wondering, I’m not inventing these names. Our family
I’d been translated into a different world, a world surely within shouting
doctor was Dr. Hope. The teacher on whom many of the boys in my class
distance of heaven.
had a crush was Ms. Love. Can you see why I might have thought that I
My parents were struck primarily by the fact that the church was
was living in a storybook? The local veterinarian was Dr. Butcher. She’s
packed that day, and that no one deigned so much as to say “Good morn-
the one who turned our bulls into steers. I just hope we weren’t so cruel as
ing” to us, which is why we chose to attend the Advent Christian church
to introduce her to them.
for the next couple years.
Anyway. The most valuable lesson I learned from acolyte training was
We returned to the Episcopal church because of the new vicar, Rever-
that it was okay to make mistakes, since no one in the pews knew what
end Goodheart. On a non-Easter Sunday, the church was far less crowded
the acolytes were supposed to be doing. The most difficult lessons were to
and the congregation friendlier. Standing next to Dad, I would help him
refrain from yawning, and to remember, if our hands had nothing better
hold the hymnal, which vibrated with his deep voice. Walking up the aisle
to do, to hold them at belly-button level, with one hand grasping the fist
for communion, I would kneel before the altar, accept a cross-stamped
of the other rather than interlacing our fingers. I still find myself doing
wafer and dip it into a chalice of wine.
this from time to time when I’m standing idle in front of a crowd. I also
learned to take things slowly, deliberately and with a sense of reverence,
A couple memories from the living room where my injured inamorata
and to put my head between my knees if I felt faint or nauseous. But my
would renew her protestations of love for me: One was Mom helping Beth
favorite part of being an acolyte was bearing the cross during the proces-
and me memorize the Lord’s Prayer. The other was tooling around doing
sional, the recessional and the Gospel reading, because have I mentioned
kid things while Mom and Rev. Goodheart were praying. Suddenly they
how much I love to carry things?
were no longer speaking English. I wasn’t aware that my mother was fluent
in any other language, and in searching my mind for an explanation, all
Our high school schedule was so grueling that Mom told Beth and me
I could think of was the story of the Tower of Babel. I worried that they
that we didn’t have to go to church if we preferred to sleep in on Sundays.
had somehow offended God, and that he had confused their language.
As a “good kid,” I, of course, continued to attend faithfully, and I was the
Afterward, Mom explained to me about speaking in tongues.
tiniest bit scandalized the following Sunday when Beth opted to take
A few years later, I sacrificed (at Dad’s behest) several favorite episodes
Mom up on her offer. At the same time, however, I was deeply impressed
of The Six Million Dollar Man (one featuring Sasquatch, another the Venus
that she had the guts to stay home, and that my parents actually let her.
Apparently, there was this thing called grace.
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My Goals
One of the first things I did at UNH (after drinking my second (and
third (and fourth (etc.))) beer) was to find the local Episcopal church and
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69
No sooner had the juice dropped into my stomach than I was excusing
myself.
volunteer to acolyte there. My freshman and sophomore years, no matter
I wracked my brain for the location of the rest rooms, but since I had
how much I had drunk the night before, every Sunday morning the sun
never before had need of it, that information wasn’t there. So I exited the
was always shining, and I never had a hangover as I walked to church with
church to seek some accommodating bushes, but there weren’t any. With a
a spring in my step. Not that I kept detailed records, or that I would swear
superlative effort of will, I refrained from spewing apple juice and whatever
under oath to the truthfulness of that statement, but I can remember
else my stomach contained all over the Episcopalian lawn in full sight of
believing it at the time—the sunlight always falling like grace on a head
God and campus, and eventually rejoined Mom, who was still talking to
that should have been pounding.
my professor. I was flushed and sweating, but the only grace I experienced
I don’t remember much about the services themselves until the moment
of my disillusion. It was, if memory serves, my sophomore year when I
that day was not yakking.
This was the context in which I turned to atheism my senior year.
attended a Lenten retreat there. We were studying, perhaps, the Gospel
of Mark, and I was absurdly shocked to hear the priest aver that Mark­
The only viable alternative to Christian theism that I could imagine
—indeed, all of the gospels—had been written long after the crucifixion,
was nihilism. I believed that if Jesus Christ didn’t literally rise from the
and probably by people other than the apostles for whom they were named.
dead (offering humanity the opportunity to do likewise), then existence
He stated it as an offhand fact with which we should all have been familiar,
must be meaningless. As a result, I found I had no motivation actually to
but I was floored. To be clear: my disillusion was with the priest, not with
change my behavior. Aside from becoming slightly more selfish, I continued
his spurious claims about the Bible.
to be an introverted, alcoholic virgin.
It may have been later that same semester, or maybe the following
What did begin to change was my beliefs and opinions. I had grown
year, that Mom came to visit one Sunday morning. I was scheduled to
up a good, New Hampshire Republican, and I had been honestly puzzled
acolyte, and whatever grace had upheld me till then had departed. If the
by all the people at unh who didn’t seem to understand the obvious
sun was shining, I didn’t notice (which causes me to believe that it was not,
superiority of conservatism. My freshman year I had gone so far as to write
since otherwise I would surely remember it as a rapier to my eyes), and I
an opinion piece for the school paper, the headline for which (chosen by
spent most of the service with my head between my knees, just as I had
the editors) was “And Now A Word From The Right.”
been trained, hoping the congregation would assume I was deep in prayer.
Stripped of my conservative Christian assumptions, I started seriously
After the service, during coffee hour, I grabbed a plastic cup of apple juice
to wonder how apparently intelligent, compassionate people could, for
to settle my stomach, then introduced Mom to my Shakespeare professor.
instance, condone the murder of babies, so I attended a debate between
two pastors on either side of the abortion issue, hoping to find out. The
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My Goals
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71
Baptist minister was pro-life; the Episcopal priest pro-choice. I left the
get around to mentioning anarchy eventually, right?), an anarchy that did
debate disheartened, for I suspected that everyone else felt their original
little more than make me an annoyingly protean debate partner.
position had been effectively championed, while my question was no closer
to being answered.
By the time I returned to New Hampshire after my stints in Illinois
The other issue that puzzled me was homosexuality. A vocal gay
and Washington state, the Episcopal church in which I had grown up had
and lesbian group on campus declared that Wednesdays were Jeans Day.
changed. Or perhaps it was simply laid bare. When we had arrived (the
They urged people to wear blue jeans every Humpday to demonstrate our
second time, in 1977), the storm of controversy over the upcoming 1979
support for the gay and lesbian community. It was a brilliant, quirky idea
Prayer Book had largely blown over, leaving Rev. Goodheart in its wake.
that had prompted many of my friends (and me) to wear khakis at least
So I never experienced an Episcopal church wherein priests celebrated
once a week.
with their backs to the congregation, Episcopalians weren’t allowed to
But what if my ideas about homosexuality were wrong? At the time
receive communion from a non-Episcopalian priest and women couldn’t be
I had thought Jeans Day a sneaky and underhanded strategy designed to
ordained. Nor had I witnessed the backlash instigated when such things
“make a statement” and “make people think,” phrases that had always struck
were changed.
me as the rationalizations of loud-mouthed assholes. But what if I was the
By the late 80s, while I was in college, the controversy had shifted to
asshole for going out of my way to undermine their statement? What if my
inclusive language and other signs of rampant liberalism. For two years, the
opinions on the subject really did need to be rethought?
woman who pastored the church had been preaching from “A Lectionary
Well, college is about experimentation, so I formed a hypothesis and
for Christian Peoples,” an unauthorized (by the American Bible Society)
tested it. (No, that way—I’m an introvert, remember?) I came late to
translation that went so far as to refer to Jesus only as “that person,” rather
masturbation, not discovering it until my junior year, but my senior year
than “he.” The by-laws allowed for a priest to switch to such a lectionary, but
I decided to see if it was possible for a straight man to masturbate while
after six months it was supposed to be ratified by the vestry or set aside.
thinking of another man. It was. I’m not sure what that taught me, except
The controversy unveiled a previously subliminal rift between the
that gay men might not actually comprise an entirely different species. Yes,
conservatives and liberals within the congregation. The conservatives,
there were times when I wondered if I might be homosexual, but with the
like Dad, had little problem with the inclusive language, but had a big
exception of that one experiment, my sexual fantasies have always been
problem with an unauthorized translation. Thinking to use a method
peopled with women.
that the liberals would understand, Dad circulated a petition to return
So although my atheistic nihilism did little to change my character
to an approved lectionary, such as the New Revised Standard Version
(or my love life), it did become the root of a casual anarchy (you knew I’d
(NRSV) that recently had been released, which substituted “beloved” or
“brothers and sisters” for the “brethren” of other translations and avoided
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My Goals
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73
generic use of “he” or “man,” without stripping Jesus of his masculinity.
a joke about Glen Fidditch. I might have laughed had I not been so close
Unfortunately, the gesture backfired. The priest was in the hospital giving
to tears.
birth at the time, and some folks thought he was trying to undermine her
while she was at her weakest.
You see, there’s this weird problem with growing up in a relatively
functional family that understands grace, trust and the work of the
In the end, the priest resigned. My parents would not be far behind
Spirit: The fact that the rest of the church does not necessarily share such
in leaving the congregation, but, in the mean time, I was asked to serve
attributes took me completely by surprise. I remember asking my youth
on the survey committee (in which the congregation was polled for their
pastor (who was also on the survey committee) whether he had prayed
priestly preferences prior to the formation of the search committee). I
about the situation. I was standing in the front yard, talking to him on
agreed, feeling very grown up and mature. What most excited me was the
the cordless phone, listening to his silence. At last, he said, “I don’t know
prospect of typesetting the survey on my Mac SE.
what you mean. I grew up Catholic, so I think of prayer as something rote
Although I had been away at school while most of the controversy was
playing out, I had been privy to a host of conversations about it (cousin
Lloyd had been warning me against getting “plugged in” in part to avoid
yet another heated conversation about the controversy that was going on
and meaningless. I don’t understand what you mean when you ask me if
I’ve ‘prayed about it.’”
Another Bible verse came to mind at that moment: “Are you a teacher
of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?” (John 3:10).
in the other room). I wasn’t entirely sure what my own opinions were on
Only one person in the committee said, “Well, if God doesn’t want
the matter, but being asked to serve on the committee made me feel like
us to ask this question, then we shouldn’t ask it, right?” There may have
an independent, adult person. I felt welcomed and included. . . .
been one or two others who sympathized, but if so, they (perhaps wisely)
and then you stepped in, or seemed to, and said something along the
lines of, “Don’t include a question about the preferred gender of the priest
on the survey.”
kept their mouths shut.
While I couldn’t see into the minds of the other members, my impression was that her query was predominantly met with stony glares.
I wasn’t positive that the suggestion had come from you, but I wasn’t
In the end, well, we went back and forth, and I wouldn’t have been able
too concerned to puzzle it out myself. I brought what I thought I heard
to remember the final outcome had not I come across a copy of the survey
you say to the survey committee, expecting that we would all pray about
results several years ago. The question of gender was not included. I hon-
it and try to discern as a group whether or not it was from you.
estly don’t remember if that was the committee’s final decision, or whether
That’s not what happened.
I used my power as typesetter to remove it before sending the file to the
In the end, the diocese sent two priests to help us deal with the prob-
printer. Anarchist or no, I’m uncomfortable with the latter possibility.
lems I was causing. The only thing I clearly recall from that meeting was
my bringing up the work of the Spirit and having one of the priests make
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My Goals
By the time the survey was completed, I had already moved back to
Wheaton, into a church where the presence of the Holy Spirit was much
more welcome and accepted. It was a relief, I can tell you.
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75
fundamentalists or what. I knew Wheaton was conservative, but I had no
idea how extreme (or not) their conservatism might be.
As a result, half the time I couldn’t tell if people in the class were
joking. When people laughed, I wasn’t sure what was funny, but one day
Since Wheaton didn’t offer a graduate writing program, I had applied
I decided to test the waters. We were talking about the possibility of the
for (and been accepted to) their Biblical Theology program. I had imagined
existence of death before the Fall. One person made a comment that made
it would be like my literature classes at unh—a bunch of people sitting
people laugh. I piped up to say, “Yeah, I mean, in a way, even a fruit that
around discussing the books of the Bible (I was wrong).
gets eaten ‘dies.’” A man with a Jamaican accent rounded on me and said,
I had spent the previous year reading through the entire Bible for the
first (and second-to-last, so far) time in my life. For some reason I had an
“That’s just ridiculous!”
In my mind, I said, “I’ll shut up now.”
easier time with the Old Testament than with the New, so it was appropriate that the class that gave me the most trouble was New Testament
Theology.
I already mentioned how much Church of the Resurrection had grown
in my absence, and about the cluster group I attended. The priest had a
I only recall a handful of moments from that class. The professor (God
vision (a literal one) for the church. He saw people leaving a house, two by
rest his soul), spent a lot of time talking about Augustine (pronounced
two, carrying lights. He interpreted it as a vision of the church growing,
“a-GUST-in,’” not “AW-gust-een.” Who knew?). He would write the word
spreading light into the community and planting other churches.
Father on the blackboard, in English and in Hebrew, then circle it. Then
My cluster was the first to grow to the point of putting this vision into
the word Son, and he’d circle both of them together. Finally, he’d write the
practice by splitting into two clusters, except we didn’t call it “splitting,”
word Spirit, and circle all three. The circling seemed to go on forever, as he
we called it “multiplying.” It was a grievous process, for we had all grown
explained how the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son, and
extraordinarily close, and choosing which of the two resulting clusters to
somehow he expected us to understand why this was an important distinc-
join was painful, but it was accomplished with dignity and a peculiarly
tion. Later (years later), I would learn that Eastern Orthodox Christians
Episcopalian liturgy. We lit candles and carried them out with us as we
believe the Son and the Spirit both proceed only from the Father, who is,
left the final meeting.
according to them, the One and Only Source of All. I assume that’s the
issue about which he was lecturing.
Not long after, the priest and vestry announced that they were leaving
the Episcopal diocese. They couched their decision in terms of being called
I sensed that there was some sort of shared belief system at Wheaton
by God out from under the authority of a bishop who was “ordaining and
College to which I wasn’t privy. I didn’t know if these were six-day-creation
sustaining in ministry practicing homosexuals.” (Ten years later, this would
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My Goals
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become de rigueur for conservative Episcopalian congregations, but as far
of Episcopalian) split again, and, for awhile, I attended that congregation
as I know we were among the first.)
(Church of the Great Shepherd), as well. Each congregation had a unique
They were not asking anyone to join them, but only to listen to the
identity, but there was an underlying sadness. The second split had been
Spirit and discern whether we, individually, were being called as well. Since
entirely internal, based on dissatisfactions with the leadership, and/or with
the diocese owned the church building, they would be leaving it behind,
the direction and focus of the church. One pastor had decided to strike out
along with the church offices. Since we had already been meeting in a high
on his own and start his own church. From all I’ve heard, he never expected
school auditorium, and only using the church building for Wednesday
that half the congregation would follow him.
evening services of prayer, praise and healing (not to mention the meeting
The other half (some of them, anyway) were left feeling confused and
in which all this was explained), it would not be a particularly tumultuous
abandoned. To them, aRez was still a wonderful church, but, because of
transition.
the sheer number of people in the congregation, the hurts suffered by those
The odd thing was, this bore no resemblance to the “multiplication” we
who left had been largely invisible to those who stayed behind.
had practiced in our cluster group. This was definitely a “split” from the
Then another, smaller, split occurred. Then another. Then, if memory
larger Episcopalian community. We would still be Anglicans, but we would
serves, yet another. It got to be a bit of a joke. Perhaps the latter splits
be under the authority of the bishop of Rwanda. Or was it Singapore?
could more accurately be described as church plants, but it was hard to
Only one person stood up at that meeting to challenge the decision. He
tell. Unless you happened to talk to someone who was familiar with the
spoke eloquently and at some length about the preferability of remaining
situation, all you knew for sure was that a new church had started under a
within the diocese, and while I recall few details of his speech, I remember
former member of the congregation and that a number of other members
that I largely agreed with him. In the end, however, while he and his wife
had gone with them.
(who would later be my therapist) moved to a different Episcopalian church,
The oddest thing was, the priest’s vision (he himself left eventually) was
I ended up following my friends to the new, independent congregation. Not
being fulfilled. It was not happening the way we had practiced—through a
that I felt called one way or the other. If a still, small voice was speaking, I
liturgy of multiplication—but two by two (or more), people were leaving the
didn’t hear it. In fact, I never heard if anyone outside of the priest and vestry
house of Church of the Resurrection, taking with them a little bit of light,
felt any individual calling, but I do know that, out of some 600 congregants,
and spreading it throughout the greater Chicago-land area without dimin-
only 18 stayed behind to continue meeting in a church building that was
ishing the original glory, such as it was. Years later, after I had stopped
suddenly too large for them, and to search for a new priest.
attending any church with any regularity, I would occasionally attend what
A couple years later, I attended that church (affectionately called eRez).
I will always think of as the original Church of the Resurrection. They still,
Their numbers had grown, and they were a strong, Spirit-filled congregation.
as of this writing, meet in a high school auditorium (though at a different
Not long after that, aRez (the a is for Anglican, which is the British spelling
high school), and visiting them always feels like coming home.
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79
My one foray into a church unaffiliated with Rez took place when I was
Jesus Seminar) have done and puts it to use in the framework of a much
living in Oak Park. It was, of course, an Episcopal Church, and I thoroughly
more conservative (i.e., resurrection-friendly) interpretation of Jesus’s life,
enjoyed worshipping in a proper church building again. Pews, stained glass
sayings and works.
windows and an organ—it was everything a church is supposed to be, even
This particular Lenten study was led by Crossan himself. For two or
if I didn’t actually make any friends there. Sometimes the woman I had
three days I listened to him speak very convincingly and lucidly of where the
pursued to IVP would attend, sometimes not, but I liked the priest, even
gospels were correct and where they probably were incorrect, and why, but
if he did tend to equivocate a bit when it came to the miraculous elements
my favorite (well, also rather sad) part of that weekend experience was when
of the Bible passages on which he would preach. There were rumors that
a woman in the back of the church raised her hand to ask a question.
he might be gay.
“So. . . . Do you. . . . Pray?”
For as long as I could, I clung to the possibility that he was equivo-
Crossan, a former Catholic priest, answered that he considered his
cating for the benefit of any skeptics in the congregation. The pattern his
scholarly work a form of prayer, but (and I’m paraphrasing from memory
equivocations followed was, “Now, did Jesus really (walk on water, feed five
here) “as far as, do I think there’s some sort of cosmic being out there that’s
thousand people, raise Lazarus from the dead)? Maybe he did and maybe
listening to me? No.”
he didn’t, but regardless, this story teaches us (this or that surprising and
valuable lesson).” My disillusion came, of course, at a Lenten retreat.
At IVP I had learned about the Jesus Seminar, a group that concerns
Afterwards, I asked the priest what he thought of Crossan’s conclusions. He said, “Well, I agree with him about all that Atonement Theology
stuff.”
itself with understanding the “historical Jesus,” that is, Jesus as he really
I kind of stopped attending after that. In the exit questionnaire that
was, rather than as 2,000 years of church tradition has made him out to
was passed around after the retreat, I suggested that next year they invite
be. These ideas seem to be popular with liberal Episcopalians (such as this
Wright to provide an alternate perspective. The following year I received an
priest, and the one at UNH), in part because they take the onus off of God
invitation from them to sign up for a Lenten study led by Marcus Borg.
and the Jews for killing Jesus and place it squarely on the shoulders of the
Romans, who naturally executed him for claiming to be a king in opposition
When my ex-wife was my fiancée, I made an effort to return to regular
to Caesar. Also, they eliminate any need to believe in the fairy tale aspects
church attendance. We split our church-going time between Church of the
of the stories, like miracles, exorcisms and resurrection.
Resurrection and Church of the Great Shepherd, but when we got married,
Most of what I learned about the Jesus Seminar was within the
context of a book IVP published by N. T. Wright called The Challenge of
we held the ceremony on the grounds of the original, Episcopal parish. It
was a beautiful service, but trouble began that very night.
Jesus. Wright takes the historical research that people like Marcus Borg
We had bought a townhouse six months previous (well, she had
and John Dominic Crossan (two of the better-known members of the
bought a townhouse—she wasn’t independently wealthy, but she had a
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Find a Church
better-paying job than me. I co-signed). I had moved in to the guest room
way of Church of the Great Shepherd. Within a month, the pastor and
several months before the wedding. It was my eleventh residence in Illinois,
his wife invited me out to dinner and asked if I had any questions about
and I fully expected it to be my last, but that night (our first as a married
the church. I had one:
couple) my wife woke me up to ask what was making that sound. I listened.
“What’s your stance on homosexuals in the church?” I asked.
It sounded like someone obnoxiously bouncing a basketball on the pave-
“We don’t really have one,” they replied.
ment outside. I offered this explanation and promptly fell back to sleep.
“Good enough,” I said.
My wife did not accept my conclusion, but spent the night worrying. The
They meet in a church building belonging to a Reformed Church
next morning, as we were loading up the car for our honeymoon in New
in America (RCA) congregation (hence their atypical worship schedule),
Hampshire, we discovered that several cars had been vandalized, their
so there are no pews or kneelers. They take communion standing, com-
back windows busted by a baseball bat.
municants going first to the priest for a pinch of home-made bread, then
Well, I had been right that there was some sort of sports paraphernalia
involved.
stepping back to chew before stepping forward to receive wine from the
deacon or an acolyte.
I won’t go into too much detail about the dynamics of our relationship,
Every week I’d take a honey-flavored bite of Jesus Christ, step back,
since the personal details are only half mine to tell (and half even of mine
hands at my belly button, holding one fist with the other hand, and close
are inextricably tied in with hers), but that was the beginning of the end,
my eyes. The sensation of being washed in a waterfall of love and Presence
and we hadn’t yet been married 24 hours. Finances were an issue, of course,
was consistent, and consistently indescribable.
and also, I was trying to finish up my second book, which was aimed at
the release of the film version of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. (In
contrast with the three month completion of my first book, this one had
taken two years, and my desire to complete it distracted me from focusing as much energy on the marriage as perhaps I should have.) There were
plenty of other factors, but those are the only aspects of our many arguments that I’m willing to share. By Christmas we were separated, and by
September our divorce was complete.
Cindy, my editor at IVP, knowing my situation and also my sleep
schedule, invited me to visit her church, which met at 5:00 on Saturday
evenings. It was yet another offshoot of Church of the Resurrection by
<Skip footnote>
1
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Playing Narnia (2005)—an excerpt from Aslan’s Call
1
Suanne Ashe had always considered herself a practical person. Recently retired
from the United States Postal Service, she missed the structure of an eight-tofive workday but didn’t waste any time feeling sorry for herself. She had worked
through the anthrax scares that followed the attack on the World Trade Center
and was glad to be free of the almost constant anxiety that had subsequently
accompanied her job. In those days the Chronicles of Narnia had not yet been
made into a series of Disney films, but word of the upcoming movies had incited
a great deal of excitement in her grandson, Ryan, who insisted she read the books
before the movies came out.
“Gran’ana, there’s lions and dragons and giants and ships and a witch and, and,
and stars,” Ryan had said. “Stars that are really people. So you gotta read it.”
“Are there pandas?” she had asked, hoping to sound droll. “I like pandas.”
“No, Gran’ana, there’s no pandas.”
“Are there Archaeopteryxes? Platypuses, marmosets, lemurs?” she said, smiling now.
“No, Gran’ana. What’s a lemur?”
“It’s a little monkey, like you.”
“Gran’ana!”
She was not the type of person who went in for fantasy. She preferred biographies and memoirs, stories about real people living in the real world. Nevertheless,
for the sake of her grandson she walked to the local bookstore, wasted a good
deal of time searching in the fantasy section before being directed to the young
adult shelves, found a paperback set, was appalled by the price, was even more
appalled by the price of the hardcover set, and consoled herself with the thought
she could give it away when she was finished.
Despite the cost, she found a sliver of excitement lodging in her bosom. As
she walked home, her excitement grew. She was glad that Bill wasn’t home when
she got back, so that she could tear off the cellophane in peace. Sitting on the
edge of her husband’s recliner, she opened up The Magician’s Nephew and began
to read.
A few pages in, the character of Polly gave her an idea. It was an absurd idea,
but she acted upon it nonetheless. She pulled a two-liter bottle of ginger ale out
of the refrigerator and carried it, along with the books, upstairs, where she pulled
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83
the cord that lowered the ladder that led to the attic. She had not been up there
since she and Bill moved in some fifteen years ago. It was a triangular space, the
roof coming to a point in the middle and the slant reaching all the way down to the
floor. Pink insulation was fastened between the bare rafters. She and Bill did not
even use the attic for storage, and it was a bit too warm, but she found a relatively
comfortable seat on a few boards not far from the bare bulb that hung from the
roof. The place was just homely enough to allow her to believe she might be a little
girl reading an adventure tale at the end of the nineteenth century.
Several hours later, when she heard a door open downstairs, her heart lurched,
and she felt suddenly sheepish. She wasn’t sure that Bill would understand the
impulse that had sent her up there. Indeed, she wasn’t sure she understood it
herself.
As silently as she could, her heart pounding unaccountably, she crept to the
trapdoor and descended. She heard Bill’s footsteps heading toward the staircase
as she slid the bottom half of the ladder into the top half and lifted the trapdoor
closed. She had left the light on, she realized, and the books, and, most disappointingly (given the heat), the pop, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
Scurrying into the bedroom as Bill ascended, she strove to slow her breathing
and gather her composure as she busied herself tidying.
“Here you are,” said Bill. “Have you seen my reading glasses? Hank gave me a
new contract to look over, and without my goggles the fine print is going to give
me a migraine.” He waved a sheaf of papers at her as he cast his eyes about the
room with a look of befuddled concentration that normally irritated her but now
made her want to laugh.
“I think I saw them on top of the refrigerator this morning,” she said.
“The refrigerator?” he echoed. Then his eyes lit up, and he raised one finger.
“Ah yes!”
She could not remember the last time she had felt such fondness for him. Over
the next few days, as she spent more and more time in the attic and in Narnia,
she found that her attitude toward Bill was not the only thing that was changing.
She was developing what she came to think of as Narnian eyes.
She had always gone for walks in the mornings, but now the walks were
lasting longer, and she was noticing things that had never before caught her eyes.
It was as if she had never truly understood the color green, or the beauty of the
color gray. The air was distinctly not Narnian, but she breathed it deeper and
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noticed more of its aromas. Sometimes the predominant smell was sewer, but
other times it was fresh-mown grass or lilac. Even the shrill trill of the cicadas
sounded musical to her.
She could not say for sure that the Chronicles of Narnia were solely responsible
for this change. Perhaps it had as much to do with the fact that she was keeping
a secret from her husband, or perhaps it was simply increased exercise, but she
couldn’t deny that she was enjoying the Chronicles immensely.
Her son Jeffrey, Ryan’s father, had loved fantasy stories as a child, and Suanne
had always tried to dissuade him, fearing that he would turn inward and get lost
in his imagination. It was true that he was hopelessly irresponsible, late with his
bills and rarely remembering to call his mother unless he needed something. But
in Susan Pevensie, one of the four children in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
and Prince Caspian, she found someone who could manage both a sense of wonder
in the fantastic and a practicality of which Suanne approved. Perhaps because of
the similarity in their names, Suanne became very attached to Susan Pevensie
and thought about her often, almost as if they had been childhood friends.
Alone among her brothers and sister, Susan had seen the necessity of taking
coats from the wardrobe as they all entered the Narnian winter on their first visit,
and it was she who convinced them of the madness of leaving their shoes on the
beach on their second. When Aslan deemed Susan too old to return to Narnia
at the end of her second visit, Suanne felt Susan’s disappointment as her own.
Her disappointment at the absence of Susan soured her experience of The
Voyage of the Dawn Treader, so much so that she almost stopped reading. It was
such a dark story, with children being sold as slaves, the boy Eustace being turned
into a dragon and one of the Lords they were looking for being found at the bottom
of a lake, having been turned into solid gold some years before. She could almost
sympathize with Eustace, who at least was able to keep his feet firmly planted in
reality through all of this, even if after a while it was a bit stupid of him to insist
on believing there could be a British consulate anywhere within a million miles
of that ship. She was annoyed with Lewis’s obvious dislike for Eustace and felt he
was purposely painting a ridiculous picture of him, when really the underlying
things he was insisting on were eminently reasonable.
The invisible Monopods were the last straw. Sitting in her attic, drinking too
much ginger ale, reading about these ridiculous little gnomes . . . “It’s disgusting,”
she said aloud, and wondered if her fears about the effects of fantasy on Jeffrey’s
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mind had been justified after all. The attic was hot, as usual, and the board on
which she sat was making her bottom numb—she suddenly couldn’t believe she
had ever thought it all exciting and fun. “I’m turning into a crazy old lady,” she
scolded, speaking, apparently, to the book and shaking it. She almost put it down,
never to pick it up again, but a voice, or words anyway, from somewhere in the
back of her mind said, “Keep reading.”
She shifted her position slightly, holding out the one leg that had fallen asleep,
and wondered if the voice were all the proof she needed that she had indeed lost her
mind. Nevertheless, as she waited for the pins and needles to subside, she finished
the chapter about Dufflepuds and turned to a chapter called “The Dark Island.”
It did not sound promising, but she decided to give it one more chance before
turning her back on fantasy for good. The chapter turned out to be worse than
all the rest of the book put together, as the ship and its crew foolishly sailed into
an unnatural and entirely avoidable darkness in the middle of the ocean, shamed
into it by a Mouse. It turned out to be a place where nightmares came true.
She was quite certain she didn’t want to read any further, but as the ship
circled, trying to get out, its crew in a panic, Suanne began to feel the world of
the book and the world wherein she was reading the book come together. The
fictional characters’ frantic attempts to row themselves out of the darkness had
the same quality as her vain attempts to put down the book.
Her eyes were wide with horror when at last she came to Lucy’s prayer: “Aslan,
Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now,” and though she had never
really believed in a personal God, she felt the prayer echo in her mind. And suddenly she was so deeply into the story that her panic eased just a little. When
the albatross spoke to Lucy as it flew by the crow’s nest, “Courage, dear heart,” a
stab of joy and relief pierced her heart, and she read on hungrily, hopelessly lost
in the fantasy.
By the time the Dawn Treader passed the last island and Eustace, Edmund and
Lucy were disembarking with Reepicheep at the End of the World, Suanne’s eyes
hurt from the brightness, and the light that presaged the Lamb seemed almost to
strike her blind. She was no longer seeing black type on a white page but only the
unbearable glare of the Silver Sea. When the Lamb turned into a Lion and told
Lucy and Edmund they wouldn’t be returning to Narnia, she could hear Lucy’s
voice, in between sobs, imploring, “It isn’t Narnia, you know, it’s you. We shan’t
meet you there, and how can we live, never meeting you?”
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Closing her eyes, Suanne hugged the book to her chest and breathed, “Yes. Yes,
dear, I know.” She breathed in the warm attic air and sighed. “How can we live?”
Hardly daring to hope this tiny book could provide a satisfactory answer to the
question that seemed to have existed deep in her heart her whole life, she turned
her attention back to the words on the page and read Aslan’s answer: that he was
in Lucy’s world as well, and they must learn to know him by a different name.
The next day was a Sunday, and Bill had left early to golf with some of his
buddies, so Suanne went to church alone, as she often did during the summer,
but this time she went with a new sense of anticipation. She was convinced that
Aslan’s name in this world was Jesus, and Aslan had become so real to her that
she was all but certain that she would meet him in his church. Perhaps he had
been there all along, and she had simply never bothered to look. She sang the
hymns, listened to the Scripture readings, paid attention to the sermon and was
disappointed to find that there was no magic in any of it to rival what she had
experienced on board the Dawn Treader. When it came time for Communion, she
walked down the aisle woodenly, feeling as if she were in line for bread in Cold
War Russia. She had been duped into believing something that simply wasn’t
true. Oh, but I so wish it were, she thought, as she cupped her hands to receive a
tiny crust of bread.
As she walked from the priest toward the chalice bearer, she lifted her cupped
hands to her mouth, pushed the crumb past her lips and bit down. In an instant her
whole body was awash with a sensation that she was never able, after, to describe.
(“It would just sound hokey,” she would say.) A dull, remote pain was her only
clue that she had fallen to her knees. She looked up at the cross that hung before
the glorious stained-glass window.
“Oh. Hello,” she said.
She could hardly bring herself to swallow the morsel as someone, an acolyte
perhaps, helped her to her feet and started to lead her to a pew. She pulled away
from him. “I want to taste the wine,” she said. The words sounded indistinct to
her ears, as she staggered toward the rather alarmed-looking chalice bearer. She
grasped the cup, took a good swallow and fell to her knees once more. This time
several pairs of hands heaved her up and whisked her out the door to the right
of the sanctuary.
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They sat her down in a chair in the parish hall and asked if she needed an
ambulance. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m wonderful.” Still, they wouldn’t allow her to
return to the service but insisted she rest for a while.
Suanne had been too caught up in her sensation of rapture to notice the faces
of those who had brought her there, but after all but one of them had returned
to the nave, her eyes were able to focus on the woman who stayed behind. It was
Maggie, who had been among the first people to welcome Suanne when she
started attending the church some fifteen years before. Maggie was several years
older than Suanne and wore a scarf to cover the wispy strands of hair that had
grown in after her chemotherapy. They had been to dinner at each other’s house
on numerous occasions, and though they weren’t perhaps the closest of friends,
Suanne felt she could trust her.
“Has that ever happened to you?” she asked.
Catching the awkward look on Maggie’s face, Suanne hurried to explain. “I
don’t mean the falling down part, but the, the sense . . . that feeling that . . . I
hardly know how to explain it.”
Maggie reached over and patted Suanne’s knee. “Just rest a bit. I’m sure it
will pass.”
Suanne wanted to tell her she hoped it would never pass, but then considered
that perhaps Maggie really hadn’t ever experienced anything like this. It seemed
sad to her, at that moment, to think that Maggie might have gone through the pain
and fear of cancer without the feeling Suanne had just been given that everything
was going to be all right. That everything already was all right. She put her hand
over Maggie’s and smiled at her.
When the last hymn was sung and people started streaming in for coffee hour,
Suanne repeated a dozen times or more that it had been a dizzy spell but that
she was fine now. She wondered if anyone there would understand what she had
experienced, but she couldn’t find the courage to ask again.
As she walked home, hoping to have some time in the attic before Bill returned
from his golf outing, she was alarmed to notice the glow of her experience already
beginning to fade. She quickened her pace, thinking that perhaps the feeling
would return once she got back to Narnia.
Back in the attic, Suanne raced through The Silver Chair. So engrossed did
she become in the story that she didn’t hear the door open downstairs. Jill Pole
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My Goals
was just slipping into a hole beneath a ruined city when she heard her husband
call her name.
“Suanne?”
She jumped at the sound, realized he was at the foot of the ladder, and called
out, “Here I am.”
“What are you doing up here, sweetheart?” he said, climbing till his head poked
up through the floor.
A list of possible excuses rushed through her mind, but in the end she lifted
the book and told the simple truth. “Just reading.”
Bill frowned and climbed up the rest of the way, ducking his head against the
low slant of the roof. He scanned the attic with his usual expression of bemused
concentration, then picked his way over the rafters and sat down beside her.
“What’cha reading?”
She showed him the cover. He put his hand on the book’s spine and tilted his
head back in order to see more clearly. “The Chronicles of Narnia,” he read, and
looked hard at his wife. “Why’d you buy a new set? What’s wrong with the one
on the bookshelf downstairs?”
Suanne sat speechless. She didn’t know what reaction she had expected, but
it had never occurred to her that Bill might have read these books, let alone that
he might own a set of them.
Bill put his arm around her shoulders and said, “I see you’ve got your ginger
ale. Have you found the door into Uncle Andrew’s study?”
Suanne leaned her head against Bill’s shoulder. For some reason there were
tears in her eyes. “Not yet,” she said, “but I haven’t looked very hard. I’ve been
too busy reading.”
“The Silver Chair,” said Bill. “That’s the one with Muddleglum, isn’t it?”
“Puddleglum,” she said.
“That’s the one. I thought you never liked fantasy.”
She thought for a moment. “These don’t seem like fantasy. They seem—”
Bill nodded his head, as if he understood.
“Bill, do you believe Aslan is real?”
Bill erupted with a laugh that sounded like a bark. “Lewis pronounced it ‘Asslan.’ And yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”
“How come you’ve never talked about him before?”
“I guess I thought you’d think I was being disrespectful of God.”
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Slowly, uncertainly, she said, “I think I met him today.”
Bill looked at her face, leaning back as he had done when reading the spine.
“Are you feeling all right, Suanne?”
She smiled, but it was a somber smile. She thought of how the children had
been both glad and solemn in Aslan’s presence. “I don’t know how to explain it.
It was during Communion at church today. I just . . . I felt like he was standing
in front of me, or as if I was suddenly standing in front of him. I just fell to my
knees. I’m afraid I made something of a spectacle of myself.”
“I can imagine,” Bill said, gently.
“They rushed me right out of there, as if I’d had a stroke. It should have been
humiliating, but—it was wonderful.”
Bill nodded again, gave her shoulders a squeeze and got awkwardly to his
feet. “I don’t want to keep you from Narnia. Keep reading,” he said, “I’ll make
us some supper.”
Suanne reached up and squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” she said. While Bill
climbed down the ladder, she took one moment to be amazed at his understanding before returning to Jill’s flight from the giants’ hounds. By the time the three
adventurers had slid down an avalanche and the Undermen had lit their lamps,
the attic had receded and there was only the seemingly endless journey through
Underworld.
She was stiff and sore when Jill and Eustace returned in triumph to Experiment
House, and she found it difficult to start the journey down to the kitchen, whence
came the aroma of Bill’s signature tuna casserole. She wanted desperately to pick
up the last book, but she forced herself to her feet and faced the ladder. “I wish,”
she said, but she couldn’t finish the sentence. “What do I wish for?”
Over dinner, Bill talked about his golf game and retold a joke that his buddy
Hank had told that made little sense to her. After Bill had laughed at it all over
again, he was quiet for a time. Then he spoke up.
“So did you, um—Aslan, when you met him, did he give you a quest?”
Suanne put down her fork and looked at him, searching his face for a sign he
was making fun of her. He was staring at his food, and there was no trace of a
smile on his lips.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. There were no words really, just a feeling of,
of presence.”
“Mm,” said Bill, shoveling another forkful of casserole into his mouth.
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“I want him to, though. I hope he does.”
“Hmp!” snorted Bill. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Suanne said nothing. When she was finished eating, she thanked Bill for the
meal, put her dishes in the sink and returned to the attic. Before she started The
Last Battle, however, she offered up a simple prayer: “I do wish for it, though.”
It was after midnight when she finished The Last Battle, and her mind was
troubled. When Tirian had entered the stable and met Lucy and Peter, her heart
had leapt at the prospect of meeting Susan again, but Tirian had asked after her,
and Peter’s reply had smote Suanne’s heart: “She is no longer a friend of Narnia.”
Then Lady Polly had gone on to describe Susan’s downfall at the hand of vanity
and worldliness, and Suanne had wept.
Now, at the end, she understood that Susan was not lost forever to Narnia but
that her lack of faith had prevented her from being on the train when it crashed.
The more Suanne thought about it, though, the more upset she became. If Susan
had not been on the train, then she had lost her entire family in the crash. She
tried to tell herself that Susan wasn’t real, but it didn’t help. Susan felt real. She
would be Suanne’s age by now. How had she managed? Suanne wished she could
visit the woman somehow. It didn’t seem fair.
A flash of anger traveled like lightning from her heart to her hand, and she
flung the book across the attic. “I hate you,” she hissed between clenched teeth.
“You and your Narnia can go to hell.”
“Everything all right up there?” called Bill.
“I’m fine, dear,” said Suanne.
“Okay. I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late now.” She listened to his footsteps
pass the ladder and enter the bedroom.
Suanne leaned back against the wall and slowly unclenched her fists.
After a time, she said softly, “I’m sorry.”
On a sudden impulse, she got up and pulled the string that turned off the light.
Carefully, she sat back down and waited. “If you’re real,” she murmured, “you’ll
speak to me.” She gathered her knees beneath her chin and waited, trying to empty
her mind of all thoughts that might get in the way of her hearing whatever voice
might speak to her. She waited a long time, but the only voices she heard were
ones that said no voice would come.
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After a time her eyelids grew heavy, and she wanted nothing more than to
crawl into bed next to Bill and forget the whole thing. She leaned forward, preparing to stand.
“Go for a walk.”
Suanne blinked. Caught between standing and sitting, she tried to puzzle out
whether the voice had been anything other than her own imagination. Sleep was
all she wanted, but she had asked for Aslan to speak to her. Could she then ignore
him if he had? It might have been nothing more than a glitch in her imagination,
but on the other hand, she was not in control of what God said to her, nor could
she expect to understand the reason for what he might choose to say. In the end,
being the practical person she was, she decided the only question worth asking
was whether or not she was willing to go for a walk. She decided she was.
As she made her way down the ladder, she considered telling her husband
where she was going, but he was already snoring steadily, and she had a sensation almost of being pulled down the stairway and out the door. She was at the
sidewalk and taking a sharp left before it occurred to her that it wasn’t safe for a
woman of her age to be walking the streets so late at night.
The danger, though real, was quickly trumped by glory as she walked. The
moon was full and so bright she could almost see colors. The air was warm,
with only the slightest of breezes to lift smells to her nose. There was no sign
of any other soul, and it amazed her to think that all this beauty should go
unappreciated.
When the sidewalk emerged from under the trees for half a block, she had a
good look at the moon, and for perhaps the first time in her life she really looked
at it. It was smaller than she would have expected, and so bright that it seemed
featureless until her eyes adjusted. The urgency she had been feeling up till this
point, the sensation of being pulled, subsided. She wondered why God (if it was
God) would want to bring her here particularly, and in such a hurry.
A flash of imagination caused her to laugh aloud. It was an image of a child
grabbing her hand and pulling, desperate to show her some mundane thing that
glowed numinous to ingenuous eyes. Dutifully she stared at the moon, wondering
what on earth she was supposed to be seeing.
Quite suddenly she recalled a scene from Prince Caspian. After the battles
were won and the feast was over, everyone else fell asleep, while Aslan and the
Moon had stared at each other with joy unblinking all night long.
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My Goals
She took a second look at the moon. The Lady of the Green Kirtle had asked
what the sun (if it existed) could possibly be hanging from, and Suanne had to
admit, it seemed improbable that the moon should hang motionless in the sky
from nothing at all, yet there it was, barely out of reach, reflecting the light of the
sun most completely when it was the farthest away, able to lift oceans, connecting
lovers half a world apart.
There were tears in her eyes as she lifted her hand to her heart. A swell of
affection for the barren satellite rose up within her like a tide. For a moment she
could imagine standing there all night long reflecting on the different meanings of
the moon. The moment she imagined it, she began to notice the crick in her neck,
the ache in her calves and worst of all the picture of herself from a neighbor’s point
of view, standing outside in the middle of the night gaping at the sky.
With one last longing look at the moon, she turned to go inside. As soon as
she started walking she became aware of how deeply tired she was. Yet, when she
reached her bed, though she climbed in without taking off her clothes, she didn’t
immediately fall asleep. Instead she found herself thinking about Ryan. If Aslan
himself had pulled her outside to look at the moon with the eagerness of a child,
perhaps Ryan could continue the lesson, teaching her to see the world with new
eyes. He had, after all, been the one who convinced her to read the Chronicles.
She resolved to spend more time with him, starting tomorrow. She drifted at
length to sleep with visions of following him everywhere, overcome with wonder
at each new ladybug and cloud.
She woke up from a dream that had been both beautiful and sad, though all
she could remember was that she had been paddling a tiny boat toward an island
in a wide blue sea. The lapping of the waves against her craft had been so soothing
that she just wanted to lie in bed for awhile, submerged in the peace.
A sidelong glance at the clock told her it was almost eight o’clock. She hadn’t
slept so late in decades. A glance in the other direction told her that Bill was
already gone to work. She pulled her feet out from under the sheets and reached
for the phone on the night stand to call Jeffrey’s house before Ryan’s day was
planned out.
“Thanks for calling,” said her son’s sleepy voice. “I forgot to set my alarm again.
It should have gone off twenty minutes ago. What’s up?”
Suanne considered telling Jeffrey about her experience with the Chronicles,
perhaps apologize for discouraging him from fantasy when he was younger, but
Find a Church
93
for some reason she felt shy. It was too new yet. “I wondered if I could spend some
time with Ryan today,” she said.
“Oh, sure, he’d love that. Diana got a call last night to go in and sub, so he was
just going to day care anyway. Can you be here in the next half hour?”
She dressed quickly and made it to Jeffrey’s condo within forty minutes. She
apologized for being late, but Jeffrey just said, “That’s all right. I’m always late
to work,” and Suanne was helpless to stop her head from shaking in disapproval.
Jeffrey smiled tightly and kissed her on the cheek. “Have fun, you guys. Don’t
wear Gran’ana out, Ryan.” Ryan was playing with his trucks and didn’t look up
when his father left.
Suanne got down on her knees. “So, what shall we do today?”
Ryan shrugged, intent on pushing a big yellow dump truck back and forth.
“Would you like to go to the zoo? See the lions?”
Ryan pushed a lever that lifted the dump truck’s back end, and blew a
raspberry.
A shadow of worry passed over Suanne’s mind. This was not how she had
imagined the day would begin. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I know. Let’s go
to the park. We can play on the jungle gym and feed the geese.”
At last Ryan looked up and held out his hand. Suanne took it, and after a
brief detour to grab a box of cereal off the top of the refrigerator, they walked
to the park.
The morning air was cool, the wind brisk and the sky crowded with white
puffy clouds. Suanne and Ryan reached the park in ten or fifteen minutes. As
they walked, Ryan’s small hand in hers made her feel like a queen, as though all
that they passed was hers, though whether she was giving it all to Ryan or he to
her she couldn’t say.
They sat on a bench and opened the cereal box. Within a matter of minutes
they were surrounded by Canadian geese. Ryan tossed tiny doughnut-shaped
pieces of cereal to the geese with a serious, single-minded devotion.
Idly, Suanne tried to see the geese through Ryan’s eyes, to find some wonder
there, but all she could see were big ugly birds greedily jostling for position. Ryan
seemed hardly to see them at all. Her hopes of the night before were dissipating;
perhaps the wide-eyed wonder of little children was nothing more than a fantasy
grown-ups projected on them. Perhaps the real wide-eyed wonderers were firsttime parents.
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My Goals
A couple of the geese were eyeing her, waiting for her contribution. She reached
into the box and cast a handful of cereal bits before them. Briefly, as they gobbled
up the pieces, her animosity toward them softened.
“Guess what, Ryan. I finished reading the Chronicles of Narnia last night.”
“Hurray!” he said, throwing a handful of cereal straight up.
Suanne laughed. Ryan giggled and did it again.
“Hey, I know,” he said, “We can play Narnia.”
She hestitated only a moment. “Okay. How does one ‘play Narnia’?”
“Okay. I’m Aslan, and you can be . . . ummm. . . . Who do you want to be?”
She didn’t have to think long. “Can I be Susan?”
“Yeah! You be Susan, and I’m Aslan, and you have to run away, and I have to
chase you.”
“But why would anyone want to run away from Aslan?”
“Because that’s the game.”
“I see. So it’s all just a game, is it?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t mean to, but she just couldn’t purse her lips hard enough to keep
them from frowning, and her eyelids were wholly inadequate to the task of holding back her tears.
Ryan patted her knee and said, “It’s okay, gran’ana. I can run really fast.”
<Return to main text>
Find a Church
95
96
My Goals
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Find a Church
My Rules
“Everything human is pathetic. The secret source of Humor itself is not joy
but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.”
—Mark Twain
ME
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My Rules
Be Good
99
4 | Be Good
“Keep your eyes on that horizon.”
—Harrod & Funck, Lion Song
When I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to be righteous. To that
end, I made a pact with myself that I would never drink, smoke or swear.
Was it Satan or you yourself who laughed at my pledge?
I remember in second grade I was engaged in my favorite activity:
swinging. It was the good kind of swing set, with a metal frame, steel
chains and a floppy rubber seat. I was swinging really high, trying to see
the mountain (the same mountain that so often guided me home) over
the roof of the school. The sky was blue, the motion-generated breeze was
cool, and my new best friend Reed was leaning against the frame, trying
to get me to say “fuck.”
“Come on, Mark. It’s just a word. It’s the same as saying ‘ jam.’”
I didn’t try to explain my refusal; I simply kept my mouth shut. I
laughed when his reasoning was funny, but I wouldn’t countenance the idea
of swearing. I was well aware of the power of peer pressure, and I wasn’t
about to be swayed by it.
I wanted to be good. Not just nice, moral or well-behaved, but holy.
I wanted to be a nazirite, like Samson, or Samuel, a being so pure that
your holy spirit could rush in upon me, endowing me with superpowers;
a person so innocent that I would be able to hear your voice calling me in
the night. I wanted to be a saint the way other people want wealth, beauty,
power and fame.
Is that weird?
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My Rules
Be Good
101
Perhaps it is. I was a weird little kid (and young adult (and middle-aged
Walking into class the next day, I suddenly grasped the enormity of
man)), but I’m probably not the only person to grow up with aspirations of
my folly. Simply put, I had spent the previous afternoon catching Cooties
saintliness. Certainly there are plenty who have come closer to achieving
from the Most Unpopular Girl in My Third Grade Class. I sat down at
it. The problem isn’t so much that I failed as that my premise was funda-
my desk. Debbie sat behind me.
mentally flawed.
“Mark,” she said.
Filled with a creeping sense of horror, and not knowing what else to
I don’t know why Debbie was the Most Unpopular Girl in My Third
do, I pretended not to hear.
Grade Class. I don’t think anyone else did, either. She attended the same
“Mark,” she said again, and again I kept silent. To no avail.
Advent Christian Church my family and I did, as well as the after-school
“Hey, Mark,” she said, “Remember what we did yesterday?”
program they sponsored (at which I had invited Jesus into my heart the
Without turning around I growled, “No!”
previous year). One day her mom asked mine if Debbie could come to our
I was a good kid: always polite, always respectful, always well-behaved.
house after school and catch a ride with us to the program. Mom agreed,
But I lacked two things for becoming a bona fide saint: courage and compas-
and I didn’t see any problem until I told a classmate about it and received
sion. If by some strange chance you’re reading this, Debbie, please know
his deepest sympathies. He seemed genuinely amazed that I wasn’t more
that I am so, so sorry.
repulsed by the prospect. I laughed, which is what I always do when I don’t
know what to say.
A year or two later, my parents were counselors at a summer camp,
We had an hour or two to kill at my house, so Debbie, Beth and I
and Beth and I came along as “counselor brats.” Another, even younger
passed the time with a familiar variation on tag. The June sunlight played
counselor brat was in the same cabin as I, and he was afflicted by some
through the leaves of the towering maples, the grass was soft and warm,
kind of skin condition that looked like freckles gone horribly wrong. One
and we ran with wild abandon. And though Beth couldn’t run as fast as
day, the older kids in the cabin made a game (an eerily Lord of the Flies
us, Debbie and I both made (unsuccessful) runs at her from time to time,
kind of game), lining up in front of this kid’s top bunk, in which he was
and the laughter and delight on Beth’s face was part of the grace of that
lying, pulling their faces up to his bed and saying, “Eeewww! What stinks?”
afternoon.
After which they would go to the end of the line. In the midst of this cruel
But the game reached its acme when Debbie fell as I tagged her and
circle was me, playing right along. Afterwards, I made the connection
rolled over on her back to receive the wages of the game. I knelt down beside
between my treatment of Debbie and this poor kid, and I managed to
her, and, although it was a chaste kiss, as befits a couple of nine-year-olds,
make myself apologize.
and although I had played the game before, I knew by the welcoming softness of her lips that it was my first.
It wasn’t much, this apology, made in private for what had been a
very public humiliation, but at least it was sincere, and being the shy,
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Be Good
103
withdrawing kid that I was, I felt it was the best I could do. So I forgave
had much of an affect on sales, but together they encapsulate the poles of
myself for that incident.
reaction to “being good.” And they’re both right.
I don’t know if I will ever forgive myself for betraying Debbie.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that any number of people who are considerably less well-behaved than I are nevertheless better people, or that
I have two other stories from summer camp, both from later years
the best people tend to be those who were truly horrible at one time but
when I was attending with kids my own age. In the first story, I’m being
later repented. Good is mediocre. Good is safe. Good is boring. I struggle
chased by an older kid. He might have been a counselor, but he wasn’t quite
with it still.
an adult. I don’t remember why he was chasing me, but it was all in good
fun. Perhaps I had participated in a rare (for me) prank. At any rate, I had
When eighth grade came around, my class was joined by another girl
no chance of outrunning him, even though I was going flat out. Suddenly
who, while hardly taking the place of the Most Unpopular Girl, was never-
I had a flash of inspiration. I waited until he was nearly on top of me, then
theless teased rather more than was strictly necessary. She was smart and
threw myself lengthwise on the ground, causing him to trip over me and
attractive and quite, er, buxom, and she had decided to be my friend. She
go flying. Man, he was pissed. God, that was fun.
talked to me while I stood sentry at recess and was the second person to
The second story is about Carla, who was the first person to ask me
pull me onto the dance floor. It wasn’t until she moved away that I, being
to dance. She was the sister of one of the boys in my cabin, and there may
rather slow in such matters, came to understand that I was more fond
have been some prior communication using him as an intermediary. I wasn’t
of her than I had realized. One day, before she left, we were talking in a
particularly attracted, but as we slow danced, I was definitely aroused, and
classroom, and someone yelled out one of her nicknames: “Hey! Double-D!”
she definitely knew it. The problem, as usual, was that I had no idea what
Knowing she would ignore the person, I turned around and said, “Who?
to say, or how to act, so I neither spoke much nor acted much. Later, her
Me?” It was an odd gesture, not easily comprehensible by anyone there, but
brother would report that she thought I was boring.
it was my way of repenting of my third-grade solipsism and fully identify-
My first book garnered nine reviews on Amazon.com. One was titled,
ing with someone else.
“In a word - inspiring.” The reader gave it four stars and wrote, “This little
gem inspired me to finally read the books. Mahalo Mark!” Another review
Name-calling to the contrary, our class was considered by the staff to
was titled, “In a word, boring.” This reader gave it one star and wrote,
be the nicest eighth grade in recent memory. I received this inside infor-
“i tried and TRIED to get interested in this book but to no avail. could not
mation from Mom, who had been hired as a teacher’s aid three years prior.
hold my interest. too shallow.”
Apparently, we had had the opposite reputation up until our graduating
The first was given a 1 out of 5 usefulness rating by other visitors to
year. From my perspective as a member of the class it was hard to believe we
the page, while the second was given 1 out of 28, so probably neither one
were ever either the nicest or the meanest, nor did I remember us changing
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My Rules
in any significant way, but, when Mom shared the staff’s perspective a
Be Good
105
The truth hurts, but it also has the power to transform.
couple years later, I was able to identify with confidence the moment of
our conversion.
“‘Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?’
“Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God
We had two new teachers in seventh grade. The first had come from
a program called Nature’s Classroom. She was used to working with stu-
alone’” (Mark 10:17-18, Luke 18:18-19).
If not even Jesus claimed to be good, what hope have I ever had?
dents outdoors, and had difficulty keeping discipline inside. I’m afraid we
figuratively ate her alive. She was fun and easy-going, and my dominant
The first to fall of my three rules for virtuous living was (predictably)
memory of her is playing us “Big Yellow Taxi,” by Joni Mitchell. She was
swearing. In fifth grade, both my parents, at separate times, tossed out an
no more effective at keeping us under control than I would be, several years
utterly appropriate “Shit!” in my hearing that shook my notion that such
later, of keeping the gifted and talented kids in line, and she steadfastly
words should never cross a good Christian’s lips. I don’t remember my own
refused to glare at us.
first utterance of a swear word, but it was not long after that a favorite joke
Just before Christmas break, she told us we were like kids who want to
surprise their mom by cleaning their rooms, only, before they get a chance,
of mine would be to respond to a classmate’s query: “Mark, do you ever
swear?” with “Hell, no!”
their mom asks them to clean their room, after which they moan and
complain and refuse to clean their room. I don’t know about anyone else in
I waited till college to start drinking. I suffered through my junior and
the class, but the analogy resonated with me. She was sitting on top of her
senior years of high school stubbornly resisting peer pressure by taking
desk, with her feet on an unoccupied student desk, and her tone of voice
six-packs of soda to drinking parties. I almost succumbed only once. It was
was more serious than we’d ever heard it. She sounded sad. She told us she
toward the end of my senior year, and getting drunk was starting to look fun.
loved working with us, and that it wasn’t our fault that she was leaving.
So I called my parents to ask their permission. It was an overnight party, so
When we returned after New Year’s, we found ourselves faced with a
there would be no driving, and my parents, bless them, said they’d discuss
retired Catholic nun. She was no laid-back hippy; she was a disciplinarian,
the matter and call me back. Their eventual decision was that they couldn’t
and she didn’t couch her criticism of our misbehavior in compassionate
condone something that was illegal. I thought I detected an undertone to
analogies.
their response along the lines of “You’re eighteen years old—if you want to
One day she said, “Well, I can see why your first teacher quit.”
rebel against authority (ours or the law’s), go right ahead.” Nevertheless, I
One of us raised a hand and protested, “She told us it wasn’t our
refrained. I had the rest of my life to drink, if I wanted to, but I resolved
fault.”
Her reply left us speechless: “Of course it was your fault.”
that, so long as I was under my parents’ roof I would abide by their rules.
Some anarchist, huh?
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My Rules
107
Be Good
2
By the time I attended a court-ordered alcohol awareness program
I wrote about my depression for my favorite poetry professor, Mekeel
my junior year at UNH, I was informed by a counselor that it was “being
McBride. In her comments, she asked me to come see her. She liked the
kind” to call my drinking habits “the beginning stages of alcoholism.” The
poem but was concerned about the poet. That conversation was another
day after being arrested for DWI, I was wandering the halls of the English
example of the care and compassion that so many authority figures over
Department like an Alzheimer’s patient at the zoo. My favorite fiction
the years have extended to me, but what struck me most was the final com-
professor, John Yount, found me and invited me into his office, where I told
ment she wrote on the back of my poem: “Real flying is possible.” I can’t
him what had happened. His gentle kindness led me back to the world I
imagine what she meant by that, but it’s given me hope that, just because
had known the day before. Among many other things, he suggested I try
something is impossible doesn’t mean it can never happen.
to work out my relationship with alcohol in fiction. The result was a story
1
called Pleased to Meet Me, in which I imagined being confronted with my
I started smoking when I was 29. You can stop laughing now, please.
second-grade self. Parts of the story make me cry to this day, just as they
did when I first wrote them. John’s response: “I don’t know that you will
ever have the sensitivity to write on this topic.”
(Now is as good a time as any to mention that all the stories, poems,
etc., that follow each chapter have been revised since I first wrote them
(the year in parentheses after each title refers only to the date of the first
draft.))
He also suggested I attend some AA meetings, but I never did. I was
sober the rest of my junior year, and my senior year I discovered that I was
capable of drinking in moderation. Good news, right? Well, yes, but there
was a downside. I’m sure that I had suffered bouts of depression before then,
but they were deeper now, not only because I was face to face with my first
major failure, but because my failure wasn’t even complete. John had told
me stories of people he knew who had attended AA meetings, and they
had seemed to me glorious in their failings. They had hit rock bottom and
found the strength to pick themselves up and struggle on. I couldn’t even
manage to fall all the way down.
<Skip footnote>
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My Rules
Pleased to Meet Me (1989)
1
The swing was too small for me, and the black rubber had lost some of the
comfort I seemed to remember, but it was just what I needed to gain a little perspective. I hoped it would ease the tension when we finally met.
It was getting dark out; the sky was that deep royal blue that says its been a
wonderful spring day, and there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it to stop just
because the sun has set. A warm breeze was blowing, the kind that carries the scent
of green things growing in rich, moist earth. Even the faint smell of exhaust from
the nearby road lent a somehow pleasing undercurrent to the breeze. A chorus of
peepers, not quite in tune or in synch, and sounding like a crowd of overgrown
crickets, completed the pleasantness of the evening.
I looked around at the elementary school behind me, wondering if there was
a security guard in there somewhere. I wondered what would happen if I was
discovered. I walked backwards a little and then let myself swing forwards. The
chains let out a horrid screech, as if I had awakened some prehistoric beast.
To the left of this swing set was another one, made out of tremendous wooden
logs. I didn’t like it as much, only because it was different from the one at my old
school, but at least the chains were quiet, allowing me to swing without setting
off the pterodactyl alarm.
When Eddy showed up, night had fallen completely. I was glad, when I saw
him, that I had decided against getting drunk before our meeting.
He was leaning against one of the supporting logs, a long, not quite gangling
figure, with a tuft of hair that looked wild enough to shelter a few birds. He was
not quite as tall as I remembered him, but I suppose that was to be expected. I
imagined I could see the faint smile that he always wore, not sure if anyone could
see it. He had his arm crooked around the pole, and he was swaying slightly. The
imagined smile made him look as though he thought the whole world was kind
of funny.
“Hi,” I said.
“H’lo,” he said, so softly I almost didn’t hear him. That was another thing I
remembered: people constantly asking him to speak up. His head faced the ground,
but his eyes looked straight into mine through a curtain of hair.
Be Good
109
We were silent for a while, neither of us knowing what to say. “You know,”
I said, “There’s a band called The Replacements that has an album out called
Pleased to Meet Me.”
He laughed, and his voice, not yet broken by puberty, had the quality of a
stream bubbling down the side of a mountain. He laughed for some time, and I
wondered where that laugh had gone. It ebbed and flowed, seeming to taper off,
then roaring forth again. I felt that I could lose myself in that laugh, if only it
would never stop.
For a long time, it seemed that it never would, but gradually, the rushes began
to lose their strength, and calm returned.
“It wasn’t that funny,” I said, and he was laughing again, as strongly as
before. God, this kid is weird, I thought, barely realizing how many people I was
echoing.
When he stopped this time, he looked at me and grinned sheepishly. “You
grew up,” he said.
Now it was my turn to grin, but mine was full of the irony and self-awareness
that had replaced the amusement and sheepishness. He might as well have said
it reproachfully for the way it made me feel. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
He was silent for a while, but I knew he wanted to know why.
“I guess I just forgot,” I said, realizing how little sense that would make to
anyone who didn’t know me.
Eddy and I both knew that he wanted a race car set for Christmas. We had
wanted one for several years but felt an odd desperation this time, believing that
a ten-year-old would be too old for race car sets. What I knew that he didn’t was
that he wouldn’t get it: our parents hadn’t had that kind of money. Sure enough,
the following year the race car set would no longer be on my list. I had outgrown it
without even having one to outgrow. I had spent a lot of my childhood experiencing
a preemptive nostalgia. It was the one thing I had expected never to outgrow.
“Have a seat,” I said, motioning to the swing next to mine.
He sat down and dangled for a while, rocking back and forth like an autistic
child. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but kept his gaze fixed firmly on the
ground.
The voice of a whip-poor-will made us both look up. Every spring the first
whippoorwill had made me sit up in bed and listen intently, letting the sound seep
into my pores. I had only seen it once, and fleetingly, but I loved it just the same.
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My Rules
“Think that’s the same one, on its way to our house?” he asked.
I laughed, though briefly. “I suppose it might be.” We looked at each other
and grinned, the tension broken for a moment. “Maybe it’s just always followed
us around.”
Eddy grinned, then spun his head and flung his finger out. “There it is,” he
said in a screaming whisper.
I looked, and at first didn’t see anything. My eyes searched the direction that
Eddy was pointing, and finally discovered a softer shade of gray perched on a
half-buried tractor tire. Slowly, it resolved into a medium-sized bird that looked
remarkably like any other bird but wasn’t. I looked at Eddy, whose wide eyes stared
at it as though it were an angelic visitation. I tried to remember a time when my
vision had been that clear.
We watched until it flew away, seeming to vanish, rather than move. Throughout the rest of our visit, I would catch Eddy’s eyes wandering, hoping to see it
again.
Once more we sat in silence, dangling in our swings. We were running out of
ways to sidestep the problem, and we didn’t have much time.
I gripped the chains, feeling the cold, almost slippery links. I pulled back, so
that my back was parallel to the ground, and started to swing. The seat was too
low to pull my feet in on the backswing, but getting off and looping the swing over
the top log didn’t seem worth the trouble. I kept my legs straight out in front of
me and left the propulsion to my upper body.
Without hesitating, Eddy did the same, only he was able to put his whole body
into it, and was swinging wildly long before me. For a while, we were swinging in
synch with each other. Eddy turned to me and said, “Hey, get out of my window!”
and laughed again. I had the same feeling of not wanting him to stop, but he was
using too much breath swinging to carry on too long.
As we swung, I gathered up the courage to say, “I suppose you’re wondering
about my drunk driving charge.”
Now that it was out in the open, I wondered why I had been scared to talk
about it. I was only talking to myself, after all.
“I was talking to Reed, today,” he said, and I knew what he was going to say.
“He tried to get me to swear.”
“I remember that,” I said.
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111
“Well . . .” he said, sounding exasperated and rolling his eyes like his mother used
to do when she couldn’t understand why I’d done something stupid. He hadn’t
sworn then, even at the risk of his best friend thinking him a pansy.
His swinging was starting to lose momentum, and I was going faster. Part
of me was ashamed for letting a little kid judge me. The rest of me was simply
ashamed. In a sense, I had betrayed the innocence he had strived to protect.
We continued our swinging determinedly. I had never been garrulous, and
whenever I was uncomfortable I could be downright impenetrable. Most of what
we wanted to say would remain unsaid, but we understood each other, or at least,
I understood him, or thought I did. I wondered what I had forgotten.
“I got through high school without drinking,” I said, knowing it wasn’t enough.
“I made it all the way to my senior year without even wanting to drink. I was going
to parties, ever since my junior year, where everyone else was drinking beer, and
I was guzzling a six-pack of Pepsi.”
Eddy smiled at that, and I felt relieved. He was willing to listen to my reasons.
He was doing a good job of keeping his swing next to mine.
“Then, during senior year, something changed. It was so gradual, I didn’t even
notice it, but I wanted to drink. I felt like, you know, like I’d done my penance, or
whatever: I had kept firm in the face of peer pressure. Now, if I wanted to drink,
it was because I wanted to drink, not because my friends wanted me to drink. It
wasn’t a good reason, because, one of my ‘excuses’ for not drinking had been the
fear that I would like it too much to stop.” I paused, realizing for the first time
the magnitude of my mistake. I couldn’t believe I had known this might happen
my whole life, and yet, I’d gone and done it anyway.
My arms were starting to feel stretched, and my legs seemed on the verge of
cramping from being held straight for so long. My palms were getting sweaty,
making the chain feel even slipperier.
“I love beer. I don’t know if I could ever completely give it up. I’ve tried smoking . . . ” I could see Eddy shaking his head out of the corner of my eye. He had
been so sure that he would never “experiment” with any of the things with which
teenagers customarily experiment. “But I gave that up without even noticing—it
just didn’t have much appeal. Drinking, though . . .” Again I paused, furious at
my lack of words. There was a reason I liked beer, I just couldn’t put it in words
that Eddy would understand. There was a reason . . .
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
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I looked at him and laughed. After a moment, Eddy started laughing, too.
People had been asking that question since time immemorial, and for some
reason, the answer had always been no. After a while, the constant questioning
began to seem funny.
“No, but I had a date with Leslie freshman year in high school.”
“Leslie Fielding?” he asked, frowning, considering.
“Yep. It was awful. My leg was in a knee brace, and dad had to drive us
around.”
Eddy went off on another peal of laughter, making the whole swing set seem
to shake, even though the logs were a foot and a half thick.
Then I remembered when it was that my smile had lost its amusement. It had
been when I started getting drunk and doing silly things like ketchup shots, or
driving home with no pants on, or missing classes because I was too hung over. I
would have to sit with my friends and smile, while they recounted all the stupid
things I had done, and laughed and laughed and laughed. I had always taken
comfort in being able to laugh at my own absurdity, but that comfort had soured
when other people started laughing louder and longer than me.
I looked at Eddy and smiled, trying to remove the irony. “Oh well,” I said, “I’ve
got a teacher who told me that a man never knows who he really is until he’s down
and out. I guess that of all my rationalizations, that’s the only one that holds the
least amount of water. If I do manage to go back to living the way you did, I think
I’ll be a better person for having gone through this hell.”
Eddy nodded, half frowning, half smiling, as if to say he’d consider that, but
wasn’t about to accept it at face value. “What are you going to do about it?” he
asked.
“Do about it? I don’t know, what do you think I should do about it?”
“I don’t know . . . ” he trailed off, but it was obvious he had something to say.
“Well, out with it, what should I do?” I was getting belligerent in spite of
myself. I wanted to ask him, Who do you think you are? but I knew the answer to
that one already.
Eddy bit his bottom lip and said, very softly, “You could stop drinking.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Just stop drinking, no big deal, just sit at home every
weekend reading, like you used to do, go to bed early, watch some TV, right? Well
I can’t do that, OK? I tried that for a month and a half, and it sucked. Everyone
drinks.”
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“Just because everyone else does it, doesn’t mean you have to do it.” he said it
more softly than ever, but I didn’t have any trouble understanding it.
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. It’s not so simple any more, Eddy, there’s more to it.”
I knew there was. “I’ve got more friends than you did; I like hanging around
with them. They like getting drunk; I like getting drunk. Where’s the fucking
problem?” I looked at him, but his face was turned the other way. “Fuck. Now
I’m yelling at myself.”
Eddy turned to me slowly, but this time I was the one that turned away. “That’s
OK,” he said.
I looked at him, and just wanted to hug him. What the hell had happened to
me between then and now?
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. You’re right, I should
just stop drinking, I just don’t know if I can.”
“Yeah,” he said, as if he understood completely.
“I bet I can jump farther than you,” I said.
“Well, you’re ten times bigger than me, so you probably could.”
“Come on, give it a try.”
Without answering, Eddy grinned fiercely and started swinging as fast as he
could. I did the same, and we still managed to stay even with one another. I didn’t
know how he was feeling, but I felt that we were swinging much too fast, and
might fall off at any moment. I didn’t really like the idea of jumping off at this
height, but I wasn’t about to let Eddy know that.
“On the count of three,” he said. “One . . . two . . . three!”
I jumped off at the apex of my swing and felt my intestines cower behind my
stomach. I suddenly knew that my knees were not going to be able to handle the
strain of landing.
I landed hard. My knees crackled but didn’t break. I rolled and ended up on
my back. I was laughing hysterically. “Did I win?” I yelled.
There was no answer. I looked up and didn’t see him. I got to my feet, shaking
and swaying.
Looking back at the swing set, only one swing still jangled up and down, back
and forth, like it was experiencing its own private earthquake. I laid back down and
waited for my heart and lungs to slow down, and for my legs to stop shaking.
The stars seemed to wheel around a central axis (until I remembered Galileo,
and felt myself wheel around a central axis). I thought about Eddy, and his mostly
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silent reproach. In explaining myself to myself, I had forced myself to confront
all the rationalizations I had set up for myself over the years. I had hoped that
by so doing I would be able to strip them all away, but I knew in my heart that it
didn’t matter: Reason had nothing to do with it. I had discovered the same sad
truth as Adam: The fruit can’t be unbitten.
A part of me wishes I could return with Eddy to whatever eternal childhood
he came from, but the better part of me is ready to, as they say, face the future,
stand tall, walk softly and carry a big stick, or whatever. Maybe the actual forgoing of alcohol can wait for another confrontation, providing that confrontation
isn’t with a tree. It was enough to see him, to remember who I used to be and to
experience the hope that I could be again. I could still feel his joy stirring in my
heart like a puppy cuddling against its mother.
I thought about Eddy’s laugh, and smiled. I wondered if I’d ever be able to
laugh like that again. I chuckled, just to see if I could, but it was a dry, forsaken
thing. It scared me. Here I was, lying on my back in the middle of the night in a
school playground, as helpless to laugh as I was to stop drinking.
Was that funny? Was that worth a laugh? I tried again, forcing myself beyond
a chuckle to an actual guffaw. It didn’t feel genuine, but it sounded real enough,
as though someone nearby was laughing in the darkness. Charitably, I joined in,
and the thought that I was laughing with myself as well as by myself made me
laugh all the more. In fact, I was beside myself with laughter, and now I couldn’t
stop laughing.
I’m laughing there still.
<Return to main text>
Be Good
Trailing into Nonsense (1990)
2
I am
alone.
You’ll say I’m just depressed—
or will you?
I don’t want to scare anyone when I talk of suicide.
It isn’t fear of the unknown that stops me
but love of it.
An actor, portraying my part in a movie, would do a much better job.
Part of my problem is that I live in the third person.
Do you know what it’s like—
maybe you do—
to watch your every move as if it were happening to someone else?
It makes it difficult to get too worked up about anything.
All I can do is watch myself get steadily more depressed.
I criticize myself for a poor performance.
Only when I lose myself for a moment in grief
do I congratulate myself for feeling something real.
In the act of so doing, I’m once more beside myself.
I apologize for the self-pitying tone of this poem.
All I want to do is talk.
I don’t want my words to be original;
I don’t want my words to be beautiful;
all I want to do is talk.
So can we talk?
I’m kidding—I don’t really want to talk.
I suppose Paul McCartney would say
All I need is love,
but what does Paul McCartney know?
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They tell me everybody’s so unique,
but I don’t believe them.
We make up stories about all the things we can never do
and call it Art.
But can Art make us fly?
No, I mean literally.
When I was nine I really wanted a race car set for Christmas.
I had to get one that year because I knew that a ten-year-old would be far too
old for one.
I had wanted it since I was five.
I wanted the Tyco® Double Looper in the Sears® Wish Book.
When I was ten I honestly didn’t want one anymore.
If there was a point to this anecdote, I’ve forgotten it.
I want to fly—
I dream it, and it’s a giddy,
terrifying,
momentary feeling of freedom.
The only way I would consider committing suicide
would be to jump out of an airplane
as high as I could without needing an oxygen mask.
At the moment before impact I would try to pull up
and fly away.
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5 | Listen Closely
<crickets>
—Linford Dettweiler, Screen Door Music
I first heard you speak to me when I was 12 or 13 years old. I had a
cold, or the flu, or some such illness that was making me miserable, and
Mom sat on the edge of my bed to pray for me. At first it was all quite
normal, as she prayed God’s healing hand to touch my lungs and relieve
my fever, or whatever, but then the timbre of her voice changed, and she
started calling me “my child,” and telling me she had “a life of joy planned
for me.” Naturally, I was a little freaked out, not least because I knew I
would never be able to remember all the things you were saying.
As it turns out, I was right: The two phrases I’ve already mentioned
are the only ones I remember. Doesn’t it seem like the very words of God
should be permanently seared into the listener’s brain? Perhaps out of
consideration for my less-than-eidetic memory, whenever you’ve had something consequential to say to me since, you’ve generally had my mother
write it down.
It’s possible that God was speaking to me directly at about the same
time, but I can’t say for sure. All I know is that a peculiar phrase started
<Return to main text>
popping into my head: “I’m fifteen.” Never mind that I wasn’t yet fifteen—
the phrase had no antecedent. It would bubble up in my brain at completely
random times, until I began to anticipate some special occurrence in my
fifteenth year.
When I turned fifteen, I waited expectantly, but nothing happened
beyond leaving my classmates to attend Holderness. It was something, but
it didn’t feel like the something. Another phrase bubbled up in my brain:
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“I’m thirty-five.” I wondered if I’d done something wrong. I had hoped
that I would meet my future wife when I was fifteen, and worried that our
meeting had for some reason been delayed twenty years. Every once in a
while throughout my teenage years, the occurrences of the phrase would
be interspersed with “I’m seventy-five.” I wondered what I could possibly
be doing wrong to delay God’s special blessing by so many decades.
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them. Reach for your highest and best. The girl awaits you that you
will marry and love and adore forevermore. She is your equal and is
to be treated that way. She will understand your longings and support
you. She will drink from the pools of living water. She shall dwell in
My Presence forevermore. Be lifted up O Man of God. Dwell in My
Presence; put on strength and virtue as a shield. Be remarkably calm
and at ease. This is not for your undoing. Be built up in Me. Your
waiting is being rewarded. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.
The sense of failing God in some invisible way persisted (and became
She was eager to share the “girl awaits” part, in case I should meet a
less invisible) during the aimless, tug-led walks I mentioned in chapter
cute bridesmaid at the wedding; she wanted to make sure I was on the
one, which continued for some time. I started searching for some purpose
lookout. But she hesitated to share the “no drinking and carousing,” in
to them, and most of the time I was able to identify some small, specific
case that part was just from her.
blessing—a chance encounter with a friend, a hawk sighting or an amor-
I drank a little bit. It was my best friend’s wedding, after all. The
phous sensation of joy. The picture of a child with something neat to show
bridesmaids were cute, but I didn’t actually end up, you know, talking to
me grew in my mind, but still I struggled with the aimlessness, and the
any of them.
fear of being tugged in a direction I didn’t want to go.
Then one day I decided to experiment. I felt a tug down a certain road,
and I consciously—and for no good reason—ignored it. Along the route
that I chose instead, I encountered a blessing equal to or greater than
any I had encountered before. It might be argued that a sane man should
conclude that such blessings are everywhere to be found, by any who look,
and that no invisible force outside his own electrochemical impulses had
ever been leading him. Instead, I came to the conclusion that perhaps God
does not require my participation in order to lead me.
I already mentioned my ex-wife, and the lengthy, rocky relationship
we’d had prior to our wedding. I was thirty-five when I decided to propose
to her. That’s right—thirty-five. Well, the official, bended-knee proposal
didn’t happen until after I turned thirty-six (on the tenth anniversary of
our first date, which had happened to be her birthday, though I hadn’t
known it at the time), but she knew it was coming and helped me pick out
the rings while I was still thirty-five.
A few weeks before the ceremony, the pastor called me with some
words of caution, based on something another priest had told him about
In March of 1997, a week or two before a friend’s wedding, Mom
wrote the following:
our relationship. I prayerfully considered his words, and what came to me
was, “She is your Promised Land.” We were married the following June.
Six months later, we separated, and six months after that, we divorced.
No drinking and carousing but strength in the Holy Spirit—
Stand firm O Man of God that they may witness My Presence among
A couple months before the divorce was final, another word arrived:
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Mark is a shadow of all that is yet to be. He will glow with the
Spirit. He will shine forth in the darkness. He will be a wellspring of
joy. Why? because a new thing will happen. Do you not perceive it?
It will be a lashing out of old values to be replaced with fresh insight.
Insight that the world needs to know. It will be imperative that he
listen closely & wisely and summarize the words given to him on
paper into those spoken to many. He will be an orator. He will be a
speaker for Me. Shall I not be his helper? Of course.
He will be a poet with intelligent verse. He shall be a master of the
English language. When shall this be? At the appointed time—At
the appointed place. Show up and you shall see.
What followed were the three most difficult years of my life (and oh,
how I wish I didn’t have to add) so far. I was “lashing out,” all right, at the
old values of IVP’s hierarchy (more on that in the next chapter), but I was
woefully short on “fresh insights.” The Promised Land was looking a lot
like the wilderness of Sin.
1
O Lord, I am not proud;
I have no haughty looks.
2 I do not occupy myself with great matters,
or with things that are too hard for me.
3 But I still my soul and make it quiet,
like a child upon its mother’s breast;
my soul is quieted within me.
4
O Israel, wait upon the Lord,
from this time forth for evermore.†
As the three years drew to a close, I started a weekly listening prayer
group. I put up flyers around the office:
*Logo property of La Leche League International. All rights reserved.
†Psalm 131 (The Book of Common Prayer)
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But since no one else ever showed up, “group” is really too strong of a
word. During the first session, I tried my hand at the Spirit-guided writing
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spiral”: You circle but are always drawing nearer. “Eat of me” could refer
to communion.
But while I’m happy to “grow strong,” I’m uncomfortable with the word
that Mom does:
Hear the words of my heart: I am wanton; you are lost. Hear
my words: Egregious are my ways—inherent in the spiral. Release.
Release my words to the public. You are a mighty oak. Eat of me, I
pray you. Eat of me and grow strong in my religion. You are worthy
of my praise.
“religion.” I tend to think of anarchy and religion as being mutually exclusive.
Another trip to the internet, however, changed my thinking.
What I discovered, in amongst the many possibilities I’m uncomfortable with, is one etymology attributed to Cicero: that religio is derived
from relegare, “go through again, read again,” from re- “again” + legere
It was the last sentence that stopped me cold and persuaded me that I
“read.” Now that’s a definition of religion I can fully endorse: Religion, not
was just free-writing gibberish. I had done my best to clear my mind and
as something static and fixed, but as something dynamic and ever open to
write whatever came to me, but I guess you just can’t force such things. I
new interpretation.
1
spent the other listening prayer sessions simply emptying my mind and
The more standard derivation is re- “again” + ligare “to bind.” Can you
waiting for you to speak, should you choose to, which (so far as I recall)
see how that might make me uncomfortable? Anarchists such as myself
you never did.
don’t like the idea of being bound, much less being “bound again,” but
I had no intention of sharing this bit of tripe, but on a whim I plugged
the Latin word ligare is also the root of the word “ligament,” and I’m a lot
a couple of the more, shall we say, egregious words into an online dictionary.
more comfortable with the kind of bonds that keep my muscles attached
The results surprised me.
to my bones than with the kind that binds me to the terms of a contract
Did you know that an archaic meaning of the word wanton is “sportive
I never signed.
or frolicsome, as children or young animals,” or “having free play: wanton
Another word with the same ligare derivation is “rely.” I’m okay with a
breezes; a wanton brook”? Neither did I. Did you know that an archaic mean-
definition of religion that implies reliance on that higher power that I call
ing of the word egregious is “distinguished or eminent” and that eminent can
“God.” That’s what this book, and the writing of it, are all about: Radical
mean “lofty; high: eminent peaks”? Suddenly the first two sentences seem
a lot more biblical. Is it possible that you used archaic diction in order to
convince me, when the time was right, that the words were really yours?
reliance on God.
Of course, I still balk at “You are worthy of my praise,” and yet, at
the sound of these words, some part of me is released. My dearest desire,
It’s kind of an unnerving thought, and yet parts of it make sense.
unattainable though it usually seems, is to hear you say, “Well done, good
“Release my words to the public”: Voila—Ecce liber. “Inherent in the
and trustworthy slave . . . enter into the joy of your master” (Matthew
25:21, 23).
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Before I get to the events that followed (I’d like to say “that resulted,”
but that would be to succumb to the post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy), I
want to return to my numerology. Remember back in chapter three, when I
mentioned the visit of the guy who built the cross that attracted my parents
to the Episcopal church on Easter Sunday? Do you remember how many
years had passed between that Easter and this? If you said thirty-five, give
yourself a pat on the back.
What if, I wondered . . . What if I should be counting those fifteen and
thirty-five years, not from my birth, but from my rebirth? Honestly, I’m a bit
embarrassed by the rush of hope that accompanied this speculation. I
counted from 1975 and was ecstatic to discovered that my revised age
fifteen coincided with my extravagant, cross-country pursuit of true love.
In spite of the fact that it didn’t work out the way I had hoped, it stands as
the most significant action of my life thus far, shaping, as it has, the past
twenty years of my life.
It seems silly (even to me!), but I’m giddy with excitement to see what
this year might bring.
<Skip footnote>
Listen Closely
Listening Prayer
1
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6 | Go Mad
<Return to main text>
“Anger is an energy.”
—Public Image Limited, Rise
When we were living in Hawaii, there was a monster living in my
closet. When I mentioned this to our next door neighbor Shirley, she
was furious. She got up from the kitchen table where she’d been talking
to my Mom and demanded that I show her this monster. I led her to my
closet. She opened the door, reached in, pulled out the monster, marched
it to the front door and kicked it in the behind. “And don’t you ever come
back!” she yelled.
Mom tells that story. I, unfortunately, don’t remember it. She claims
I never afterward complained of monsters.
Nor do I remember that it was Shirley’s husband who gave me my first
car, though I do remember the car. Apparently he had pulled it from the
dump and painted it. All I remember is that it was pale blue and pedalpowered and awesome.
Nor do I remember the evening an unexpected guest arrived and asked
my parents out to dinner. Shirley agreed to let Beth and me stay with her
and her teenaged son. Beth, being a one-year-old, was asleep when Shirley’s
husband came home. I, being three and already something of a night owl,
was still awake.
It’s funny: I remember the car. I remember their twin daughters, and
the time we sat on the low stone wall in front of our house and lit sparklers. I
even remember how humiliated I felt that year when Beth found more Easter
eggs than me. But I have no memory at all of watching Shirley, the woman
who evicted my monster, getting beaten up by her drunk husband.
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Mom prayed for years that I wouldn’t be scarred by that memory, and
was taking the advanced-level course for the third time. Everyone there was
I might never have heard the tale had not Beth started having nightmares
a motivated writer who was trying to push the quality of their fiction to a
when she was fourteen that bore a striking resemblance to the events of
new level. Joe managed to treat us as though we knew nothing about writing
that evening.
and furthermore needed to be prodded to produce our best effort.
It is perhaps significant that Shirley’s husband was a police officer.
This was after my DWI conviction, during my turn to atheism, and
It might explain why I get so disproportionately angry when authority
right in the middle of my first real bout of depression. The last thing I
figures abuse their power. It might also explain the violent daydreams I
needed was a pompous blowhard who hated libraries (“They let people read
had growing up, in which some authority figure, the principal, say, or a
my books without paying for them!”) and whose stated aspiration was to
policeman, was mistreating someone, and in order to defend their victim,
write a sex scene so vivid that someone would want to masturbate to it.
it would become necessary for me to put them in their place. Since I was
The first day of class he instructed us to go around the room and “give
always hopelessly outmatched, it would often be necessary, regrettably, to
your name, major and something about yourself.” This was followed by a
fly into a berserker rage and kill said authority figure, which might, in turn,
string of slight variations on “My name is Sam, I’m an English major, and
explain why I never got into any fights: I was afraid that my anger, should
I grew up in Nantucket.” I hate standard answers, so I decided to throw
it ever be unleashed, might literally kill someone.
in a quote I had recently heard that was somehow connected to Flannery
You might assume, because I’m a Christian anarchist, that I’m also a
O’Connor and Dante’s Inferno. I said, “My name is Mark, I’m an English
pacifist. I’m not. Or rather, I’m a pacifist in practice, but not in theory. If
Major, and I’ve decided that the only way out of Hell is through.” The guy
my daydreams (reinforced by action movies and graphic novels) have taught
next to me said, “Whoa. I’m not sure how to follow that one.” That evening
me anything, it’s that there will come a time (usually after they’ve killed my
I bought a copy of the Divine Comedy and started reading Inferno, in case
dog), when it becomes necessary to put those fuckers down.
anyone should ever ask what I meant by it. I needn’t have bothered, but it
did give me a jumpstart on my Comparative Literature class the following
I’m not naturally inclined to express anger to anyone, let alone to
semester.
people in authority, so when I do, it tends to come out in odd ways. The
The first piece I submitted to Joe was a five-page story called “Motion
first time that I can remember was my senior year in college. The object of
Sickness” (which can be found after chapter 23 under the title “Blurred
my ire was a fiction professor.
Vision”), that was my first attempt at “mainstream” fiction (i.e., a modern,
Joe had been a high school English teacher the year before, and this
real-world setting with a minimum of supernatural or fantastical ele-
both explains and perhaps excuses the problem I had with him. I have no
ments), but the twist being that the point of view was extremely limited,
doubt that he was an excellent high school English teacher, but this was
the narrator a depressed young woman. I wanted to see if I could write an
my fifth fiction-writing workshop in a curriculum that only offered two. I
effective story without the usual details of scenery and setting, seeing as
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she herself wasn’t paying much attention to such things. Perhaps it failed,
written only six, none of them well received. Would you believe I didn’t
but Joe suggested only that I use more detail.
realize I was angry? I’m not sure I do either, but whatever I was feeling, I
For humility’s sake, I present my next submission in its unedited
entirety:
(a song entitled) slush
Twilight music shadows consciousness, clouding the glories of another
day. Thoughts are lost in obscure futility, fearfully chasing after tantalizing dreams. Deep from within the shadowed forest, Orpheus
beckons:
sodden leaves rustle damply, under sentinel trees and low, gray sky.
The lyrical shade leads, receding, as cold, teary rain trickles down
cheeks. Breathing in the mold-mingled freshness, in time with the airy
music, dizziness washes and the guide is obscured by the unearthly
gloom.
The night gets colder, rain changes to snow (revolving, descending, past
somnolent trees). Captured in eyelashes, lighting on face, the crystals
melt with a sting. Frost bitten hands wriggle under armpits. Thoughts
return to elusive sleep. (“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,”)
Orpheus spares a backward glance; consciousness reawakens. The
music is silent, the forest obscured, the dark-mirrored mind abandoned. Sleep is no solace unless eternal. “What dreams may come”
are melted.
wouldn’t have called it rage. All I knew was that Joe had nothing to offer
my fiction, so fuck the grade, fuck his opinion—I sat down and wrote a
25 page story off the top of my head. I have, over the years, touched it up
here and there, but I consider it now to be one of my favorite stories I have
ever written. The original title, the one I handed in on the last day of class,
1
shocks me every time I rediscover it: Fuck You. Perhaps I felt more anger
than I remember. Or perhaps I thought I was joking.
I got a B in the class.
I also had my first taste of writing as a form of (venting? retaliation?
explosive diarrhea?), and of how an I-no-longer-give-a-shit attitude could
provide a bridge to creative freedom.
I liked that first taste well enough to try again.
To quote a dishwashing liquid commercial from the 80s: “You’re
soaking in it.”
My conception of anarchy has its roots in Judges 17:6 and 21:25: “In
those days there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right
in their own eyes.” There are Christians who think this verse has negative
My goal had been to set a mood and to pay attention literally to every
connotations. I don’t understand those Christians. In 1 Samuel, when the
word. Joe informed me that it was “very poetic. In fact, it’s a prose poem,”
Israelites demanded a king, you told Samuel “Listen to the voice of the
then wrote, “Seems more sizzle than steak.” Thanks, Joe. The same could
people in all that they say to you; for they have not rejected you, but they
be said for your feedback, minus the sizzle.
have rejected me from being king over them” (1 Samuel 8:7). You told him
The fact that he was right in no way blunted the antipathy I now felt
toward him.
to warn the people what a human king would be like, but to go ahead and
anoint a king over them if they still wanted one.
The assignment for such workshops was to hand in 30-35 pages of
Saul, the first king, was everything Samuel had warned he would be
polished prose, but here it was, nearing the end of the semester, and I had
and then some, but even David, his successor, who was a man after your
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own heart, would end up sending a man to the front lines in order to be
have that person be responsible for the state of the nation. They want an
free to marry the man’s widow, with whom he’d already lain.
intermediary between themselves and you.
It seems clear to me that God prefers the former system, in which
After awhile, you sent Jesus to be your chosen intermediary and, gen-
people do “what is right in their own eyes,” but in which no one has too
erally speaking, it’s the people in power (who want to keep their power)
much power over another.
who despise and reject him. They understand that he makes them super-
So far as I know, Shirley’s husband, sworn to uphold the law, suffered
fluous. He reveals that they were never doing their job in the first place,
no consequences for the beating he administered. Extrapolating from this
but only providing intermediaries between intermediaries, accomplishing
fact, I conclude that there is no such thing as natural law. I realize, vaguely,
nothing.
that I’m stepping into a millennia-old debate with such a statement, but
I prefer God’s system, and this book is about my attempt to (as they
what is a law without consequences? It’s no law at all. The penalty for
used to say in the days of chivalry) “prove upon my body” its viability. Jesus
leaping from the top of a thirty story building is death, but even gravity is
of Nazareth has already done this, and any comparison of my life to his
a local ordinance. If the building were on the moon, you’d have a decent
would be absurd in the extreme, and yet the very absurdity pleases me. It
chance of walking away, provided your space suit remains intact.
was for the sake of absurdity that I resigned from IVP over a disputed
God’s “rules” are enforced by generational blessings and curses (of
italicization.
which I will have more to say in Book You), but you routinely allow individual infractions to pass unpunished. When you are sovereign, as you were
I won’t go into the whole story, of which the italicization was but a
in the days of the judges, everyone could do (and did) what was right in their
microcosm, but suffice it to say that I was extremely angry for what I con-
own eyes, but if the people forgot about you completely and did what was
sidered to be excellent reasons. If you’ve ever spent more than five years in
evil in your sight, you would (and did, on more than one occasion), raise
an organization, you’re probably familiar with those reasons. I was upset
up a foreign power to subdue them and take them into slavery until they
with the way some people (only one of whom was myself) were treated by
cried out for release, at which point you would raise up a judge—a single
management. The italicization itself was put on the cover of The Circle of
person who listened to your voice—to deliver them from their distress and
Seasons (by Kimberlee Conway Ireton) by another designer. The person
restore them to their land.
responsible for removing it (just before it went to the printer) was the head
After the kingship was instituted, the histories no longer declared that
“the people” did what was right or what was evil in the sight of the Lord, but
of the editorial department, but the focus of my anger (which lingers still
and has nothing to do with italicized words) is Bob Fryling.
“the king.” If the history of the Israelites is at all normative (and I think it
Bob’s title is Publisher. He stands in for IVP in the same way that kings
is), it would seem that people are averse to the idea of being responsible for
stood in for Israel, and so, even though he was unconnected to the italiciza-
themselves. They’d prefer to defer to some higher human authority and
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tion controversy, he is, by dint of his position, ultimately responsible for
(and aware of) most of the things that made me angry there.
After I sent an email explaining my absurd reasons for resigning to
everyone in the office, I was called into a meeting in which Bob told me
that “for the sake of [my] own mental health,” it would be best to forgo my
three weeks’ notice and leave that very day. Then he prayed for me. When
he was done there were tears streaming down his face. Then the head of
my department gave me a hug “whether you want one or not.”
“I do,” I said.
I walked out of that meeting with my head held high, said good-bye
to a few friends and carried my personal belongings out to my vehicle,
waiting until I was out the door with the last box before allowing my own
tears to fall.
It was raining, naturally.
A few weeks later, I obtained the video of the next regularly scheduled
office meeting, in which Bob spent fifteen minutes discussing my departure or, more accurately, discussing what could be learned from it. I could
write a whole nother book addressing all the things he said, but one thing
in particular stuck out:
But obviously Mark did not feel connected, or contented here.
Over the years I’ve had a number of conversations with him about
issues of authority, about structure, and those of you who know him
well know that he would somewhat humorously, but also fairly seriously, talk about that at heart he was really an anarchist. And not
meaning in a violent way [which made a friend of mine laugh], but in a
sense of, ‘Get rid of structure; everyone should be free to do what they
want, and somehow that will work out.’ In reality that usually only
works out by yourself [which made a whole bunch of people laugh],
and sometimes you’re even contending with yourself, you know, so,
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this was hard for him, to be part of an organization, and so, in that
way, I’m not surprised that he resigned.
He went on to say:
I lived in New Hampshire a number of years—that’s his home
state—and the state motto on the license plates is “Live Free or
Die.” [more laughter, and a “Yep”] So there is that sense of a strong
independence that comes out of that, but that does not work in any
kind of organizational structure or community that gets to the size
that we are.
Not only had Bob lived in New Hampshire, he had lived in Durham,
NH, home of UNH. He did campus work for InterVarsity Christian
Fellowship there. That was before my time and more-or-less irrelevant but
amorphously significant all the same.
I was surprised that he knew I considered myself, at heart, really an
anarchist. Perhaps I had told him myself, or perhaps it came up in discussions about what he should say regarding my resignation. In either case,
it surprised me because I hadn’t considered my departure to be the act of
an anarchist. Rather, I had left in protest of a ridiculously minor injustice,
which for me stood in for a number of other, larger injustices, for inherent
flaws in the system and for my need to put an end to endless tension.
I was not surprised that he addressed none of my underlying concerns.
He didn’t even mention the italicization until he was laying out the proper
procudures for how properly to deal with problems, whether interpersonal
or matters of injustice. He said, “As a premises—I trust you realize this—
whether a word’s italicized or not is not an injustice that needs mediation
at a legal standpoint.” My other concerns he didn’t address at all, beyond
dismissing them as the concerns of an anarchist.
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It pissed me off, but the more I thought about it the more I realized
that he was right: I really am an anarchist at heart. This was something
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scoring points by hitting somewhere in the middle, but the possibility of
hitting both bull’s eyes simultaneously remains unattainable.
of a revelation to me, though of course it did nothing to quell my wrath.
Honestly (and perhaps inevitably), his problem sounds to me an awful
If anything, it fed the flames, until I decided to write this book, which
lot like Jesus’s discussion of the impossibility of serving two masters: The
turned out to have very little do with IVP in the end, just as Joe the fiction
only effective solution is to remove one.
professor never ended up in my fictional hell.
But I was disappointed in Bob (just as he was disappointed in me) for
not addressing my complaints forthrightly.
I didn’t hold out much hope that Bob would, in his book, address the
kinds of problems he had failed to address in the office meeting, but then,
in chapter ten, he inadvertently gave me an insight into why he had decided
not to. The chapter was on gratitude, and he was quoting an authority on
Considerably-less-amorphously significant than the fact that Bob once
leadership, the CEO of Herman Miller, Max De Pree. Bob calls the quote a
lived in Durham is the fact that while I was writing a book on anarchy, he
“profound and succinct definition of leadership.” According to Max, a leader’s
was writing a book on leadership.
job consists of “defining reality and saying thank you.” Bob goes on to write:
The Leadership Ellipse was published in January 2010, and I wish I could
“Of all the books I have read and the seminars I have attended on leadership,
tell you that I read it with an open mind, but you know I was looking for
this has been the most spiritually and practically helpful perspective on
something mockworthy. Against my will, then, he drew me in. To read a
leadership” (The Leadership Ellipse, InterVarsity Press pp. 188-9).
good book, particularly a nonfictional, personal book, is to become friends
Bob’s focus was on the the latter half of the quote, but what struck me
with the author, and Bob’s book is humble and wise, honest and vulnerable,
was the former, which apparently Bob simply took as a given: “defining
insightful and once even moving. His first chapter is on the importance
reality.” Defining—not a vision, or goals, or structure, but—reality. Bob’s
of Sabbath rest. In it he quotes the same Psalm printed on my Listening
purpose in spending fifteen minutes discussing my departure in an office
Prayer flyer. If I knew any leaders capable of following his sage advice, I
meeting was never to address my particular set of reasons, but to redefine
would not be an anarchist.
the reality my mass email had warped.
Alas, I believe his fundamental premise is flawed. The problem he’s
Artists, scientists, poets and practitioners of any number of other
wrestling with is how to shoot two bull’s-eyes with a single arrow. One
vocations are engaged in the attempt to describe reality. Leaders, whether
target is the inner, spiritual life of a Christian leader, and the other the outer,
political, religious or other, apparently are attempting to define it. Another
leadership life of a spiritual person. He solves it by envisioning the titular
revelation. Again Bob was right—tune into a news channel if you want to
ellipse—a circle with two focal points. The problem with this solution is
see what I’m talking about. Of course, you probably already know exactly
that it doesn’t solve anything: The only functional difference between two
what I’m talking about, and are confused that such an obvious insight
targets and a single target with two bull’s eyes is that the latter allows for
should strike me with the force of revelation, but while I had seen and been
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Go Mad
frustrated by the constant back and forth of CEOs and elected officials
bombastically, at times embarrassingly, but the truth nonetheless, or as
trying to “spin” the truth, I had never before considered that their conscious
close as I can come to expressing it.
purpose was to define reality.
Thus, my anarchism is confirmed.
I just wish more people would respond in kind. Anger is scary, sure,
and confrontation stressful, and too often it’s merely destructive, but if
everyone’s just nice and tactful all the time, then how will we ever truly get
Leaders qua leaders are a problem, but they’re not entirely to blame.
They’re leaders, often, simply because people follow them. They’re no more
to know each other? As Cordelia Chase once said (in an episode of Buffy
the Vampire Slayer), “Tact is just not saying true stuff—I’ll pass.”
inherently evil than you or me. Power doesn’t corrupt so much as provide
One of the things I appreciated about my ex-wife was her ability to give
an avenue for the corruption already within to have a greater impact on
and receive anger. We fought a lot, but that wasn’t the reason for our divorce.
those “below.”
I didn’t enjoy the arguments, but I loved the knowledge that I could express
Not even WordFarm is immune, despite the fact that we’re just a loose
collection of friends doing work about which we feel passionate. Yet, when
my anger without worrying that the anger itself would end the relationship.
That I could trust her with my anger. Does that make sense?
I asked them if I could put a stack of Love’s Anarchys on WordFarm’s table
at a writer’s conference, the couple at the top said no. This surprised me
I confess I still indulge in violent fantasies from time to time, but these
more than perhaps it should have. My asking had seemed to me a matter
days they involve authority figures getting so pissed off that they fly into a
of courtesy only. Of course they would say yes—I’m their fiction editor! I
rage and beat the crap out of me whilst I make sardonic comments, wipe
just wanted to warn them there might be some “vitriol” spewed toward IVP
the blood from my face and hit them with my most infuriating smile.
within its pages; hence, I was not asking them to publish it. But percep-
But the funny thing (though Bob predicted this, as well) is that I miss
tion is considered equivalent to reality even within a small, independent
the people and even the work I left behind. I burned my bridges (as the
literary press.
saying goes) high and hot because I was Making a Point. I don’t exactly
So I did what I do, what I had done on numerous occasions at IVP: I
regret the decisions I made (at all), but one unfinished project in particular
sent them an angry email. Anger, not just about the issue at hand, but about
still calls out to me plaintively from time to time, and I yearn to go back
a few other things as well, about my place at WordFarm. They responded
and finish it. The project is a computer program I wrote to organize and
kindly, as is their wont, addressing my anger, but not it’s reasons.
automate my ever-increasing workload. Her name is Barbara, and this is
what she looks like:
I’m acutely aware that I’m at least as liable to other people’s anger
as other people are to mine. Anger is simply a tool to overcome my
native apathy and reclusiveness long enough to tell the truth. Clumsily,

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Go to Hell (1989)
1
Which reminds me:
A year or so after we moved to Texas, I had a dream that did not have
the quality of a dream. It feels, even now, like a simple memory. We were
visiting someone, and in the passageway between the garage and house was
a toy chest, so I elected to tarry while my parents and sister went inside.
Within the chest was an awesome olive-drab helicopter with two D-cell
batteries (the battery-compartment lid was missing), and I was playing with
it very seriously and quietly when I happened to look out the window at
the starry night sky. Five hundred or a thousand feet up, arms stretched in
front of it like Superman, was a monster. It looked like the reference model
for Sesame Street’s Grover, except that it did not look funny. Strapped to
its back was what appeared to be a yellow scuba tank.
Was it a blimp? The product of an overactive imagination? Is there
any rational explanation for what I saw? If a dream, it was the most vivid
of my life.
It wasn’t until college, writing a paper for Freshman Composition, that
I dared wonder whether it was the same monster Shirley had kicked out
of my closet, doomed to follow me but under strict orders from an abused
and feisty Hawaiian never to reenter my house.
Only now I believe I have a clearer understanding. In being kicked
out, my monster was free. Free to travel, free to learn how to fly. Perhaps
it wasn’t doomed to follow me, compelled by some binding monster code.
Perhaps it simply missed having a closet in which to lurk. Perhaps it missed
the little boy it used to haunt.
Perhaps now I know how it felt.
<Skip footnotes>
2
Johnny floored the accelerator of his ’77 Monte Carlo 350 and left a pair of
thirty foot black pythons smoldering on the Tennessee pavement. Everyone in
the neighborhood either shook their heads or smiled, depending on how old they
were. Johnny let out a rebel yell and downshifted, just to hear the engine yell back.
He pushed Aerosmith into the cassette player and cranked the volume. He sped
through a red light and laughed at the dwindling blare of old men leaning on
horns and shaking their fists.
He hung a left on Maple Ave. and let the back end fishtail to within a yard
of old Mrs. Marpleson’s snot-black terrier. Christ, he’d like to ram that mutt up
Marpleson’s ass. He saw Dean’s house up on the right and stood on the brakes
as he whaled on the steering wheel. “Das Boot” swung an abrupt about-face and
slammed into the sidewalk on the other side of the road. He straight-armed the
horn until Dean leaped out the door, one arm in his denim jacket, the other
clutching a six of Bud.
“Haul ass, man! My dad’s on a fuckin’ rampage,” yelled Dean, falling into the
seat.
Johnny swiveled his eyes back at the house, and saw Mr. Daniels running out
the door with a face that would’ve made Beelzebub cringe. Mr. Daniels’ mind
was ablaze with a fiery red rage. He meant to give Johnny a piece of his mind,
and maybe a bite of his fist. Johnny let him plant one foot on the pavement,
then floored it and flipped him the bird as he squealed away. “Fuckerrr!” Johnny
screamed. “Toss me a Bud.” Mr. Daniels raced after them, banging his hand on
the trunk and screaming and squealing until he ran out of breath, and stopped
in the middle of the street, leaning his hands on his knees and gasping like a
vacuum cleaner on the fritz.
Dean ripped a can out of the six-pack and said, “Jesus Fucking Christ, man,
he’s gonna fucking kill me. He’s gonna fucking flush me down the fucking toilet,
man.”
“Fuck him,” said Johnny serenely, and downshifted again, just to hear the
engine yell.
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My Rules
“Man, he’s gonna fucking kill me,” said Dean, his voice raspy from repetition
and the smoke from his Camels. “He’s gonna fucking can my ass.” They were sitting on the Monte Carlo’s hood, looking out at Palumpset Pond. Dean imagined
his father cuffing him into the wall, bringing chunks of plaster down from the
ceiling.
“Big fucking deal, so he kills you, so what? Shut up about it already, Christ.”
Johnny took another pull of 151 gin and shoved the bottle into Dean’s chest. “Quit
bawling and drink.”
Dean tipped the bottle back, and handed it back to Johnny.
“You call that a drink, ya fucking pussy? Pull on it. Go on: pull!”
Dean pulled and rested the bottle on his knee. “He’s gonna kill me, man.
Fucking kill me.” He was kicking at the fender like a restless little kid. Christ,
his dad was really going to kill him.
Johnny stood up and pulled off his shirt. He had a lean, muscular chest with
hair down to his belly button. A pair of dog tags jangled between his nipples.
“C’mon. We’re going swimming.”
“It’s fucking October, Johnny, I ain’t swimming in fucking October.” Dean
hated to whine, but Christ, why’d Johnny want to go swimming in fucking
October?
Johnny swiveled his eyes towards Dean and slowly thrust out his jaw. “I don’t
care if it’s fucking Christmas. I said we’re swimming—so strip.”
Dean turned and looked intently, though blankly, toward the left-hand shore
of the pond, blinking his eyes and mouth. “Oh, man, I don’t believe this shit.” The
pond was like a big mirror, and Dean had always been afraid of mirrors, especially
after his father had shoved his head through one when he was six. He slumped
off the hood and shook off his denim jacket, then slowly peeled off his black tank
top. His chest was sunken and bony, and there was a tiny heart tatooed on his
solar plexus.
Johnny was already down to his boxers and loping off to the edge of the water.
Dean groaned and dropped his chinos and trotted after him, positive he was going
to catch double pneumonia. “Fucking A, man,” he moaned, watching Johnny bull
through the water at a full gallop and dive in. He came up puffing like an ox, and
turned to watch Dean.
Dean danced through the water like a fucking girl, straining the cords of his
neck, then floundered when he ran too deep. Christ, sometimes the guy could be
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a fucking wuss. He was OK when he wasn’t whining about his father, but Christ,
you’d think his father was some demon from hell the way he acted sometimes.
Christ. Johnny crested backwards into the water and roared, just to hear the echo
roar back. Christ it was cold.
A duck flew overhead and quacked. It took one look at the two humans and
decided to find some other pond to sit in. Fucking humans are taking over the
world, it thought.
Dean stood up, spluttering and staggering like he was having an epileptic
siezure and a heart attack at the same time. Christ, he was fucking dying. It was
that fucking cold.
Johnny laughed as loudly as he could, just to hear the echo laugh back.
Sheriff Donovan just loved to catch young boys with their pants down. And
these boys had left their trousers on the beach. “You boys having a good time out
there?” he called, pleased with the congenial threat in his voice.
Dean dove under water as if he could stay there for a week. Sheriff Donovan
was a mean son of a bitch. He and his father were good friends. He was dead
for sure.
Johnny stopped swimming and treaded water, calm as before a storm. “Afternoon, sheriff.” Smelly fart son of a bitch. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well now, I been getting a few phone calls down to the station. Seems a couple
of young ruffians been tearing through town in a big blue automobile whose
description pretty well matches this here behemoth I’m leaning on. Either of you
boys know anything about a couple of young ruffians?”
Dean’s head popped to the surface facing the wrong direction. “Is he gone
yet?”
Johnny ignored him and said, “Can’t say that I do, sheriff.”
“How about you, Deanny? You know anything about some young ruffians
tearing about this fair principality of ours?” He paused to listen to Dean splutter,
then said, “I kinda considered you didn’t.” He paused again, just to let the tension
build, then picked up the bottle of 151 off the hood of the car. “Well now. Well
now, it occurs to me that this here’s what we call an open container. Now, if my
memory serves me correctly, this here’s town property I’m standing on. It further
occurs to me that open containers and town property don’t mix, wouldn’t you
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agree, Mr. Johnson?” Shit, this is fun, he thought. “Well? Answer me, boy. Devil
got your tongue, or what? Ha ha ha!
Johnny needed time to think, and old Ironsides there wasn’t going to give
him any, so he reached over and grabbed Dean by the hair on the back of his
neck and plunged him face first into the water. While Dean struggled, Johnny
commenced to think. It wasn’t easy. His mind seemed funny, somehow, like it
wasn’t entirely his own. He tensed up his brows and concentrated as hard as he
could on how he was going to get out of this scrape. Really, it was amazing how
ineffectual Dean’s struggling was.
Dean struggled ineffectually. He writhed and squirmed and finally screamed.
At the end of his scream he found he had no choice but to inhale pondwater.
Immediately his lungs seemed to rupture and although his eyes were wide, the
greenish pondlight began to darken and fade. I’m dying, he thought: my father’s
gonna fucking kill me.
Remarkably, he still found strength to struggle. He thrashed; he screamed; he
drew more water into his lungs. The grip on his hair tightened and he was pulled
up. When the pulling stopped, he was standing, and the water came up only to
his knees. He looked around and was completely blown away by the scenery. He
started to say something to Johnny, but found that Johnny wasn’t there. Instead,
it was the Night Stalker that had Dean’s neck in a vise-like grip.
The Californian serial killer smiled and said, “Welcome to Disneyland.”
Dean’s eyes widened as he looked around and around and around like an owl
on acid. Apparently, he was in the lake that contained the submarine from 20,000
Leagues Under the Sea. Apparently, he was, indeed, in Disneyland. “Does this
mean I’m dead?” he asked.
In the distance, he could hear Goofy laughing demoniacally.
The Night Stalker let go of his neck and walked away towards Space Mountain.
Dean continued goggling like a land-locked, big-mouthed, yellow-bellied, cantankerous, jelly-bellied, weak-kneed, puling, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching,
stuffy-head, fever-so-you-can-rest (what was I going to say? Ah yes.) . . . blowfish.
Dean continued to look like this until he noticed someone else he recognized.
It was Julie McCoy, the cruise director from “The Love Boat.” Behind her were
Captain Steubing, Gopher, and Isaac. The other cast members had presumably
gone on to bigger and better things. “Welcome to Hell,” said Julie, brightly. “If
you’ll please join the rest of the group, we’ll continue the Grand Tour.”
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“The rest of the group” consisted of a crowd that could have filled the Astrodome like grain in a silo. In other words, not using the seats, but piled on top of
each other like fish in a trawler. That is, packed in in such a way that they’d have
to be dropped in through a small hole in the top of the dome until it was full, and
you’d have to use a jackhammer on the bodies on top in order to squeeze them
all in. Do you get the picture?
Obviously, there were very few people Dean recognized in the crowd. Most
were Ethiopians, judging from the distended bellies and sunken chests. Others
looked Arabian. One person he did recognize was Bette Davis, who was waving
a long cigarette and talking garrulously with an old man Dean didn’t recognize,
who had a large pocketwatch draped on his head like pizza dough. To avoid any
confusion, you should know that this man was Salvador Dali, the surrealist painter
that had died earlier in the year. He did not like being talked to by Bette Davis,
but what could he do? He was in Hell.
Dean joined the group, and tried to listen to what Julie McCoy was saying.
“Now on the left is Wonderland, home of Alice and all her zany friends.”
Dean had no idea who Alice was, but he didn’t like the look of the dragon thing
that was whiffling through the tulgy wood. A few yards away from Dean, Mel
Blanc was being accosted by a faceless grin. “C’mon,” it was purring, “Do Sylvester
for me, huh? How about Porky Pig? I always liked Porky Pig. Do Foghorn, huh?
C’mon, I’m a big fan of yours, what do you say?”
“Fuck off,” said Mel, swinging an axe.
Julie McCoy said, “And over here is Jungleland with Mowglie and all his zany
friends.
Mowglie was hunched on an earthenware pot with his hands over his ears,
wearing a look of intense perturbation. He was glaring at a huge video screen
which pictured Axl Rose screaming, “Welcome to the Jungle.” Dean’s spirit
picked up at once, and he started air guitaring until Jimmy Paige walked up to
him and said, “It gets pretty annoying after a while, actually.” Jimmy looked as if
he’d been there for quite a while.
Julie Mccoy said, “and over here is Graceland, with . . . is that Humpty Dumpty
on the wall?” A spotlight illuminated a dumpy figure with a white cravat wielding
a microphone. “Why, it’s Elvis, ladies and gentlemen,” chimed Julie McCoy. “Let’s
give a big hand for the king of Rock and Roll. Yayyyyy!”
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Scattered applause rippled through the vast crowd as Elvis cleared his throat
with a sound like a cat being dragged over hot coals by its tail. He waited for the
feedback to whine away, thrust his pelvis toward the crowd, fastened one hand
to his grease-laden hair and crooned, “A one for the money, two for the show,
three -”
He was interrupted by a monstrous explosion of bilious, sulfurous, cloying
smog through which I stepped forth and commanded, “Stop that! If I’ve told
you a billion times, I’ve told you a googolplex of times, never, never, never sing.
Off to the tar pits with you, until I can think of a more suitable torment.” Elvis
had time to twang out, “Aw, shit,” before I sent him, with a wave of my hand, to a
night club, where he was scheduled to compete in an Elvis impersonation contest.
Damn my mind works fast!
“All right,” I boomed, as satanically as I could, “break it up, go on, there’s nothing to see here, move along, YOU! is that a beer I see in your hand?” I pointed to
Dean, just because he was so pathetic, and conjured a cup of beer into his hand.
“Shit!” yelled Dean, as he dropped the cup.
“Aha!” I roared. “Littering! Misdemeanor! Up against the wall, maggot!
Ha ha ha ha haaaa!” I handcuffed him and threw him to the ground, then
disappeared.
A young man named Walt stood over Dean and said, “Big deal. You should
have gone to college in New Hampshire. That was frightening.” He kicked Dean
in the kidney and walked away. I made a note to hire Walt after he’d been around
a few millenia.
Sherriff Donovan pulled out his gun with something approaching ecstacy.
He had never shot a man in his life, and here was Johnny Johnson, in the midst
of murdering Dean Daniels. The Colt .44 was gonna leave a hole the size of the
state in Johnny’s head, and he would be hailed as a hero for it. Applause drifted
faintly to his ear as if from a seashell, as he steadied the sight on Johnny’s nose.
Screams of adoration made his ears ring as he gently, lovingly, squeezed the trigger. His hand was all tingly, and his ears hurt as he watched Johnny slowly sink
into the pond, a portion of his skull missing, his head looking like a crescent
moon. The echo of the gunshot roared back at him, and he smiled so widely that
his dentures came loose.
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The Wicked Witch of the East descended on Dean and ripped the handcuffs
off, severing both hands at the wrist. Dean gaped at the stumps while the Wicked
Witch cackled, until blood erupted into his face. A small audience gathered to
laugh at him, but quickly got bored and wandered off. “Your friend just died,”
wheedled the witch.
Dean was silent for what seemed like twenty years while he tried to remember
what a friend was and what it might look like. “Johnny?” he said at last. “Johnny’s
dead? Can I see him?”
The Wicked Witch cackled hideously, though perhaps not with as much
vigour as she had fifty years ago, and said, “Not in this eternity, Boy Blunder.”
She cackled some more until a monkey came to fly her away. Dean shook his head
in wonder. “So Johnny made it to heaven,” he said, sadly. His hands crawled up
his pantlegs and dropped themselves into his pockets. He disliked the way they
fidgeted and fingered his loose change.
Something tugged at the back of his shirt and he turned around. As he did so,
his head fell off for no apparent reason and landed face down in the pool of blood
left by his hands. His body shrugged its shoulders and kicked Dean’s head down
the road. A Cheshire smile appeared above the gaping neck as his body ran after
its head. A bunch of people saw this and picked teams for a soccer game. The game
was in full swing, with the team with flayed skin beginning to edge out the team
with mutilated body parts, when Dean’s head managed to get hold of a flayed foot
with his teeth and refused to let go. Someone suggested that they cut off the foot,
but someone else pointed out that the head wouldn’t roll as well with a foot in
its mouth. Since the person who had pointed this out was Einstein, they decided
he was probably right and all wandered away, leaving Dean with his victim, who
was trying to gnaw at Dean’s head. Three centuries passed before Dean’s father
happened to walk by. Dean’s jaw dropped and the person with flayed skin scurried
away. Dean slammed his eyes shut and bolted them, and pulled a bureau and a
few chairs in back of them and hoped that his father wouldn’t see him.
Dean’s father picked up the head and held it by the forehead and back of
the head, which felt strange since most of the hair had been pulled out by the
man with flayed skin and his scalp was horribly gouged. For a moment, the man
caressed his son’s head reflectively and smoothed the sparse hair. He seemed to
remember the short time he had spent with his son on earth. He smiled tenderly,
his eyes lost in the red glare of the infernal horizon. “Ah, hell,” he said, and with
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perfect, Doug Flutey form, he kicked his son in the ear with the laces of his shoes
and sent him howling silently over the horizon. Then he grinned such a huge grin
that the corners of his mouth met at the rear and the top of his head fell off. He
took some Krazy Glue™ out of his pocket and smeared an even layer on both of
the surfaces he wanted to join, and wandered off with the top of his head glued
to the side of his ass. The only thing the bottom of his head was good for was
eating cereal out of (asshole!).
“Eeeyyyhhhh,” said Bugs Bunny slowly, taking a bite out of his carrot and
chewing it a few times before swallowing, “What’s up, Doc?”
Dean tried to follow the cartoon character with his eyes, but as his head was
spinning as it flew, he kept losing sight of his gray and white companion with
the Brooklyn accent.
“Pardon me,” said the little bunny rabbit with the powder puff tail, “but are
you aware of the factual conundrium that you are presently in, namely that you’re
headed straight for—” and here the crazy varmint paused for effect, and to draw
a big breath, before opening his mouth to roughly the size of the Lincoln Tunnel
and screaming,
“CARTOON HELL!?!”
before putting one hand on the top of his head and the other on the bottom of
his feet, and squeezing himself out of existence.
A moment later, the back of Dean’s head collided with something hard. He
bounced to the ground face up and stared into a strangely familiar face. “Oh,
wise guy, huh?” said Curly, before taking a double take at Dean’s severed head
and saying, “Wa-a-a!” and running panicked into Moe, who said, “Watch it, ya
big lump,” and tweaked Curly’s nose. Then he saw Dean, and yelled, and both of
them ran into Larry, who was looking in the other direction. Larry turned and
started to say something, then saw Dean, opened his eyes really wide and said,
“Hey, wait for me!” and ran after Moe and Curly until they were all out of sight.
They did that a lot in Hell.
“Ah say, Ah say, what’s the hurry, boys?” asked Foghorn Leghorn of the three
receding forms. “Damn kids, Ah say, what’s this here we have here? The Easter
Bunny leave you behind, there, son? Now don’t lose your head now, haw, haw,
haw.”
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“Fuck off,” Dean muttered.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Foghorn, leering at Mother Goose. “Excuse me,
Madam,” he said, taking her arm and leading her away.
Dean wondered if, being in Cartoon Hell, someone might be able to draw
some sort of body for him. He was tired of being kicked around.
Perhaps you are wondering what was happening in Nazi Germany at that
moment. Hitler had just delivered his famous speech at Heidelburg, and was
taking a nice hot bath with Eva Braun, when it suddenly occured to him that he
was not wearing any clothes. He jumped out of the tub and hastily wrapped a
towel around himself, his face flushed with rage and shame. After casting a look
of indignant fury at Eva, he goose stepped out of the bathroom, leaving strict
orders for a storm trooper to stand eternal guard at the door, armed with a flaming sword. A little while later, I’m afraid he went a little mad.
Now, in every person’s life, there comes a time of choice.
Johnny Johnson squinted his eyes at the rows upon rows of shelves upon
shelves of eyeballs upon eyeballs, and wondered if he might not have found a
better pair. He wondered if he might not have been better off choosing some
bigger ones, or perhaps a couple with a slightly paler shade of green. But the fussy
old angel had insisted that he not try on different pairs. Unsanitary, she had said.
This isn’t Filene’s basement. So Johnny would just have to like it or lump it. At least
he had gotten a good nose.
He wandered out of the eyeball warehouse, and stopped a passing cherub to
ask directions to the finger factory. He had found some really nice, long fingers,
the kind with self-cleaning nails, but he had belatedly noticed that the ring finger
on the right hand was longer than the middle one. He was damned if he wasn’t
going to demand that they give him an exchange. It never occured to him that he
might have put them on wrong.
Seventeen trillion billion years passed, give or take a millenium, and Dean
had seen just about all the sights that hell had to offer. He had indeed been given
a cartoon body, but as it could not support his head, he had had to have that
drawn, too. He looked like an odd cross between Goofy and Winnie-the-Pooh.
He was long and angular, but there was something about his eye and smile that
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suggested a slightly manic version of Pooh. He was often heard to hum snatches
of nonsense, like, “Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, tra-la-la, tra-la-la, rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um,”
in a voice that was not quite his own.
Every once in a while he would come across his headless body wandering
through the steamier sections of hell, walking with a peculiar jaunt in its step
which Dean could not remember ever having. Occasionally, he would see some
Italians playing soccer and notice they were using his head, which had begun to
look rather worn.
A sadness overtook him one—I almost said day, but there was no such thing—
that was deeper than any emotion he had ever previously experienced. Around
him, people were laughing and drinking, and seeming to have the same good
times they had had while alive. The old baseball players had even gotten a bunch
of teams together and were playing an exhibition game in a field across from
where he was standing. He had always heard that hell was all eternal flame and
heat and torture, but here he was, not even perspiring. Yet he felt an emptiness
that was profound. He was alone. Hell needed none of its traditional horrors to
draw out the horrors of his miserable existence. He shoved his cartoon hands
into his cartoon pockets and stood where he was, chin clenched to chest, for the
next 4.6 billion years.
When he looked up, he saw a batter swing and, a second later, the crack of ball
hitting bat reached his stubby ears. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as if he had
seen that very same pitcher winding up for the very same batter those few billions
of years earlier. It was as if the time hadn’t passed at all, and yet, whole worlds had
been born in his mind during that time, stars had formed and collapsed, galaxies
had spun themselves into oblivion. For the final 10,000 years, he had focused his
thoughts solely on the inhabitants of a single planet. He couldn’t lose the feeling
that something vaguely important had happened during that time, but he couldn’t
put his cartoon finger on exactly what it was. He shrugged his lanky shoulders
and walked towards the game, thinking he’d buy a hot dog, or something.
As he walked, a heavy fog enveloped him, thick with voices. He looked around,
slowly: he could see nothing except the dense white cloud he had somehow wandered into. The voices sounded hollow and sinister, as if they were being spoken
into a giant tin can. He couldn’t see his feet. The mist seemed to be making the
ink in his cartoon body run and fade; he was discorporating completely!
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Is this the end of Dean Daniels? Is he acually going to fade away into oblivion,
this close to existential fulfillment?
Well, yes, I mean, what’s the point? Fulfillment isn’t allowed in hell.
Johnny had lost his mind. Not his brain, which was still as warm and pink
as the day he had first gotten in line for it, but that part of his brain which had
been responsible for keeping organized the reasoning centers of the cerebellum
had simply shut down under the pressure of so many contradictions. Johnny just
couldn’t understand the people in heaven. So goddamned serene, always singing,
always making a great show of loving each other as if all of heaven were some
platonic, bisexual orgy, or something. It was enough to drive one crazy.
He was wandering around in some clouds one day, constantly fiddling with
his halo like a dog worrying a collar, when he happened to notice a shimmer, a
wavering in the air like a heat mirage. He flew over to it with his huge, ungainly
wings and caught hold of it with his gown and wrapped it up securely. He glanced
about furtively, and tried to act as if the rather large bulge in the folds of his
cloak might be no more than a tumor of some sort. Uncomfortable with this, he
crossed the tips of his wings over the protuberance, like someone caught naked
in a public place. He wanted to take it to a cave somewhere and brood over the
treasure, but there was no privacy to speak of in heaven: only the spare moment
caught in the open sky when no one happened to be looking. Or at least, no one
seemed to be looking.
“Johnny?”
Johnny squinted his eyes and looked around suspiciously. This wasn’t the first
time he had heard voices.
“Johnny? It’s me, let me out.”
Johnny rolled his eyes and twitched, as if he had cerebral palsy. He seemed to
be trying to follow thoughts that were playing children’s games like Hide-and-GoSeek and Ring-Around-the-Rosy. Finally he looked down at his treasure.
“It’s me: Dean. Is that you, Johnny? Let me out, OK? Where am I, anyway?”
Johnny carefully lifted a corner of his robe, keeping his face as far away as
possible and grimacing, as if he expected a swarm of bees to fly out.
Instead, the vague shimmer leaked out and hovered in front of him, looking
vaguely familiar. Screwing his eyes up and tilting his head, Johnny could just
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make out . . . No, he thought it was Goofy, but . . . It almost looked like Winniethe-Pooh, but . . .
“It’s me, Dean Daniels. Don’t you remember? You killed me.”
Johnny looked up sharply, an old flame glowing in his new eyes. “Dean,” he
said, nodding his head like a pigeon. “Johnny remembers Dean. Yeah. Yeah. But
Johnny didn’t kill Dean. No sir. Dean’s father must have killed Dean. Elsewise,
why would Johnny be here? Eh?”
He looked up at Dean sharply and shrewdly, the tatters of his sanity hanging
from his shoulders and draped over his wings.
“And if you’re Dean,” he continued, without changing his expression, “then
how come you got a little powder puff tail?”
Dean started and strained to see his rear end. “I don’t see no—any powder
puff tail.”
“Oh,” said Johnny, taking a Fifth Avenue candy bar out of the breast pocket
of his robe and taking a bite out of the wrapper. He seemed suddenly unaware
of Dean’s presence.
Dean stood (or floated) a while in thought. After a week or two, he looked
up at Johnny, who was still chewing on the candy wrapper and looking oblivious.
He shrugged his shoulders and let himself drift upwards. He waited for Johnny
to call out, or chase after him, but nothing of the sort was forthcoming.
He floated upwards for six days before seeing anyone else. On the seventh day,
he was accosted by a strange creature with a dozen or so dove’s wings revolving
around a dozen or so eyes. With no apparent mouth to speak from, the creature
nonetheless addressed him, saying, “Come on, hurry up, you’re late, do you realize that your planet was consumed by the sun three and a half eons ago? Where
have you been?”
Dean thought it best not to answer, and was relieved when the creature said,
“Never mind, come along to the warehouses with me. There’s not a lot left to
choose from, I’m afraid, but it’s all quality stuff, so not to worry. Hurry up—it’s
almost over, for Christ’s sake.”
Dean looked down through the depths of blue and white, hoping to catch a
glimpse of Johnny, but the air was empty. He gave the slightest ethereal shrug
and followed the creature ever upwards.
When at last they arrived at the gates of heaven, after six more days, St. Peter
jumped up from his booth and rushed them inside. “My God, man, what’s kept
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you? We’re almost ready. Come, I’ll take you to the warehouse, myself. You do
have your papers, don’t you? Ah well, it can’t be helped. Not much point in it,
anyway, I’d say. Hurry along, now.”
The warehouses were great, golden buildings with ornate doors the size of
middle class houses. St. Peter led him to the side of one of the doors and opened
it just enough to let them pass through.
“Luckily, we consolidated all of the body parts once the earth was consumed.
To tell the truth, we weren’t expecting any more of you to arrive. I’m afraid we
may not be able to find all matching parts, but we’ll see what we can come up with.
Let’s start with the feet. See anything you like?”
It took Dean most of a day to put together a body that fit and whose colors
didn’t clash. As it was, his left eye was a glaring red, and the left a muddy brown,
his head was a little too large for his angular body, and his wings were much too
small, but he was much too happy about having a real body again to complain. St.
Peter swaddled him in a robe, set a golden halo over his head and said, “Perfect.
We’ve just got time to make the meeting. I’m sorry you won’t have time to explore
the place, but hey, you can’t always get what you want, right?”
“I guess so,” said Dean, liking the way his tongue felt during the sibilants. He
had been so used to the feeling that his voice was sort of dubbed over the movement
of his cartoon mouth that he had nearly forgotten what a tongue felt like. Even
better, now that he thought about it, was a tongue that had never experienced
cotton mouth. His whole body was clean and new, and would never experience
pain or discomfort. He clicked his sandaled heels together and blushed when St.
Peter looked back at him. But St. Peter was smiling, so that was all right. He
skipped a couple of steps to catch up with the saint and walked with a bouncier
step than he had ever seen his decapitated body use coming out of some infernal
brothel.
“By the way,” said St. Peter, “feel free to call me Pete. Everyone else does.”
“OK, Pete,” said Dean, smiling for the first time in his existence. “And you
can call me Elvis.”
St. Peter cast a shrewd look at Elvis and smiled. “OK, Elvis,” he said. “Congratulations on being the first Elvis in heaven.”
After a time they came to a huge arena with roughly the seating capacity of
the Houston Astrodome. Roughly three-quarters of the seats were filled. “Looks
like we’re early, after all,” said Dean-who-shall-now-be-called-Elvis.
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“No no,” said St. Peter, “I’d say we’re just in time. See, there’s Jesus walking up
to the podium now. Let’s sit down right here.” He pointed at a couple of empty
seats past half a dozen white-robed people. “Excuse us. Coming through.” he said,
as Elvis sidled past them, still grinning, his white teeth gleaming.
When they sat down, Elvis said, “Where’s everyone else? Are they waiting
for the late show?”
St. Peter looked surprised. “Everyone’s here. You were expecting a bigger
crowd?”
“But . . . When I came to . . . I mean . . .”
“Actually, this is more than we ever expected. That’s why we were so short on
body parts. We had wanted everyone to have their choice.” St. Peter narrowed
his eyes and started to say something else. Elvis cringed inwardly, wondering
how he was going to explain his whereabouts for the last several eons. At that
moment, however, an unseen orchestra started up and a choir started singing
some sort of anthem. When they were finished, Jesus lifted an arm and everyone
applauded politely.
“Thank you, everyone, you’re too kind. Really. Thank you. Thank you so
much.” When the applause died down, Jesus said, “I bet you’re wondering why I’ve
gathered you all here together this evening.” Everyone laughed politely. “Well, it
occured to me some time ago that some of us might get a little bored after awhile,
what with everything being made out of gold and all, and everyone having to sing
all the time, so I decided to do something a little different. I’ve decided we could
all use a vacation.
“People of heaven,” here he paused a moment, just to let the tension build.
“We’re going to Disneyland.”
His announcement was greeted by stunned silence followed by muted whispering and finally, polite applause. Jesus held up his arm again and waited for
silence. “On your way out, please remember to pick up a Hawaiian shirt and
Bermuda shorts. It’s bound to be hot down there. I’d hang on to your sandals if
I were you, as it’s bound to be a little filthy, too. Most of all, remember that we’re
there to have fun, but we should try to be as polite and considerate as possible
to the people who are already there. Now, if no one has any questions, we’ll just
get started. Maestro?”
The orchestra began to play some sort of march, and everyone started to file
out as if practicing for a fire drill. It took a while for the stadium to empty, since
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they were also changing their clothes, but eventually they all made it outside and
lined up in single file. Somehow, Elvis found himself the third person in line, after
Jesus and St. Peter. “Congratulations,” Jesus had said, once they’d been introduced.
“You’re the only Elvis in heaven.”
They marched for twelve days, and Elvis was overjoyed to find that he wasn’t the
least bit faint. On the twelfth day, Jesus raised his hand and everyone stopped in
unison, as if they had practiced the maneuver a dozen times. Elvis followed Jesus’
gaze and saw Johnny hiding behind a cloud with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Johnny, come forth!” said Jesus.
Johnny grimaced and stayed put.
Elvis walked over to him and put his hand on his arm. “Come on, Johnny, it’s
time to go.” Johnny cautiously opened his eyes and looked at the hand on his arm.
He followed the arm up to Elvis’s face and said, “Dean? What the hell are you
doing here? They told me you were in hell.”
“I left,” said Elvis, “but now we’re going back.”
“What?”
“We’re going to Disneyland, Johnny.”
For a moment, Johnny looked like an old man. He looked haggardly at the
line of people. He was very tired. “You mean . . .”
“Yes.”
A tiny spark leapt to Johnny’s eye. He gathered his strength and let out a feeble
rebel yell. A moment of silence passed, while Johnny recovered and tried to smile,
until someone else let out an equally feeble yell. Johnny and Elvis grinned at each
other, and let out the biggest rebel yell they had, and everyone in line echoed them,
but it was a heavenly echo, that only got stronger instead of fading away. Heaven
and hell shook with yells and laughter. Everyone was gathering around Johnny
and Elvis. People started to come up from hell and join the ruckus. Johnny and
Elvis put their arms around each other and grinned at the camera as the credits
rolled upwards in front of them.
<Return to main text>
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Virgil’s End (1990)
2
Of stars and a hope I sing, ablaze above Earth’s Paradise.
A moment’s glimpse is all I’ve had of them—
they are denied to those unknown to Christ.
As people who gape at the demise of a child,
cut down in some horrific way before the eyes of all,
so gaped those purgatorial shades at me—
the first to descend that blesséd mount
since God rejected Adam and his wife.
Down in widening spirals I trod,
my legs atremble with each downward step.
Only Cato, stern keeper of the mountain’s foot,
asked me for some scrap of news from Paradise.
I answered as I could, though briefly,
of the vision in which Beatrice, my replacement, had arrived,
and of my subsequent dismissal.
The old sage bowed his head and shook his hair with sorrow.
Yet his face, when he looked up, was smiling, and he bade me send a message—
Not to Marcia, who had been his wife, but to Charon,
the ferryman, ward of hell’s initial river.
Oft of old had he spoken with the boatman,
Who was so near that other shore where living souls might still consider hope.
“Tell old crafty Charon that I think of him betimes.
The angel of the Lord, who ferries those un-damned toward their salvation,
keeps his eyes so firmly fixed above that he hardly stops to pass a friendly word.”
We then embraced like brothers, parted perhaps by war, or some calamity.
Almost I fancied a spectral tear hovered on the threshold
of the elder statesman’s eye.
Perhaps I was mistaken.
I will not here recount the horrors I endured
’tween Cato’s watch and Satan’s gelid lake,
nor with what wretched toil I made my weary way
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up to the circle of the Frauds.
Few addressed me; none whose words I care to repeat.
With only one did I wish to spare some words,
lost as they were on the listener.
“Ulysses, great contender, locked in fiery twain
with Diomedes, your twin in fraud: hear now my new lament.
You whose ship approached that mountain’s shore,
that island where the blessed may cleanse their sins,
you have felt the inexorable force
that suffers not the near approach of pagans.
What sadness can compare to that of guide
whose equal struggle
equal reward can never know?
Imagine the mother bear leading her young cubs
to saplings far too slender to support her ponderous weight.
Imagine her desire
to savor also the tender leaves that sprout
Amidst the topmost branches, denied her
though her children eat their fill. So too
I led proud Dante, my child in the epic art,
to the very edge of earthly Paradise.
How I yearned to set one tired foot in those Elysian Fields,
but alas, my sins are irredeemable.
I was forced to bid farewell to prodigious Dante,
that man I would not let address you here,
and turn my face from glory.
Odysseus, bane of Ilium, imagine my joy
at seeing once more the sun, the arcéd sky,
and the revolutions of the stars!
Gentle breezes replaced these children of Scirocco,
and for every tear there was the promise of a smile.
Forgive me if my words intensify your pain,
but only think how hard it was for me,
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who was allowed to witness this first hand.
Thus was my bittersweet vision of that half—
nay, twice-blessed country
which is the inverse of our own.
I did not think so kindly of you when I wrote.
I apologize.
I see now that your punishment is far more worthy of compassion
then your sins were worth contempt.
Yet what strange force would pull such blasphemes from my lips,
which have but lately spoke before just heaven?
The fires of hell should not consume
acceptance of divine decree, published from the only true source: Love.
Better far to say, ‘I ought not to have judged you,
who was myself so worthy to be judged.’
But I see that I detain you overlong.
Begone; resume your endless circlings:
On earth it was your only true desire.”
I watched the pair depart.
How like the abandoned father did I feel!
One who has taught his offspring all he knows,
only to have him turn away, eagerly thirsting for further knowledge
when the first well he had drawn from has run dry.
I speak, of course, of Dante, whom I will hasten not to judge,
knowing that One who sits enthroned above
doth judge him much less harshly.
Indeed, his rejection of me is meet:
They who would look back when once salvation is attained
would lose themselves anew.
Lot’s wife did find it thus, fleeing ruined Sodom;
a pillar of salt, she sheds no tears.
So too did lyrical Orpheus, lacking faith,
beseek Eurydice’s face too soon:
Eternal separation is their doom:
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Not even hell can reunite them.
I renounce therefore my heart’s desire
that Dante might have clasped just once my hand
before rejecting my companionship
and enforcing my regress.
Such thoughts I forsook as I neared the eighth circle
and faced again the rocky cliffs that barred my way.
My soul filled up with fear:
In Dante’s presence
I had borne courage in my shoulders,
knowing that divine decree secured our passage.
Now, as I neared the abominable Geryon,
my fear intensified, like a fire that first smolders in some leaves
then bursts into flames, growing larger and warmer,
threatening to rage uncontrolled.
I had no guarantee that my return
to the dull company of my peers would be unhindered.
Should this gruesome beast refuse my next request,
I would spend forever with the Frauds.
The thought was too noisome to endure,
and yet the stench of Geryon himself was inescapable.
I approached him, striving to retrieve that mask of bravery
that had served me well before.
“Back so soon?” he chortled,
“I assumed you’d prefer a somewhat longer stay
in the warmer climes above below.
Did they kick you out?
You didn’t eat their apples, did you?
Amazing group of people, Christians, preaching love for all,
yet proving in the end more prejudiced than any.
Did they call you ‘Caesar slayer’ or ‘Jovian trash’
before they sent you trotting?”
Impassive in mien to these remarks,
I civilly begged passage to the top of the sheer cliff.
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Sullen that his jibes had had no marked effect,
he proffered nonetheless to me his back,
which surface I bestrode with no little trepidation.
I clenched my knees and squeezed my eyelids shut
and cursed the beast (beneath my breath) for the turbulence of his flight.
He set me down at the top—the nadir of the seventh circle,
and I gave no thought to thanks or payment
as I trudged unsteadily away.
His heinous laughter haunts me still.
At length the Phlegethon was crossed, the Wall of Dis re-breached,
the Styx and, and finally, the four circles of incontinence were left behind.
I approached the gloomy city of my peers
disappointed (though not surprised)
that no one rushed to greet me.
I found my feet had no desire for rest but urged me on,
and through the empty dusk of limbo
to the melancholy shores of Acheron.
Charon’s ferry was hardly visible through the dank and evil mist,
approaching with his boatload of the damned,
and while it pleased my sense of wholeness
to come as close as was allowed to the beginning of my awkward journey,
I did not relish converse with the wight.
Yet, for the sake of Cato’s message, I held firm.
Discharging the chaff that peopled his craft,
the withered creature with empty eyes leaned upon his oar
and spoke:
“Virgil,” he said, and his voice seemed sad,
“Almost I dared believe you, too, would be received by heaven,
as that Man had honored Cato, when He harrowed this foul realm.
Indeed, there is no reason I can see that you should be confined
to this abyss,
save only for the accident of timing,
having died a few short years before that Holy Bastard’s death,
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which was believed to conquer Death.
It puzzles me that when He besieged this faulty land,
he deigned ignore so many.
Surely you have committed no crime worth all this gray eternity;
were it in my power, I would ferry your shade
to a pleasanter shore than that which limits my demesne.”
Then indeed I felt that I might weep,
that such compassion could be found in hell.
But no words reached my lips
to express gratitude for his charity,
so I settled for repeating Cato’s message,
at which old Charon laughed, wheezing and hacking,
till I thought he must collapse.
Such sound reminded me that hell was now my home.
With a solemn, formal bow in deference to the demon’s kindness,
I returned to the realm of my desperate peers.
Had I indeed dared hope for something more
than to act as guide through Purgatorio?
If so, that hope was triply killed with every footfall of retreat
from Adam’s former garden.
And yet, what was my sin that I should be turned back
upon the very threshold of salvation?
Can accident of birth be grounds for such refusal?
With Dante yet beside me, my understandings had been sure,
like a goat upon the stony croppings of a ledge,
but now—how doubt confounds me!
Our candle lives are much too brief a test
on which to base eternity.
Alas, self-pity serves no end, except to heighten one’s despair.
Fate’s web will never come unraveled;
I know this to be true, and yet,
I now long only for the sight of those four stars,
those diadems in deepest velvet, that sparkle o’er Purgation’s mount.
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For such a sight to be made for me eternal,
I would gladly give my soul,
but that it was too soon given
to a Satan I had never heard of in my life.
[The earliest manuscripts end here, but other ancient authorities include the following postscript.]
There is little conversation among the denizens of Limbo,
but lately a blind poet has broken silences with me.
“Did you happen to see my hero on your ancient journey south?” he asked.
I answered as I could, though shortly,
disliking to be reminded of my past,
but he persisted in his queries until I formed this gloomy song—
The first new thing this land has ever heard.
I suppose I should be proud,
but the soul that launched fair Helen’s face was not content.
He asked, (oh, abominable question!)
whether anyone had actually asked me to leave.
To my dumbfounded stare—invisible to his blind eyes!—
he responded with another question:
“Was it possible pride alone prevented your stay?
Pride that would rather leave unnoticed than risk being asked to depart?
Were you expecting trumpets, honest Virgil? Horns to announce your arrival?
Did you slip away quietly, while Dante was turned, relishing the pain of imagined betrayal?”
I asked him to stop as civilly as I could, but in truth I wanted to strike him.
“What do you know of my pain?” I wanted to ask him,
but feared his answer would be, “Too much.”
No matter, he was moving on to other topics,
like whether Cato really called foul Charon “crafty,”
or had I introduced the word to fit the meter.
Again I was offended, but answered him in truth:
Stern Cato had used that very word. He smiled.
“Do you honestly believe,” he asked, adroitly,
“That Cato was tender, and Charon kind?
Self-pity has shuttered your eyes.”
Go Mad
It is for art’s sake that I append this postscript,
much though it pains me to sing it.
Once upon a time, the Judge who banished me to Limbo
extended mercy and did not rescind it.
I misunderstood, in pride and fear, and demurred.
We who have no demons for torture
here on the outskirts of hell
supply the lack by torturing ourselves:
Could I go back, had I only the courage?
Could I go back, had I only humility?
Could I go back, were I not the damnable worm
I will not stop insisting I am?
<Return to main text>
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Go Mad
My Consequences
“Sometimes the darkness is your friend.”
—Bruce Cockburn, Pacing the Cage
ME
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171
7 | Love’s Providence
“I will wait for you, but please come soon.”
—Maria Taylor, Leap Year
Here’s what happens, sometimes, when I attempt to rely on God:
It’s not that you let me down, exactly, it’s just that, well, essentially I’ve
just paddled out to sea in a leaky rowboat. I can’t see land, the waves are
too high, the wind is too brisk, there are storm clouds on the horizon, and
I’m not entirely sure in which direction even to paddle, and the possibility
that the whole exercise has been terminally stupid seems much more likely
than the alternative, which is that I’m exactly where you want me to be, and
that if I’ll just lay the oars alongside the gunwale and wait for a bit, your
purposes will become marvelously clear in a matter of days.
If only I had thought to bring fresh water. . . .
Carl
Several years before I left IVP, I began to think that I really wanted a
pickup truck. Every once in awhile, I would visit a website that would let
me “build” my ideal vehicle. I’d select the features I wanted—dark gray, a
manual transmission, air conditioning and an eight foot bed—and save
it for future reference. Once I had built and saved the same vehicle three
years running, I began seriously to consider buying an actual truck.
Now, there was nothing essentially wrong with my sedan, except that
it was boring. I had bought it thinking it a “responsible” purchase, and that
I would likely need a small family car before too long. While I was perhaps
correct in my first assumption, I was hilariously wrong in my second.
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After my divorce, I moved to a small, one-bedroom apartment a scant
three miles from work. I made a habit, whenever I woke up in time and
Love’s Providence
173
sleeping and watching TV, I could pocket that money and sleep in the back
of my potential pickup truck.
could be bothered, either to ride my bicycle to work (if the weather was fine)
Never mind that this is a crazy idea—I waited a few more months and
or walk (if it was not). While walking to work one day, I passed a ten-year-
then went to a dealership that was able to find exactly the truck I wanted.
old pickup truck for sale for $3,500. It had a number of features in common
Since I had a good job and good credit, I drove home a few days later in
with my ideal vehicle, and I took a picture of its For Sale sign, thinking I
Carl, leaving my unchristened sedan behind. A few more months after that
might just give the number a call. Weeks went by, the truck remained, and
the lease on my apartment was up, and I chose not to renew it. Instead, I
suddenly I came into some money—almost enough to buy it outright.
bought a blue, 8´ x 12´ tarp, three thin, 12´ pvc pipes, and a cot. I put them
Now, I should tell you that I have a deep antipathy towards making
all together with a little rope, and—voila—my new home was complete.
phone calls. I call it telephobia (even though the technical term is apparently
At night, I parked behind the warehouse at IVP, and spent the next two
phonophobia). Occasionally, inexplicably, I can overcome this irrational fear
weeks living simple. It wasn’t exactly Walden Pond, but it seemed like a
long enough to make an important call. I generally attribute this occasional
step in the right direction.
victory to God.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Where the hell did he shower?
My reasoning goes something like this: If you want me to do such and
Why, at the health club next door, of course. Every morning I’d emerge
such a thing that would require me to make a phone call, you will, in your
from Carl’s backside with my toiletries and a fresh change of clothes in a
timing, afflict me with the realization that the time has for some reason
backpack, with a baseball cap to cover my bed head, shamble to the health
arrived, and strengthen my phone-call making constitution long enough to
club and take a nice, hot shower. It was a beautiful system (except for the
tap in a number and hit “send.” I figured if you wanted me to buy that truck,
mosquitoes), until, inevitably, the cops showed up.
then you would visit this grace upon me before someone else bought it.
My cot was folded up, and I was sitting on a beach chair, with one of
The truck hung around for two or three more months and then disap-
those flashlight-on-a-headband thingies strapped to my forehead. I was
peared. I was disappointed, but I used the money to buy a treadmill instead.
typing away on an old PDA, when someone walked alongside my truck,
Within a month, the deck on the treadmill cracked lengthwise, underlining
lifted a corner of the tarp, and shined a flashlight in. Did I mention that it
my need for it, yes, but also forcing me to reevaluate my concept of divine
was really hot that night? I only mention it now to try to explain the follow-
providence.
ing, somewhat embarrassing, fact: I was stripped down to my underwear.
Meanwhile, an odd little plan was beginning to form within the dark
recesses of my brain. The kernel of the plan was that, rather than spending $800 a month on the crappy little apartment that I used primarily for
I hastily pulled on some clothes and clambered over the tailgate to talk to
the police.
They had gotten a complaint from the people living on the other side of
the fence (which, it’s true, I had pictured (when I first conceived the plan),
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175
being much higher). I told the first officer that the address on my driver’s
of pondering and discussing the matter with the other department heads,
license was correct, and that I was practicing for an upcoming road trip to
the decision was made that I could continue living in the parking lot only
Alaska. When the second officer repeated the question, I admitted that I
until my Alaskan vacation two weeks hence. After that I would need to
had moved out of that address two weeks ago. He said, “There’s no trip to
find an elsewhere to park.
Alaska, is there?” I said, “No, there really is.” They called their contact for
Before the two weeks were up, however, I resigned.
the building and discovered that I was a key holder (and thus had some
right to be there), and then left.
I climbed back into my truck, stripped back down to my underwear
Another word from you via Mom: “You will go to Alaska; just not
right now.”
and started writing again with a huge sense of relief. I had worried that
this would happen, and now it had, and I had survived the experience. I
Providentially, I had no lease to break, no address to change, and all
knew, of course, that I would be confronted the next day by whoever took
my possessions were either in my truck or in storage. I drove from my
the officer’s call, but for the rest of the night I could, for the first time really,
now former place of employment (not without tears) to my storage space
be completely at ease.
for various sundries, then to a burger joint for dinner, then to a service
About an hour later the cops returned with “some more questions.” The
station for an oil change, where my confusion over which address to give
problem, it seems (and this is sheer conjecture), is that they had snuck up
prompted the attendant to inquire after my circumstances. Upon hearing a
on me the first time, and thus had given no indication to the people on the
brief synopsis, he expressed admiration for my standing up to management,
other side of the fence that they had responded to their call. So, probably,
laughed when I told him it was a Christian organization and said, “What’s
the neighbors called again. This time the police put on their blue strobe
that line? ‘Kick the dust from your feet’?” I drove away with another stream
lights and talked tough. They wanted me to “move along.” Having nowhere
of tears dampening my chin.
else along which to move, I suggested I could park my truck on the other
side of the building, out of sight of the neighbors. They agreed that this
A thousand miles later, I arrived at my parent’s house, where I’ve lived
until this very day.
was a suitable solution, so long as they didn’t receive any further complaints.
Carl felt more comfortable in a rural setting than he ever had in sub-
The other side of the building, unfortunately, had streetlights, and noise,
urbia. In October I drove him back to Illinois to gather the contents of my
and would be in plain sight of my coworkers when they arrived the next
storage space and to say farewell to a few close friends. After a week or two
morning, but at least the neighbors would feel safe.
I picked up Dad at the airport and, between the truck bed and a rented
The next morning I was indeed asked to visit the department head
trailer, we were able to fit almost everything I owned.
who’d taken the call. I explained myself as best I could, and he sympathized
After that, Carl helped me move firewood, take trash to the trans-
with my experiment in alternative living arrangements, but after a few days
fer station, and borrow a wood-splitter from a friend. Dad used him to
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My Consequences
transport his broom-making booth to farmer’s markets and to take the
riding mower in for service, since he had had to sell his own truck soon
after I moved in with him (Related? God, I hope not).
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177
Stephen
Two weeks later, a group of people from my parents’ church took a van
down to Community of the Cross in North Carolina for some mission
Dad paid for oil changes and to get Carl inspected, but it was up to me
work. At the time, there were only three states in the union in which I
to make the monthly payments, pay the annual registration fee, and keep
had set neither foot nor tire: Alaska, North Carolina and South Carolina,
it insured. This seemed doable, since I had a little bit of financial cushion
so I tagged along, if only to check off the state. I brought my computer, of
and assumed I would soon land another job.
course, so that I could continue writing.
Alas, as you may remember, October of 2008 was not a good month
“Mission work,” in this case, was building a ramp up to a deck Dad and
for the US economy. The only call-back I received was for a part-time job as
a similar group had built the previous year. Food, fun and fellowship were
a secretary at the grade school I had attended as a child. I thought I was a
the focus of the week, and the ramp was completed as well. The fun was
shoo-in, but at the last minute someone with significantly more secretarial
mitigated, in my case, by the fact that there were too few opportunities to
experience swooped in and stole the position out from under me.
carry things, but I did manage to get an awful lot of writing done. A journal
As winter turned to spring, my parents decided to sell a parcel of
entry dated a day or two after we returned to New Hampshire mentions
land in order to help pay their property taxes and health insurance, but
that I had written 90 pages in the first three weeks. I thought I was well
Mom felt God wanted them to wait until September to put the land on
on my way to finishing in time to save Carl. I figured three chapters and an
the market. Naturally, we all started looking forward to an autumnal
outline were all I would need to get an advance from an eager publisher.
financial miracle.
But that week held a couple surprises. When I told the director of
Community of the Cross that I was a fiction editor, he asked me if I would
The good news was that I had all the time I wanted to write. I spent
be willing to read a manuscript his son Stephen was working on. I agreed,
some time on a book I’d been mulling over for most of my life on the cre-
but with the usual trepidation, lest I find myself in the awkward position
ation/evolution debate, then, while my parents wintered in North Carolina,
of needing to honestly critique a stranger’s crappy book.
I set that aside to return to my novel. Finally, in April 2009, driving back
Not only was it not crappy, but it’s a book I hope WordFarm will
(an hour and a half) from a potential job at a print shop (from which I
publish (it’s called Eventide if you care to check). The only awkward part
had been somewhat shocked not to get a call back), having found that the
was learning the author’s age. Reading his work, I would have guessed mid-
position had already been filled, I started seriously to worry that I might
thirties. He was twenty. In case you don’t have the energy or the interest to
lose Carl. That’s when I hit upon the idea of writing this book that you are
attempt the arithmetic, I’ll just go ahead and tell you that I was 24 when
recklessly continuing to read, in the hopes of turning a quick buck.
I began my first novel (that isn’t done yet).
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179
Providence is a funny thing. If I hadn’t left IVP the year before, I prob-
a mobile home to replace some pipes and into a low-ceilinged, dirt-floored
ably would never have read Eventide. True, I had been planning to leave in
basement to pull out an old furnace and replace it with a new. I dug a trench
December anyway, but if I hadn’t quit in September, I would have been fully
through his driveway, helped him build a coop for his chickens and became
aware of October’s economic downturn and the resulting scarcity of jobs,
good friends with him in the process. In fact, aside from my parents and a
and my courage may well have failed me. I might be working there still.
weekly prayer group, he was my main source of fellowship (not to mention
I know what you’re thinking: How stupid is this guy? This sounds a
income) that summer.
lot more like “looking on the bright side” than a clear example of “Love’s
Providence,” right? I mean, search hard enough for meaning, and you’re
almost guaranteed to come up with something.
Back to Carl
Carl’s registration was due to be renewed at the end of August, a year
And I’ll admit; you have a point. If providence is all it’s cracked up to
after my resignation, and I still was largely unemployed. What with not
be, I’d be able to tell you that Eventide was the turning point, the novel that
having any money and being unsure that I would be able to hold onto Carl
made WordFarm into the beloved and successful publishing house it is
much longer anyway, I debated whether or not to bother renewing it, since
today. But you and I both know that that probably won’t be the case. Also,
it’s rather expensive in New Hampshire. Also, the town offices don’t have
if providence is a real thing, the manuscript would have found its way to
the capacity to accept credit cards (mine was at less than a third of capacity,
me one way or the other, whether I had gone to North Carolina or not.
which is amazing in itself).
I have no idea how Eventide will fit into the larger story of my life, but
Providentially, I was offered a few days’ work as a painter by a local
its significance is not based on eventual results, but simply in experiencing
pastor. I asked to be paid $12/hr and worked a total of 13 hours over the
the joy of being in a valuable place, and not just lost at sea. When I met
course of three days. Then he handed me a check for $250. My eyes widened
Stephen at the end of the week, I knew immediately that I was talking to
a bit as I told him that it was more than I had expected. He said, simply,
a fellow traveler.
“Fifteen dollars an hour.” I thanked him heartily and went on my way. As I
drove home, I did the math and realized that $250 divided by $15/hr comes
Dave
The other surprise was also a friend. Dave lives about two miles from
out to roughly 17 hours, meaning that he had accidentally paid me for the
half-day we got rained on.
my parents’ house, and it’s possible that I had met him before, but not
When my parents left for a couple weeks for points west and south,
that I remember. He was suffering from bone spurs in his shoulder, but
they gave me a check for $100 to cover expenses or, if I so desired, to put
that didn’t stop him from doing his part in building the ramp. After the
toward my registration.
trip, he underwent surgery, and after that, he needed help with his regular
I had only a rough notion of how much the registration would cost,
work. So he hired me to drill hundreds of holes in floor joists, climb under
but I deposited both checks in the bank, made sure my other bills were
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Love’s Providence
181
paid through the middle of the next month, and went to the bank a couple
from the teller—everything in my account that wasn’t needed for other
days later to withdraw the money in cash (I had never bothered to order
immediate bills.
checks) so I could go to the town offices and register my vehicle. The ATM
So it was that I returned to the town offices, taking the same “quick-
machine allowed me to withdraw only $300/day, but with the money I
est route,” but this time, thankfully, without the police escort (but behind
already had in my wallet, I thought it might be enough.
slow cars the whole way, which was also funny, considering how close I
On the way to the town offices, I was praying that I wouldn’t be stopped
was cutting it).
by the police on the way there, which is something that happened to Mom
I managed to arrive at 3:45, walk in, greet the woman behind the
some years ago. She had tried to explain that she was on her way to register
counter and say, “I’ve got $367 dollars in my wallet, and I’m hoping it’s
her car at that exact moment, but the officer had countered that, it being
enough to renew my registration.” She asked if I wanted her to check the
Saturday and all, the town offices would be closed. Hoping I wouldn’t
amount before we proceeded, and I said, “That would be swell” (or words
need to have a similar conversation, I drove the quickest (and most heavily
to that effect).
trafficked) route there. As I passed a side road, a police cruiser pulled out
and started to follow me.
“That’ll be three hundred, sixty-seven dollars and seventy cents,” she
said.
“You have got to be kidding me!” I shouted at God, who was mostly
I recounted my money and discovered that I had one extra dollar in my
silent (though I could have sworn I heard a stifled chuckle that, to be
wallet that I had previously overlooked. We filled out the forms, she took
honest, did not sound entirely friendly). Several tense minutes passed
my money and handed me a quarter, a nickel, and my registration.
until the cruiser pulled off onto another side road. Breathing sigh after
Now this is Providence, I thought, in all it’s enigmatic glory. The odds
sigh of relief, I got to the town offices at 4:30, only to discover that they
of my having the exact amount of money (rounded to the nearest dollar)
had closed at 4:00.
are high, if not perhaps astronomical, and I took it as strong evidence that
The next day I tried again, driving first to another bank branch to
withdraw an additional $20, only to discover that my debit card was miss-
God was with me in my finances. Things were starting to look up, and it
was only the middle of September.
ing (I swear I could hear God snort). I returned home. The following day
About that time, I was offered two financial hopes that seemed further
I called the bank to report my missing card (Should’ve done that sooner?
evidence of your provision. One was the possibility of a three month temp
You betcha). I mentioned my hope that I had left it in the ATM machine
job with a friend. The other was an unexpected promise of help from an
a couple days prior, and the woman kindly put me on hold while she called
inheritance. These two hopes had formed the basis of my decision to pay
the branch office to find out that, yes, I had left it in the machine and could
for the registration instead of using the money to make another payment.
go pick it up. Woohoo. I drove over, retrieved my card, and withdrew $30
Both hopes had arrived unlooked for, but long days passed without any
word on whether or not they would be fulfilled.
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Love’s Providence
183
My parents being gone, I was alone in the house, and wishful of
I mentioned that I had just made a payment the day before, and that I
focusing on my writing, but the stress of waiting for my financial aid to
had enough for one more payment, but needed to get to the bank to deposit
arrive (or at least to become more solid than mere hope) was keeping my
the checks. He checked his papers, and I could see (over his shoulder) that
productivity low. I started pleading with you, reminding you that my most
the amount my creditor required was the equivalent of two payments (plus
productive times of writing in the past had occurred during those rare
late fees). He offered to let me talk to the creditor, and even dialed the
times of unemployment when money was not a stress factor. I begged you
number on his own phone and explained the situation before handing it to
to release me from the tension.
me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” I was told, “but once the reacquisition process
One day, exactly a week after I registered my truck, I was feeling abso-
has been initiated, there’s nothing we can do. You will have a chance to
lutely crushed by the paralyzing weight of uncertainty. I could barely move,
redeem the truck on Monday. In the meantime, please let the gentlemen
but I needed to do something. I had made one payment on the truck the
do their job. They’ll let you remove any personal items from the vehicle.”
day before, and had received enough checks to cover another payment, but
The conversation went on, as I worked through the five stages of grief,
I needed to get to the bank (which had charged me $30 for overdrawing my
but in the end, I pulled out all my stuff (I forgot my baseball glove under the
account by 30¢ the week before) to deposit them. Also, the lawn needed
seat), left my stereo, and refused the offer of taking off the plates, convinced
to be mowed. It was a fine day, and the bank would be open for several
(irrationally) that I could redeem the truck by the end of the weekend. One
more hours, so I decided to start with the lawn. I crossed the kitchen at
of the guys even said he’d leave it in town over the weekend rather than
the pace of an arthritic tortoise, each shuffling footfall requiring the effort
shipping it right away to Boston. I thanked him, handed the second guy my
of an exhausted, out-of-shape rock climber.
key, and watched them drive away. Then I finished mowing the lawn.
At last I reached the door, pulled myself outside, and started up the
mower. I had not yet completed a single pass around the edge of the yard
So much for autumnal financial miracles. The parcel of land sold
before a truck pulled up, and two people I didn’t know got out. I turned off
immediately, and my parents gave me $1,000 from the proceeds. If they
the mower and walked toward them, greeting them with a friendly smile.
hadn’t listened to God, or if I had made another payment instead of paying
“Mark Smith?” one said.
the registration, if either of my two hopes had panned out, or even if I had
“Yes,” I said, somewhat taken aback, since not many people show up
just returned one of the hundreds of phone calls from my creditor, I might
at the house looking for me.
“We’ve come to pick up the truck.”
It took me a moment to register what he meant. “Oh, no kidding,” I
said.
have been able to keep my truck for several more months.
Oddly, the crushing weight of uncertainty was gone, replaced by a
sense of lightness and relief. It was not the answer to prayer I desired, but
it accomplished the result for which I had asked. Indeed, I felt completely
released from financial stresses.
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185
I kept looking for jobs (and doing various odd jobs as they became
them neatly behind the bed, and I generally tried to be as inconspicuous as
available), but as the months continued to pass, a phrase would come to
possible. I was becoming good friends with Mike, and both of them made
mind whenever I tried to figure out where to turn next: “You have a job.”
me feel welcome, but I couldn’t help but feel like an intrusion. John wasn’t
I spent January and February (during which my parents were again
around much, and when he was, he also tended to keep to himself.
wintering in North Carolina) writing prodigiously (and, I hope, to good
One morning we were awakened early by the buzzer. I stumbled grog-
purpose). While they were away, Dave lent me his truck. It’s the same
gily toward the intercom, but Mike got there first and asked who was there.
make and model as Carl (and two years newer than the truck I considered
It was John’s parents. They had called his cell phone, but he wasn’t answer-
buying used in Illinois).
ing, and they were worried. Since the two of us were still in our underwear,
we weren’t eager to invite them up, but we offered to check on him. Mike
John
knocked on John’s door, but there was no answer, so he opened the door.
“For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for
1
your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope” (Jeremiah
29:11).
John was on the floor. Mike crouched down beside him, grabbed his
shoulder, and stood up abruptly. He looked at me and said, “He’s cold.”
My memories of the rest of that morning are disjointed. We buzzed
The first person to pray this verse over me was John Saari, in 1992. He
his parents up and threw on some clothes. His mother wailed his name
was the roommate of Mike, one of my friends from cluster group, and I had
when she saw him. There was a pan of brownie crumbs in the sink. Brownie
only met him once before. The evening of his prayer was the first time I’d
crumbs. He was diabetic. He had killed himself with brownies.
seen him in his apartment. He was tooling around in a wheel chair, and I
At some point someone called the police, and they were very quiet and
remarked that I had always thought it would be cool to have a wheel chair.
respectful, to match our moods, until a sergeant arrived and started asking
It was maybe twenty minutes later that I noticed that one of his legs ended
probing questions. I know he was just doing his job, but his suspicions acted
at the knee. When I’d seen him before he’d been wearing a prosthetic.
like a grater on the soft cheese of our emotions.
I learned later that he had juvenile diabetes, and his leg had been ampu-
One of John’s toys was sitting on an end table in the living room. It
tated when he was a kid. Perhaps it was my embarrassment that made me
had been sitting there untouched since I moved in. It was a cheap, plastic
pay especial attention to his prayer, but I was also struck by the fact that
version of Newton’s Cradle, that thing with a series of balls suspended by
I hadn’t caught that verse when I had read the Bible the year before, and I
strings. You lift a ball on one end and let it drop. The balls in the middle
had never heard anyone quote it, so my reaction was Really? I mean, sure,
remain motionless while the ball on the opposite side continues the motion
God knows everything and all, but you have plans? For me? Huh.
of the first. Except these strings were hopelessly tangled. I picked it up and
After I quit grad school, I was homeless, so John and Mike invited me
to sleep on their couch. Every morning I would fold the sheets and place
spent the morning untangling the strings while John’s parents and Mike
sat in stunned silence.
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Leaving IVP (coupled with my divorce three years prior) was not so
traumatic as John’s death, but I recognize the same tendency in me to
respond to trauma by attempting to untangle the story. The more I processed Bob’s response to my departure, the more I realized he was right
about one thing: I really am an anarchist. Writing this book has been a
process of untangling exactly what that means.
<Skip footnote>
Love’s Providence
187
Bears All (1994)
1
Edward C. Passover had turned off the trail to find some blackberries when
God turned him into a bear. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened. One
moment he’d been picking berries one by one and popping them into his mouth,
the next he’d been drawing clusters of berries to his snout and munching off most
of the leaves. Not until he trundled back to the path did he realize he was no longer
human. Immediately he was filled with a deep sorrow, for all of his dreams were
now lost. Peering around nearsightedly, he snuffled the strange new smells, until
at last, resigned, he wandered away from the path to find more berries.
Years later, in the latter part of Autumn, when the rains were not unbearably
cold, Edward came upon a little girl, sitting with her back against a tree. When
she saw him she smiled, and held out her arms. He came nearer and snuffled her
face. She put her arms around his neck and squeezed very tightly. He lay down on
his side and offered his warm dry chest to her. She snuggled in and promptly fell
asleep. All night he held his arm out over her, keeping her dry. In the morning the
rain stopped, and Edward got up and left. He returned in the evening to find her
still sitting under the tree. “Nice doggy,” she said, as she hugged him and petted
his nose. Again he spent the night, and the next night, and the night after, keeping her warm and dry. On the fifth night, the place where she had been smelled
powerfully of two men. He never saw the little girl again, though he thought of
her often and missed her terribly.
In the spring of his seventh year as a bear, Edward saw a she-bear rubbing
against a tree. His heart rose within him, for she was very beautiful. In time they
mated, and she bore four cubs. For a time, Edward was content. With winter,
however, came a strange restlessness. He woke often in his den, and though it was
bitter cold, he wandered far and wide, scratching trees and dirtying snow. Often,
in the evenings, he would find himself on a mountainside, looking down over some
village or town. As the lights came on, their glow would fill him with longing.
At last, spring returned, and his wife began to nuzzle him affectionately. He
found, however, that he was now repulsed by her ursine bulk, and the thought of
mating with her filled him with loathing. Still, he could not bear to hurt her, so
he nuzzled her back, and hugged her, and tried to be kind. When at last he could
stand it no longer, he cried out, in agony of soul. Immediately stepped a man from
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My Consequences
behind a tree. His wife fell on her face before him, and Edward himself bowed
his head in shame. Jesus stepped closer and scratched him behind the ear.
“Edward,” he said, and Edward was human again.
Jesus then went to his wife, and lay down beside her. In a moment, Edward
saw that he was weeping, and that the great bear that had been his wife wept also.
The weeping continued for a long time before Jesus rose to his knees and gently
put his hand upon her head. “Brunhilde,” he said, and she was a lovely buxom
woman with wild blonde hair. Jesus touched her lips and breathed on her, and
in this way gave her speech. He took her hand and reached out, took Edward’s
hand, and drew their hands together. He told them to go into the village, where
a kindly widow would give them clothes and a place to stay. Then he disappeared
into the forest. The couple walked into the village and found everything just as
Jesus had said.
Over dinner the wise old widow told them of the dream she had had concerning their arrival. In the dream, Jesus had shown her Brunhilde’s grandmother,
who was born in Sweden, and was turned into a bear by a wicked magician for
spurning his affections. The magician had sold her to the ringmaster of a circus,
who had put her on a ship to America. The ship was wrecked some fifteen miles
off the coast of Maine. She had barely survived the swim, and once ashore, had
been unable to escape the affections of the native bears. She had given birth to
Brunhilde’s mother, who in turn had given birth to Brunhilde. “And what of my
children?” cried Brunhilde, greatly distressed. At that moment, there came a
knocking at the door. When they opened it, they found four children, less than
a year old, wrapped in linen cloths, sleeping peacefully on the doorstep.
<Return to main text>
Love’s Providence
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My Consequences
Love’s Providence
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Propositional
Statements
About God
“For now we see in a mirror dimly.”
—Paul, 1 Corinthians 13:12
You
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You See
10 | You See
“Everywhere I go I see you.”
—Rich Mullins, I See You
You see the heart.
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Propositional Statements About God
I Am the Sea (2000)
I reflect the heavens, the sun,
the stars, the clouds, the orange moon.
The moon, I was saying, is orange;
it presides over peace,
tranquility;
all who behold it are stilled.
There was a time when I caressed (some say smothered)
every inch of the earth, was intimate
with every hollow. I have since
suffered some of him to go,
to rise from my embrace—
whither I know not—
to create
and to crumble
according to his own desires.
I send my emissaries, the rain, whenever I can,
but lately some of his creatures have hid from me.
Sometimes, he holds my messengers back with mountains,
but whether to surprise me someday
with some novel invention
or to prove that not all
of his creatures
require me,
I no longer can guess.
The moon, the first of my husbands,
left long ago.
He only travelled far enough away
to be able to look back,
You See
with a mixture, both poignant and ridiculous,
of regret and complete understanding;
a broader perspective
gained at the cost of exile.
He never wanted to create, and I find that endearing.
I worry, though, that what the earth has been hiding
is a desire to send emissaries of his own to the moon,
to befriend him and learn from his wisdom.
But I fear that all they will learn
is the loneliness that comes
from understanding by leaving behind.
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You R espond
11 | You Respond
“And step by step you’ll lead me.”
—Rich Mullins, Step by Step
You take responsibility for everything.
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God’s Role in Evolution (2010)
The so-called creation-evolution debate is perhaps the silliest argument in
which Christians and Humanists find themselves engaged. Not that the questions
at the heart of the debate are silly, but there has been notable stupidity on both
sides. The stupidity is perhaps endemic to the Creationist side, since they’re doing
their science backwards (struggling to make the data fit their foregone conclusions),
but that hardly excuses the reciprocal stupidity on the evolutionist side. Need it
be said that stupidity rarely begets intelligence? I’m looking at you, Dawkins.
Intelligent Design folks makes some interesting compromises, first and foremost
by beginning their inquiries with testable hypotheses, but I have to wonder what
point they’re trying to make. Their initial hypothesis seems reasonable; namely
that, if an intelligent designer created the universe, then traces of said designer’s
handiwork should be detectable. But as far as I can discern, discovering such
traces does nothing to advance human knowledge either of the universe or of its
presumed designer.
The mistake on all sides is the notion that peoples’ belief in the existence of God
is somehow at stake. I hate to break it to you guys, but not only is God’s existence
no more contingent on the latest scientific discoveries than are the moons of Jupiter (which were there before the invention of the telescope, and will remain long
after the last earthbound lens melts in the heat of the expanding sun), but, as the
almighty creator of heaven and earth, he is likely unimpressed by the objections to
his existence that scientists sometimes raise. He will make manifest his presence to
those who seek him, no matter what obstacles those who deny his existence erect.
There are many who grasp this fact and wisely stay out of the argument. No such
wisdom belongs to me.
Evolutionists tell us that the world is a cold and uncaring place where selfishness is rewarded with the only measure of success the universe (apparently) affords:
Survival. And yet, through the very (very rational and mechanistic) miracle of
evolution, many creatures have become so well adapted to their particular corner
of the planet that, for all intents and purposes, they live in Paradise, with every
need provided on every hand: sunshine, rain and rich soil for plants; fruit, shade
and company for beasts.
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199
Creationists speak of a literal Paradise, long ago, wherein death was a stranger,
God an intimate friend, and all the animals ate grass and fruit. According to the
story, the two humans who lived there are responsible for messing everything up
for the rest of creation, introducing suffering, predation, death and every other
horrible thing into the world.
Essentially the two stories are mirror images of each other. Evolutionism depicts
a rise from chaos and lifelessness to order and vitality. Creationism depicts a fall
from order and unending life to chaos and death. Intriguingly, science tells us that
humanity is currently in the process of messing everything up for the rest of us,
while Christian theology tells us that that initial mistake was rectified two thousand
years ago, and the trend is now upward, toward the redemption of creation.
Is it really possible to reach out and embrace both sides simultaneously? Well,
that’s what we’re here to find out. Science assumes that the present is the key to
the past, and that if death and predation, et cetera, are around today, it’s most likely
because such things have been around for hundreds of millions of years. In other
words, Paradise, if it was reached at all, arose through thousands, maybe millions
of generations of struggle against overwhelming odds. Let’s grant this assumption,
for the moment. What do you suppose God was doing all that time? Tapping his
gigantic toes, waiting for someone to evolve who could engage him in pseudointelligent conversation? Let’s assume otherwise.
According to the Bible, Jesus said that not a sparrow falls to the ground but
the Father sees it. So God is present with the creature, loving it and enjoying its
company even as he refuses to help it.
Wait. What kind of a pissant God is that? “Thanks for being there, God,” says
the sparrow, “Thanks a million.” Or so we might imagine.
But here’s the thing: Death, if evolutionary theory has any validity, is a Good
Thing. Without death, all creatures would have to eat grass and/or fruit (renewable
resources), and they’d better not reproduce, because no matter how slow the birth
rate, given the length of eternity, overpopulation would become an insurmountable
problem eventually. Whether it dies of starvation, alone and suffering, or of organ
failure at a ripe old age, surrounded by those it loves the most, or of predation in
the company of slavering jaws, creatures (and yes, this may be nothing more than
an anthropomorphic assumption) do not like to die. But what a miserable place the
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Propositional Statements About God
world would be if nothing died! For one thing, what would the worms and vultures
have to eat? The choice, it seems to me, is between death and birth.
Now, imagine a pair of protoantelope stumbling wearily across a baked
savannah—no food, no water—accompanied by an invisible being who refuses to
intervene. Upon reaching the dry, hot sands of a barren desert, one protoantelope
stumbles forward a few more exhausted steps, and then lies down to gasp and gasp
and . . . gasp. And maybe gasp for several more minutes or even hours before he
reluctantly gives up the ghost and passes away. And who can say what the invisible
being’s reaction is? Sorrow? Celebration of a life well-lived? Let us assume that his
reaction is neither glee nor indifference.
But the other protoantelope, for whatever passes for reason in her dark and
muzzy mind, keeps walking. Perhaps she imagines there is an oasis just over the
next dune. Let’s say she makes it over the next dune, and sees for herself that there’s
no oasis there. Say she imagines there must be an oasis just over the next dune. Say
she does that three times, and is headed for a fourth, but the resources of her body
are already depleted beyond those of its former companion, who lies some ways
behind her, already dead. Say she herself is about to die on her feet. She has three
more steps to go. But suppose there really is an oasis over the next dune. Suppose
the invisible being is weeping now, for the strength of hope in this fragile creature.
Say the being glances around to make sure no one’s looking and gives her just a little
extra juice. There’s just that little bit left in the adrenal gland. He gives the gland a
supernatural squeeze. Strength unlooked for flows into the creature’s limbs, and
she makes it over the next dune, staggers to the water’s edge, and gulps and gulps
and . . . gulps until she passes out.
And the modern world has deer.
Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Perhaps instead of giving such an animal supernatural
endurance, you brought water from a rock at the last extreme. Or perhaps you
always refrain from acting, insisting that only those animals who actually make it
to the next source of water with their own limited resources can possibly survive.
This is not meant to be a testable hypothesis, but merely a non-idle speculation
on the nature of God. This is theology. It can only be “testable” by individuals, as
they make their own choices regarding whether to lie down and die or stubbornly
stumble on. And certainly it can never be proven, any more than it can be convinc-
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201
ingly disproved; to state what I should hope would be obvious, God is not subject
to the scientific method.
Again, this is a matter of faith. Perhaps God was able miraculously to make
it so that the oasis had always been there, with all of its history, and with all the
multitude of consequences intact, in a moment, simply for the sake of that one
animal. Or perhaps you carried her dying body all the way across the desert on your
shoulders, until you at last arrived at a wadi. Or perhaps you’re present (inextricably
present, as in communing with your creatures while remaining separate, and are
able somehow to work through our choices, even as our choices remain our own.
Perhaps even the “lowest” form of life has the ability to choose for or against your
leadings, and each choice either keeps it on the path of life or leads it one step
closer to its inevitable destruction.
This last possibility is exceedingly difficult to express, and touches on the deepest mysteries of our will, but we in the animal kingdom have so many choices—at
times there’s no way to make anything but a random one—and who can say what
mechanisms govern our decisions, or how a God who created clusters of galaxies
might or might not be able to interact with those mechanisms? If every living thing
has access to the Spirit’s guidance (and how, exactly, would one test this hypothesis?),
could not a paramecium bump into some food and be faced with a choice between
ingesting it, which is what its hunger tells it to do, and not ingesting it, which may
be what the Spirit tells it to do? I’m not sure that this is a fruitful line of thought,
but then, I’m not sure this will be a fruitful book, so why stop now? God’s reasons
for urging against ingestion would be unfathomable to the paramecium, but might
include such things as This food is poisonous or I’m saving this food for the amoeba
behind you or I would really like this bit of food to go on living its own life, if you don’t
mind. There’s plenty of less unique food just half a millimeter away.
Again again, I’m not positing any of this to try to pull apart reality in order to
make room for my conception of God in a profoundly godless world, but rather,
I’m pulling apart reality in my attempt to find the God who I believe is already here.
Of course my speculations are silly and likely wrong, but I have this crazy-seeming
notion that if I, like the second protoantelope, simply persevere, then God will
provide for my needs. The Bible tells me so, and my life thus far has repeated the
lesson (I survive, therefore I believe myself blessed), and it’s endlessly fascinating (to
me) to try to figure out how you’re doing it, but theology will never give me access
to the how. Science might succeed at this, if we let it, but not theology, because
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your how is woven too tightly into the fabric of reality for a theologian to be able
to yank it out without tearing apart the whole curtain. But I’m treading on slightly
less boggy ground when I ask theology to tell me why.
A quick New Testament aside: Jesus’s death is said to have resulted in the
curtain that hung in the temple being torn from top to bottom. This curtain had
served to separate the holy part of the temple (which only Jews could enter) from
the holiest of holies (which only the high priest could enter). By being even more
stubborn and hopeful and trusting than was the second protoantelope, and by placing himself in an even more impossible situation (by entering Jerusalem with full
knowledge that he would be killed by the authorities for what he was proclaiming),
God had to tear apart the fabric of reality in order to save Jesus from his ignoble
death. Because what Jesus was hoping for was more than just an oasis. What he
was thirsting for with his whole being was to see the invisible being with his living
eyes. As he died, he cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
What, did you think he was just quoting a psalm?
I have nothing to say against those who err on the side of objectivity, but there
are some scientists who seem to believe that one of their jobs is to discredit the very
notion of God. Their assumption seems to be that the notion of a creator, especially
any kind of “god of the gaps,” who steps in (at points where current scientific theories
falter) to fiddle with his creation, somehow threatens scientific progress, since such
gaps could thereby be adequately explained by some variation of “And then God
upgraded a select few of his creatures with fully-functioning eyeballs,” effectively
ending any further investigation. While it is perhaps true (and maddeningly so, I
can well imagine) that conceptions of God as creator tend to morph conveniently
around any new scientific breakthroughs that challenge the old conceptions, it has
always struck me that the true job of scientists (the ones studying such mechanisms,
anyway) is to expand on the thumbnail sketch of creation found in the first couple
chapters of Genesis. It is not God who morphs to fit our understandings, after all,
but only our understandings.
I have this fey picture in my mind of Jesus gathering all such scientists into a
heavenly conference room soon after the universe has passed away, and explaining
to them in simple, incontrovertible language how all the evidence they uncovered
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over centuries actually pointed emphatically toward a literal interpretation of the
creation accounts of Genesis, but that they lacked the sense to see it. I suspect I’m
wrong in this, and that actually the meeting will be for the hapless Creationists
who will have to sit through a lecture wherein God gently explains that he knew
all about star formation and billions of years of evolution, but that he found it
simpler, when our Bronze Age forebears were asking him about the origins of Life,
the Universe and Everything, to leave out any mention of quantum mechanics and
chromosomes and complicated mathematical formulae, and simply say, “I created
it all, and here are some of the highlights, in story form.” Or something like that.
In the meantime, I’m generally content to accept scientific observations more or
less at face value, and even many of their conclusions, and spend an inordinate
amount of time wondering, “Why?” and “Wow!”
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You Indwell
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12 | You Indwell
“I know my destination.”
—Kanye West, Streetlights
You make no distinction between yourself and anyone whose heart
is wed to yours.
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Unaware (1996)
The doorbell rang.
“We don’t have a doorbell!” screamed the woman with the flat, blonde hair.
“Yeah we do,” came a voice from living room. “Guy came by last week.”
The woman spared a moment to run a hand through her hair. “Jimmy—get
the door.”
Jimmy got up from the corner, where he had been trying to force his back
into a right angle. He explored his spine with both hands, thoughtfully, then
skipped to the door.
The smoke alarm went off and she pulled the skillet into the sink and ran
water over it.
“Amanda—run upstairs and get some eggs from Janice.”
Amanda shot into the kitchen as though she’d been awaiting her mother’s
command and pushed past an elderly man with a grizzled beard and a parka that
might once have been blue.
The woman looked at him for barely an instant, then turned to the fridge.
“Jimmy—wash your hands.”
There was no butter in the fridge.
“Amanda! Shit.”
The tip of a finger tapped her shoulder twice and she whirled around. The
man’s teeth were yellow. He was offering her a stick of margarine, pulled, apparently, from one of his many pockets.
She glanced quickly around the room and grabbed the margarine, dumping
it on a plate.
“Kristina—set another place at the table.” Within moments she heard a dish
break. There was a moment of silence, everyone’s senses tuned to the living room.
“My name is Garth, milady,” said the grizzled man.
“Pass the motherfucker!” yelled the voice from the living room.
Kristina came in for a broom.
“I was doing a crossword puzzle on a merry-go-round,” Garth said, “in the
drizzle. I was sitting in my special jalopy, the sparkly purple one with the pole
coming up where the stick-shift should be. So I know how you feel.”
The woman smiled and gave him a peck on his pungent cheek.
“Dinner will be ready in a minute, Mister Garth.”
You Indwell
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209
You Indwell
Revisioning Our
Past
“I reject your reality and substitute my own.”
—Adam Savage, of Mythbusters
You
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The Fall
13 | The Fall
“You can’t hide behind social graces.”
—Ani DiFranco, As Is
You never intended to spend thousands of years redeeming humankind. If anyone had asked you, when you were walking with Adam and
Eve in the Garden of Eden, what you most would like to change about
them, you would have answered, “Absolutely nothing.” Some people claim
that Adam and Eve were never real. As far as God is concerned, he and
she are us.
According to the Hebrew scriptures, something happened in that
garden, however many millennia ago, that required you to choose between
our death and our redemption. In typical, Godlike fashion, you managed
to choose both.
According to Christian tradition, the death and redemption were
accomplished by your son, Jesus (an anglicanization of a latinized hellenization of the Hebrew
(Yĕhōšuă‘, Joshua) or Hebrew-Aramaic
(Yēšûă‘)) two millennia before this book was written.
There has been plenty of debate over how best to draw a line between
the Garden of Eden and the Garden of Gethsemane, between the fruit on
the tree that no one was supposed to eat and the man on the cross whose
flesh and blood everyone is invited to eat. The line I’m about to draw is
heretical at both ends, as befits the ramblings of an anarchist, but it’s the
part in the middle that took me by surprise.
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Adam
Adam naturally believed that you had formed him specially out of dust,
since he had no conscious memory of his parents, gave little thought to the
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The Fall
laugh and play. Here was poetry and a cure for loneliness. Who she was,
and where she really came from, who can say? God brought them together
because they needed each other. And, strange to say, God needed them.
significance of his navel, and would remember, much later, that you had
But we’ll get to that later.
once told him that he came from dust and that to dust one day he would
One of the first things Adam told the woman was how important it
return, but in reality he was a foundling child.
Perhaps his parents died, or perhaps they abandoned him, or perhaps
he wandered away from his family and got lost. In any event, he felt lonely
was that they not eat the fruit from that one tree. To impress upon her the
importance of this injunction, he added that even to touch its bark would
bring instant death.
and abandoned, and in the absence of anyone else to raise him, you (or a
For all we know, God’s command was only meant for Adam the child,
duly appointed representative) took it upon yourself. You led him (or car-
lest he devour every fruit from the tree every year, but now that he was an
ried him, depending on his age) to a little niche that was protected from
adult, perhaps the species’ population was well-established. Perhaps you
the elements, was free of predators, and had nearly an endless supply of
were simply waiting for them to ask before revealing to them that they were
easily accessible fruit. It was a special place, where grew trees that could
now allowed to eat of its wonderful fruit. Or maybe not.
1
be found nowhere else. One tree in particular was the last of its kind, and
Regardless, the man never thought to ask such a thing, and one day,
it was a bit of a risk to let a human being loose within sight of it, but you
as they were passing by it, the woman noticed a snake slithering among
sternly enjoined Adam not to eat of that tree, lest he die. Being but a child,
its branches. She watched intently as they strolled past, and could hardly
Adam understandably developed a superstitious dread of this tree that was
help but notice that the snake showed no sign of dying.
perhaps more extreme than was strictly warranted, but it was an important
tree, and not for children to eat from willy-nilly.
Adam had a peculiar rapport with animals, and a talent for taming
them. He tamed canines and felines, birds and reptiles, rodents and spiders,
but none of them brought an end to his loneliness.
Then one day he woke up to find a human being staring down at him,
and his heart leaped.
Now, the word serpent can signify anything from a worm to a dragon,
so it may be that what she saw was a worm poking its head out of the side of
a fruit, or perhaps it was a dragon who audibly spoke to her, but I’m going
to assume (for the moment at least) a normal, garden-variety snake.
The snake’s immunity to the deadly tree made Eve question the
command passed down to her from God through Adam. Whatever her
suspicions may have been, she took the risk of following her intuition that
Silly to think God had created her special from Adam’s side, but what
the tree was not as deadly as the man had led her to believe. She reached
other explanation did he have at his disposal? Here at last was someone
out her hand to one of its fruit, plucked it and took a bite. Oh, I bet it was
who could talk back. Here was someone with whom he could explore and
good. In an instant she went from wanting to berate the man for his childishness to wanting to share this amazing fruit with him.
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The Fall
215
Adam, understandably, stood aghast. He naturally assumed that
revelation came from the fruit, but, really, it came from the same place as a
his beloved companion had just taken a big, toothsome bite of her own
dog’s shame when humans return to find garbage scattered on the kitchen
death.
floor: The woman and the man were suddenly convinced that God would
But let’s be honest. Let me be honest. Speculation only gets us so far.
be royally pissed.
God sees the heart—we can only guess. Maybe Adam saw Eve’s disobe-
They also realized, suddenly, that they were naked. I don’t think this
dience as a dare, as if she would think him a coward for refusing to eat
was because of a precipitous attack of prurience. Rather I suspect this was
what was obviously a harmless (and delicious) piece of fruit. Or maybe he
an intuitive realization that “die” in this case, might not refer to themselves
felt threatened by the thought that she would gain some knowledgeable
individually, but to their offspring. I have this unfounded belief that spiri-
advantage over him. Or maybe . . .
tual beings, such as God and, most likely, the serpent, are able to see more
Maybe he assumed that God would now take her away from him, either
than an individual, but can somehow “see” an individual’s mother (and
by death or banishment, and that he would be given another, more tractable
maybe father) and grandmother and great-grandmother, etc. and possibly
wife. And maybe he didn’t want another wife. Maybe he thought that by
a generation or two of offspring.
sharing her disobedience, he would share her fate, and at least they could
Now, the serpent may have been the larva of a codling moth, it may
stay together. Tell me, is that the sweetest or the stupidest idea you’ve ever
have been a simple, mute garden snake, or it may have been a dragon, the
heard? You might argue that his motivation doesn’t matter, that the only
ancestor of Satan, or Satan himself. The Hebrew word for Satan is
thing that matters is that he disobeyed. I would argue that his motivation,
(ha-Satan), which means “the accuser.” He is not necessarily evil. God,
hidden as it is from us, is the only thing that really matters.
being all love, is sometimes blind to the flaws in his creation, and he needs
In the same way that I don’t believe Adam and Eve were specially
an accuser to help him see clearly. The English word dragon comes from
created, I don’t believe there was anything particularly magical about the
Greek δράκων (drákōn), “dragon, serpent of huge size, water-snake”, which
fruit. Why, then, were “the eyes of both . . . opened”?
possibly comes from the verb δρακεῖν (drakeîn) “to see clearly.”
Let me ask you this: Have you ever done something wrong, something
So, the serpent was just doing its job, and I suspect the first thing it
you kinda sorta knew was wrong before you did it, but you just went ahead
did upon seeing them eat the forbidden fruit was to leer at their genita-
and did it anyway, without giving yourself a chance to think through the
lia, looking for some sign that their line had been destroyed. Correctly
consequences, and then, as soon as you’d done it, the enormity of the
divining the reason for the serpent’s leer, their first instinct was to hide
consequences hit you like a fastball to the forehead? I’m guessing that you
their reproductive organs. When they actually heard God coming, they
have, and that you’re familiar with the sensation, but the man and the
attempted to hide themselves.
woman were not. This had been their only prohibition, the one thing they
were not allowed to do. Perhaps it’s only natural that they assumed the
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I imagine them hiding behind slender trees, like children hiding behind
the couch with their feet sticking out.
The Fall
217
my foolishness, ate also,” and the woman could have said, “I listened to the
voice of the serpent instead of trusting the voice of my husband, who was
You said, “Where are you?”
speaking the very words of God for my benefit, and I ate, and furthermore,
At first you were thinking, Have they invented a new game? But the man
gave the fruit to the man.”
said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I
On the other hand, there is one more thing that the woman truth-
was naked; and I hid myself.”
fully could have said but did not. She could have said, “The man lied to me,
Uh-oh, thought God.
combining a truth and a falsehood, so that I was defenseless against the
“Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree of
half-truths of the serpent.” In refraining from blaming the man, and from
which I commanded you not to eat?”
blaming God, the woman did not “fall” in the same way that the man did.
Your heart must have sunk at Adam’s reply: “The woman whom you
Where the man was being crafty, deflecting the blame from himself, the
gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate.” The smug
woman was expressing rage. She could see now that God and the man had
smile on the serpent’s face didn’t help matters, but though “the serpent
been right to prohibit eating from the tree, so all of her anger was focused
was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made,”
on the serpent, who had given her the idea to disobey.
Adam was craftier still. It pierced God’s heart to see how quickly the man
I imagine there were tears streaming down God’s face as you turned at
took on the accusational qualities of the serpent. He was basically saying,
last to the serpent, who was trying, I imagine, to don a seriouser demeanor,
Since you gave me the woman, you also, by extension, gave me the fruit that she
but you had no further questions. You acknowledged the justice of what
handed me. If it isn’t your fault, then it must be the woman’s.
the serpent had done: The creature had put the man and the woman to
You take responsibility for everything, and you wanted Adam to do
likewise, but he chose the serpent’s way instead. Rather than faulting his
logic, you turned to the woman. “What is this that you have done?”
the test, and they had fallen short. All that remained was to pronounce
their doom.
To the serpent you said, “Because you have done this, cursed are you
She, too, had the opportunity to take on the character of God, to take
among all animals and among all wild creatures; upon your belly you
responsibility for her actions, but she chose instead to follow the man’s lead,
shall go, and dust you shall eat all the days of your life. I will put enmity
and say, “The serpent tricked me, and I ate.”
between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will
Both of them were telling the truth, but they were speaking in the
strike your head, and you will strike his heel.” Whatever remained of the
language of the serpent, who has a forked tongue, allowing it to say two
serpent’s smile was vanished now. This was not what it had expected. It
things at once. Had they been speaking in the language of God, the man
had rather expected praise for revealing the flaw in human nature, so that
would have said, “I lied to the woman, telling her that even to touch the
their offspring could be cut off before it was too late, but you see the heart.
tree would mean death. She saw through the lie, and she ate, and then I, in
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219
You saw that the serpent had acted maliciously, delighting in the downfall
to no one but himself. Thus he adored and despised her all in an instant,
of your favorite creatures.
and that, I dare say, has been the fate of most every relationship since.
God’s doom held two surprises for the serpent: the first was its humili-
But, fortunately for everyone, God is the craftiest of them all. You
ation. If it was, indeed, a dragon, its offspring would be stripped of wings
were in a difficult position, for to let the human couple live and reproduce
and legs, and forced to crawl on its belly. The second was that the woman’s
was to curse the very earth with the blight that they would become. And
offspring would be unaffected. Her line would continue, which meant that
yet, Adam’s motives gave you an idea for how to save them—a risky idea,
the serpent had just made a formidable enemy.
fraught with pain and peril, but one that would give them, and the earth
To the woman you said, “I will greatly increase your pangs in child-
upon which they stood, a fighting chance at redemption.
bearing; in pain you shall bring forth children, yet your desire shall be
You said to the man, “Because you have listened to the voice of your
for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” This was not a curse, but
wife, and have eaten of the tree about which I commanded you, ‘You shall
a consequence. God takes responsibility for everything, and so you took
not eat of it,’ cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of
responsibility for the woman’s increased pain, just as you took responsibility
it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you;
for the animosity between the woman’s offspring and the serpent’s, even
and you shall eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your face you shall
though you were the direct cause of neither. Childbirth is painful, but fear
eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you
and anxiety (so I’m told) make it all the worse. God saw that the woman’s
are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
heart was toward the man, and would remain so. Since the man was (and
remains) insufficient to provide for her, her fear and anxiety would only
increase.
This particular man and this particular woman had been chosen,
because of your love of them, to be the custodians of the world, to reign
The doom you needed to pronounce upon the man was the most heart-
over creation in the same way that you reign. You wanted to partner with
wrenching of all, for in him was revealed the deepest flaw. The blaming of
them, that they would share your responsibilities, much as Satan and the
others for one’s own shortcomings remains to this very day the greatest
other angels did, everyone working together to care for the world and its
scourge upon the face of the earth. The most egregious expression of that
inhabitants.
fault-finding is when it is directed at God. Though you take responsibility
But Adam and Eve didn’t want to take responsibility—not even for
for everything, you deserve blame for nothing. The company of the woman
their own actions—and, as a result, not only they but God’s favorite garden
was your greatest gift to the man. The man’s desire to share her fate (if such
would be destroyed by the coming flood. The fruit had nothing to do with
was indeed his motivation) is the highest expression of nobility, but it was
it. Not even the disobedience was pertinent. The world was ruined simply
followed immediately by his blaming her for a disobedience that belonged
because Adam wouldn’t take responsibility for himself.
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221
The final curse was expulsion from the Garden, but that much hap-
stitched the skins together, the human couple watched, learning how it
pened the moment they stopped trusting you, the moment they stopped
was done. Rather than grieving along with you, Adam was trying to patch
believing you to be good. Since they no longer trusted you to provide, they
things up with his wife, calling her Eve, which means “living.” Genesis says
would have to find some way to trust in themselves. They would need to
“the mother of all living.” I imagine he was saying, “Well, it turned out all
raise crops and store up food instead of eating what was available on any
right in the end; I guess we do get to keep on living.” Eve, I imagine, was
given day. And they would no longer have any time to walk with you.
weeping with God at the fate of the sheep.
As for their nudity—It had been their glory, symbolizing their vulnerability and, thus, their complete dependence on God. Alas, the world was
The rest of Genesis (indeed, the rest of the Hebrew scriptures) is the
now against them, and fig leaves were not going to cut it. You knew that
story of God’s quest for a few good men. Your focus was on men because
they would start to follow the practices of other humans and kill animals
men are the problem. This isn’t to say that women are pure beings who
to cover their nakedness, still hoping to hide their reproductive abilities
never sin, for we are all children of Adam as well as of Eve, but mother-
from a hostile world. You took responsibility even for this, to the point
hood was not irreparably damaged by the Fall, whereas fatherhood was
that you were willing to make their first garments yourself.
totaled. Indeed, the reason you identify yourself as Father is in order to
In writing this chapter, I spent an inordinate amount of time won-
show men how it’s done.
dering what kind of animals provided their skins. Woolly mammoth?
As for Adam and Eve, aside from a few acts of procreation, they
Unicorns? Saber-toothed cats? All of these animals are extinct, possibly
are never mentioned in Genesis again. Having proven unwilling to take
due to human activity, either through overhunting or destruction of habitat.
responsibility for themselves, it’s a safe bet they spent little time taking
Perhaps, if either the man or the woman had proven themselves responsible,
responsibility for their children.
and accepted their job as custodians, any or all of these species would still
be with us today.
Cain & Abel
But no, it makes the most sense to me that the animals God sacrificed
Now, Cain was a farmer; his younger brother Abel a shepherd. While
to make their clothes were sheep. I don’t know what it is with God and
Cain was working hard, tilling the soil, doing his duty, even (may it be
sheep, but it appears that they exemplify some quality that God highly
said) taking responsibility, Abel was ignoring his father’s curse and gad-
prizes. Perhaps it’s their vulnerability, or their stupidity, or some other
ding about with a flock of sheep. It’s no wonder Cain was angry when God
trait that they share with human beings.
had regard for Abel’s offering of the fat portions of one of his flock but no
I assume that you were crying as you beckoned the sheep and watched
regard for his own offering of the first fruits of his field.
them trustingly present themselves to your blade. While you slit their
It may well be that Abel was eating bread from Cain’s wheat. It may
throats, gutted and skinned them, stretched and dried their skins, and
well be that Cain’s garden was feeding the entire family. Yet, whenever
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223
Abel sacrificed one of his precious sheep for a feast, their parents were
This curse, just like those pronounced upon the serpent, and upon the
jubilant, all the while eating Cain’s bread daily with nothing more than a
ground because of Adam, was merely an unavoidable consequence. God
grunt and a nod.
was revealing what Cain would discover for himself soon enough: that
To have God react the same way was simply too much. Cain’s jaw
he would no longer be able to till the ground without seeing his brother’s
dropped, and he held out his arms in the universal gesture that means,
blood spilling upon it. He would be a fugitive and a wanderer because he
“You have got to be kidding me!”
would no longer be able to look his mother and father in the face. You
You saw his reaction, and said to him, “Why are you angry, and why has
your countenance fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you
pronounced it as a curse because, as I keep saying, you take responsibility
for everything.
do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must
Cain did not yet understand this. He said, “My punishment is greater
master it.” Your disregard for Cain’s offering was not a rejection of him.
than I can bear! Today you have driven me away from the soil, and I shall
You loved Cain, and had compassion for him, and furthermore, intended
be hidden from your face; I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth,
to bless him with a family and long life. You had regard for Abel’s offering,
and anyone who meets me may kill me.”
not because you were playing favorites, but because you saw in Abel the
more likely ancestor of the redeemer for whom you were seeking.
As grief-stricken as you were at the death of Abel, and all those whom
Abel might have sired, your compassion was for Cain, for the life that he
Alas, Cain’s wrath was not to be turned away by a simple pep talk. He
would now have to live, bereft, not only of his brother, but of everything
invited Abel out to a field, rose up against him and killed him. Now God
he had ever known. You acknowledged the truth of his words and replied,
and his parents would have no choice but to have regard for Cain.
When you returned, you saw the look on his face and asked, “Where
is your brother Abel?”
He said, “I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?”
No, he was not, and he thereby confirmed that he was no better than
his father.
God said, “What have you done? Listen; your brother’s blood is crying
out to me from the ground! And now you are cursed from the ground,
“Not so! Whoever kills Cain will suffer a sevenfold vengeance.” Whatever mark you placed upon his head to serve as a warning to others, you
inscribed it with great care. Perhaps you seared it into his forehead with
your own burning tears.
As for Abel, I don’t want to move on without mentioning that he did
exactly the right thing when his brother rose up against him: He died. For
this reason alone, he would have been a worthy ancestor of the coming
redeemer.
which has opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your
hand. When you till the ground, it will no longer yield to you its strength;
you will be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth.”
The long winter of the previous ice age was over, and an epic spring
had just begun, but the meltwaters were going to destroy God’s garden.
Your plan for dealing with the inevitable flood had been to place a couple
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of human beings in the garden and, over the course of generations, hun-
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Enoch
dreds of years, you would lead them and their descendants in the building
At last, Enoch, son of Jared, son of Mahalalel, son of Kenan, son of
of a dike, a sea wall that would divert the flood to either side, along the
Enosh, son of Seth the third son of Adam, took heed and listened to the
Euphrates to the west, along the Tigris on the east. It would have been
voice of God. He walked with you as Adam and Eve had walked with you.
the first arboretum and wildlife preserve, where anyone who wanted could
Together you and he talked for hours, and days, and years, and decades,
come and be saved.
about everything under the sun, but particularly working together to
2
My God, it would have been fun! All the preparation, all the sideways
come up with a solution to the problem of the imminent flood. It was too
glances from those who would assume that the clan of Adam and Eve were
late, now, to build a walled garden. It was too late to save the majority of
touched. “Why are you building the walls so high?” they would have asked.
people and animals, but, between the two of you, a plan was taking shape
“Are you expecting to be attacked by giants?” How they would have shaken
their heads at talk of a coming deluge.
that could save a few, if any would listen.
By now the ground was so saturated with blood from the violent evil of
And then their looks of wonder and terror as they saw the flood waters
the majority of people that the earth itself was crying out to you in agony.
rising, and rushed to be let into Eden, where the gates would be wide and
By now an unabated flood would be a blessing, washing the earth clean of
welcoming, and the story of Adam and Eve’s hospitality would be told for
its curse, whose name was humanity.
hundreds of thousands of years.
Now Enoch loved his grandson Lamech more than anyone else on the
Alas, Adam and Eve had proven themselves unfit for the job, as had
face of the earth. He begged you to hold back the flood until his grandson
Cain and, oh, my dear Abel! But there was still time. Centuries, in fact. Eden
and his grandson’s father, Enoch’s son Methuselah, could die natural
was ideally situated, but there were other places, other solutions, other
deaths. You agreed, and then led him to a distant land, where he could
opportunities. All you needed were a few good people who would listen
learn how ships are made, so that, when the time came, you could give
to your voice, believe what you were telling them, and take responsibility
specific instructions to his great grandson. Whether that as-yet unborn
for the project.
person would act upon those plans remained to be seen, but Enoch was
Centuries passed, generation after generation of no one willing to listen.
never seen by his people again.
Many cried, “Lord, Lord!” but no one gave heed to your voice. Surrounded
by adoring angels, and a host of humans crying out your name, you felt
lonely and abandoned.
But you would not give up hope.
<Skip footnotes>
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1
I was in a lovely garden,
upon a lovely tree,
when I heard two creatures talking;
they were talking about me.
With a thrill of understanding
that moved me to my core,
I heard them sing my praises,
praises that endure.
The human man was silent,
but the serpent had its say.
The human woman listened,
listened and obeyed.
She clasped me round the middle—
I knew I should hold tight—
but her hand was firm, though gentle,
too gentle, then, to fight.
Her sharp incisors bit me
as supple lips caressed;
my flesh was torn asunder,
and sundered was my breast.
My wounds were not yet fatal,
but she passed me to her mate,
whose rougher hand accepted me;
he accepted me and ate.
Until that very moment,
I had been my children’s hope;
the grandmother of multitudes—
for which multitudes would grope.
R evisioning Our Past
The Fall
It had been my simple duty
to grasp my sturdy twig
until I fully ripened,
ripened and grew big.
In time I would have fallen
and rolled some distance thither
my single seed to nourish,
to nourish, and not wither.
Alas for my own weakness!
My tree has been unnamed!
If yet it lives, it lives alone—
lonely,
fruitless
and ashamed.
<Return to main text>
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Chapter One (2007)
2
Imagine an ancient shepherd, lying on his back in the middle of the night,
gazing up at the stars, wondering from whence it all came. The stars, the grass,
the sheep, the rocks, himself in the midst of them—how and why did it all come
into being? His grandson has been asking such questions, but how can he possibly answer? Did some god make it all out of navel lint? Are the stars themselves
gods? Or are they simply pinpricks in the sky through which some greater glory
from beyond the heavens dimly sparkles?
For some reason the question has been building up urgency in his mind, and
this night he cries out as loud as he can, “What are you, and why are you here?”
The silence that follows seems stern, punctuated only by the restive grunting of
his sheep, but God, hearing his cry, is pondering how best to answer him. The
man has no knowledge of either astro- or quantum physics. He doesn’t even
have a word to describe a length of time longer than a few generations of his
family. Evolutionary biology? The man barely understands how his sheep were
domesticated. The periodic table of elements would mean about as much to him
as a review of Blade Runner. All the man knows is what he can see and hear, and
yet, you have been longing for someone with whom to converse, so you decide to
risk a little show and tell.
“In the beginning,” you say, in as soft a voice as you can muster, “when I created
the heavens and the earth . . .”
As if in a dream, the shepherd is standing in nowhere. All is utterly dark, but
a salty wind tousles his hair and whistles in his ears. Your voice continues, a calm
and reassuring presence.
“. . . the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep,
while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.”
And so, for awhile, there is nothing but wind and presence, until it begins to
seem as though the world has always been this way, and always will be, but, just
as he begins to fall asleep, the voice speaks again.
“Let there be light.”
And there is light. It’s faint, at first, but slowly it grows in intensity, until his
eyes begin to hurt, but the light illumines nothing. It’s as if he’s standing in sundrenched mist.
“Night,” says the voice, “and day.”
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The shepherd blinks, and suddenly he is back on the hillside, his sheep beginning to wake up as the sky pales on the eastern horizon.
He spends the day in an unusually pensive mood, even for him. The sheep
have plenty of grass, the predators in the area have enough food to allow them
the luxury of avoiding shepherds. What else is he going to do but think on the
dreams of the night? If dream it was. If vision, it was simple enough. Nothing
revelatory. Except for the existence of the voice, of course. Still, it may have been
nothing but a dream. Night and day: they exist because the voice called them into
being. It’s more than he knew the day before.
In the evening, the shepherd returns his sheep to the same nook in the hillside
where they had rested the night before, hoping for another visitation.
As soon as the western horizon grows dark, he finds himself once more in the
mist, and the voice speaks again.
“Let there be a dome in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters
from the waters.”
Immediately, the mist begins to lift. It becomes cloud cover, and the shepherd
finds himself standing unsupported upon rolling waves.
“Sky,” says the voice.
For the rest of the night (though it is day in the vision), the shepherd gazes at
clouds and water, his spirit quickening with the hope that more will be revealed.
But in time, he finds himself once more on the hillside with dawn approaching.
He spends the day composing the story he will tell his grandson about what he
has seen. He’s beginning to believe that the visions will continue, and the phrase
that comes to mind is, “And there was evening, and there was morning, the second
day.” He imagines the eyes of his grandson sparkling as the secrets of the world’s
beginning are finally revealed.
The day is long, but at last the sheep are gathered together on the side of the hill,
grazing contentedly. The shepherd leans against a tree and waits for the sun to set.
To his delight, he finds himself once more astride endless swells of water. The
voice wastes no time in speaking.
“Let the waters under the sky be gathered together into one place, and let the
dry land appear.”
The swell that rises beneath the shepherd is more massive than any previous
surge, and, when it subsides, he is standing upon bare rock.
“Earth,” says the voice.
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The water recedes some distance, then starts to return, only to crash upon
the rock and recede again.
“Seas,” says the voice.
He assumes there will be nothing more created this third day, and resigns
himself to another long night’s watch, but the voice speaks again.
“Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed, and fruit trees of every
kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.”
The shepherd has never seen a time-lapse movie, so he doesn’t quite grasp the
fact that he’s seeing the world at hyperspeed, green and gray erupting over bare
rock, advancing and retreating like the waves, eating away at stone until grasses
and ferns appear, whipping about as if in a gale, growing and dying almost too
quickly to see. Slowly the flora rises until it blocks his view of the sea. Trees tower
above him, hung with moss and vines. Then a flash, as of lightning, consumes it all
in an instant, and he finds himself atop a bluff overlooking a vast ocean, heather
and wildflowers waving and nodding among blackened stumps.
The transition back to the knoll and his sheep startles him, and he shakes
his head. Only one coherent thought is able to form in his mind: “And there was
evening and there was morning, the third day.”
The shepherd awaits the approach of the next evening with something like
dread. His mind is whirling with the swirling images of the night before, and he
is exhausted from lack of sleep.
When night falls, he finds himself on the same bluff. Nothing seems to have
changed. There is wind, and heather, and heavy silence.
From deep within the silence, the voice says, “Let there be lights in the dome
of the sky to separate the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for
seasons and for days and years, and let them be lights in the dome of the sky to
give light upon the earth.”
For the first time since the visions began, the sky begins to clear. The blue
above him is startling, pierced by the familiar evening star. To his left, the sun
is setting in yellow and red. To his right, the full moon is rising, pendant and
orange. Slowly, the blue deepens to purple, as one by one more stars appear, the
familiar constellations stretched and distorted, but, for the most, part still intact.
For hours he stares at the inscrutable sky, as the moon rises to its zenith.
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Suddenly, the sky brightens, half the moon is gone, and he’s back on the hillside
with his sheep. Strangely, he feels rested and serene. The day passes slowly, full
of thoughts he will never be able to put into words.
As the fifth evening approaches, he lays himself down a little apart from his
sheep, fingers laced behind his head to look up at the panoplied heavens.
In the blink of an eye, he’s on a wide beach, the bluff rising behind him. The
voice says, “Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly
above the earth across the dome of the sky.” The sun sinks too quickly upon his
left, then rises upon his right in an instant, only to sink again, and rise, and sink,
until it is a streak across the face of the firmament that wanders toward the south,
and then returns, ebbing and flowing like the waves of the sea, only to become a
wide yellow stripe against a dim and star-streaked sky.
Around him the world thrums and throbs. He seems to be standing on an
obsidian plain, as the bluff he had stood upon the night before recedes into the
distance. For a time there is an eerie peace. Looking into the sky behind him he
can see concentric circles, like those of a clay bowl. The striped dome is the only
thing that maintains a motion of its own, as it wobbles ponderously, making him
dizzy. He squeezes shut his eyes and waits, until a gentle breeze tugs at his beard
and raucous cries assail his ears. When he opens his eyes, the sun has come to
rest in a midmorning sky, and he is once again standing upon waves. The air is
full of wheeling birds of a kind he has never seen. Some of them have teeth, and
all of them are screaming and cawing.
Suddenly, one dives towards him. He throws his arms over his head and
cowers, but a splash at his feet tells him he was not the bird’s target. He glances
up to see orange tail feathers rising, a long fish dangling from talons. Looking
down at the clear water, he sees all manner of fish, of all sizes and shapes. Further
down, a menacing shadow—some enormous, elongated beast with a neck like a
serpent undulates. A sudden urge to draw his feet up out of the water reveals a
fact he hasn’t noticed in previous visions: His feet are planted as though invisible
hands are clamped around his ankles. He is pulled back from the edge of panic by
another pronouncement from the invisible voice: “Be fruitful and multiply and fill
the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth.” The voice is strong and
calm, the kind of voice he uses to quiet his sheep when an eagle circles overhead.
He breathes deep and exhales through his mouth. At length the shadow passes,
the fish subside, and the birds scatter on the wind.
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He is relieved to be returned to his sheep, who are eager to move on to greener
pastures.
He stumbles through the day, unable to shake his exhaustion. His sheep jostle
around him, sensing his agitation and wanting to stay close. By late afternoon he
is miles away, and he no longer has the strength to stand. He lies down beside a
stream that issues from a narrow gorge cut into the foothills of the mountains.
When he awakes his sheep are gone. His first instinct is to run downstream
in search of them, but his feet won’t move. He is in the vision again, but at first
the world seems unchanged. He’s standing beside the same stream, in the same
foothills, but the gorge—the gorge is much higher than it was when he fell asleep.
A thin waterfall leaps from a crack in a high cliff and falls into a tiny pool.
The familiar voice says: “Let the earth bring forth living creatures of every
kind: cattle and creeping things and wild animals of the earth of every kind.” The
shepherd looks around, but sees nothing but trees swaying gently in the wind.
Presently a fox, or something nearly like a fox, walks to the stream and drinks.
It’s too big for a fox, and its coat is too dark, and yet the snout and ears and eyes
are unmistakably foxy. When it lifts its head, the shepherd follows its gaze. More
animals are stepping from the trees. A herd of tiny deer, or perhaps gazelles, are
cautiously approaching. Before the sun sets, the banks of the stream are crowded
on both sides with a multitude of creatures, coming and going, including a pride of
great cats, a lone bear of enormous proportions, and crowds of kine, wild ass and
jackals, along with innumerable smaller beasts darting amongst the hooves and
paws of larger animals. The shepherd recognizes none of the specific breeds, but
every type of animal he knows is there, save one—the kind he loves most dearly.
As darkness deepens the animals disperse. A gibbous moon tinges the muddied stream with silver. The voice speaks again: “Let us make humankind in our
image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the
sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals
of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.”
The shepherd hears a whistle and turns. Up the river walks a tall woman
draped in skins, bearing a staff. Behind her jostle a herd of sturdy sheep kept in
tight formation by a circling dog. They pass close by him as if he isn’t there. Well
behind the sheep are a band of people, all appareled in crudely stitched skins.
There are perhaps fifty, of all ages. In the midst of them is an elderly man, bent of
back but clear of eye. Upon his head he wears the skull of a bear, adorned with
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long feathers, as of an owl. As he draws even with the vision-locked shepherd, he
pauses. With a grunt he reaches out a hand toward the shepherd’s chest, then
raises his arms and shouts.
The others gather around him, and he points at the shepherd’s feet. He speaks
a tongue the shepherd doesn’t understand, but presently a couple of young boys
draw near, bearing a large rock between them, still dripping with river water. The
old man directs them where to drop it, and soon more children approach, with
more rocks, until the shepherd is enclosed within a miniature wall. Younger
children bring sticks and brush, and pile them within the circle. The shepherd
doesn’t feel the branches that crisscross his shins, but when the old man kneels
before him and strikes a spark from flint into the midst of the fuel, he feels a thrill
travel up his spine. As the flames increase, he feels their warmth, but he does not
find it uncomfortable.
The voice says, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and
have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every
living thing that moves upon the earth.”
From his vantage point within the fire, the shepherd observes the people set
up a crude camp. Only one tent is erected, into which the mothers with infants
retire, along with a handful of other women. No cooking utensils are brought
forth, but only baskets of woven reeds.
The voice says, “See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon
the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them
for food. And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to
everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have
given every green plant for food.”
The people gather around the fiery shepherd; the baskets are opened, and
their contents disbursed. Figs, pomegranates, apples and dates are passed from
hand to hand and eaten. When all have had their fill, the baskets are closed and
set aside.
The old man stands and sings a guttural song, gesturing and hopping from
foot to foot. The shepherd cannot see his face or understand the words, but the
song tugs at the longings in his heart, and when the old man unexpectedly leaps,
landing in a crouch with both hands raised in claws, the shepherd is as startled as
everyone else. A small child of four or five summers starts to cry, but the old man
tiptoes up and touches the child on the nose. The crying does not stop immediately,
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but as the old man stays crouched, with his hand outstretched, the crying slows,
and the child takes his hand. Together they walk back toward the fire and the
old man continues his song, using the child as a prop, lifting and spinning until
the child is giggling, and all the people are roaring with laughter.
When the story is done, the people disperse, only to lie down together in
unruly bunches not far from the fire. The old man alone remains awake, sitting
cross-legged by the fire, rocking back and forth with his eyes closed and humming
occasionally. His crown of skull and feathers set aside, his bald pate glows in the
firelight. For a long time the shepherd can only stare in fascination, wondering
what the old man sees. At length, the shepherd woman approaches, sits down
beside the old man and slides one arm under his. Still humming and rocking, the
old man puts his hand on hers.
Abruptly, the rocking stops, and the old man sags against his companion,
laying his head upon her shoulder. She reaches across to smooth the sparse hair
from his brow. Then she speaks, and although the shepherd cannot understand
the details, he comprehends the subject matter. She speaks of her sheep, the ones
who are limping, the ones who are pregnant, the ones who are in conflict with
another. When she is finished, the old man responds in kind, giving her the news
of the people, then singing snatches of his song for her, softly, so as not to wake
the others. He charades the child, the crying, the lifting and the laughter, until
they are both laughing, struggling to keep their voices down, leaning into each
other as they convulse with mirth.
The shepherd awakes in darkness, surrounded by his sheep, and pierced by a
deep pang at the thought that he will never again see the old man and the other
shepherd. He is as exhausted as he was when he lay down, but yet he struggles to
his feet and lifts his hands to the sky, and tries to remember the old man’s song.
When the sun rises he will take his flock back to the tents of his people. He
will give his sheep into the care of his son, and he will sleep for a day and a night.
And then he will call his grandson to him, and tell him all the story of how God
brought the world into being. The refrain he has already come up with will serve
well to end the story:
“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And
there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.”
<Return to main text>
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14 | The Winter
“There’ll be no more after me.”
—The Mountain Goats, Deuteronomy 2:10
Noah
Everyone knows the story: Noah built an ark, gathered two of every
kind, survived the flood, saw a rainbow, and lived happily ever after.
Right?
After they disembarked, God blessed them as if it was Chapter One
all over again, telling them to be fruitful and multiply, and Noah, as always,
did as he was told: He got drunk on grape wine and had a roll in the hay
with his wife.
His wife, strangely, is never named, and after getting on the ark in the
first place is never mentioned again, except obliquely. The story says that
“He drank some of the wine and became drunk, and he lay uncovered in
his tent. And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father.”
According to Leviticus 18:7, “You shall not uncover the nakedness of your
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father, which is the nakedness of your mother.” Therefore I assume that
blessings and this curse compare to the consequences you pronounced in
what Ham saw was both of his parents lying naked in their tent.
Eden. Unless . . .
It’s an odd bit of story, and I’m surely missing important aspects of it,
Unless the consequences came, not as a result of the actions of his
but Ham went and told his brothers what he saw, and here is one of many
sons, but as a simple result of Noah’s pronouncements. Yes, parents have
places in the Bible that I feel would benefit from a little more novelistic
such power. Shame on Ham and glory to Shem and Japheth, passed down
detail. I mean, supposedly all three brothers are married at this point,
father to son from generation to generation.
and yet I picture Ham as a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy, eyes wide and
Hmmm.
mouth covered as though he’s just seen his first porno mag (remember
they didn’t have internet back then), and he invites his brothers to come
Babel
see for themselves. His brothers respond by walking a garment backwards
After the flood, people started building cities. They learned how to
into the tent and covering the nakedness of their parents without looking
rely on money to provide for their basic needs, and they probably invented
upon them.
parking meters. With the curse on the ground lifted, agriculture took
When Noah awakes from his stupor, he’s some upset, and he has
off, and cities could be fed without the need for individual inhabitants to
words for his sons. Ham he curses to be the slave of his brothers. Japheth
contribute any sweat from their own brows. This gave them leisure to turn
he blesses that God would make room for him amongst his big brother
their minds to other things. In a city called Babel they decided to build a
Shem’s tents. Shem he just outright blesses to high heaven.
tower to the heavens.
It seems significant that Noah has taken on a characteristic of God,
Nothing wrong with a tower, you might think, but towers are closely fol-
pronouncing blessings and curses upon his sons in just the way that Adam
lowed by slums, and God wasn’t ready to start dealing with slums just yet.
apparently never did. I’m not saying he did a good job of it, but it seems
So you brought down their tower, perhaps with an earthquake, perhaps
like a step in the right direction.
with a well-placed breeze, and then you scattered them and confused their
But here’s the thing: Genesis was written by a Semitic people (Shemites). The curse that Noah pronounces upon the father of the Canaanites
language. How? I don’t know. Probably over the course of generations. You
rarely do things instantaneously.
seems conveniently favorable for a people living in a Promised Land after
The slums would come, along with all the other problems that cities
forcibly displacing the previous occupants who—oh yeah—just happened
create. Cut off from the land, people would forget about you, and would
to be Canaanites. Or perhaps that’s too cynical. Maybe you choose to ratify
turn instead to business, politics and organized religion.
the blessings pronounced by those who take on your traits, and the curses
as well. But my imagination is unequal to the task of seeing how these
God help us all.
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Abraham
According to the biblical timeline, Noah was still alive when his greatgreat-great-great-great-great-grandson Terah was born in a place called Ur
of the Chaldeans. Terah was the father of Abram (who would later be called
Abraham), as well as of Nahor and Haran. He was apparently a man who
loved his family, for Abram means “great father,” Nahor was the name of
his own father, and Haran was the name (possibly) of his brother, who
had died, leaving him responsible for his brother’s daughters, Milcah and
Iscah. Nahor and Abram married these cousins, and Abram called his wife,
Iscah (who was also his cousin), Sarai, which means “my princess.”
At least, that’s one interpretation. Anecdotal evidence suggests that
most folks tend to skip over the “begats” in the Bible, since long lists of
unpronouncable names are apparently considered boring, but allow me to
bore you with Genesis 11:22-32:
When Serug had lived thirty years, he became the father of Nahor;
and Serug lived after the birth of Nahor two hundred years, and had
other sons and daughters.
When Nahor had lived twenty-nine years, he became the father of
Terah; and Nahor lived after the birth of Terah one hundred nineteen
years, and had other sons and daughters.
When Terah had lived seventy years, he became the father of
Abram, Nahor, and Haran.
Now these are the descendants of Terah. Terah was the father
of Abram, Nahor, and Haran; and Haran was the father of Lot.
Haran died before his father Terah in the land of his birth, in Ur of
the Chaldeans. Abram and Nahor took wives; the name of Abram’s
wife was Sarai, and the name of Nahor’s wife was Milcah. She was
the daughter of Haran the father of Milcah and Iscah. Now Sarai
was barren; she had no child.
Terah took his son Abram and his grandson Lot son of Haran,
and his daughter-in-law Sarai, his son Abram’s wife, and they went
out together from Ur of the Chaldeans to go into the land of Canaan;
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but when they came to Haran, they settled there. The days of Terah
were two hundred five years; and Terah died in Haran.”
Notice there’s nothing in there about Terah having a brother named
Haran. That was pure speculation on the part of an interpreter I happened
across on the internet (http://www.biblebelievers.org.au/custance.htm, in
case your reading on a device that doesn’t support hyperlinks). The problem he was trying to solve was how Abram could later honestly refer to
his wife Sarai as his sister, and I thought he made an elegant, compelling
case, but before this chapter is over, you will find that I disagree with his
conclusion.
Notice also that the name of the place where Terah settled and died
was also named Haran. It’s possible that Haran was just an extremely
common name, like “John” or “Springfield,” but I get the sense that there’s
some obfuscation going on. In a book that’s so keen on genealogies, it seems
to me that the relationships could be much more clearly defined. How
hard would it be to write that “Haran the father of Milcah and Iscah” was
Terah’s brother, the son of Nahor? Perhaps it could be taken as given (for
someone fluent in the Hebrew language) that “my princess” is a pet name,
like “sweetheart,” but making it obvious that Iscah and Sarai were one and
the same person surely would not have exceeded the literary abilities of
the writer(s) of Genesis.
It’s also possible that the relationships are left unclear because it’s
assumed that everyone already knows them. Abraham is the uber-patriarch,
after all. But I doubt it.
After Terah’s son Haran died, Terah took responsibility for Haran’s
son Lot (brother of Milcah & Iscah or nephew?), along with Abram and
Sarai, and set out for the land of Canaan. For some reason, he stopped in
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a city called Haran (Was it called Haran when they arrived, or did Terah
plagues, he upbraided Abram for not taking responsibility for Sarai as his
name the city after his son and/or brother of the same name?).
wife and sent him on his way.
I said at the beginning of this section that Terah was “apparently a
By the time they got back to the Negeb, it was becoming clear that
man who loved his family,” but I wonder if perhaps he was more in love
the flocks and families of Abram and Lot were becoming too numerous
with the idea of his family. He was a patrilineal descendant of Adam and
to peaceably coexist, so Abram offered Lot his choice of land, offering to
Eve, after all, and given the fact that one of his sons was dead, and the
go in the opposite of whichever direction Lot chose. Lot chose the richer
son he had named Great Father was married to a barren wife, it’s possible
land, the valley that contained the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, and
that he despaired of the line of Adam, and spent his remaining years in
Abram went the other way, demonstrating the magnanimity of a great lord,
Haran grieving what was lost, while his surviving family continued on to
and a profound trust in your provision.
the land of Canaan.
1
Those two sides of Abram, the trust and mistrust, the responsibility
and the irresponsibility, would alternate within him throughout his life.
As the story goes, Abram was 75 years old when God told him to take
When Lot was captured by a warring king, Abram took responsibility for
his family (and his nephew Lot and Lot’s family) and leave his father’s
him, pursuing the king, and rescuing Lot, along with Lot’s family and all
house and continue on to the land that in later years would be called the
their possessions.
Promised Land. Had you given Terah the same instructions? Genesis
When you told Abram that his heir would be a son of his own loins,
doesn’t say, but it’s possible that you had asked every father of Noah’s line
and that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars, Abram believed
to leave their city and head to the land of Ham’s descendants, and that only
you, and you reckoned it to him as righteousness. Soon after, he listened
Abram had heeded the call. You told him that he would become a mighty
to Sarai’s voice, who suggested he go in to Hagar, her Egyptian slave. Just
nation, and that all who blessed him would be blessed, and all who cursed
as they had echoed Adam and Eve’s craftiness by dissembling about the
him would be cursed.
nature of their relationship before Pharaoh, they were now reenacting the
Unfortunately, when he arrived, the famine was severe in the land,
fruit scene, as Sarai urged him to stop waiting on God and to take matters
and so he continued on to Egypt, where he displayed the craftiness he had
into his own hand. Immediately when Hagar cast a contemptuous eye at
inherited from Adam by telling Pharaoh that Sarai was his sister, fearing
her mistress for conceiving successfully where Sarai had not, Sarai turned
that Pharaoh might kill him as her husband. Sarai, like Eve, was willing to
to Abram, enraged, and said, “May the wrong done to me be on you!”
follow his lead, and so Pharaoh took her to be his wife and treated Abram
Sigh. Such is the life Adam and Eve had prepared for their descendants.
well, as befits the brother of so beautiful a woman, though he and his people
But by now you were in the business of blessing even their mistakes, and
suffered plagues as a result. Once Pharaoh figured out the reason for the
so you promised to make a mighty nation out of Hagar’s son Ishmael as
well, even though he was not the one promised.
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When Abram was 99 years old, God made a new covenant with him,
The reason God didn’t address Sarah directly is that the question
changing his name to Abraham, meaning “father of multitudes,” and insti-
wasn’t really meant for her. You were saying to Abraham, “What, you
tuting the practice of male circumcision (the point of which, I would suggest,
didn’t even tell her?”
was to make men more naked, more vulnerable, in spite of their clothing).
Then you told Abraham to stop calling his wife Sarai (my princess) and
Sarah, however, assumed the question was indirectly addressed to her,
and said, “I did not laugh.”
just call her Sarah (princess). Both of these changes involved simply adding
Then you addressed her directly and said, “Oh yes, you did laugh.”
the Hebrew letter heh to each of their names.
When you told Abraham your plans for Sodom and Gomorrah, he
Heh. Seriously?
immediately started telling you how unjust it would be to destroy all of
You added a laugh to Sarai and Abram’s name, then proceeded to tell
Sodom if fifty righteous people were living in the city. You assured him that,
Abraham that Sarah would bear a child the following year, at which point
for the sake of fifty, you would spare the whole city. Considering all he knew
he fell on his face and lived up to his new name by chuckling. Then he said
about the city, doubt crept into Abraham’s heart, and he said, “What if
to you, “O that Ishmael might live in your sight!” You had been promising
Sodom were five righteous people short of fifty?” You assured him that for
him a son his entire life, and now he had one. His barren wife was well past
the sake of forty-five, you would not destroy the city. Abraham was start-
the child-bearing age, so obviously this was some sort of deep theological
ing to see the problem with Sodom. “What if there are only forty, thirty,
joke. You responded by telling him to name his son Isaac, which means
twenty or ten?” You assured him that ten righteous people would safeguard
“he will laugh.”
the whole city, but Abraham wasn’t actually concerned for the inhabitants
Later, after every man in Abraham’s household had been circumcised,
of Sodom, who were admittedly the opposite of righteous. Abraham was
you showed up with a couple of buddies on your way to see for yourself
once again feeling the weight of responsibility for Lot. Lot himself wasn’t
whether Sodom and Gomorrah were as rotten as you had heard. Sarah
so great, but he was family, and Abraham was willing to stand up to you
was listening at the tent flap when you repeated your promise that she
yourself in an effort to protect his nephew. You saw this in his heart, heeded
would bear a son in due season. Apparently, Abraham hadn’t thought to
his prayer and, in the end, Lot and his wife and daughters would have to
tell her himself. She, too, lived up to her new name, and laughed to herself,
be forcefully pulled out of Sodom, since they wouldn’t willingly leave.
apparently at the mere thought of she and Abraham having sex, let alone
of her getting pregnant as a result.
As an aside, I have to say I doubt the story of Lot’s wife. Who else in all
God said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh, and say, ‘Shall I indeed
the Bible was transformed into something inhuman, let alone inanimate?
bear a child, now that I am old?’ Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?
Now, I won’t pretend to know what really happened to her, but I suspect
At the set time I will return to you, in due season, and Sarah shall have
that Lot was not blameless in the matter. I further suspect that Lot did
a son.”
not deserve to escape the wrath of God. I think the fire and the brimstone
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raining from the sky formed pillars of salt, and when people asked what
In between the stories of Sodom’s destruction and Isaac’s birth, there’s
had happened to his wife, he’d say, “Oh, her? Yeah, um, she was turned
another instance of Abraham moving to the Negeb on account of yet
into a pillar of salt? such as you see in the valley of Sodom, because she
another famine, and of he and Sarah claiming to be siblings rather than
disobeyed the angels of the Lord by looking back upon the destruction
husband and wife. All I had wanted to say about this was that they hadn’t
of Sodom.”
changed. Abraham was willing to go to great lengths to take responsibility
I likewise find suspect the story of his daughters getting him drunk
and sleeping with him in order that they might bear descendants for their
for his nephew, but would rather another man take Sarah as his wife than
risk being killed as her husband.
father. Okay, forget “suspect”—there is no question in my mind that he
But hang on a second. Unless the narrative is out of chronological
got drunk and raped them, and afterwards blamed them for getting preg-
order (and who the hell knows, right?) Sarah is 90 years old when King
nant. This was a man who was willing to offer his wife and daughters to
Abimelech takes her to be his wife. Okay, so the patriarchs lived longer
the crowd of men who wanted to become better acquainted (in a violently
than modern people. I can accept that, and even without any superhuman
sexual way) with the angels Lot had taken in as his guests.
vitality, 90-year-old women have a beauty all their own, right? But Genesis
He was not a good man. Certainly he was not a good father. I don’t
care what the ancient customs of hospitality demanded.
is pretty clear that Sarah had been through menopause, so why take her
as a wife?
You saved him to honor Abraham, for Abraham’s wish to save his evil
Okay, so maybe Abimelech had a thing for older women, but there’s
nephew was the same wish that you had had for saving Adam and Eve, and
also the last detail of God opening up the wombs of the women of Abi-
with similar consequences.
melech’s household as soon as he returned her to Abraham, along with a
thousand pieces of silver for her “vindication” (a sign, I presume, that he
I confess I haven’t read many books about Genesis, though I’ve read the
had not slept with her). How long does it take for someone to realize that
book itself any number of times (my frequent attempts to read the entire
all the women in his household are unaccountably barren? Surely longer
Bible have only succeeded twice, but I almost always get a little ways into
than the six months between when she supposedly became miraculously
Exodus before petering out). As a result, I have no idea if the insights I’m
pregnant by Abraham and when her pregnancy began to show! (Of course,
getting here are common or rare. They can’t possibly be unique—surely
she would have no indication that she was pregnant until her belly began
someone else has already made these connections. In any event, having
to grow if her menstrual cycles had long-since stopped.) But what if she
called shenanigans on Lot, I suddenly find myself wanting to call shenani-
wasn’t Abraham’s cousin, as I earlier surmised (based on an excerpt from
gans on Abraham, or at least on the writer(s) of Genesis.
a book published by Zondervan in 1977), but rather—as certain Jewish
traditions maintain—his niece, and the sister of Lot? If that were the case,
then perhaps she was a lot younger than Genesis claims, and it may well
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be that Abraham was sterile, that Adam’s seed dried up in him, and that
thinking the child was his. Suddenly, Hagar’s contemptuous eye seems a
Sarah was impregnated by King Abimelech.
lot more contemptible. Oh, and don’t you just know that Abraham fell at
You might argue that Abraham had been perfectly virile when he got
least a little bit in love with Hagar? Of course he did.
Hagar pregnant, but who knows who else she might have been sleeping
But this hypothesis also makes more sense of the angel’s injunction
with at the time. It may be that she came to Sarah (then Sarai) distraught,
to Hagar to return and submit to her mistress. I hate the idea of you tell-
told her that she was pregnant, and Sarai had the brilliant, selfless idea
ing someone to return to an abusive relationship, but thirteen years later,
of suggesting that Abraham (then Abram) sleep with the poor girl before
Hagar and Ishmael were still with them, so I have some hope that Hagar’s
her pregnancy started to show, allowing her slave girl to avoid the shame
submission softened Sarah’s heart, and that she treated her better after
of unwed pregnancy while simultaneously giving Abram the child he had
Hagar’s return, but once Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy of her own,
so long longed for.
I can imagine she was heartily regretting her thirteen-year-old ruse.
If I’m right, then Abraham, the “father of multitudes,” died childless,
She was in a bind. She was no doubt angry with Abraham for being
and you were able to inject some new genetic material into the line of Adam
so dense that he couldn’t figure things out on his own, but she would
and Eve through Sarah. Rightly did you say that the one who would strike
hardly want him to grow a brain now, lest he realize the truth of Isaac’s
the head of the offspring of the serpent would be the offspring of Eve (as
real father. But to have a child that was no relation to either one of them
opposed to Adam).
be heir to her husband’s wealth and legacy was devastating now that she
I wish I could find an imaginative way to connect Adam’s eating of the
had a child of her own flesh.
fruit with Abraham’s sterility, but I can’t. Regardless, it would appear that
Had Abraham really been the father of Ishmael, then Sarah would
God’s promises always come true. The fruit was allowable for Eve, but it
not have been unjustified in wanting her son to be the heir, since the cus-
was the death of Adam’s patrilineage. As for Abraham’s name—that was
toms of the day were clearly in favor of the birthright going to the eldest
a joke, you see, though it might be hard to see the humor.
male child of the father. Even if I’m wrong, it’s certainly understandable
that Sarah would hate the thought of her slave’s child inheriting what
If I am revealing Abraham’s shame, I hope I am also uncovering a bit
her own child would not, but if Ishmael wasn’t really Abraham’s either,
of Sarah’s sanity. She always struck me as a bit of a bitch in the way she
then her desire that Hagar and her son be banished is also suddenly more
treated Hagar. I mean, if it was her idea to have Abraham sleep with Hagar,
understandable.
then she should have realized that Hagar might get a bit uppity when she
succeeded in conceiving where Sarah had always failed. But imagine if
my speculation is correct—if Hagar had been pregnant out of wedlock,
and Sarah had done her an extravagant favor by tricking Abraham into
Abraham wanted to protest, but you told him the same thing you told
Hagar: “whatever Sarah says to you, do as she tells you.”
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Abraham didn’t understand, but (perhaps touchingly) he obeyed. He
The command to sacrifice Isaac is for me the most difficult passage in
loaded Hagar with a waterskin and sent her and the thirteen-year-old boy
the entire Bible. I had intended to deal with it by drawing a parallel between
he thought of as his son out into the wilderness.
Isaac and Jesus, and to take note of the fact that, in the end, Abraham
didn’t have to go through with his sacrifice, while you did. But now I have
Another aside, this one to take note of the grimmest piece of humor I
to question whether you gave the command at all. I wonder if Abraham
have yet to find in the Bible: “When the water in the skin was gone, she cast
didn’t rather figure out the truth of Isaac’s parentage himself. I wonder
the child under one of the bushes. Then she went and sat down opposite
whether the command wasn’t an idea Abraham came up with on his own
him a good way off, about the distance of a bowshot.” Not wanting to look
to justify the murder of another man’s son whilst concealing his own rage
upon the death of her child, she lifted up her voice and wept. You heard
and shame. Perhaps he even believed it.
her and said, “What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid; for God has
Abraham said something to the effect of, “Hey, Isaac, let’s go for a walk.
heard the voice of the boy where he is. Come, lift up the boy and hold
Let’s go to the land of Moriah and hike up one of the mountains there.
him fast with your hand, for I will make a great nation of him.” Then you
We’ll bring some servants along for supplies and what not, but we’ll worship
pointed out the well that was just over yonder. She filled the skin and gave
on the mountain ourselves, just you and me. What do you say?”
her son a drink. And then, without pausing, the Bible says, “God was with
When they got to the mountain, Abraham told his servants to sit still
the boy, and he grew up; he lived in the wilderness, and became an expert
for awhile while he and Isaac went on. He took only a knife and a torch,
with the bow.”
and had Isaac carry some wood. Who knows how old the boy was? Old
Yikes.
enough to talk and carry wood, possibly much older. He said to Abraham,
“Father!” And Abraham said, “Here I am, my son.” And Isaac said, “The
Immediately after Hagar and Ishmael depart, Genesis records a visit
fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” And
from King Abimelech, accompanied by the commander of his army. He
Abraham said, “God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt offering, my
said to Abraham, “God is with you in all that you do; now therefore swear to
son.” I shudder to think what he may have added under his breath.
me here by God that you will not deal falsely with me or with my offspring
They reached the top of the mountain, and Abraham built an altar,
or with my posterity, but as I have dealt loyally with you, you will deal with
arranged the wood around the altar, bound Isaac, and placed him on the
me and with the land where you have resided as an alien.” And Abraham
altar. He lifted the knife. Did you intervene? I think not. Just as there was
said, “I swear it.” There are any number of reasonable explanations for why
no command to sacrifice Isaac, I now believe there was no angel shouting
Abimelech would want to make sure that he was on good terms with a man
“Stop!” Abraham looked down on this child, this symbol (as he saw it) of
as wealthy and powerful as Abraham, but I can’t help but wonder whether
betrayal and shame and impotence, and he saw the face of his wife, whom
anything about his visit struck Abraham as odd.
he had never loved as well as he ought, longing as he always had for a son,
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and he stayed his own hand. That’s not to say you weren’t there. I believe
you were, but that you were in no position to stay Abraham’s hand, since
your horns were caught in a thorn bush.
In sparing Isaac’s life, Abraham accepted him as his son. As he untied
the boy and helped him down from the altar, he told his adopted son a lie.
He said, “I’m sorry you had to go through all that, but God commanded
me to sacrifice you. You may not have heard, but when I lifted my knife, an
angel of the Lord shouted down from heaven “Abraham, Abraham! Do not
lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you
fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.”
What else was he supposed to say? He did what Adam did: he put
the blame on God. And you, who take responsibility for everything, took
responsibility for Abraham’s lie, even though it would make you look like
a monster for at least 4,000 years. Certainly there is evidence that Isaac
was scared to death of you for the rest of his life.
But you see the heart, and you saw that Abraham had taken responsibility for something that wasn’t his, and that his heart had finally turned
toward his wife. Thus, you, in the twentieth generation of Adam’s line, had
finally found a man who was made in your image, even as that particular
branch of Adam’s paternal line died out.
If you know Genesis, you will say that my argument is invalid because,
after Sarah died, Abraham remarried and had many sons.
But don’t you see? He and his new wife adopted orphans.
One final aside: You know how God is often depicted as some old guy
with a long, white beard? Yeah: That’s Abraham.
<Skip footnote>
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The Trucker (2002), based on The Seafarer, author unknown
1
Allow me to drive this old truth ballad home,
tell you my travels, how I through dogged days
and doggeder nights have often driven,
beset by bitter heartburn, by my gullet’s indignation,
grossly compounded by the arrhythmic thumpings of bumpy macadam, where
often I’ve clung,
through anxious, predawn hours, to the truck’s big wheel
when the road wound taut round the mountains.
Though hemorrhoid-riddled
was my big rear end, burned by itching,
by rashes inflamed—the emergency flares
of my sphincter—inexplicable yearnings would rise in my soul
from the depths of my road-weary mood.
That’s what nobody knows,
for whom days at the office tick past like pleasant dreams,
how I, arms aching, in between snowdrifts,
spent winters on the soul-taxing road,
forsaking companions, abuzz from caffeine,
while hailstones clattered on the hood.
There I heard naught but the whirring of wheels,
the whine of the engine, CB static. At times Ronnie Milsap
was a night on the town, Merle Haggard
or Kathy Mattea raucous laughter in a bar,
and Patsy Cline was my cold, draft beer.
When windstorms beat their fists against the trailer there,
Johnny Cash might try to quell them with his fourth-gear growl,
or Willie Nelson with his third-gear vibrato,
yet none of my FM companions
could unclench my white-knuckled grip.
How little some people comprehend,
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content in their suburbs, avoiding the cross-country run,
one-upping each other with sports cars and giddy from Merlot,
why I, most often exhausted,
chose instead to dwell in the truck lanes.
The semis have turned on their high beams; it’s snowing in Sioux Falls.
Rime obscures road signs; for Fargo the forecast is hail—
coldest of kernels. So now the air horn of my spirit
blares its piercing call, that I, toward unplowed roads,
black ice and fish-tailing cars, should travel on alone.
Thus my heart implores me, all the time,
outbound to drive, toward that faraway, uncanny city—
not found on any map—where lies the home I seek.
For no one so reckless in all the world,
no matter how spotless their record, or how many miles they’ve logged,
how young and invulnerable, or skillful at outsmarting smokies,
embarks on long journeys without pondering anew
what the Lord has in store for them this time.
They don’t care what they’re missing on network TV; they aren’t hoping to win
sweepstakes
or someone’s affection. Nor are they pining for the comforts of routine.
All they’re concerned with is their wheels on the tarmac;
their ultimate destination their only desire.
When blossoms infuse winter’s branches, beautifying cities
and brightening fields, the world skips merrily along.
But such things only quicken the mind’s eager yearning
for the streets that lead to the toll booths,
beyond which must surely lie freedom.
That’s what the mourning dove’s song is about, its aching lament;
it calls to forestall summer’s sorrow,
the pang in the heart’s empty tank.
That’s what none can understand
whose hearts are free from care: why others among us long endure
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253
the lonesome, endless highway’s single lane.
That’s why my soul slips often from its cage,
why my hope irresistibly steers me
away to where triple trailers roam, bypassing populous cities.
It returns to me, greedy and eager, and howls like an ambulance siren,
whetting my heart’s irrepressible urge to drive where the wide loads rumble,
out on the sweeping freeways of the plains.
Because, for me, the heavy-duty battery of the Lord
has starting power stronger than this dead life.
Those smoke-detector nine-volts aren’t any use
when your house is already on fire.
Don’t you know how soon you’ll be ambushed
by any one of the goblins three?
Ailing, aging or the aim of a gun
will twist off your life like a bottle cap.
And what will folk say in memoriam?
There’s only one way to a lengthier eulogy, while your steering wheel’s still in
your grasp:
take a detour to some virtuous deed before it’s too late,
a kindness or two, despite all your demons,
something decent to dash in the devil’s own face,
so that downtrodden folk might have reason to thank you,
and your praise after that should survive with the angels
for all of eternity—never-ending glory
in the company of heaven.
Gone are the days,
all golden and gleaming, of the boomtown;
gone are the barons, the magnates, the entrepreneurs,
the erecting of hospitals, libraries and monuments—
philanthropy as a means of one-upmanship—
and feasting each other like kings.
All of them are food for worms, now; their schemes have passed away.
Lesser folk remain, whom the world has not yet disgorged;
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255
their days are replete with nibbling.
than anyone’s intention.
The illustrious are mortified, the powerful grow old;
even their memory fades from our mind.
So perish us all who pace out our claim on this perilous rock;
So let’s turn our grilles toward the home that we long for
and map out the quickest route there,
that we may arrive, with our cargo intact, where those who are blessed take it
old age bends our spine and blanches our face.
easy.
There we’ll live long in the care of the Lord,
who cruises the highest of byways.
The gray-haired grieve, remembering friends—
the children of privilege, given the world.
There’s no power left, once their flesh suits are empty,
to taste what’s sweet or to feel what’s sore,
to grasp with the hand or to think with the brain.
Though their coffins be made out of bullet-proof glass, and their bodies
frozen by doctors, to be revived in a fictional future
with diversified portfolios set up for them—they wish this on each other!
No profit there for sinners—
the vengeance of God versus science and wealth—
while they live, people hope such things hide them.
From the fear of the Lord the whole world turns away,
though each grain of sand be God’s careful creation
and each tiny wisp of a cloud.
Dolts are the ones who don’t fear the Lord; they die with their arms at their
sides.
Yet happy are they who are humble and lowly, who lift up their limbs to the
mercy of God.
The creator will hold out a steadying hand to any who reach out to grab it.
We all need to pilot our passions, to keep them between the white lines,
with promises kept and consciences pure,
looking out for each other, to fend off the downfall
of friend and foe alike.
Though we might wish the fires of hell upon foes,
and a memorial flame for the friends that stood by us—
fate is stronger, the creator mightier
We give thanks for the license to follow you home,
Gracious God and marvelous mentor.
Road without end.
Amen.
<Return to main text>
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15 | The Spring
“This time I won’t fall.”
—Doveman, Honey
Isaac
You make no distinction between yourself and anyone whose heart is
wed to yours. By accepting Isaac as his son, Abraham accepted your marriage proposal, and thus the reset button was pushed, and Isaac became a
new Adam, with Abraham in the role of God.
After Sarah died, Abraham decided that it was not good for the man to
be alone, and, accordingly, sent his servant to find a suitable companion for
him. The servant returned with Isaac’s niece, Rebekah, and she comforted
Isaac after the death of his mother.
The new-and-improved Adam was marked by circumcision as
belonging to God. Having been circumcised as an infant, the increased
vulnerability was simply a part of his identity, without any remembered
pain. Also, and perhaps more significantly, he was baptized into his death
at an early age and grew up with the belief that God had demanded his
life but accepted a sacrifice in his stead.
This doubtless instilled in him a considerable fear of the Lord, so that
when you issued the one command Genesis records as being directed
toward Isaac (“Do not go down to Egypt; settle in the land that I shall
show you,”), Isaac damn well did as he was told.
The land you showed him belonged to King Abimelech (whose name
means “my father is king” or possibly “my father is Moloch”, or “my father
is a sacrifice”), who may have been Isaac’s father, or possibly his half
brother. In any event, when Isaac and Rebekah fell into the same pattern as
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Abraham and Sarah, claiming siblinghood instead of marriage, Abimelech
out his entire blessing upon Jacob. Nevertheless, he was able to give this
was not so easily fooled. He caught Isaac fondling his “sister,” and said, “So
much to his favorite son: “. . . you shall serve your brother; but when you
she is your wife!” and furthermore rebuked them for tempting the men
break loose, you shall break his yoke from your neck.” It was little enough,
of his land to sin unknowingly against them. He charged everyone in his
and when Esau left his father, he was ready to spill some brotherly blood.
land to let the two of them be. I could be wrong (about most everything),
Rebekah caught wind of his rage, and made the painful choice to send
but I hear amusement and fatherly tenderness in his voice.
her favorite son away rather than risk him being differently Abeled.
Isaac and Rebekah prospered in the land, and when Isaac’s men dug
While he was away, Jacob learned what it was like to be tricked. He
a well, and the Philistines claimed it as their own, Isaac showed the same
had to work fourteen years for his uncle Laban in exchange for both of
laid-back attitude as Abraham had when Lot chose the choicer land: He
Laban’s daughters. (Let’s hope Abimelech was Isaac’s father, because this
simply moved on, and had his men dig another well. And so on.
family is getting dangerously inbred.) He, like his father, prospered greatly
Whatever his lineage, he was the spitting image of Abraham.
in exile, but when God told him to return home, he was sore afraid, on
account of his brother’s wrath.
Israel
As he approached his homeland, he started dividing his property into
In due time, Rebekah gave birth (with a considerable amount of pain)
extravagant gifts for Esau, in hopes of assuaging his brother’s righteous
to Esau and Jacob, twins who got to be a new Cain and Abel, with the dif-
anger, and he sent them on ahead. Just as Esau had held his birthright
ference being that they had responsible parents who weren’t so crippled by
cheap in comparison with his extreme hunger, Jacob counted his flocks
shame that they couldn’t pay attention to their kids. I’m not saying they
and his belongings as nothing in comparison with his life.
were perfect parents, but they took responsibility, and in the end, it made
Then he sent his family on ahead and spent the night alone, wrestling
a difference, because, just as with Cain and Abel, there came a time when
with a man who dislocated his hip and renamed him Israel, meaning
the elder wished to kill the junior.
“wrestles with God.”
1
When they were younger, Jacob had swapped Esau a warm meal for his
The next morning he arranged his family from least to greatest: the
seconds-older brother’s birthright. Then, when their father was old, and
maidservants of his two wives with their children; Leah (the woman he’d
nearly blind, Rebekah conspired to trick Isaac into bestowing the blessing
been tricked into marrying) with her children; and finally Rachel, whom
he intended for Esau upon Jacob. The plan worked, and Isaac’s blessing
he loved, with her son, Joseph. Then he went ahead of all of them to finally
included the prophesy that his brother would bow down before him.
face the fury of his brother, who ran at him, fell upon his neck and kissed
When Esau found out what had happened, he pleaded with his father
him, and they wept. All of Jacob’s family bowed down before Esau, and
to give him a blessing as well, and the anguish of father and son in that
Jacob convinced his brother to accept all the gifts he had sent ahead of
moment is excruciating (“Bless me, me also, father!”), but Isaac had poured
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him, and in this way they were freed of their father’s blessings, and also of
he intended to come and rescue his brother, and perhaps gain some favor
Cain and Abel’s curse.
in his father’s sight. The brothers saw the sense in this, and acted upon
his suggestion. They stripped Joseph of his robe and tossed him into a
Judah
dry well.
But even that miraculous reconciliation was not enough to bring
But before Reuben had a chance to play the hero, Judah was struck
about the elusive happy ending. Adam’s irresponsibility was redeemed
with an inspiration. Seeing a passing caravan of Ishmaelites, he said, “What
when Abraham accepted responsibility for Isaac, and thus the house of
profit is it if we kill our brother and conceal his blood? Come, let us sell
Adam and Eve was finally in order, but in the meantime thousands of years
him to the Ishmaelites, and not lay our hands on him, for he is our brother,
had passed during which those tasks for which Adam and Eve had been
our own flesh.” So they pulled their brother out of the pit and sold him
set apart were never accomplished, and the world had suffered greatly as
into slavery.
a result. There was yet more work for God to do in order to redeem the
When Reuben found the pit empty, he tore his clothes (a common
whole world, and so you continued to search for a male descendant that
practice, back then, symbolizing how naked and vulnerable and grieved
would be able to take responsibility for all of it. For the next generation of
one felt). He returned to his brothers and said, “The boy is gone; and I,
that work, you chose Leah’s son Judah, a point that can easily be missed
where can I turn?”
in the Genesis narrative.
Without necessarily letting Reuben in on the secret of Joseph’s fate,
they killed a goat, dipped the technicolor dream coat in its blood, and sent
The leading role of the last thirteen chapters of Genesis is played by
it to their father with the message, “This we have found; see now whether it
Joseph, eldest son of Rachel (who had died giving birth to his younger
is your son’s robe or not.” Israel assumed his favorite son had been devoured
brother, Benjamin).
by a wild animal, and he was inconsolable.
Joseph was his father’s favorite, and he knew it, and he was pretty
insufferable about it, dreaming of his family all bowing down before him,
What do you think of Judah so far?
and parading around in the lavish robe his father had given him. Further-
Wait—it gets better.
more, he was a bit of a tattle-tale. So when Israel sent him to check up on
his brothers, and to bring back word of them, his brothers were less than
pleased to see him coming.
Judah married the daughter of a Canaanite and had three sons: Er,
Onan and Shelah. He chose a wife, named Tamar, for Er. Every other time
In fact, they conspired to kill him, and only Reuben, the eldest (and
Genesis records a parent participating in the selection of a son’s wife, she is
thus, the one who would have borne the bulk of the blame), spoke against
a close relative. Whether that was true of Tamar is not reported, but can,
outright murder, and suggested they throw him into a pit instead. Later,
perhaps (for what it’s worth), be inferred. At any rate, God was displeased
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with Er (perhaps because he was of Canaanite (rather than Semitic) descent
in pledge. He gave her his signet, his cord and his staff (he really wanted
on his mother’s side), and so Er died.
to go in to her!), and so they took a tumble.
As was customary at the time (some scholars believe the story exists
But! When he sent the kid as promised (the goat kid to the hooker,
to establish the custom), Judah instructed his second son, Onan, to do
not Shelah to Tamar), she was nowhere to be found, and moreover, none
his duty and beget a son for Tamar, both for her support and to preserve
of the townspeople could remember any prostitutes plying their trade in
his brother’s lineage. “But since Onan knew that the offspring would not
that area. So Judah decided it would be better to let her keep his pledges
be his, he spilled his semen on the ground whenever he went in to his
rather than risk ridicule by searching any further.
brother’s wife.”
A few months later, word came to him that his daughter-in-law had
While I don’t have any idea how Er died, Tamar had a pretty good
been playing the whore, and was moreover pregnant as a result. So he
motive for doing away with Onan herself, and God would have been happy
said, “Bring her out, and let her be burned.” But she sent a message to him,
to take responsibility.
accompanied by his pledges, that said, “It was the owner of these who
With two sons down, Judah was reluctant to submit his last remaining
made me pregnant.”
son to a woman apparently cursed. He told her that Shelah was too young
Judah responded in the same offhand manner with which he had sug-
to marry, so she should go live as a widow in her father’s house until Shelah
gested burning her to death. He said, “She is more in the right than I, since
got a little older, at which point Judah would be sure to send him along.
I did not give her to my son Shelah.” Then he took her into his household
In case you’re not aware of the fact, I’ll mention that childless widows
were not particularly welcome house guests. They had no prospects, and
and acknowledged his paternity of the twins to whom she subsequently
gave birth.
were (and still are, in many parts of the world) seen more as a drain on
valuable resources than as people worthy of compassion. So, as time went
Didn’t I say it would get better?
on, Tamar (and doubtless her family, as well) grew impatient at the continuing absence of aging Shelah.
Again there was famine in the land, and only in Egypt (thanks to the
When she heard that Judah himself would be passing by on his way
God-given dream-interpretation skills of Joseph) was there any food for
to shear some sheep, she dressed herself up like a hooker (which in those
sale. Isaac sent all of his sons to go buy some, holding back only Benjamin
days involved covering up one’s face) and put herself in Judah’s way. Since
(the youngest, and all that remained to him of Rachel).
his wife had died, he decided a hooker was just what he wanted, and so
In Egypt, they met Joseph, disguised, not as a hooker, but as an
he approached her and said, “Come, let me come in to you,” to which she
Egyptian. He asked them about their family, and they told him they were
replied, “What will you give me, that you may come in to me?” He suggested
twelve brothers, one of whom was “gone,” and the other of whom had
a kid from his flock, to which she agreed, providing he give her something
stayed behind with their father. Joseph, wanting to see his kid brother
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(and wanting also to torture his brothers at least a little bit), accused them
Israel’s grief over the loss of his favorite son, and how the additional loss of
of being spies and told them he would not believe they were honest men
Benjamin would kill the old man, he said, “Now therefore, please let your
without proof. He demanded that one of them be left behind as a pledge,
servant remain as a slave to my lord in place of the boy; and let the boy go
while they took the food they had bought and went to fetch their youngest
back with his brothers.”
brother. So Simeon stayed behind in Egypt while the remaining brothers
It was the only thing that could have broken Joseph’s heart.
returned home.
Joseph wept, revealed everything to them, told them the famine would
Israel was distraught when he heard this, but he preferred to give up
continue for five more years, and that they had better go fetch their father,
Simeon for lost rather than risk losing Benjamin as well. Reuben offered
and all his household, and bring them to Egypt to settle in the land of
up his own sons as pledge for Benjamin’s safety, telling Israel to kill them
Goshen.
if any harm came to Israel’s favorite remaining son, but Israel was no more
interested in punishing death with more death than you are.
Where they all lived happily ever after.
A year later, the famine was still severe, so Israel told his sons to return
to Egypt for more food. They, in turn, reminded him of Simeon and the
demands of the Egyptian official. This time it was Judah who offered to
bear the blame in his father’s eyes forever in the event of any harm coming
to Benjamin, and this time Israel was slightly better comforted, since
Judah was offering to take personal responsibility that wouldn’t otherwise
belong to him. Also, there was no food. So Israel reluctantly agreed to let
Benjamin go.
The brothers returned to Egypt, and Joseph, still unrecognized, contrived to make it look as though Benjamin had stolen a silver cup, so that
he would have pretext to keep his brother in Egypt. As for the rest of
his family, he didn’t much care what happened to them. As far as he was
concerned, they were all culpable for his exile, even his father, who had
apparently never cared enough to uncover the truth.
But then Judah did something that, so far as I know, was unprecedented in the history of the world. At the end of a long speech in which
he explained to Joseph about the promise he had made to his father, about
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Who Is �or Hallelujah (1996)
1
he mottled, speckled brook trout hangs silent in the clear, shallow
stream. The sandy bottom, strewn with pebbles and scattered about
with larger stones, blends with the fish, conspiring to keep it alive.
Undeterred, the osprey continues to drop from the sky. Her wings
snap out like sheets as her talons skewer trout. For an extended moment she
furiously flaps, clutching at the slippery wind, till at last she pulls her prey from
its pool. She glides upriver, intent on her nest. The stream continues its conspiracy,
as if unaware it has failed.
Steve Holt rests his hand on the cold bark of a tree and fills his lungs with
chilling air, then exhales, watching his breath curl in upon itself among the snow.
Before him, Sarah hops lightly but stiffly from one shard of granite to another.
Around him, beech trees lean at slight angles, as if they had once tried to walk.
Steve takes another breath and continues downhill, leaping heavily from granite
to granite.
Within the clouds, a host of angels practice Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, dancing among snowflakes.
“Makes you think of Christmas, doesn’t it?” says Steve.
“What does?” asks Sarah.
“The snow, the clouds. I keep hearing the Hallelujah Chorus.”
“That’s because I keep singing it.”
“Makes you think of Christmas, doesn’t it?”
Sarah laughs and leans her head against his shoulder.
Steve puts his arm around her and squeezes. “What say we set up camp?”
“Already? But it’s not even dark yet.” She puts on her deep, mock-Steve voice:
“If this were the Paleolithic Age we wouldn’t even consider pitching a tent until
at least 7:30.”
“Very funny.”
Shrugging off their packs, they sit down on the bank of a stream, with their
backs against a rock, and barter bread and cheese. Their canteens dribble cold,
treated water down their chins and onto their coats.
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Sarah nuzzles the arm of Steve’s parka, then leans back, grimacing, and swipes
at the film of mucous left by her nose. She smiles sheepishly, making a face of it,
her eyes slightly crossed. Steve raises an eyebrow.
“Okay!” says Sarah, jumping to her feet. “I’ll go get some firewood.”
Steve wastes a few seconds pulling at his parka’s shoulder, trying to see what’s
there, then stands up and begins to drag the side of his boot through crusted
leaves, baring ground for a fire. Rocks no bigger than curled-up cats lie scattered,
just the right size for a firepit. While he’s arranging them in a lopsided circle,
Sarah returns, drops two handfuls of birch bark into the middle of the circle,
then wanders off again. When the firepit is complete, Steve pulls a faded green
pup tent out of his pack and sets it up, pounding the stakes into the ground with
a rock, while Sarah brings twigs, branches and fallen tree limbs.
Leaning into his carefully constructed pyre, Steve fumbles with a match,
gripping it by sight with numbed fingers. He inhales too much sulfur when it’s
struck, and coughs. The flame caresses the birch bark and spreads like syrup. He
leans back, satisfied.
Trying to snuggle but distanced by their coats, they wait for the fire to roar.
“Come on,” Sarah quavers, conducting the flames higher with her mittened
hands.
“Gosh, it’s cold,” says Steve.
The osprey in her nest glares down at the river. Her head sinks into her shoulders, and she refuses to blink. Snowflakes stick to her beak, but she ignores them,
focusing her rage on the river. She doesn’t remember why she’s so angry, but with
the last of the daylight, her eyes grow large, and at last she understands. Hugging herself against the cold, she drifts like the snow towards sleep. She hiccups
briefly, tasting fish.
Sarah gazes at the blank horizon and imagines the unseen sunset is reflected
in her irises. She breathes in the oranges and blues that are sadly lacking from the
sky and puffs out fire-illumined mist. The sharpened, white-tipped stick in her
hand yearns for another marshmallow. Reaching her hand into the sticky bag, she
pulls one out, impales it, and lowers it into the fire. When it catches, she brings it
close to her face to feel the heat, then blows it out and eats it. The crunchy, sooty
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shell collapses onto a middle that is gooey on the outside, cool and marshmallowy
at its core. She pulls the stick through her teeth and murmurs, “Mmmm.”
“Can I have a marshmallow?” asks Steve.
Sarah pouts and considers.
He tries his manly voice: “Give me a marshmallow, woman!”
Sarah glowers.
“Please?”
She swings the bag into his chest and lets it drop.
“Thank you,” he says, in a smallish voice.
He skewers three marshmallows and lowers them over some of the cooler
embers. He balances the stick on a rock, occasionally twisting it until the marshmallows are lightly and evenly browned. He pulls them off with his fingers and
pops them into his mouth. When the third one is finished, he closes his eyes and
leans his head against Sarah’s shoulder.
An owl alights on a rock on the other side of the fire. Sarah nudges Steve.
“I’ve been watching you eat,” says the owl.
Steve and Sarah glance at each other moving only their eyes. For a moment
they consider dismissing the words, but the authority in the owl’s rich, woodwind
voice brooks no doubt of its reality. They huddle closer, like five-day-old kittens,
watching the owl with awe-widened eyes.
The owl leans forward to look at the ground, like a stout lecturer pondering his next line of thought, but it turns out he’s just being shy. “Might I have a
marshmallow?” he asks.
The bag is still in Steve’s lap. He looks at it, then up at the owl. He utters a
brief, bewildered, guttural laugh.
“If it’s a problem,” says the owl, hurriedly, “if you don’t have enough . . . I
understand.”
“N-no! It’s . . . Here!” He reaches into the bag with fingers once more numb,
and somehow pulls out a marshmallow. He holds out his hand and begins to
stand up, but the owl waves his wing to stop him.
“Just toss it,” he says.
Steve’s hand jerks, and he flings the marshmallow well past the owl.
There is an awkward pause.
Slowly the owl twists his neck around to see where it’s landed. With remarkable dexterity, he walks backward until the marshmallow is in front of him. His
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neck swivels forward and he reaches down to pick it up in his beak. Then he walks
back to the stone. He spares not a glance at either of them, but leans his head back
as if taking in the stature of a giant. He opens his beak wider and gives a quick
jerk to shake the marshmallow off the tip of his beak. He swallows it whole with
a shudder, then looks at them and closes his eyes. “Mmmmmmarvelous.”
Steve looks at him suspiciously. “How can you say ‘Mmmm’ without any
lips?”
The owl’s eyes snap open. “What an odd question! Of all the things to ask a
talking owl!”
“Sorry,” says Steve, meekly but still on guard.
“You’ve gotten my feathers all ruffled.”
The owl suddenly grows twice as big, ruffling all his feathers. When he subsides,
not a feather is out of place. The scene grows dim, the fire begins to swirl. A slow,
lugubrious voice says, “Watch your wife.”
Steve puts his arm around Sarah’s shoulders and says “Sarah!” sharply. The
fire unswirls and the scene settles back into place. An owl still stands on a rock
across the fire, watching her with a worried expression. She stares at it for a long
time, her eyes retreating under her brow in perplexity and worry. “What’s your
name?” she says at last.
The owl seems to brighten. “Now, that’s more like it. My name . . .” he pauses
for effect, “is up to you. Please, though, neither Wol nor Archimedes. Use your
imaginations.”
Steve and Sarah exchange another glance. The silence begins to stretch.
The owl seems to pose, waiting for his name.
Steve says, “Hallelujah.”
The owl leaps backward as though burnt. “How did—Oh my!” He hops jerkily, turning to the right and left as if in panic. At last he settles down and stares
at the sky as if beseeching it for an answer. “Well. Yes,” he says. “I suppose the
fairies told you.” He looks at them, cocking his head slightly, like a substitute
teacher who is not amused. After another awkward pause he says, “Would you
like to hear a story?”
“Yes!” says Sarah, as though she has been waiting for the owl to ask.
“Very well, then. Listen, then, to the story of ‘How the Osprey Lost Her
Mind.’” The owl takes a deep breath, which quivers somewhat at the end. “Emma
was a househuman, married to an officehuman, who decided to leave her house
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for awhile and take a hike. She got as far as this very river and, tragically, fell in.
Now, this Emma had been having a miserable day, and falling into a river was
the proverbial last straw. There may have been screaming. She certainly stood up
and jumped, stomping on the river with both feet. Finally, she cursed the river as
horribly as she knew how, kicking great sprays of water in every direction.
“Now, as you may know, you can curse at many deities all day long and suffer
no worse than a bent feather, or a crick in one’s neck, but rivers are . . . well . . .
fluid. This river leaped up in front of her and cursed her right back.
“Not the transformational sort of curse, you understand, but just a spiteful
invective against househumans who should never have left their kitchens.
“Emma was so astonished and terrified that she wanted to jump out of the water
and not come down, but with the banks too far away, and without the use of any
wings, she chose instead to stand stock still, as if the water had frozen around her
knees. Mustering up a grain of courage, she apologized, if haughtily.
‘Well I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I suppose it wasn’t entirely your fault, but really,
those stones are very treacherous, and I’m sure you’re responsible for that. Still,
if the sun hadn’t been so damnably dazzling, I might have made it across just
fine. So . . .’ She wagged her shoulders and glanced around for more courage. ‘If
you’ll take back what you said about my kitchen, I’ll take back what I said about
you, and we’ll call it even.’”
“Brave woman,” said Sarah.
“Really,” said Steve.
“Hmph,” said Hallelujah. “That remains to be seen. The sun, you see, had
something to say in his defense.
“‘I say,’ said the sun, ‘I don’t see why I should be blamed. If it wasn’t for me, you
wouldn’t have seen the river was there in the first place. Besides, I was only trying
to make things a little prettier.’
“Emma was even more astonished at being addressed by the sun, though of
course, she had no trouble identifying the source of the voice. The sun sounds
like a crystal tuning fork pitched almost too high—”
“Hang on a second,” says Steve. “I happen to know that it takes eight minutes
for sunlight to reach the earth, and that nothing travels faster than light, so if
you’re trying to tell us that—”
“Steve,” says Sarah, making two syllables of it.
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“No, no,” says the owl, “it’s a fair question.” His eyes drill into Steve’s and there
is another awkward pause. “Think of it this way. The sun is a nearly infinite being,
whose consciousness extends as far as his rays. That consciousness is omnipresent
within that span, so that there is no need for thoughts to ‘travel’ from one part
of the sun to another. At night, with cloud cover, it’s true, the sun is only barely
present, but that doesn’t mean he’s not aware of what’s going on. He could be if
he wanted to.” Hallelujah pauses, peering around as if fearing to be overheard.
Softly, he says, “I personally believe he . . . the sun . . . had something of a crush
on Emma. From all reports, he was shining with particular brilliance that day,
possibly in an attempt to impress her.”
Hallelujah cleared his throat and continued in a normal tone of voice. “Emma,
as I was saying, was even more astonished at being addressed by the sun. She was
sorry she had tried to be brave before, for now all she wanted to do was disappear.
The problem, of course, which she intuitively grasped, is that there is nowhere
(outside of a house) to hide from the sun. She had only two choices. She could
faint dead away or get very, very angry. She thought of her own safe kitchen not
so far away, and to her surprise, she found her temples beginning to throb.
“‘A pox upon you both!’ she screamed, straining her voice with angry fear.
‘Clouds,’ she commanded, ‘obscure the sun but give no rain to the river for seven
months!’ Her arms were stretched toward the sky, and her legs were braced apart.
She looked a little like a deity herself just then.
“The sun and the river looked at each other, embarrassed, despite themselves,
at how unimpressed they were by her curse. ‘Look,’ said the sun, ‘I don’t mean to
sound self-important, but really, I wouldn’t mind at all if the earth were covered
up with clouds; it’s prettier that way.’
“‘I’m spring-fed,’ said the river, almost apologetically.
“‘All right then,’ said Emma, rubbing her hands together. ‘May your hydrogen
turn to lead. May you turn into nothing but a big black hole!’ Her head was thrust
forward, chin out. It was clear she meant business.
“The sun blanched a little in spite of itself. ‘I say,’ it said, ‘that hardly seems fair.
I was only . . . trying to help.’
“The river laughed meanly. ‘Not letting a little housewench scare you, are you?
Big bad star like you? Letting a human being get under your skin? Ha ha ha.’
“‘As for you,’ said Emma, with a restraint that was awesome to behold, ‘May
the filth of a thousand toilets back into your waterways and choke you!’
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“The river wailed and fell to his knees, so that the great sun laughed in spite
of himself. The river lowered its eyebrows and began to pant. ‘For that,’ it said,
‘I’m going to turn you into a willow tree, so that you have to drink my water, no
matter what happens to it.’
“‘Look here,’ said the sun, who has always been big-hearted. ‘You don’t have
to—’ but it was no use: he could tell that the river was deadly serious. ‘Not a tree,
anyway. Something more mobile, less rigid than a tree.’
“‘How about a snake?’ said the river. ‘A river snake, so that she has to swim
around in all that kaka.’
“‘No,’ said the sun, like a mother trying to get her toddler to share. ‘It’s okay
to make her something that needs to be by a river, but it doesn’t have to be something horrible. Her curse probably won’t come true anyway. How about a bird?
An osprey maybe.’
“Emma’s face was turning purple with rage. ‘Let me go!’ she screamed, though,
in truth, no one was holding her. ‘I don’t want to be turned into anything!’
“‘All right then,’ said the river. ‘An osprey.’
“‘Okay,’ said the sun, ‘but just so you don’t go and do something worse to her
when this part of the world turns away from me, the spell goes off at night. She’ll
be asleep and immune from all spells until dawn. Agreed?’
“‘Fine,’ said the river, begrudgingly. He turned to Emma with something like
glee in his eyes and slowly raised his arms above his head, bits of electricity buzzing about his hands.
“‘Walk to the bank, dear,’ the sun said, kindly.
“Emma’s anger had evaporated. She tore her gaze from the river’s arms and
waded quickly to the steep bank and scrambled up. Sensibly enough, she tried to
run, but her legs were too stiff and short for running, and her knees were bending in the wrong direction. She tripped, flung out her hands to catch herself, and
took for a moment to the air. She tried to cry out but only squawked. She had
turned into an osprey.
“That, of course, was when she lost her mind.”
“Whew,” says Steve and Sarah together, shaking their heads in unison.
“Still,” says Steve, “I don’t see—”
“Steve!” says Sarah, disapprovingly.
Steve looks hard at the owl. “Where is she? Now, I mean.”
“In a tree not far from here. Would you like to see?”
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“No,” says Sarah quickly.
Steve half smiles, still looking hard at the owl. “Yeah. I think I would.”
“Follow me,” says Hallelujah, jumping into the air.
“Come on,” says Steve, grabbing Sarah’s hand.
She tries to resist, but the thought of staying behind alone is unbearable, so
she lets Steve pull her into a slow run, and they follow the barely visible owl. They
travel uphill beside the river until their legs are burning and their chests are tight.
At last Hallelujah lands on a tall shard of granite and holds a flight feather to
his beak. “Make as little noise as possible,” he says. “We don’t want to wake up
the river.”
Steve and Sarah, nod, trying to pant quietly. When they can stand up straight
again, Hallelujah points upward with one wing. Their eyes follow the wing up a
large, old tree. There isn’t much light, but they can just make out, as they squint
and peer, the indistinct form of a naked woman crouched in a nest of twigs in the
crotch of the tree. She appears to be sucking her thumb.
“Whoa,” they say in unison, their mouths open and their arms at their sides.
“Maybe we should wake her up,” says Sarah, not really sure she wants to.
“Two problems,” says the owl. “One, the spell won’t let her wake up, and two,
there’d be no way for her to get down from the tree if she did.”
“Oh,” says Sarah, trying not to sound relieved.
Steve scratches his chin. “Hmm,” he says. “Maybe—”
“I don’t think so,” says Hallelujah.
They walk back slowly, lost in their thoughts. Hallelujah sits on Sarah’s
shoulder.
“I don’t want to sit on your shoulder,” he says to Steve.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” asks Sarah.
“Certainly,” says Hallelujah. “You could assemble a rescue party, if you think
you can convince anyone the story is true. Or you could wrestle the river for three
nights and days. Or—”
“Maybe she likes being an osprey,” offers Steve.
Sarah and Hallelujah glower at him.
“Just a thought,” he says.
“I’m sure you’ll do the sensible thing,” says the owl, once they’re back at the
campfire. “You’ll sleep on it, worry about it for awhile, and then you’ll come to the
conclusion, without really talking about it, that she was never actually real. Or me
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either, for that matter. Not many people think I’m real, even those whose minds
are open enough to hear more than garbled hootings coming from my beak.”
Sarah thinks for a moment, then smiles. “You came to us because you knew
we’d understand.”
“Well,” said the owl, “that, and I wanted a marshmallow.” He lifts up his brow
hopefully. Steve tosses over the bag.
“Oh, thank you!” says Hallelujah. He jumps on the bag and flies away with it,
frighteningly, over their heads.
Sarah’s breath hitches. “Good-bye!” she says.
The night is silent.
Steve and Sarah sit for awhile, staring at the flames
“Did you know about . . . things like that?” asks Sarah.
Steve shakes his head.
“Me neither.”
“We’re awake, right? I mean, we didn’t . . .”
“I feel pretty awake. Our marshmallows are gone. And my legs hurt, like I’ve
been running.”
“True. True.”
“How is it possible we didn’t know about . . . ”
Steve ponders. “It’s like fairy tales, I guess. I mean, everyone’s heard them,
but we all assume they’re just, you know, parables, or morality plays. Not, you
know, actually true.”
“Huh.” Sarah ponders. “What do you suppose . . . ?”
“Is the moral of the osprey story?”
“Yeah.”
“Good question.”
“I feel like we should help her. Like . . . like the story isn’t finished until we
do.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“Should we talk to the river?”
Steve laughs, then stops laughing.
They stare into the flames for awhile.
An hour passes.
Then two.
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Finally, Steve stands up and yawns, stretching his arms above his head.
“Well—long day tomorrow. . . .”
“Yeah,” says Sarah. “I bet they all are.”
Some time later, the sun rises, as it has every morning, so far. The osprey
opens one eye and shivers. The sunrise reminds her of something unpleasant, like
dishes that should have been washed the night before. Not that she remembers
what dishes are. She stretches her head down to preen some belly feathers, and
her gaze sweeps over the strange familiarity of her nest. Hesitating briefly, she
runs her beak through warm, soft underdown, then looks up, sharply, at the sun.
Her eyes narrow, but she can’t quite bring her suspicions into focus. Nearby, an
owl repeats its single question.
She wishes she could answer.
Steve Holt stands on the bank of the river and judges the distance to the first
wet rock. “You’re a mean son of a bitch,” he mutters, under his breath.
“What?” asks Sarah, from behind him.
“Nothing. Just . . .”
He hops to the first rock, and loses his balance, but manages to angle his fall
so that his other foot lands on another rock. Straddling a cubit and a half of water,
he mutters, “May the filth of a thousand . . .”
“What, honey? I can’t hear you.”
Steve shakes his head, unwilling to raise his voice above the tumbling mumblings of the river.
He navigates the next three rocks, then clambers safely up the far bank. He
turns, and waits for Sarah to do the same, a strange fear gripping him as he
watches.
Sarah duplicates his first maneuver and stands, waving her arms for balance,
for three precarious seconds, then helplessly steps into the water.
Steve screams.
Slowly, inevitably, Sarah falls to her hands and knees.
The adrenaline in Steve’s bloodstream shouts at him to run away, while his
loyalty suggests he leap to his wife’s defense. Trembling, he stands stock still.
The river flows on.
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Slowly, awkwardly, Sarah stands up. She looks at her husband, sees his
terror, and rolls her eyes. Then, to Steve’s further horror, she lowers herself into
a crouch.
His eyes wide, his mouth an “O,” Steve raises his hands as if to cast a spell of
stopping on her.
She jumps straight up and lands straight down, like a little girl stomping in
a puddle.
Unsurprisingly, nothing happens, except that Steve gets splashed. While
he sputters, Sarah wades over to him and climbs out of the water, smiling
mischievously.
Feeling slightly sick, Steve manages nonetheless to laugh. Wagging his finger
at the river, he says, “And there’s more where that came from if you don’t turn
Emma back!”
Still laughing, they hook each other’s arms and swagger off.
Surprisingly, the river is impressed. True, it’s not the epic wrestling match that
a hero of old might have managed, but at least they acknowledged his existence.
With the swirl of an eddy he motions to the sun, who dapples through the leaves
to show he’s listening.
“I was going to anyway, eventually,” says the river. “I mean, it’s not like any
toilets backed into me. Downstream may be another matter, but up here, well,
I’m never the same river twice, you know.”
“So you keep saying,” says the sun.
“Anyway, you might want to make sure our feathered friend is near the ground
before I break the curse. In five, four, three . . .”
Emma was never sure, afterwards, whether she truly regained her mind, but
aside from an aversion to freshwater fish and an alarming fondness for spending
the occasional night in a tree, she managed to live a reasonably normal life. Her
husband, it turns out, had never entirely given her up for lost, and had taken a job
as a forest ranger in the mad hope of someday hearing rumors of her whereabouts.
When hikers began telling stories of a wild woman dancing naked through the
forest, singing off key and off color, he was overjoyed, and derelict in his duties for
days until his beloved and disheveled wife was once more in his arms, squawking
and fretting, just like old times.
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Steve and Sarah are still married, last I heard, and mostly happy, but they
don’t go hiking much anymore. They heard the story of Emma’s return on the
news, same as anybody, but they never tried to contact her. Occasionally, they
build a bonfire in their back yard and invite some friends over to drink beer and
smoke marijuana, and, late in the night, if they’re drunk enough, and the mood
is mellow, they’ll pop in a CD of Handel’s Messiah and act out the story of an
owl named Hallelujah, a woman-turned-osprey named Emma, and the three,
harrowing, glorious days they spent tag-team wrestling a god.
<Return to main text>
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Reevaluating
Our Present
“There was in that shattering personality
a thread that must be called shyness.”
—G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy
You
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Death
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16 | Death
“’Cause when it’s over, it’s all over.”
—Rosie Thomas, Death Came and Got Me
I hate wasps. Especially, I hate wasps that are in the house. They buzz
around and swoop and bump into things, and ever since I was a child, I’ve
been afraid one would bump into me, get tangled in my hair and sting and
sting and sting. I’ve only been stung once, and that was outside and totally
my fault. The wasp was just innocently sunning itself on a lounge chair,
and I carelessly dropped a knee on top of it. I felt something ticklish, and
when I lifted my knee to investigate, the revelation of the tickler’s identity
made me cry.
The pain was intense but hardly fatal. The real reason I hate them is
because they look mean. They look like they’d as soon sting you as look at
you, and, unlike bees, they can sting multiple times without suffering any
harm to their backsides.
Now, Dad is pretty good about getting rid of stray bugs, sometimes
by killing them, sometimes by setting them free. One day (not nearly as
long ago as I might like you to imagine), he impressed the hell out of me by
walking through the living room with a wasp (that my mom had requested
be expunged from the kitchen) perched on the end of his finger. He carried
it out onto the porch and let it go.
So, the next time I saw a wasp in the house, I did what people have
always done: I followed my father’s example.
The wasp had been in the house for at least a day, buzzing furiously
against the ceiling in the room where I write. I had been happy, at the time,
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to discover that my childhood fear had diminished sufficiently that her
of the bench and gently twisted the toothbrush until she daintily stepped
presence didn’t nag me for the rest of the day.
off. I left her sitting there and returned to my shower feeling pretty damned
However. The next day.
pleased with myself.
The next day I pulled open the shower curtain and was about to step
in when I noticed something in the tub, a couple inches from the drain. If
Sometimes, through no fault of our own, we find ourselves trapped
you guessed that that something was the wasp, you are right. I weighed
in someone else’s house. One thing leads to another (the door handles are
my options: I could turn on the water with the hope of flushing her down
too big and unwieldy, the windows are all closed), and we find ourselves
the drain; I could get a paper towel from the kitchen and squash her; I
in a stranger’s bathtub, inches from the drain. This is where the Israelites
could postpone my shower for another day; or I could try to get her to
find themselves as the book of Exodus opens.
climb onto my finger.
They had moved to Egypt to escape a famine. The Bible has little to
As it turns out, my childhood fear has not diminished quite enough
say about their early days in Egypt, but one might imagine that once the
for that. I put a towel around my waist (and considered it courage to
famine was over, there was nothing to keep them from returning to the
refrain from donning all of my clothes and maybe a parka) and reluctantly
land of Canaan. Nothing, that is, but the familiar keepsakes of comfort
dismissed the first two options. The availability of the third made the first
and routine. They were welcomed guests, with plenty of good pasture land
two seem untenably cowardly and cruel. I had developed a little compas-
for their flocks, and they prospered.
sion for this tiny terror, this big lost bug, so I resolved to let her live, and
to set her free if I could.
But they weren’t free; they were under the authority of the Pharaoh, a
king both human and divine. So long as he was well-disposed toward the
I considered the worst possibility—that she would sting my fingertip—
Israelites, their lack of freedom seemed all but irrelevant, but it is the nature
and imagined spending the next few days typing with a swollen and painful
of kings (even divine ones) to die and be replaced. The next Pharaoh didn’t
finger. Then I decided to use my toothbrush.
know Joseph from Adam. He looked upon the strength of the Israelites,
When I first tapped her antennae with the tip of my toothbrush, the
and feared the day they turned against him. So, he made the now-classic
wasp raised her wings. I flinched, but managed to restrain myself from
mistake of giving them a reason. He set taskmasters over them and forced
leaping backward in alarm. The wasp repositioned her feet, but restrained
them to labor in his service.
herself from flying away. She explored the toothbrush with her feelers and
Well, kings come and kings go, so the Israelites did their jobs and
then, as if she had been waiting for just this opportunity, climbed aboard.
hoped that the next king would deal more charitably with them. And they
As I lifted her and walked toward the porch (holding her far out in front
continued to thrive. Pharaoh tried to weaken them by ordering his citizens
of me), I couldn’t help but be touched by her trust. Her wings were still
to throw all Hebrew baby boys into the Nile. Still, they acquiesced to their
raised, but she held firm as I walked outside, set the toothbrush on the seat
captivity. No doubt they tried to hide their boys as long as they could, but
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285
what was the point? You couldn’t hide a boy forever. Life can be harsh, and
out the flaws in your plan. “Who am I, that I should go and do such a thing?”
where else could they turn?
and “What if no one believes me?” and “Who should I tell them sent me?”
Only one Hebrew mother had the brilliant idea of enforcing the edict
and “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, O Lord God Almighty Most
herself: She threw her own child into the Nile. But first she put him in a
High, but the man who stands before you is thick of tongue and slow of
tiny boat (and I wonder if she took comfort from the story of Abraham
speech. Surely you should send someone more eloquent than I.” To the first
being ordered to sacrifice Isaac but getting him back in the end). Thus it
three questions, you answered, simply, “I’m sending you. I’m all you need.
came to pass that Moses was raised by Pharaoh’s daughter.
Tell them it’s me,” but to the final question, you said, “Fine! Your brother
Moses grew up, killed an Egyptian for beating up an Israelite, fled from
Aaron can speak the words I give you.” I imagine you were questioning
Pharaoh, got married, and was tending flocks when the Pharaoh died. He
your plan at this point, shaking your head in bemusement. Sure, you can
could have attempted to return to his people at that point, but he had grown
bring mountains low and raise valleys high, but can you do it using a rusty
accustomed to being a stranger in a strange land, and it’s not as though he
Tonka® Truck? Apparently, you decided you could.
fit in very well in Egypt, either among the Egyptians who adopted him, or
among his own people, so he remained in exile.
Meanwhile, the Israelites were finding out that the new Pharaoh was
Perhaps in an attempt to bolster the nervous creature’s confidence, you
imbued Moses’s hand and his shepherd’s staff with magical powers. (This
would later come back to haunt you both.)
no better than the old. While it seems likely that the killing of baby boys
In this way, Moses became God’s toothbrush to the Israelites. To put
declined (since otherwise, all the men of Israel would have been elderly
it less absurdly, he became the father of all of Israel. He returned to Egypt,
by the time the Exodus arrived), their oppression otherwise continued
where the Israelites believed him at once and rejoiced. It was Pharaoh who
unabated. It got bad enough that they actually started crying out to God
needed convincing.
for help.
Through Moses and Aaron, you claimed the Hebrews as your firstborn
It took them an awfully long time to get there, but once their prayers
son, and warned Pharaoh that continuing to hold them captive would result
reached your ears, you did not delay your rescue. The first thing you did
in the death of his own firstborn son. But Pharaoh thought he knew gods
was reach down with your toothbrush and place it in Moses’s way.
(being one himself). He had magicians of his own who could duplicate
Moses turned aside to investigate what appeared to him to be a burning bush, and thus began the greatest rescue mission in the history of the
world.
Moses’s tricks, and he knew that his magicians had no more access to true
magic than he had access to anything truly divine.
In the book of Exodus, God takes responsibility for hardening
Now, Moses was no Abraham for trust. He looked upon your mar-
Pharaoh’s heart, but I suspect you never needed actively to intervene.
velous, eternally self-pasting toothbrush, took off his shoes as instructed,
Everything in Pharaoh’s experience served that purpose well. Pharaoh was
listened to what you wanted him to do, and immediately started pointing
a very powerful fraud, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was that God,
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the True God, the Living God, the almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth,
was giving him the undue respect of treating him as an equal.
Death
287
You pile all five kids, along with their feckless father, into your SUV,
along with all the necessaries, and you head south. At first the kids are all
Ten plagues later, Pharaoh’s eldest was dead, and the Israelites, (close
giggling and high-fiving each other and calling you The Best Mom in the
to a million of them), were crossing the Red Sea (or the Sea of Reeds, or
Whole World, but before you reach Concord, two of them start complain-
whatever), as if on dry land. Pharaoh got royally pissed and sent his entire
ing that they’re hungry, another needs to go to the bathroom, and a fourth
army after them, and the waters closed over their heads.
is whining that you didn’t pack any good DVDs. Your husband faithfully
The Israelites rejoiced and sang and danced and frolicked, and then
decided they were hungry. They demanded of Moses, “Was it because there
relays everyone’s complaints as though you can’t hear them for yourself.
By the time you hit Connecticut, they’re saying, “I’m so bored. Why
weren’t enough graves in Egypt that you brought us out into the wilderness
are we even doing this? I wish we were back in school.”
to die?” Moses passed their message on to you, who, though exasperated,
Imagine you have a Taser™ in the glove box. . . .
sent quail and manna, and the pattern was established that would continue
But you decide not to use it, because you are, after all, The Best Mom
for three months until they reached Mount Sinai.
in the Whole World. You decide that, come hell or high water, you’re
going to get them all to Orlando, and they’re going to love it there. Your
Imagine you live in a small town in New Hampshire, and you’ve got
husband tells them about Space Mountain, Epcot Center and the amazing
five teenagers complaining endlessly about how much they hate school.
restaurants, the soft beds, the water slides, the complete lack of teachers
Now imagine you’re The Best (or possibly the Worst) Mom in the Whole
and principals, and this keeps them quiet for minutes at a time, but as you
World, and you decide to pull them all out of school and take them to
listen to them talk amongst themselves about all the things they’re planning
Walt Disney World. Your husband tells you that the principal will never
to do when they get there, your eyes narrow. You grow concerned. Concern
let the kids out of school, but you provide your man with all the necessary
turns to disgust. Disgust to anger.
paperwork, along with a list of excellent reasons, and you tell him to speak
You round on your children and start yelling at them to kindly
to the principal confidently and with authority. You remind him that you
remember that the only reason they aren’t sitting in classrooms right now
are a world famous so-and-so who is quite capable of eating high school
is because they have The Best Mom in the Whole World, and that they
principals for breakfast. When he continues to balk at the idea, you roll
would do well to keep that in mind at all times. Also, they should strenu-
your eyes and tell him to go ahead and bring his younger brother (the
ously avoid following the lead of their friends or their favorite musicians or
used car dealer) along with him. After a lengthy and perfectly unneces-
their favorite cartoon characters by doing anything that would make The
sary period of pulling strings and jumping through hoops, you manage to
Best Mom in the Whole World unhappy. You tell them there are severe
obtain the blessing of the pertinent authorities.
consequences to making The Best Mom in the Whole World unhappy,
and endless rewards for those who do as she says.
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You inform them they are never to use your famous name as a way of
He presents his list to the kids, reads it to them, and informs them that
getting into clubs or parties or any other social gatherings of which their
they will not be leaving the hotel until each one of them has memorized
parents would not approve.
the entire list. And then he sends them all to bed.
Furthermore, they are to be home by nine o’clock each evening, as
evenings are family time.
In addition to which, they are to stick together at all times, and never
go anywhere alone.
They shall stay away from drug dealers and prostitutes. They shall not
shoplift. They shall not deface property, they shall not tell lies about each
other, and last, but not least, there shall be. no. whining.
Red-faced and out of breath, you turn toward the front again, drop
your visor down, and glare at them in the mirror.
You wake up in the middle of the night to find that one of your kids
is walking in the door. You ask her where she’s been. You take note of the
empty bed, the empty cots and the one sleeping bag still occupied by your
middle child, and you ask your daughter where her brothers and sister are.
She shrugs and goes to bed. You wake up your husband.
He calls the cell phones of the missing three, finds out that none of
them are together, and orders them to come back to the hotel room this
instant. The two of you spend an anxious hour waiting, but finally the last
one shows up, drunk and probably high. You heave a huge sigh of relief,
Your second oldest says, “Dad? We like it better when Mom just tells
while your husband screams at them till he’s hoarse, and angrily rips his
you what to say and you yell at us. Can you ask Mom not to yell at us
meticulous list into tiny shreds. He will spend the rest of the night copy-
anymore? We’ll totally do whatever you tell us.”
ing out the list again.
Your husband is mightily pleased by this request, so he stops somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina, checks into a motel, and
spends hours coming up with a comprehensive list of rules for his children
Do you see what I did just there? I just made the entire law of Moses
out to be an elaborate attempt to keep children in line.
to follow. He starts with the laws you’ve already laid down and then adds
a few of his own. He asks your approval for each one, but honestly, you’re
The law exists to protect people from themselves and each other.
just happy he’s finally taking a real interest in disciplining the kids. He
When you spoke the ten commandments from fire on the mountain, you
writes them all down:
had this to say about punishment: “I the Lord your God am a jealous
They’re to check in at regular intervals. They shall not deface property.
God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the
They shall not go swimming until at least half an hour after eating. There
fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to
shall be no pushing, no running with scissors, no fart jokes. . . . You get
the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my command-
the idea.
ments.” Breaking any one of these commandments leads as surely to death
as eating that one piece of fruit in Eden, but neither you nor society need
lift a finger to bring about that death. Indeed, the lawbreaker may die
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abed at a ripe old age, yet the repercussions of his actions will haunt his
descendants for three or four generations. On the other hand, living in
accordance with these commandments may bring no visible reward at all
to the law-fulfiller, but for a thousand generations her descendants will
be unaccountably blessed, perhaps with prosperity, but more likely with
peace, the goodwill of neighbors, and blessings of that nature.
All the time between your speech from the fire on the mountain and
2010 a.d. is insufficient for a thousand generations to be conceived. It’s
simple math, but worth taking a moment to consider that, at the lowest
possible generational span of 13 years, a thousand generations would equal
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Some Pharisees came, and to test him they asked, “Is it lawful
for a man to divorce his wife?” He answered them, “What did Moses
command you?” They said, “Moses allowed a man to write a certificate
of dismissal and to divorce her.” But Jesus said to them, “Because of
your hardness of heart he wrote this commandment for you. But
from the beginning of creation, ‘God made them male and female.’
‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined
to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’ So they are no longer
two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no
one separate.”
Then in the house the disciples asked him again about this matter.
He said to them, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another
commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and
marries another, she commits adultery. (Mark 10:2-12)
13,000 years. I know—it’s not meant to be taken literally—but still.
As for the myriad rest of the rules listed in the Pentateuch, Jesus
undermined them all by undermining the one about divorce.
The law of Moses states:
To hear Matthew tell the same story, Jesus allowed an exception in the
case of infidelity, but (as I understand it) Matthew is generally considered
to have copied off of Mark, who records no such allowance. To my way of
thinking, Jesus’s point here, and in several other places in the Gospels, is
Suppose a man enters into marriage with a woman, but she does
not please him because he finds something objectionable about her,
and so he writes her a certificate of divorce, puts it in her hand, and
sends her out of his house; she then leaves his house and goes off to
become another man’s wife. Then suppose the second man dislikes her,
writes her a bill of divorce, puts it in her hand, and sends her out of
his house (or the second man who married her dies); her first husband,
who sent her away, is not permitted to take her again to be his wife
after she has been defiled; for that would be abhorrent to the Lord,
and you shall not bring guilt on the land that the Lord your God is
giving you as a possession. (Deuteronomy 24:1-4)
The rule states that a woman’s first husband can’t remarry her if she
becomes single again after her second marriage. The phrasing of the rule
assumes a neutral stance toward no-fault divorce, but several centuries
later, Mark writes:
simply that it’s impossible for anyone to keep the law, and even if someone
were to manage such a feat (such as the man several verses later who asks
how to inherit eternal life) it wouldn’t be enough to attain salvation.
Because behavior isn’t the problem. The problem is deeper and more
intractable than behavior. When Nicodemus was seeking similar answers
in the gospel of John, Jesus told him that “no one can see the kingdom of
God without being born from above” (John 3:3).
Nicodemus had no idea what he meant by that, and Jesus said, “Are
you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?” I
think most teachers to this day don’t understand. It’s possible that I don’t
understand either, but here’s my stab at putting it plainly: God is leading
us to our death. And I don’t mean metaphorically.
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Okay, stay with me here. You’ve come this far. . . .
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That’s metaphor. In real life, when the Israelites refused to enter the
land of Canaan, you led them through the wilderness for forty years, until
Several days later, you pull into the mammoth parking lot of Walt
everyone of a certain age had died. Only then did you lead Joshua and Caleb
Disney World. It’s late in the afternoon, but you want your beloved chil-
(who alone had urged everyone to enter in and take possession of the land),
dren to catch a glimpse of what’s in store for them, so you send them in for
along with the children of those rescued, into the Promised Land.
one hour. Fifteen minutes later, four of them return, complaining that the
Your original plan was to lead the Israelites from Egypt straight to
lines are too long, the rides look lame, and there are all kinds of gigantic,
Canaan. You said to Moses, “I will send an angel before you, and I will
creepy-looking mice and ducks and dogs roaming about.
drive out the Canaanites.”
As you sit in stunned silence, unable to process their reactions, swiping tears of fury off your cheeks, you notice that your middle child hasn’t
returned. Add worry to the list of emotions you’re experiencing.
Just as the hour is about to expire, he runs up to the car, wearing mouse
If the flood was coming anyway, and God had a plan that would have
saved everyone, and the only reason it failed is that Adam and Eve didn’t
trust God. . . .
ears, holding a mouse-eared balloon, and grinning from ear to ear. He
climbs into his usual place in the back row and starts babbling about how
If the seven-year famine was inevitable, and only Joseph’s extraordi-
much he loves Disney World, and about all the things he saw, and how he
nary faithfulness in you (despite thirteen years of unfair incarceration)
can’t wait to come back tomorrow. . . .
saved Egypt, and only Judah’s willingness to sacrifice himself saved his
But the kids in the other rows explain loudly and in no uncertain terms
family . . .
that there’s no way they’re coming back tomorrow—this is the lamest, most
pointless trip ever, and they just want to go back home.
Then it follows that the Israelites arrived at the borders of Canaan
You explain, quietly, in a dull monotone, that the strings you pulled
at precisely the right time to drive the inhabitants out of the land with
back home were such as to make them all very unpopular in the county, if
a minimum of effort. Perhaps the Canaanites would have fled in terror,
not the whole state, and that you had been planning on staging a hostile
having heard of all God had done on Israel’s behalf in Egypt. But the
takeover of one of Disney World’s resorts. You explain further that the
Israelites held their lives too dear, and forty years later the memory of the
only other option is to buy a new house and enroll them all in school again,
ten plagues that had vanquished Pharaoh had grown dim in Canaan, and
until everyone turns 18 and can go their own way, and then, once they’re all
thus, the children of the rescued Israelites had to fight and kill in order to
gone, you’re going to take your middle child back to Disney World, where
secure a home for themselves.
he’ll be able to stay as long as he wants. . . .
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This is a difficult teaching, because it means that distrust and disobedi1
ence have dire consequences, consequences that surely are still being felt
today, some three thousand years later.
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everything I think I know: “Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word
will never see death” (John 8:51).
Here’s the crux of my confusion: Didn’t Jesus himself die? It was on
This sounds an awful lot like bad news.
a cross, as I recall. It’s one of the few things almost everyone agrees upon
The good news requires trust and obedience, and who among us has
when discussing the history of Jesus.
either?
Without the trust and obedience of Joshua and Caleb, the nation of
Israel may well have died in that wilderness, their story forgotten.
In the other three canonical gospels, Jesus says, “If any want to become
my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow
me” (Matthew 16:24, Mark 8:34, Luke 9:23). I can’t say that I truly under-
So the good news is that one or two who are faithful can save the
stand this teaching, but, apparently, our freedom is on the other side of
lives of millions, for generations to come. But, the craven fearfulness of
death. Apparently, it’s possible both to die an excruciating death and to
the many brings death. Death in the wilderness instead of death in the
never see death.
Promised Land.
So, um. The good news is death? Yes, I know—this is precisely what
Truly, you led the Israelites into the wilderness to die. Yet some of
the church has been saying for thousands of years. It’s just . . . well, the
their children live on, because of the faithfulness of a very few. Yet even
situation hasn’t changed much, has it? A handful of people throughout
they, even we, still are destined to die.
church history have said, in effect, “You heard the man: Deathward, ho!”
Who will solve this riddle for us? Who will cut through this Gordian
knot? Is there no way to save us from ourselves?
But, speaking for myself, I’ve generally been happy to sit in the pew, sing a
few songs, recite the Nicene Creed, snack on bread and wine, and gener-
Jesus reportedly said, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my
ally avoid dying. I hear the words, “Whoever does not carry the cross and
disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free”
follow me cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:27), and I might feel a flutter
(John 8:31-32). Sounds good, but what does he mean? What, exactly, is
of confusion and hypocrisy, but what am I supposed to do about it? The
his word, and how can we continue in it? What is the truth, and how will
gospels are teeming with these hard sayings that surely must have some
it set us free?
metaphorical meaning that excuses us from actually, you know, walking
The crowd was as confused as I am, believing themselves to be children
to our deaths.
of Abraham and slave to no one, but Jesus assured them that they would
In the early years of the Christian religion, persecutions were a point
die in their sins, that their father was the devil, and that “whoever is from
of pride with churchgoers. In some parts of the world they still are, but
God hears the words of God. The reason you do not hear them is that you
not in my part of the world. Here in New Hampshire I have my choice
are not from God” ( John 8:47). All of that fits well with my understanding
of churches to attend or not attend without any worries that the authori-
of the world in which we live, but then he said something that contradicts
ties will cast a baleful eye upon my worship. That’s a good thing, right? If
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there were persecutions, I’d have a chance to suffer under them, but since
I don’t, well, yay! Right?
Unfortunately, I think I’ve been missing something fairly basic about
my so-called “faith.” I don’t think it’s that I’m supposed to give up drinking, smoking and swearing, or that I should at least give up pancakes for
Lent. I think I’m supposed to be lowering all my defenses, giving up all my
security and wandering around until Jesus shows up and finds me. And,
frankly, I don’t wanna.
But I do wanna follow Jesus, and I do wanna be free.
Shit.
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The Lion & the Donkey (1995), inspired by 1 Kings 13
1
“Hildiah,” said the Lord, “There comes a man I want you to kill.” God was a
snow-white lamb, such as Hildiah loved to eat. He wondered, half-seriously, if the
Lord would mind being eaten. Hildiah had been lying in the shade of a vine when
the lamb had approached him and curled up fearlessly between his great tawny
forepaws. Reclining his head upon Hildiah’s chest, the Lord nuzzled his mane.
“My Lord?” said Hildiah, recognizing the lightning-brightness of the wool.
“There comes a man,” repeated the lamb, “who is great in my kingdom. Him I
want you to kill; even this very day.”
Hildiah’s strength bristled within him; his chest surged with wounded pride.
“Just one, my Lord?” With a single swipe of his paw Hildiah could cave in the side
of a bull’s head. One man would provide no challenge at all. He wanted to be like
Phrygeon, who had killed five hundred hyenas even though he was the runt of the
litter. He wanted his deeds to be remembered for all time. With great effort he
managed to put away his disappointment. “Thy will be done, my Lord,” he said.
“This man,” said God, scratching the top of his head against Hildiah’s chin,
“has been sent by me to prophecy death to the priests of the altars, whom Jeroboam has appointed from among the people, for verily their bones shall be burnt
on the very altars at which they sacrifice. For I am the Lord. They shall have no
other gods before me.”
“Amen,” said Hildiah, “Lord have mercy.”
“I have further instructed him not to eat or drink anything in this place, nor
to return by the way he came, for I am the Lord.”
“Amen,” said Hildiah, “Lord have mercy.”
“Nevertheless, he has been deceived by another who bears my name, and is even
now at sup with him. For this reason, he will never be buried with his ancestors
but will die in Israel, though he belongs to Judah.”
“Amen,” said Hildiah, “er—”
The Lord stood up and stretched his tender frame. “Here he comes now.”
“Lord,” said Hildiah, “What is his name?”
“That,” said the Lord God Most High, “is a secret, and will remain so until
the end.”
The lamb kissed Hildiah on the muzzle, then walked slowly away.
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Hildiah stood also and shook his mane. Just at that moment, from over a ridge,
appeared the man of whom the Lord had spoken. He was riding on a donkey
who, at the sight of Hildiah, paused and seemed to sag. A terrible suffering was
in its eyes, and Hildiah was moved. What had the Lord told the donkey? Did
it know that its master would be killed today, from off its very back? The man
himself seemed lost in thought, not caring whether he was moving or not, or in
which direction.
Hildiah had always admired donkeys, ever since hearing the story of Balaam’s
ass, the one who had refused to carry his master forward when it saw the angel
of death lying in wait up ahead. Three times it had turned aside, courageously
enduring its master’s whip. Would this donkey turn aside also? His eyes dark
with uncertainty, Hildiah crouched beside a vine and waited.
With a sigh that was loud enough for Hildiah to hear, though it was still
some distance away, the donkey resumed its walking, bearing the man forward.
Hildiah’s stomach growled, followed by his throat, as he allowed his hunting
instinct to erase all doubts and uncertainties. A feast lay before him, and the Lord
had ordained it. He would do as the Lord had commanded.
He sensed the donkey watching him, though his own eyes were on the man.
He began his charge. Still the man seemed oblivious to everything around him.
Would he not even look up, to face the doom the Lord had prepared for him?
He gathered himself for a leap and in that same instant the man did look up,
just as if he had expected Hildiah to choose that moment to pounce. In the instant
before Hildiah’s paw crushed his cheek, the man mouthed words. Hildiah had no
understanding of human speech, but he was almost sure the words meant “sorry”.
The man even managed a sad smile before Hildiah’s paw connected.
His leap took him clear over the donkey, and he was so shocked by the man’s
demeanor that his chin smashed into the road. He stood up slowly, shaking his
head, his vision filled with the man’s gentle smile and calm, sad eyes. He turned,
and saw the donkey standing over the man, weeping bitterly. Hildiah moved quietly to the donkey’s side, and together the two kept silent vigil until evening fell,
when another man, and another donkey, came to bear the man of God away.
While the other man dismounted and knelt beside the crumpled body, his
donkey continued toward the lion and the first donkey, and for a moment the
three of them nuzzled each other in mute and mutual sorrow, until Hildiah’s
emotions overwhelmed him, and he loped away.
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For the rest of his life Hildiah could never look at a donkey without experiencing an overwhelming sense of grief, and he never again wished for deeds that
would be remembered.
<Return to main text>
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17 | Resurrection
“Cut the cord.”
—The Killers, Human
Gametes know nothing about zygotes, embryos know nothing
about fetuses, and I know nothing about resurrection, except that Jesus
said, “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and
dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John
12:24).
I also know that the story of Jesus’s death and resurrection has borne
an inordinate amount of fruit.
In the course of writing about Judah and Tamar, I looked up the
name “Tamar” in Wikipedia. It means “date palm,” (Phoenix dactylifera),
and clicking various links brought me to the wiki about a cultivar of
the date palm called the Judean date palm, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
Judean_date_palm) which was “prized for its beauty, shade, and medicinal
properties,” and was “considered a staple in the Judean Desert, as it was
a source of food, shelter and shade for thousands of years, and became a
recognized symbol of the Kingdom of Judea.”
It went extinct between 150 and 500 a.d. (as of this writing, Wikipedia
claims both). Then, “in the 1970s, during excavations at Herod the Great’s
palace on Masada in Israel, two thousand year old Judean date palm seeds
were recovered.”
A more authoritative article (http://news.nationalgeographic.com/
news/2008/06/080612-oldest-tree.html) notes that Masada is where a
group of Jewish zealots held out for seven months against a Roman seige
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303
in 70 a.d. They chose to commit mass suicide rather than submit to Roman
it bathed at dawn. The Greek god Helios (god of the sun), is said to have
rule, and a witness who recorded the story mentioned their food stores in
paused in his travel across the sky to listen to its song.
order to dispel any rumors that the zealots might have starved to death.
In the previous chapter, I wrote, “Then it follows that the Israelites
The cache of seeds was found in an ancient jar, having spent the past
arrived at the borders of Canaan at precisely the right time to drive the
two millennia in a very dry, sheltered environment. Radiocarbon dating
inhabitants out of the land with a minimum of effort.” Then I stopped
at the University of Zurich confirmed the age of the seeds at 2,000 (±50)
writing for a week, because my imagination was unequal to the task of
years. After their discovery, the seeds were held in storage for thirty years
suggesting how this could possibly be true, and yet if my thoughts about
at Bar-Ilan University. Then:
the flood, and about the significance of Judah’s willingness to sacrifice
On 25 January 2005, the Jewish festival of Tu Bishvat (Arbor
Day), Dr. Elaine Solowey, a specialist in rare and medicinal plants at
the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies pretreated several of
the seeds in a fertilizer and hormone-rich solution. She then planted
three of the seeds at Kibbutz Ketura in the Arabah desert of southern
Israel. One of the seeds sprouted six weeks later. As of June 2008, the
tree has nearly a dozen fronds, and is nearly 1.4 m (4 ft) tall.
The plant has been nicknamed “Methuselah,” after the longestlived person in the Bible. Methuselah is remarkable in being the
oldest known tree seed successfully germinated, and also in being
the only living representative of the Judean date palm, a tree extinct
for over 1800 years, which was once a major food and export crop in
ancient Judea.
Date palm trees are dioecious. If Methuselah is female, it may
produce fruit by 2010. Methuselah’s seeds could then be used to
cultivate additional Date palm trees.
The genus name, Phoenix, is only tangentially related to the mythical
bird. The Greek word φοίνιξ, meaning the color purple-red or crimson,
also refers to the Phoenicians (who were famous for their purple dyes).
The Phoenicians were the Canaanites, and it is from them that the Greeks
were introduced to palm dates. The Greeks used the same word for the
mythical bird, who they believed lived in Phoenicia, next to a well in which
himself for the sake of his brother, had any merit, it seemed essential that
I be able to draw a parallel between those things and the Israelite’s refusal
to enter Canaan. At the end of the week, I was still stuck, but I started
writing anyway, and the answer came as quickly as I could type: “Perhaps
the Canaanites would have fled in terror, having heard of all God had done
on Israel’s behalf in Egypt.” I have no idea if it’s the truth, but in retrospect,
it seems the obvious answer. Regardless, the process illustrates the point
I’m trying to make: Seeds know nothing about plants, but if they’ll take
the step in front of them, the step after that will be revealed in due time.
Soon enough, the seed will become the plant it was meant to be.
After 2,000 years, the seeds from Herod’s temple had not forgotten how
to become Judean date palms. Let us hope the same may be said of us.
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de gelidis (1998)
with crocus courage
i unfold myself to you.
forsaking the dense,
safe
instransigence of corm,
thrusting through frost,
rootward and skyward,
and striking the ice with petals.
will you answer my plaintive, purple cry
with warmth and springtime and glory?
or have i come forth too soon, unbidden,
a lapis lazuli lazarus,
only to perish in this shroud of snow?
R eevaluating Our Pr esent
R esurrection
The Christmas Serpent (199?)
I was born on Christmas Eve—I mean the real one.
My mother carved the moment out of stone.
My Little Beast of the Apocalypse, she called me, as if it made her proud.
I watched the baby Jesus grow up strong.
I saw his faithful love move more than mountains.
I was there when he met Legion, that band of demons that begged mercy.
He cast them into pigs at their request.
I thought, If he can pity demons, might he even accept . . . me?
One Friday morn I watched rough hands lay a cross upon his shoulders
And march him towards a place they called the Skull.
I must admit I watched with glee
for heaven’s might to blast them.
They nailed him high, the sky grew dark—
I shut my eyes and waited—
But nothing happened.
I searched the sky for angels;
There were none there to be found
until at last I bellowed forth to save him;
only then a flaming sword appeared and held my wrath at bay.
“What are you doing?” I cried. “We can’t just let him die!”
The sword began to droop, the face behind it writhed in pain,
Tears welled up in shining eyes that glanced at Christ with yearning,
But the sword remained.
At three o’clock the Lord of heaven died.
Eli! Eli lema sabachthani!
Can you hear it?
I was born on Christmas Eve; I saw the Savior crucified.
I spent that Sabbath grieving at his tomb.
But then, on Sunday morning, that same angel who opposed me
asked if I might like a chance to move a mountain.
In sorrow and confusion I was slow in my reply,
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307
but the angel’s glowing face seemed almost giddy.
He pointed to the stone that sealed the grave.
I rolled it back, expecting they would take him up to heaven,
and sad I was to see his body leave.
But lo! While angels all around me fell down crashing to their knees,
The man inside walked forth into the dawn.
He looked a little weary, but he had the strength to smile,
And he threw his arms around my neck and laughed.
That laugh!
18 | Ascension
I was the first of the born-again dragons.
gave them yourself, for you desired to be united to them in what can only
“So I won’t be afraid of anything ever again.”
—The Mountain Goats, 1 John 4:16
God, in your foolishness, gives extravagantly. In your economy,
to give a part is to give the whole. In giving Adam and Eve themselves and
the Garden, you explicitly gave them everything in the world. You even
be described as marriage. The stewardship of the whole world you gave
them in dowry, and they were free to do with it as they pleased.
Because you see the heart, your judgments are always just. You never
accuse; you submit, and you suffer the consequences. By implicitly (and
falsely) accusing God and the woman of causing him to sin, Adam was
acting as Satan acts. By so doing, he was declaring Satan his king. Eve,
likewise, even as she accused the serpent of tricking her, accepted Satan’s
rule.
Like Esau selling his birthright to Jacob for the price of a bowl of
soup, Adam and Eve sold everything for which they were jointly responsible, including themselves, to the serpent, in exchange for which all the
serpent had to do was take responsibility for tricking Eve into eating a
piece of fruit.
Fortunately, you take responsibility for everything, including a gift
misgiven, and you weren’t about to let the world languish forever. You had
a plan, which you laid out in the form of a series of curses. For each curse
you proclaimed, you yourself would suffer the greater share.
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The ground was cursed, for under its new management, violent blood
would be shed upon it.
Your suffering would be greater than the earth’s, for you would feel
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Finally, Adam and Eve were ejected from the Garden, lest they eat of
the fruit of the Tree of Life, and live forever under Satan’s rule.
You would feel the separation far more keenly.
each death as if it were your own.
This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. We were created (through
Adam would no longer be able to subsist solely on fruit, but would
have to toil and sweat in order to provide for his family.
Your work would be harder, for your family had no faith in your ability to provide.
a grueling process of natural and supernatural selection) to be your equal.
Not that any one of us would be your equal, but that all of us, together,
would be a match for you. You wanted to marry us, to be intimately united
with Homo sapiens. The ceremony was supposed to take place in the Garden.
It was going to be . . . well, words cannot describe the glory of the day that
Eve would have greater pain in labor, for the natural pain of childbirth
would be augmented and intensified by anxiety and fear.
The pain of your labor would be even more terrible, for the child to
whom you were giving birth would resist being born.
should have been.
Not that marriage is the right word, of course. It’s just the closest word
we have. Adam and Eve were the parents of the bride, and all the surface
of the world was given them for the dowry, given before the bride was
even born. But they sold their souls to the devil for a piece of fruit, a bite
Satan, if he was anything more then a simple snake, would be stripped
of knowledge that they could never disgorge. The devil was opposed to
of his wings, and of his legs, and humbled to the point of crawling in the
the union, since he believed we would displace him as your closest friend.
dust on his belly.
So he whispered to us that God didn’t really love us or trust us fully. He
Your humiliation would be even more complete, for you would be cuckolded and scorned and killed by the people you had chosen to marry.
thought that if he could get us to betray you, then you would have no
choice but to reject us.
Our betrayal is a knife in your heart. Every time. But you saw that
There would be enmity between Eve’s offspring and the serpent, for
Adam had eaten the fruit because he would rather die than live without Eve.
the offspring was innocent of the choice to relinquish what should have
And thus Satan’s plan backfired, for it made you love Adam all the more.
been his birthright.
You, who had borne Satan’s rebellion without rancor, would now have
to act as an enemy toward an angel you had formed in love.
You saw that Eve had eaten the apple because she had wanted to be
more like you. You were touched. And you saw that she had blamed the
serpent in order to show solidarity with her husband.
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And yes, you saw that Satan wanted to undermine your love for these
good with them. Perhaps, instead, Satan made his creation a hell for its
people because he so valued his intimacy with you that he didn’t want to
inhabitants, keeping their failures always before them, punishing them for
lose it.
their imperfections, imprisoning them in the torture chambers of regret.
All of them were guilty of not trusting you. All of them hurt you. But
He had been created—as an accuser—good. But who was there to
none of them lost your love that day, for you are all love, and Adam had
accuse the accuser? His own creation was imperfect, and unlike God, he
given you an idea for how to win back the objects of your affection.
had no love for it. Since it was his, and he was responsible for it, he himself
It was a risky plan, and it has gone wrong at any number of points, but
fell under his own accusation. Assuming that you are all good, all love, I
you have never given up. You are fighting for your one true love, and for
have to assume further that this was not an inevitable result of your gift to
and against your once and future best friend.
him of creation’s detritus, even if it was, perhaps, a sizable risk. Hell could
It is no easy battle, for while Satan is no match for you, humanity
is. Christian doctrine states that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and
have been a wonderful place, a second chance for those who had failed in
their first world.
omnipresent. With such words we shear you of your glory, for they imply
But it wasn’t, and you were loth to allow Satan to take Adam and Eve’s
that all this is but a game, one that you could win with the wave of your
immortal souls there, or to lose all their descendants. So you offered him
hand whenever you so desire. But it’s not true. You could lose. Perhaps
perfect, unblemished portions of creation instead. The immortal portions
even now. You need us to reject Satan’s lies and trust you, and so far, we
of the sheep were consigned to hell. You hoped, through Adam and Eve’s
have mostly failed.
line, to redeem both the failures and the redeemers in the end.
Your first step was to buy back your bride, using the animals you slew
Here’s the heartbreaking part: Adam was wrong. Even if eating the
to clothe them as payment. If they were sheep, as I have imagined, you
fruit indeed brought death to whoever ate of it, Adam was wrong in believ-
could simply have sheared them, but, instead, you offered up their lives in
ing that his only choice was between sharing Eve’s fate and losing her forever.
exchange for Adam and Eve’s.
Had he trusted you, and refused the fruit from her hand, he could have
played the part of the sheep, and given his life in exchange for hers.
Perhaps it’s too far into the realm of speculation, but I imagine (some-
Had he done so, it would have been a true and lasting testament to his
time before the incident in the Garden) that Satan once asked you for
love, both for you and for Eve. Satan would not have been given dominion
the crumbs beneath your table, with which to create a world of his own.
over this world, and Eve would have lived on, heartbroken, humbled and
Perhaps you liked this idea, and hoped that Satan would take the scraps
amazed.
of your creation (those creatures and species who died for lack of heeding
Perhaps she would have found another mate, but even if she never did,
the Spirit’s direction and failed the test of evolution) and do something
even if she never had children, she could still have been the mother of the
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human race in the same way that Abraham would become the father of
when confronted with the power systems that were imprisoning his people,
Israel. To be so entirely loved changes a person. It makes one want, some-
he followed Abel’s example and simply died. He died for Adam, for Eve,
how, to return the favor.
for the sheep that had been sacrificed to redeem them, for Cain, and for
The world, and God’s plans for it, could have continued without Adam,
everyone else who was subject to Satan’s dominion.
but, instead, we got the sacrificial system of the Israelites, wherein sheep
He did this by serving as the priest for his own sacrifice. As a sacrifice
and cattle and doves had to be sacrificed in order to redeem Israel’s first-
he went to hell just as so many bulls and rams and doves had gone before
born sons and all their myriad sins. These are species who have learned to
him, and (to coin a phrase) all hell broke loose, and everyone in hell broke
live alongside human beings, who have evolved to depend on us for their
free.
survival, who gave their lives so that the race of Adam might survive, doing
daily what Adam failed to do just once.
So hell was broken, and a few short decades later, the temple was
destroyed, and the system of animal sacrifice was dismantled. The Israelites
were scattered, plunged into chaos and anarchy, wherein everyone had no
This was not an unavoidable system, for whoever puts her whole trust
in God belongs to God, that is, she proves Satan’s accusation false, and she
choice but to do “what was right in their own eyes.” Thereby was Israel’s
former glory finally restored.
rejects his kingship, just as Abel had done by choosing to be a shepherd
instead of a farmer.
Satan serves the good purpose of testing creation, of shining light into
Such people have no need of a redeemer, but such people are few and
the dark places, to ferret out what is evil, that it may be purged, so that
far between. Ruth was one such, having left her home and her people and
those who remain may live in peace. The problem is that all of human-
clung to her mother-in-law, and to her mother-in-law’s God. She (who was
ity, beginning with Adam and Eve, have taken on Satan’s job, accusing
descended from Lot’s rape and incest) became the great-grandmother of
each other of not doing it right, of not being good enough, smart enough
David. Mary was another. She responded to Gabriel’s announcement by
or likable enough. And yes, that also includes me. That’s so me, it hurts.
saying, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according
Witness chapter six.
to your word” (Luke 1:38). Finally, Jesus, by walking the path that was
Those who walk with God in spite of the Fall are rebels who dare defy
set before him, by healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and preaching the
their rightful lord. Meaning they look upon the evil in the world and choose
good news that those who had been imprisoned would soon be set free, by
to put their hope in you. Which is also me. And that also hurts, but in a
trusting you, not only with his life, but with the manner of his dying, was
different way. Witness also chapter six.
able to accomplish what Adam could not.
Many who followed him assumed that, were he really the Messiah,
then Israel would be restored to its former glory as a world power. Instead,
We are, each one of us, God and Satan. Certainly, we are also merely
ourselves, but we embody, we channel, we take on the roles of both God
and Satan, often in tandem. Witness Peter:
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He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Simon Peter
answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus
answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and
blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I
tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and
the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys
of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be
bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in
heaven.’ Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that
he was the Messiah.
From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must
go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders
and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be
raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying,
‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’ But he turned
and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to
me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human
things’” (Matthew 16:15-23).
Jesus told the parable of the foolish man who built his house on sand,
and the first big storm washed his house away, but the wise man built his
house on rock, and it was therefore able to weather every storm. But the
rock upon which Jesus built his church is Peter, who is, at best, a very small
rock. He is joined by myriads upon myriads of yet smaller rocks named
you and me. Rocks so small we can only be described, in aggregate, as sand.
We are the foundation upon which Jesus is building his church, and Satan
is outraged. Houses should be built on Solid Rock, as Jesus himself has
said. Except that that’s not exactly what Jesus said. Jesus only said it was
the wise thing to do. God’s foolishness is far above the highest wisdom.
I’ve always liked crickets. Their chorus on a summer day fills me with
peace of the sort that comes from rain on the roof after a stressful day. Still,
I prefer them to be heard and not seen. They’re still bugs, and, as such, are
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creepy and alien to me. So I wasn’t overjoyed, as I prepared to step into the
shower, to find a large cricket sitting in the tub. He wasn’t anywhere near
the drain, and he did not appear to be on the edge of despair. He may not
even have realized that he was trapped by the slick walls that surrounded
him. I knew there would be no gaining this creature’s trust, no toothbrush
journey to the porch, and yet killing him or washing him down the drain
were unthinkable options. If I would save a wasp, I could hardly kill a
cricket. So I took a paper towel, herded him into a corner and waited until
he leaped in panic onto the paper, then pulled him free from the tub, where
he leaped away, only to cower where the wall meets the floor, no less lost,
but a little closer to free, if only he had the courage to travel. I took my
shower and forgot all about him.
The following day, as I reached for my towel to start the grooming
process all over again, I noticed the cricket sitting in the juncture where
wall meets wall, inches from my towel. I have no idea what a cricket’s brain
is capable of, but I couldn’t help wondering whether he had made the connection between the lesser paper towel and the greater cloth towel. Maybe
he could smell me. Maybe he was there for an entirely random reason. I
couldn’t help but wonder if he had parked himself next to the greater towel
in anticipation of being carried to a greater freedom.
1
What am I, the Lord of Lost Insects now? I left him where he was
and took my shower. When I was through, he was gone. But if I had truly
loved him, I would indeed have put my pants back on, wrapped him gently
in my towel and carried him to a better home. God is bigger than we are,
and he does not require our cooperation or even our trust in order to set us
free. Trusting him is simply a way of being less stressed out over whatever
transit method he chooses for our delivery.
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How the Bumblebee Learned to Fly (1996)
1
In the latter days of Solomon, when God was wishing the king had asked
for monogamy, the Deus Omnia Rerum (that is, the God of All Creation), began
tinkering with his creatures, both to confound the king’s vaunted wisdom and
to get his own mind off the number and variety of queens. Among the results
of his endeavors were a type of badger that exceedingly stank, a type of cat that,
while continuing to hate every creature but itself, yet desired to be a pet, and a
type of beaver that was also a duck. But most puzzling of all was a bee who was
too big for its wings.
This bee was content to wander the earth, shimmying up flower stems and
industriously collecting pollen. It used its wings to cool itself off and, though it
admitted that flying must be a wonderful thing, it never complained nor envied
other bees in its heart. Occasionally, for the amusement of friends and small
children, it would use its wings to lift itself up onto its hind legs and strut around
in mock self-importance. But sometimes, if its friends laughed too heartily or for
too long, the bee would get a little sad.
One day, a little girl, who hadn’t any parents, asked the bee why it didn’t fly
but only bumbled about on the ground. As the bee had no answer, and Mathilda
(for that was the little girl’s name) could think of only one person wise enough to
answer, she scooped up the bee and immediately skipped to the palace.
“I am the Queen of Sheba,” she announced to the guards, her hands clasped
grandly in front of her, “and I demand to see the King!” As the guards paid no
attention, she marched right past them and into the palace. She encountered the
king in an antechamber, lying naked and having his back rubbed. He appeared
to be fast asleep.
Drawing a breath and composing her features, Mathilda approached in a
stately manner. She put her mouth quite close to the royal ear and shouted, “Your
Highness!” then jumped back when the king looked up in alarm.
“What?” he said. “Oh. Hello, there.” He smiled, a little bleary-eyed, then
frowned when he noticed her hands. Oh, he said to his wisdom, One of them.
“I suppose,” he said, addressing Mathilda, “that you want me to guess what
you’re holding.”
Mathilda screwed up her eyes and shook her head
“You want me to judge which hand should let go of the other?”
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Mathilda shook her head more emphatically.
The king frowned. “You want me to order the guards to cut you in half!” Even
he had to admit he was getting crotchety in his old age.
Mathilda continued to swing her head from side to side, but it was hard for
the king to tell whether she did so now in denial of his guesses or simply to enjoy
the swishing of her hair.
“Well, then, what is it?” said the king.
Mathilda stopped swinging her head and bit her bottom lip. She glanced from
left to right, then skated her bare feet closer to the king.
“Why would God,” she whispered, opening her hands before the king’s face,
“make a bee that’s too bumbledy to fly?”
The king peered at the overlarge insect in the little girl’s hands and frowned
using only his eyebrows. “Well, it is rather big,” he said, “And unshapely. And it’s
wings are a mite too short, but,” and here he looked sharply at Mathilda, “are you
quite certain it can’t fly at all?”
The bee stepped forward nervously onto Mathilda’s finger and tremblingly
bowed. With all its might it buzzed, lifting itself slowly onto its sturdy hind legs
and then stepped from the finger and plunged straight to the floor.
“Good God!” said the king, sitting up in alarm. (The masseuse was hasty to
cover him.) In a trice he was down on his hands and knees and studying the
slightly dazed insect. “It really can’t fly,” mused the king, as he studied the bee
up and down. “Why should that be?”
For fifteen minutes and more the king studied, and suddenly he brought his
hand down slap! onto the floor beside the bee. Though it flinched, it made no move
to fly. Fifteen minutes and more and more, and the king, in frustration, blew with
all his might, but the bee did no more than roll. He chased it, yelling, and the
bee buzzed along, running terrified on its thickly hind legs, but though the king
threatened to crush it, it didn’t so much as hop. At last the king buried his face
in his elbows and thought and thought (and thought and thought). He kicked
his feet, he rubbed his face, and, at last, looking up, with tears in his anguished
eyes, he strained to remember what was usually said when one couldn’t come up
with the answer.
Now Mathilda, if you must know the truth, was pleased by the trouble she’d
caused. But the bee was a humbler sort, and its heart grew heavy at the king’s
defeat. Dear God, it said in its tiny heart, I don’t care if I never do fly. You gave me
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wings to cool me down and make me funny for friends. And that’s more than any bee
has a right to ask for. But this is king Solomon, who for your sake, and for the sake of
your people, asked nothing for himself but only wisdom to rule your people well. For
his sake, well, couldn’t you maybe make me fly, just a little, just this once?
And the Deus ex Machina (that is, the God who Intervenes), though pleased
for Mathilda and grieved for the king, was moved most of all by the bee. “Flap
your wings, little Bumble,” whispered God to its heart, “and while you buzz, I will
lift you.” So the bee flapped its wings and was lifted, and as its feet left the floor,
and it flew up to Mathilda’s nose, it praised God, and hummed for joy, because
until then it hadn’t known what a marvel it is to fly.
“Aha!” said the king, “I was right all along!” and he stood up and grinned
through his tears.
“Oh bee! You really can fly,” screamed Mathilda, jumping and waving her arms.
(She waved them as hard as she could, but God wouldn’t lift her up—she got into
enough mischief as it was).
And the bee flew loop-de-loops and barrel rolls, and complicated dances
through the cool, palace air.
And from that day till this, if a bumblebee wishes to fly, it just buzzes its wings
and it prays. And the Lord God Almighty, who made it for sport, gently carries
it wherever it wishes.
<Return to main text>
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Statements
About People
Brian: “You’re all different!”
Crowd: “Yes! We are all different!”
US
Man in crowd: “I’m not.”
—Monty Python, The Life of Brian
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We’re Lost
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19 | We’re Lost
<church bells>
—Peter Gabriel, It Is Accomplished
I’ve often wished that the Bible were still being written. Particularly
the historical books of the Old Testament. Of course, the events related in
those books already were history when first they were written, but I guess
what I’m saying is that I wish God’s perspective of more recent history was
more readily available, not just as some jerkwad’s opinion, but more or less
verifiably as God’s own. In the absence of this, I’m left to extrapolate from
my interpretation of the Bible we have. And risk being a jerkwad.
The most significant event in recent U.S. history is, of course, 9/11.
1
I have to agree with Jerry Falwell that it was probably God’s judgment
upon our nation. I have to disagree, vehemently, however, with his assertion that the people with whom God was upset were “the pagans, and the
abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians.” If that were
the case, why should the objects of this “ judgment” be commerce buildings
(the World Trade Center Towers) and a building dedicated to war (the
Pentagon)? It seems to me we should be taking a good hard look at our
commercial and military interactions with the world.
Now, there was a lot of discussion in the immediate aftermath of the
attack about how insensitive it is to regard the buildings that were hit as
symbols, when three thousand individuals died as a direct result of damage
done to said “symbols.” I, like everyone else, was shocked and grieved and
horrified by the attacks, and I don’t believe the individuals killed were any
more deserving of death than anyone else in the world. Certainly no more
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325
so than I. But if the Bible is, in any real sense, God’s word, then symbols
that horrendous catastrophe was that people all over the world who have
would appear to be your native tongue.
traditionally felt antipathy toward the U.S. suddenly felt compassion for us.
As horrific as that day was for us, think how much worse it would have
We had been humbled, and while there may have been some dancing in the
been had one of the planes hit the White House. The terrorists would have
streets here and there, my impression is that the overwhelming response
seemed to have defeated us, at least for a moment. The seat of our govern-
was sympathy. We had the opportunity to respond in kind, recognizing
ment is no less culpable than the seats of our commerce and our council of
the vulnerabilities that we share with every other nation, and building
war, so why should it have been spared, if it was, as many speculate, one of
on those fellow-feelings to begin to create George H. W. Bush’s “kinder,
the targets? The answer is deceptively simple. Todd Beamer.
gentler nation.” Instead, we turned our minds to increasing our security,
Todd was a friend of a few friends of mine, so he’s certainly not merely
a symbol to me, but you gave him the opportunity to understand the
taking the “war on terror” to distant shores in an attempt to keep our own
coastlines safe.
hijackers’ intentions and act accordingly. The actions he chose were more
Todd Beamer acted the way Jesus did, allowing himself to lose the
for the benefit of those on the ground than for those in the plane. He was
battle for the sake of others. Countless soldiers, police, firemen and para-
willing to give up his own life, as well as the lives of those closest to him
medics have done and continue to do just that. They’re proof that America
(in proximity), and God honored that willingness, accepted his sacrifice,
still has heroes.
and spared the White House.
Is God really that horrible, you ask? No, I answer; we are, but it only
takes one righteous person to turn aside your wrath.
Speaking of heroes, let’s take a moment to talk about courage, because
there’s been some confusion this past decade about what constitutes this
virtue. I’m going to make what may seem a controversial statement, but
You may be dissatisfied in the extreme with my answer. I don’t blame
one that seems common sense to me: Suicide bombers are courageous. The
you. But who are you, or who am I, to attempt to fathom the mind of God?
people who flew the planes into the twin towers and the pentagon were
If God exists, then God is responsible for all of this—the good, the bad
courageous. They were willing to give their lives for what they believed in.
and the monotonous: The creator is responsible for the creation. What you
We who call them evil want to excuse their apparent bravery by saying
directly cause, and what you simply allow to happen, is a question too big
they were misled into believing 72 virgins would be waiting for them in
for me to answer, but this much I take on faith: your purpose is to take
heaven, or that it wasn’t courage but despair that drove them to it, but I
the evil we intend and use it for good.
tell you, God called it courage by blessing their attack. Not because their
Our government’s response to 9/11 was as pathetic as it was predict-
cause was just, but because our cause was unjust. No one, not Osama bin
able: We declared war. Since Al-Qaeda is not a nation, we declared war
Laden himself in his wettest dreams, believed that crashing two jet airliners
on the nation that harbored them: Afghanistan. I think this response was
into the twin towers would cause them to topple down upon themselves.
contrary to our self-interests. The one good thing that had came out of
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Engineers were surprised to hear it and rushed to try to explain it, but no
one predicted it was possible.
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This, of course, is a laughable oversimplification. Iraq, too, had its
share of oppressed people. As for the rest—the alleged weapons of mass
On the other hand (and this is an even more incendiary claim), drop-
destruction, the flouting of UN sanctions, etc— it seems clear to me that,
ping bombs on a distant city by remote control does not demonstrate
in spite of the chasm between opposing opinions on the war against Iraq,
courage. That’s not to say that the people operating the joysticks aren’t good
which I can’t hope to bridge, the case for attacking Iraq was manufactured.
and courageous people, merely that such actions do not demonstrate said
Bill Clinton, as a guest on a late night talk show soon after, shared that his
virtue. This truth is important to admit. If we had confessed the truth of
administration had tried to come up with sufficient cause to attack Iraq
our military and economic culpability and acknowledged the selfless tri-
but had failed. The second Bush administration felt that 9/11 had given
umph of the hijackers, we would have accomplished two things. On the one
us an opening, and so Saddam Hussein was skillfully backed into a corner
hand, it’s true, we might have emboldened our enemies, urging them on to
by Bush’s ultimatums.
greater acts of terror. But on the other hand, we would have cut their feet
While I hasten to add that you have not given me any special insight
out from under them, having proved our contrition and humility, thereby
(that I know of) into your mind regarding all this, my opinion is that
removing the majority of their support around the world. In other words,
routing the Taliban was our God-given task of atonement, and I have a
thereby lifting a portion of God’s judgment from us.
suspicion that following through on that task might have proven integral to
The point toward which I have been attempting to wend was that if
toppling Saddam Hussein’s regime, and the “axis of evil” might have been
a chapter of the Bible were to be written regarding the events of 9/11, I
constrained to North Korea, as the peoples (the ordinary, huddled masses)
think it would read something like this:
of Iraq and Iran might have been emboldened to take their destiny into
“And God heard the pleas of the women and children of Afghanistan
their own hands. Or some more plausible variation on that theme. It may
who were sore oppressed by the Taliban, raised up a distant nation against
not be too late. Obama is returning our attention to Afghanistan, and if
the Taliban and routed them with shock and awe the likes of which
my opinion of God’s desire is correct, we may find that you will turn your
Afghanistan had never seen, nor ever would again.” And that would have
face back to us for that reason. Economic stimulus packages are of no use,
been a good chapter, except that “the distant nation stopped short of
either for good or for ill, if God’s face is set against us. Likewise if God is
destroying the Taliban and turned its attention to Iraq (which of old was
for us, who needs further stimuli?
Babylon), to the settling of old grudges and the desire for wealth through
We’re told that Afghanistan is a losing proposition. Let’s hope so. God
the control of Babylon’s oil. And God was displeased, and turned his face
loves a losing battle and has a special fondness for the people who are will-
from the distant nation, to take away its many blessings. And the distant
ing to fight anyway.
nation grieved, for it had grown accustomed to its wealth.”
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Letter to the World (9/12/2001)
1
We have not had time to process what has happened, but if we act quickly, we
have an opportunity to bring great good out of this evil that has been done to us.
This is our home, and those who were lost are our family. We have shed tears for
them all day long, and our grief, dismay and anger will not end for many mornings. But let us nevertheless respond with wisdom and restraint. Let us refrain
from responding in kind.
If we attack our enemies, flush them from their hiding places and crush
them utterly, we will feel better for awhile. We will find grim satisfaction in the
destruction of those who hurt us and of those who harbored them. But we will
not restore what we lost. We will not even restore our safety. For even if we successfully destroy every outpost of terrorism, every single perpetrator of anarchistic
violence in the world, the sons and brothers, mothers and wives of those destroyed
will rise up against us with anger like our own in a thousand other places, and
the world will overflow with violence.
But if, on the other hand, we stand up, like an elderly hero hit by a rock thrown
from a crowd, and continue walking forward with dignity, we will turn their victory to ashes. The hearts of the world may turn towards us in compassion and
pity, and they may forget their hatred. If this happens, the evil which has been
committed will fall upon the heads of those who committed it. Their own people
will turn against them, denounce them, and cut them off.
For years we have taken part in the efforts to bring peace between Israel and
Palestine. On the day of the attack, Yasser Arafat was visibly shaken as he offered
condolences to the American people for this “terrible act.” As he ended his second
statement, he turned to the camera and said, “God bless you. God bless you. God
bless you.” If Israel and Palestine are united in condemning the attack on the
United States, then we have an opportunity to build on this unity by reacting with
peace to what is unarguably an act of war. By doing so, we will gain far greater
authority in our encouragement that others should do the same.
We have the power to retaliate. Let us refrain from it. We have the power to
rebuild from the rubble something more beautiful, more enduring, than the twin
towers, something that may stand forever as a memorial to those we have lost. Let
us rebuild. Let us arise this day, wipe the dust, blood and tears from our faces and
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stun the world with our quiet, unyielding conviction that love is stronger than
hate, and that peace is preferable to war.
Sincerely,
Mark Eddy Smith
P.S. I apologize for getting this out to you so late.
<Return to main text>
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20 | We’re Anxious
“I was half the naked distance between hell and heaven’s ceiling.”
—Indigo Girls, Prince of Darkness
The biggest killer in the western world is not smoking, obesity,
cancer or heart disease. The biggest single killer, the killer behind many
of those other, is anxiety, is laboring for that which is not bread, worrying about what we will wear, where we will sleep, etc. Not only will such
anxieties fail to add a cubit to the span of our lives, they will in fact remove
a dozen.
That’s not necessarily to say quit your job and cloister yourself away from
all the things that stress you out, it’s only to say Trust God. Radically and in
such a way that other people may charge you with neglect. God fed a million people in the wilderness for forty years. Their sandals never wore out,
and when they complained they wanted meat instead of angel food, you
gave them what they asked for. I imagine you were not eager to sacrifice all
those quail for all those ingrates, but you did so abundantly. Profligately.
Like the father of the prodigal son.
Am I saying true Christians never die of starvation? No; I am saying
God is trustworthy. I am saying so in faith, with full understanding that
people die unjustly every day, calling out to you in seeming vain. Hell, the
Exodus story may not even be true, but here’s the thing: Our lack of radical
trust in God is destroying life on this planet. Does that seem like a leap in
logic? Consider the deer: When they become overpopulated, they overconsume the available resources. Wolves become more populous. A multitude
of deer die during the winter. The available resources rebound, the wolves’
population declines and the remaining deer live in balance. This is your
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plan, and it is beautiful in your sight. We humans, with our governments
Jesus said, “Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have
and organizations, try to take such decisions out of your hands, so that
neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much
we thrive even as we overconsume. I’m hardly the first to point out that
more value are you than the birds! Consider the lilies, how they grow:
unlimited growth is no different from cancer.
they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was
Am I suggesting that we not send food aid to Africa and other needy
not clothed like one of these” (Luke 12:24, 27). Jesus himself was known
parts of the world where people are starving, even here in these United
to eschew food (for up to 40 days) and to multiply it profusely (feeding
States? No, or at least, not exactly. We should care for the widow and the
thousands from a single meal, with more left over than there was to begin
orphan. Like Elijah, we should go live with them, and through our shared
with), and at the end of his life, he was first clothed in purple, like a king,
faith, live off the almost empty jars of oil and flour. The wealthy should
and then stripped naked, like an infant. What I take from these examples
sell their wealth and give the money to the poor. This is for their own good.
is that not even the fundamentals are absolutely required. They may be
Massive numbers of people dying is a sad and sometimes tragic thing, but I
necessary for life, but according to Jesus, not even sustaining one’s life is
see no need to run around frantically trying to prevent the next catastrophe.
ultimately necessary.
If a tsunami hits, let us rush to bring what aid we can. But why waste money
I have been so well cared-for throughout my life, even when living well
on advance warning systems? If the next tsunami doesn’t kill them, the
below the poverty level, that I have this ingrown belief that God will take
gigantic asteroid will. Or the next cholera epidemic. What is this wish for
care of me in every circumstance, but do I really believe that quitting my
security? It is an impossible and inadvisable dream. Let us come to terms
job was somehow an act of faith? Do I really believe that living with my
with the uncertainty, live dangerously and live free. Or die.
parents is God’s miraculous provision for me? Yes, I do, actually, even as
Isaiah asked: “Why do you spend your money for that which is not
bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?” (Isaiah 55:2). You
want anarchy? Convince a significant number of people to take that verse
seriously. Our economy would collapse over night. What do we need? I
think Beth had me pegged: All I really need are food, rest and books. Your
list may vary. Some sort of basic shelter from the elements should doubtless be included, but do you see my problem? Having begun to question
the received wisdom of our society (that we need cars, mortgages, vacuum
cleaners and the eternal, ubiquitous & peripatetic et cetera), I’ve slid down
the slippery slope all the way to fundamentalism—the belief that the basics
are all that are required to lead a fundamentally worthwhile life.
I’m troubled by the possibility that it ain’t, but am I really saying to you,
my readers, “Jump on in—the water’s fine!”?
In metaphorical terms it sounds quite nice:
You and I are huddled in the valley of the shadow of death, a shadow
cast by the Deathly Mountains, through which Jesus, our loving shepherd, is trying to lead us. It’s a terrifying journey, but on the other side
of those mountains are green pastures, still waters and the glorious
light from which Death’s Peak has been shading us.
But while I was writing this past page, in late December, I stepped
outside for a cigarette. The temperature had dropped below zero for the
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first time that season, and I had a sudden vision of leaving the warmth and
And I wrote prodigiously.
security of my parents’ house to wander down the road or in whichever
Following no leader but God is scary as hell, but you don’t seem to
direction the Spirit might lead. The thought that I might actually start
mind when I don’t follow you, and you reward me intemperately when I
walking was strangely terrifying, as was the realization that I simply don’t
do. Sure, you might one day ask me to do something that will get me killed,
have that much faith. The physical discomfort alone was enough to dis-
but if I can manage to do it anyway, I’m confident that you will make sure
suade me, never mind the very real possibility of freezing to death. But
that my death has meaning and purpose far beyond anything I could ask
what if God actually called me to do it? Perhaps you would provide for
or imagine.
me miraculously and lead me on a stupendous adventure, but even if you
didn’t provide for me at all—even if I died—you would still (assuming
The only thing we have left to worry about is Satan, that he might
you really exist and bear some resemblance to the shepherd I described)
manage to lead us astray through his crafty wiles, but I’ve developed a
lead me beyond my death to a land of highest adventure. Nevertheless, I
bizarre theory that robs even him, in my mind, of his teeth (while simulta-
finished my smoke as quickly as possible and hurried back inside.
neously endowing him with a more ferocious set than that with which he’s
The truth is, though the summer had been long—full of bugs and
traditionally depicted). Do you want to hear it? It goes where angels and
family and manual labor—and the fall glorious, I was not prepared for
demons (including Satan) are the souls of creatures who have gone before,
the long winter ahead. In a few weeks my parents would leave for North
from the tiniest bacterium to the hugest sea monster, but I’m thinking
Carolina, as they had the year before, leaving me alone again for two whole
particularly about dinosaurs.
months, but this time with limited funds and no transportation more
Now, I know just enough about evolutionary science to be danger-
reliable than my own two feet. I wasn’t about to admit my terror to my
ous, but one thing I recently learned is that the only surviving clade of
parents—they were already worried on my behalf and would have loved
dinosaurs (clade is the scientific term for a branch of evolution) is birds.
me to accompany them south—but the second truth is that I was looking
Lizards and other reptiles share a common ancestor with dinosaurs but
forward to 60 days of solitude and writing. That’s the kind of adventure I
are not descended from them, so birds are the only living creatures that
wanted God to lead me into, where the power might go out for weeks at
are descended from dinosaurs.
a time, or a chimney fire might burn the house to the ground. My heart
leapt at the prospect, dangers be damned.
And I think about how dinosaurs had it all figured out. They were the
fittest, and no one else stood a chance. The tyrannosaurus rex was teeth on
In reality, what followed was the mildest winter New Hampshire has
legs. The brontosaurus was bulk in water, and as such untouchable, even by
had in decades. My parents had consistently worse weather and colder
t. rex. The ankylosaurus was all armor, with a club for a tail. The velocirap-
temperatures in North Carolina. I lived like a hermit except for occasional
tor was speed and cunning. They were the pinnacle of evolution in a way
trips to the store and a weekly dinner with an old friend.
that humans can’t really claim (though very often we do anyway).
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You looked down upon them and reveled in their beauty and power,
Perhaps you did your best to explain it to him, but he’s just an old
but you were troubled. There were all these other creatures struggling to
dinosaur, and he doesn’t have the mental capacity (even as a spiritual being)
survive in the midst of them who were fuzzy, furry, and small. They gave
to understand. So he is our enemy, intent on proving you wrong. Adam was
birth to their children alive and nourished the helpless things from their
his first success, and Job an early failure, but Jesus was your final argument,
own bodies, and they simply glowed with love.
and Satan has no answer. He continues on in spite, but here’s the thing;
And they didn’t stand a chance. So you, in your mercy, sent an asteroid
crashing into the Yucatan peninsula, and Satan has never forgiven you.
Satan is just an old dinosaur. Perhaps he has spiritual teeth, and perhaps
he was the craftiest creature in the garden, the last of the archaeopteryxes
Every single dinosaur, though perfectly adapted to its environment,
perhaps, but he’s incapable of understanding the foolish love of God, and
died in the resulting winter. Only one kind of dinosaur survived, and that
we have nothing to fear from him. He can never lead us so far astray that
was the kind that had eschewed survival of the fittest and evolved wings,
you will not be able to find us.
who reveled in flight and song, ascension and praise, who pursued joy above
all else. As these individuals died, I believe their souls became angels of
the highest order.
I believe (for no other reason than that it’s my theory) that Satan was a
1
winged dinosaur, a dragon, if you will, of a kind that perished along with
the rest. His soul became the leader of the souls of all the dinosaurs, crying
foul at an unseen evolutionary roadblock that presumably was on its way
(like the flood) from the moment of the big bang. Perhaps you gave it a
nudge; perhaps you didn’t need to. It doesn’t matter: Satan is pissed because
he did everything right, even to the point of pursuing flight (though his
genus probably (in my twisted hypothesis) pursued flight only as a means
toward increased fitness, rather than as a movement of joy), and yet he and
all his kind were sentenced to extinction.
Perhaps you explained things to him, patiently, kindly, and perhaps he
understood, and was an angel of light for millions of years until humans
came along, and he saw our fatal flaw—that we would wreak worse destruction upon the living creatures of the earth than dinosaurs could ever have
hoped to—and demanded to know why you didn’t kill them, too.
<Skip footnote>
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A Holy Whole
1
I woke up in my pajamas, shivering in the deep, dark woods.
My sword was there, and my shield, as always,
but I was alone, and the dragon behind me.
The dragon behind me, and I couldn’t turn around,
and the chatter of three white birds made it difficult to listen.
If I could hear the dragon’s breath, I thought, or the scraping of its scales,
I could evade it,
if only those birds would be quiet.
No, I wouldn’t evade it: I’d face it, attack it,
cut off its head and destroy it,
or be destroyed in the trying.
Something curled around my ankle, and I froze.
Around me the birdsong clamored.
“Be whole. Be holy. Be whole,” they seemed to say.
“Be whole, be holy, be whole.”
In my panic I wished them dead,
but I couldn’t even scream.
The dragon. Where was the dragon?
The dragon was between me and the castle,
of that alone was I sure.
Something gnawed at my ankle,
but still I couldn’t move.
My sword grew heavy;
its tip was resting on the ground
as I peered intently into the darkness,
searching for some dim clue.
The birds abruptly fell silent;
the woods grew darker still—
I wanted them back.
We’re Anxious
I whispered to them urgently,
“Be whole? Be holy? Be whole?”
but there was no reply.
“Be whole? Be holy? Be whole?”
It was a pleasant song;
I hadn’t noticed that before.
There was no feeling in that one leg,
but I ran.
I ran, and I sang.
I ran, and I sang, and I ran, and I sang,
and eventually I woke up,
and my foot was asleep,
and the dragon was under my bed.
<Return to main text>
339
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21 | We’re Divided
“So you thought you’d like to change the world . . .”
—The Housemartins, Flag Day
I am anarchist enough to believe that the world can do without
governments, government programs, immigration laws, law enforcement,
democratically elected leaders, representatives, satraps or kings, and even
without banks and taxes, but that doesn’t mean they all need to be abolished. Love’s anarchy can comfortably coexist with communism, Islamic
fundamentalism and even a Republican-controlled Congress if it has to.
All we really need is unity. Universal siblinghood. The deep divide in
the U.S. between liberals and conservatives, Democrats and Republicans,
Evangelicals and Episcopalians, needs to be bridged. As a recovering
conservative Evangelical Republican myself, I thought I might be able
to explain the two sides to each other. I should say though (should my
attempt fail as it no doubt will), that I was never a very good conservative
Evangelical Republican.
We are, every one of us, a minority. We are beset on every side by people
whose attitudes and beliefs and priorities are wildly opposed and even alien
to our own. I am in no wise attempting to suggest that all minorities are
created equal. Those who suffer under the oppression of racism or sexism
or any other kind of widespread prejudice are demonstrably worse off than
those who merely feel themselves to be somehow different. But it remains a
fact that we are each a minority of one, as unique and fragile as any snowflake, as bright in obliquely reflected sunlight, and as indistinguishable, en
masse, as any snow-covered valley. How on earth are the snowflakes that
have drifted from the west side of the valley on a cold, stiff wind supposed
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343
to explain the snowflakes they left behind to the snowflakes in the east?
those who believe the polar opposite, it is not true that those two groups of
All they can do is shout out a few generalizations before the wind picks
people are polar opposites of each other. It is possible, perhaps even likely,
them up again to carry them where’er it will.
that both groups hate the Yankees, love peanut butter on their apple slices,
I’ve heard any number of these shouted attempts at explanation, same
and call their moms every Sunday. Some folks are always looking for hidden
as anybody. I’m trying to do a better, more incisive job, same as anybody.
agendas, while others tend to take things at face value. Both tend to think
I hope you’ll excuse me as I get it hopelessly wrong, same as anybody.
that the others are idiots. And that, I think, is the only real problem: Our
Polarities are misleading. Even spectrums have their limits. Perhaps, on
tendency to believe that people who hold different opinions, attitudes or
a three-dimensional Cartesian grid, you could approximate some kind of
beliefs must be lobotomized clones of Helen Keller—because honestly,
semi-accurate continuum, but the bottom line is that every single person
what else could explain their inability to grasp such basic concepts?—The
1
is absolutely unique and hopelessly identical. But. We live as if liberals
only viable solution to this impasse is to “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
and conservatives are separated by a chasm peopled by a few drifting
You can’t possibly understand every single human being on the planet. The
“independents.” We live as if one side were the earth and the other the sky,
best you can do is celebrate every single human being you meet as though
or one side Day and the other Night. Fire and ice, right and wrong, yin and
they were your own precocious child.
yang, all such polarities fail to describe, with any least whiff of accuracy,
So easy, yes? You could almost do that. But I can tell you why you
people as they actually are. Thus I throw in the towel and call myself an
won’t. Because if you set aside your own opinions, attitudes and beliefs in
anarchist. And then I pick up the towel, climb back in the ring and write
favor of loving everyone you meet unconditionally, then you’ll effectively
a book about anarchy.
be handing over control to those who fail to see the wisdom of this solu-
None of us has access to a representative sample of the world’s popula-
tion and choose instead to cling to their prejudices, hatreds and beliefs.
tion, but we all have this inbred belief that we know “what people are like.”
And thus those people will rule the world. Chaos will ensue, and it will
Do any of us know a thousand people well enough to claim that we really
be your fault, because you chose to love them instead of fighting against
know what they’re really like? Let’s say you are an exceptional person who
their blatantly obvious evil. And yes, this is exactly what will happen. But
really does. Congratulations! Your polling sample is 1 in 6.5 million. The
I’m telling you, you will have done more to make the world a better place
rest of your opinions about what people are like are based on hearsay, the
than you can possibly imagine.
liberal media and blind prejudice. You have no real idea what the world is
The question occasionally comes up of how Generation X will lead.
like, let alone what God is like. Hell, if you’re anything like me, you barely
The Baby Boomers are still largely ensconced, and the image of them as
know what you are really like.
long-haired, nonconformist hippies is long gone. How would it be if Gen-
There are those who mistrust all politicians and believe the world
should be governed by the gods of market forces. While it’s true there are
Xers led, not like the Boomers, from positions of authority and success, but
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345
from positions of weakness and failure, putting our faith in truth instead
their own ideas, or they’ll want to make slight improvements to your idea
of politics, admitting that we’re utterly lost, same as anybody?
that basically just ruins the whole point.
Think about how close the U.S. seems to be to a 50-50 split between
Everyone suffers. Everyone dies alone. It will happen to you some day.
liberals and conservatives. Neither side can get much done because of the
By the time you get around to reading this, it already may have happened
opposition. It’s like a gigantic game of tug o’ war, and neither side is strong
to me. Let the mature and responsible people scurry hither and yon set-
enough to win. And many consider this a good thing, because no political
ting up systems and devising foolproof schemes, voting each other out of
party should have too much power. Either side would ruin the world. At
office and robbing the old and infirm of their pensions. You and I have
least so long as there’s no winner there can be no loser either. That’s the
been shown a better way: Befriend strangers, listen to their troubles, help
theory, anyway. Or a theory, anyway.
them if you can, suffer alongside them if you can’t.
But the most hilarious way to win at tug o’ war is to lose, to wait until
Come on! It’ll be fun.
the opposition is gathering their forces for their greatest heave yet, then,
as a team, suddenly let go of the rope, laugh hysterically at the messy pile
you’ve just made of your enemies, then run before they can sort themselves
out. Change the game to tag. Let anyone who wants to be be It. Make sure
even the slowest have someone to tag. Run around pell-mell until it gets
dark and your parents are screaming that dinner is getting cold.
A childish fantasy, you say, without a hint of practicality. And while
everyone is busy running around having fun, other people will go hungry
and die, or be raped and killed. And you’re right.
But they already are. All our best efforts at civilization, law and order,
agriculture, edumacation, religion and psychotherapy cannot put a stop
to it. Some people are just wrong. I don’t know why. I don’t know how to
fix them, or remove them from society, or make them powerless. I don’t
know how to feed the hungry, fix the environment, stop the wars or end
violent crime. Maybe you do, but you can’t do it alone. You need the help of
a whole bunch of other people, and you will never convince enough people
that your idea is just crazy enough to work. Too many of them will have
<Skip footnote>
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Ersatz Story (1988)
1
Michael Ersatz was a simple man who adored solitude and abhorred politics.
He was exactly the sort of man one would enjoy having around if one were, say,
trying to sleep. He was not, however, a fun person with whom to party.
Michael Ersatz didn’t get invited to many parties. He spent most of his time
writing short, controversial treatises on, for instance, the many uses of sawdust.
I say controversial, but no one had ever read them. He refused to let anyone see
his work until he had written something which was as close to perfect as man’s
nature would allow.
To return to the subject of parties, not many were held in that particular
corner of Alaska at the time Michael Ersatz lived there. In fact, unless some of
the native Inuits had ever held a strange snow party anywhere in the immediate
vicinity, there had never been a party there in the history of mankind.
Before that, I cannot speculate.
Michael came to this spot early in 1983, when he was barely twenty-seven. A
thriving community had failed to spring up around him, and that was just the way
Michael wanted it. He was rarely unhappy and never hungry, and he had Sheeba
to keep him company, so he couldn’t complain: He was a dedicated writer.
Rachel Harrier lived in New Jersey. Her father, Richard, lived in Los Angeles
and her mother, Felicia, in Colorado. She was 23, fresh out of college, and she
hadn’t the least idea how she was going to keep herself occupied for the rest of her
life. At the moment she was a cashier at a local supermarket wondering why the
hell she had chosen English as her major. Even Marylou Fresnehan had a terrific
job as a research assistant for a firm that designed houses. She had been a History
major. Most of her other friends, of course, were already making $35,000 dollars a
year in management positions for giant corporations. Rachel thought about that
every time she punched in at the Stop ’n’ Shop in downtown Sculhaven.
Her father had several times—no, let’s make that dozens of times—offered
her a position in his highly lucrative company in Los Angeles which manufactured
small, cloth covered squares of rubber used for “mice,” the little cursor controllers
used with so many computers. For each dozen of his offers, she had said “no” an
average of 28 times. She didn’t want any more handouts from her father. Nevertheless, she was getting tired of eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese every night
We’re Divided
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so that she could save money for a real house and a new car. Preferably within
twenty miles of London. She had many dreams.
None of them had anything to do with any part of Alaska.
Philip Lazarus, ex-coal miner and father of four, was comatose at age 43. He
had had one of those near-death experiences (some time after that final, mindwrenching realization that he was not about to be rescued, that he was going to
die in the stifling pit that had been his workplace for the past 25 years), and it had
been a decidedly strange experience.
It had been more detailed than most he’d heard about. There was the same brilliant whiteness, the feeling of weightlessness, the whole gamut of symptoms that
characterize the after-life. There was even Jesus, resplendent in all his unbearable
glory, beckoning to him, saying, “Lazarus, come forth,” like the jokes his friends
sometimes made, but instead of floating towards Him, he floated away, felt once
more the cold weight of his body—poisoned, asphyxiated, dehydrated—dead in
all respects except reality. He nevertheless opened his eyes, stood up and walked
through the gaping, dust-choked hole that hadn’t been there when he died. Amid
his cheering coworkers was his tear-stained wife. He stumbled into her arms,
rolled his eyes, and sank once more into darkness.
He had been a miner all his life. All of his higher goals had centered around
providing for his family. His one dream was to die at home, asleep, dear Helen
at his side.
But that would come later.
“I tell ya, that Ersatz fellow is a Russian spy. Three years, he’s been out there,
and the only words he’s ever spoken to me are ‘Hi’ and ‘Thank you.’ Completely
ignores anything I say to him. ‘Tain’t natural.”
Thus spake Jeb Tarkin, sole proprieter of “Jeb’s, The Biggest Supermarket For
A Hundred Miles.” (Need it even be mentioned that it was the only supermarket
for a hundred miles? I think not.) Jeb’s audience that night was a small but devoted
group of men who sat around the big Mother Bear stove as though they were in
a Mercantile from the old West, or a quaint little general store from backwoods
New England. But it was indeed a supermarket. There were big fluorescent
lights, and rows (though sparsely stocked) of all kinds of foodstuffs, and even an
electronic cash register.
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Jeb had inherited a fair amount of money when a rich uncle from New York
had died in a night club fire. Not knowing what else to do with it, he had forsaken his prospecting days and built Jeb’s. The 2,000 scattered residents of Dorf,
Alaska, often found it obnoxiously like the supermarkets they thought they had
left behind, but the place nevertheless did respectably well. The seven men, whose
average age was 82, nodded their heads in solemn agreement.
Michael Ersatz made the two day trip to Jeb’s every two months.
Philip Lazarus came out of his coma understandably feeling reborn. It was
late at night, and the old man one bed over was rasping softly. Philip lay awake
under the unfocused clarity of the moonlight sifting through the window, quietly
reveling in the miracle that had brought him to this moment.
A slight, almost imperceptible gasp alerted him to the presence of someone
else in the room. He turned his head, amazed at how easily such movement came,
and beheld the shining eyes of Helen.
She was sitting in a chair, next to the door. He had no doubt that she had
been sitting there for as long as he had been unconscious, though he wouldn’t
find out until some time later that it had been two weeks. How she had managed
to convince the staff to let her sit there long past visiting hours he had no way of
knowing, but he praised his new-found God she had.
“Helen,” he tried to say, though what came out was a formless croak.
“I’m here,” she said, leaning toward him and finding his hand. When he woke
the next morning (not remembering the moment sleep had retaken him), Helen
would still be there, quietly holding his hand, the salt tracks of dried tears marring her cheeks.
Philip Lazarus had never been happier in his life.
Richard Harrier was disappointed. He had always cherished the notion
of one day having a son to carry on the family business, but fate had seen fit to
grace him with a daughter. That first disappointment had been ameliorated by
the realization that, “Hell, it’s the eighties, women can do such things nowadays.
They can even carry on the family name if they want to.”
But Rachel didn’t want to join the firm. She was off in New Jersey, of all places,
ringing up groceries. He had countless times implored her to take hold of the
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golden opportunity he was holding out to her, but she continually rebuffed him,
preferring to sink on her own than swim with the help of “Daddy.”
Independence was one thing; stupidity was quite another.
He would give her one more month to rethink her position, and then he
would take matters into his own hands. He was damned if he was going to watch
his only daughter drown while he stood on the dock, ineffectually throwing life
preservers at her. He was going to by-god jump in and pull her out, whether she
wanted to or not.
He was that kind of guy.
Michael Ersatz was finally ready. After three years of solitary writing, he
finally had something finished and worthwhile. It was a short piece, a mere two
pages long, but he had been honing it almost constantly throughout the past nine
months. To Michael’s eyes, the piece was so polished he could see the reflection
of his face in it. It was the culmination of a lifetime’s struggle to write something
staggeringly worthwhile.
He would send his only copy to Mother Earth News with a short cover letter,
and patiently await the letter that would make or break his life. He would not
countenance rejection, even once. Better to die than to live in a world too blind
to recognize perfection.
Tomorrow morning, he would ready himself for the two day journey, and drive
his snow cat to Dorf. There he would deliver the manuscript into the hands of
the Postmaster personally. And perhaps, after the long hard months that would
trudge past in the interim, he would once again be able to walk among his fellow
man and discover what had happened in the last three years.
Michael Ersatz spent the rest of the night preparing for his journey, carefully
packing his best clothes, his tent, his sleeping bag and firewood, along with all
the food and other little things he and Sheeba might conceivably need. Then he
got into bed and pretended that he was sleeping rather than fidgeting for the rest
of the night.
Felicia Harrier read over the divorce papers with grim satisfaction. She was
finally on her way back to being Felicia Carpenter, and she loved it. She was finally
getting rid of the arrogant son of a bitch she had been forced to call a husband for
the past 24 years. She was finally going to be free.
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But she was worried about Rachel. If only she’d get out of that horrid “Garden
State” and come live with her in Aspen. They could have so much fun together,
skiing, picking up guys, throwing wild parties . . .
She would come; Felicia was sure of it, if only the girl’s bastard of a father
wouldn’t keep pressuring her to move to Los Angeles to carry on the stupid “family
business.” Of all the absurd products in the world, she thought “mouse pads” had
to be the silliest. She always pictured little white mice scurrying around in their
own apartments inviting friends over to share a joint and listen to the Grateful
Dead. Her almost ex-husband was insane, and she was damned if he was going
to force Rachel to do anything she didn’t want to.
She decided then and there to take whatever steps necessary to ensure that
Dick would never succeed in forcing their daughter into accepting his job offer.
She didn’t know how, but she’d do it, and then Rachel would be free, too, and
they could both live happily ever after.
Felicia smiled to herself and set her mind to scheming.
Much to his dismay, Philip found that he was now a celebrity. Gone were his
dreams of settling down with his family, receiving Workman’s Comp and living out
the rest of his days in peace. He was suddenly forced to do on-the-spot interviews
for radio, TV, and newspapers. He was deluged with letters and visitors of all
kinds, both praising and condemning him, though he knew not why. He was the
subject of national controversy, and there seemed no way to put a stop to it.
So he raised his head as best he could and tried to ride out the storm.
One man had come to his house with a shotgun, screaming incoherently about
a daughter and the religious freaks she called her friends and how much he hated
all the stupid sheep in the world who would believe anything the television told
them, and how all the people who were instigating these things for the sake of
greed and avarice ought to be shot. Luckily, there had been a policeman handy
who had managed to subdue the poor man before he caused any damage. Philip
Lazarus was completely bewildered by the whole spectacle. He began to wish that
he had never mentioned the part about his near-death experience. He wished he
had had the foresight to keep the story among his own family.
Unfortunately, the storm was about to become a hurricane.
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The storm that bore down on Michael Ersatz and his St. Bernard, Sheeba,
was of a different sort altogether. His was a blistering, biting blizzard of the first
magnitude. Sheeba was huddled in the luggage compartment of the huge snow
machine, whimpering softly. He was going to have to stop soon if he wanted to
live through the night.
“Dammitall,” he muttered, “why didn’t I bother to check the weather before
I left? A simple glance to the sky would have shown me that I had a world class
blizzard coming. Probably last three days, too. Ah, well, we’re just going to have
to tough it out for a few days; we’ll manage.”
“How ya doin’ back there, Sheeba?” came the distant-sounding cry from beyond
the cramped luggage compartment. For a moment it confused Sheeba; she had
almost never heard her master speak. It worried her that he should talk now,
especially with that touch of joy edging his voice. He was a doleful man, prone to
long spells of sitting in chairs doing absolutely nothing. Sheeba wondered vaguely
if he was mad. She uttered a short, incomprehensible bark, which ended in a little
whine, and curled up a little tighter. She hoped they would stop soon. She could
feel the distant nerve endings of her tail starting to freeze and knew it wouldn’t
be long before the rest of her followed.
She wished she had more faith in her normally taciturn master.
Rachel Harrier yelled in frustration. Her stupid parents were going to be
the death of her. Her father had sent her a one-way plane ticket to Los Angeles,
her mother a one-way ticket to Denver. Both assured her that she’d be happier
this way.
Well, she was old enough to make her own decisions, thank you very much.
If New Jersey had turned into a dead end (which it certainly had), she’d find her
own way out of it. She ripped both the tickets in half and flushed them down the
toilet (just so she couldn’t tape the pieces together later). Then she grabbed her
checkbook and walked to the bank. Her life savings came to $8,865.32. It would
not last long.
She rented a Ford Tempo from Avis,® as it was the smallest car she could find
that would hold all her stuff, and drove it home feeling the way she imagined
successful people must feel. She felt that she might actually make it in this hard,
cold world, once she found someplace that would be right for her.
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Why she chose Alaska she didn’t know; it just seemed right. It was the “last
American frontier.” The one place left that was still the land of opportunity, the
final bastion of the American ideal.
And it sounded like a neat place to live.
Philip Lazarus was homesick. There he was, eating dinner at his own table,
in his own house, with his own family, and he felt seriously homesick. Maybe it
was because of the three reporters that had interviewed him today, three being
a major drop from the last three weeks. The whole thing seemed to be blowing
away, but it still seemed far from over. The quiet, earthy aura that had made this
house a home was gone, probably forever, all because of the simple incident that
had saved his life.
Not that he was ungrateful; he supposed it was a small price to pay, but it
still seemed somehow unfair. People miraculously recovered in hospitals everyday. They died, went to heaven and came back all the time. What was so special
about him?
He looked at Helen, and at each of his four children, ranging in age from 13
to 18. He thought about how all this must be affecting them.
“How would you all like to go to Alaska?” he said, as surprised by the suggestion as the rest of his family.
“Do ya mean it, Dad?” said the youngest boy, making Philip realized that he
hadn’t seen him smile for almost two weeks.
“Of course I do. If no one here would mind.”
No one did.
After three days, the storm decided to get worse.
Michael and Sheeba were wrapped around each other with the sleeping bag
over both of them. The tent had been a bitch to set up, but it managed to keep
out the wind and most of the snow. It didn’t do diddly against the cold. The small,
battery-operated quartz heater kept the tent lighted, if not warm, and there was
food enough to last three more days.
Michael was beginning to worry they might starve.
Sheeba was not unhappy. It had been rough going for awhile, but her master
had finally come to his senses. She was warm and fed, and she kind of liked it
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here. If only the wind didn’t howl quite so much, the place would be perfect. She
yawned happily and tried to get back to sleep.
“Not a great omen for the completion of my article,” her master mused, “but
better than none at all. At least the universe seems to have noticed.”
Sheeba did her best to thump her tail once or twice in spite of the cramped
quarters. She had grown used to his unusual loquaciousness, and it no longer
worried her. The smell of change was in the air, and she had decided that perhaps
change was just what they needed. It was curious that the smell hadn’t gone away
when they got here: she had assumed they were here to stay. But her faith was
restored a measure, and she was content to let things come as they would. For
now, anyway.
Why am I here? thought Rachel, as her somewhat-the-worse-for-wear Tempo
pulled into the only hotel in Dorf, Alaska. The Tempo was covered with ice, and
ice was about the only thing she had seen for the last twenty-five miles. She quickly
decided that the “final bastion of the American ideal” could get bent: She was
leaving for Orlando the next morning.
Of course, she was down to $5,132.82 now, and she didn’t have any way of
getting more, so she decided maybe she’d brave it out for awhile until she could
replenish her funds a little. A month, maybe—no more.
She took a deep breath and held it as she ran out the door, tried to get her
suitcase out of the trunk as quickly as possible, and ran into the hotel. She was
surprised at how little the cold seemed to abate inside.
“No room,” said the old man behind the counter, merrily.
“But—” she said.
“Not to worry, though, there are plenty of suites.”
She looked at him as though he must be mad, and he chuckled. “Isn’t every
day I can try that joke out on someone new,” he said, tipping her a wink. How
long will you be staying in Dorf, Missy?”
“Not too long,” she said hopefully,” I should be out of here tomorrow.”
“That’s too bad,” said the man, “that’s just too bad.”
“Yeah, well . . .” she said, feeling more and more awkward by the moment. “Can
I have a suite then?”
“Sure,” said the man, holding out a bowl of mints. “Help yourself.”
“I mean—”
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“I know what you mean, Missy, I’m just having some fun. How does thirtyeight dollars a night sound?”
“Fine, “ said Rachel, as icily as her car. She took the key the grinning old man
handed her and stomped up the stairs, her suitcase bumping behind her. This place
has got to go, she thought. There’s no way I’m staying here more than a week.
It would be awhile before she realized she was lying.
Philip Lazarus walked into the same hotel fifteen minutes later, and was
treated to the same spiel.
“How much is a suite?” he asked, in response to the first little joke.
“They’re free,” said the man, holding out the bowl.
“I’ll take three,” said Philip, and promptly turned and motioned his family in.
“And have someone bring our bags to our rooms.”
Philip was in no mood for games.
“Of course, I was only kidding, sir,” said the man, hastily. “Suites are forty-five
dollars a night.”
Philip placed two fifties on the counter and silently dared the man to ask for
more. The man coughed uncomfortably and reached for three adjacent keys—
to the third floor. Philip granted him his petty victory and waved his family
upstairs.
“And don’t forget the luggage,” he called down, just before he passed out of
earshot.
“And don’t forget the luggage,” the poor man mimicked, making a mental
note to put a little extra baking soda in the muffins the next morning. He got
the luggage.
Fifteen minutes after that, Michael Ersatz trudged in with Sheeba. Here, at
last was a man the clerk could deal with.
“Could I have a sweet, Charlie?”
“Have seven,” said the man, glad to see someone in a good mood.
“Thanks,” said Philip, counting out seven mints. “I needed that.”
“Room 13?” asked the man, reaching for the key.
“Make that room seven, Charlie, and keep the change.” He put a fifty on the
counter and wished Charlie a good night.
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“Good night, Mr. Ersatz, and thank you.” The fifty came within four dollars
of the actual price for the Lazarus family’s three suites. Michael was a good man,
no matter what other people might say.
Once in his room, Michael shrugged off his backpack and sat down on the
bed. The Post Office was closed, but that was all right. He had made it through
four days of the worst blizzard in ten years, and although it had taken nearly an
hour to dig himself and his vehicle out of the snow, the remainder of the journey
had been largely uneventful. It was good to be back among people again.
Sheeba barked and wagged her tail expectantly. He reached into his pocket and
dug out the ground beef he always wrapped in foil for the end of such journeys. It
was still a bit frozen, but Sheeba wouldn’t mind. He unwrapped it and tossed it
onto the floor. Sheeba wrestled with it for five minutes, and it was gone.
“Good dog,” said Michael.
Good man, thought Sheeba.
They slept for the next sixteen hours, and when they woke up, it was to the
most hideous sound imaginable.
“What in God’s name is that?!” cried Michael, over the sound of Sheeba’s
howling. It had been three years since either had heard a siren.
Jeb’s supermarket was burning.
15,463,978,004,328,597,878,431,256,789 (Fifteen octillion, four hundred and
sixty-three septillion, nine hundred and seventy-eight sextillion, four quintillion,
three hundred and twenty-eight quadrillion, five hundred and ninety-seven trillion,
eight hundred and seventy-eight billion four hundred and thirty-one million, two
hundred and fifty-six thousand, seven hundred and eighty-nine).
This number means something, but I’ve forgotten whether it’s the number of
creatures who have ever lived on Earth, or the number of creatures who haven’t
yet. Still, it’s a pretty big number, isn’t it? Almost big enough to account for all
the atoms in, say, a medium-sized cardboard box.
But not quite.
Regardless, it has nothing whatever to do with the rest of the story, which,
unfortunately, I’ve also forgotten.
<Return to main text>
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We’re Divided
Reviewing Our
Progress
“I wanna be anarchy.”
—The Sex Pistols, Anarchy in the UK
US
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22 | Consider the Queers
“Love does not care.”
—Margaret Becker, Just Come In
It’s my firm and possibly illogical belief that unity cannot come from
tolerance any more than chocolate can come from carob. The three of us
(me and the two of you who are still reading) have at least as good a chance
of achieving some kind of grand unification within the body of Christ as
any (dis)organized movement. Can I safely assume we all agree that unity
is the paramount need in the church today? Sure, you wouldn’t necessarily
put it that way. You might say love is the greatest need, or (God love you),
you might even say “tolerance.” So long as what you mean by “tolerance” is
“unity” or “love,” then I’m reluctantly okay with that. Not to go all SATs on
you, but tolerance is to unity what ice cubes are to an avalanche. Tolerance
is to love what bath water is to a steam turbine.
There’s no end to the intractible problems the world has to offer, but
among the “wedge issues” besetting the church are several that strike me as
not only eminently tractible but blatantly insipid subjects of division and
debate. I’d like to begin our review with the “issue” of homosexuality.
Before I dive into particulars, I have a confession to make. It’s the
standard, cisgendered, heterosexual confession, but no less necessary for
being ordinary: I have not always been a proponent of gay rights. Not
even after my collegiate experiment. As a matter of fact, it was not until I
embraced my identity as an anarchist that I was able fully to conclude that
being pro gay rights (and, as I’ll discuss in the next chapter, pro choice) is
an unequivocally good thing.
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Don’t get me wrong—watching two men kiss each other still elicits a
the Galatians, Peter (aka Simon, aka Cephas, aka The Rock Upon Which
visceral reaction from me, similar if not identical to the one I would have
My Church Shall Be Built) had let himself be intimidated by a group of
to watching someone eat a spider, and watching two women kiss elicits a
people Paul (aka Saul from Tarsus) refers to as “the circumcision faction.”
very different reaction, but there’s no moral force to my feelings. I used to
These were people who believed that Gentiles (if they were male and wanted
hate broccoli—I thought it smelled like dirty diapers—but now I love it.
to join the newly formed sect of Christianity) needed to have the foreskins
There’s nothing wrong with having a visceral reaction to something, but it’s
of their penises surgically removed, in accordance with Mosaic law.
no excuse to campaign against the sale of broccoli or to say that broccoli
plants are unfit parents, because that would be childish and wrong.
Essentially they were saying that folks needed to become Jews before
they could convert to Christianity. Paul’s take was essentially, “Shut. the
On the other hand, I don’t believe that marriage is some kind of “right”
fuck. up! Don’t you know that anyone who subjects themselves to any part
that everyone should be allowed to have. So far as it fits under the head-
of the Mosaic law is obliged to obey the whole law, and that the grace
ing of “Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” I’m all for it, but I don’t
Christ won for them is thereby rendered null and void?”
1
know that any two (or more) people have the “right” to force other people
This was the same Peter who had seen a vision of a sheet descending
to recognize their union. I just think the people who refuse to recognize
from the heavens filled with all kinds of beasts and birds and reptiles
gay marriage have the right to be recognized as douche bags.
declared by the law of Moses to be unclean. A voice instructed him to kill
As the saying goes, with a friend like me, who needs enemies? “Of course
and eat, but he refused, though he was hungry, for he said, “By no means,
he’s pro gay rights,” those of the conservative persuasion will say. “He’s
Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is profane or unclean.” The voice
a fucking anarchist! He believes that angels and demons are descended
replied, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane” (Acts
from dinosaurs, for Christ’s sake.” And they’re right. Most people who are
10:14-15, 11:8-9). Peter accepted the vision and went and visited Gentiles,
opposed to gay rights are not anarchists, and so will be unlikely to change
and preached the word to them, and those who heard his words were filled
their minds based on any recommendation from me. Fortunately, there
with the Holy Spirit. When Jewish Christians demanded to know why
has been a growing trend among more respectable Christians to rethink
he had consented to such a profane and unclean thing as consorting with
and attempt to reshape mainstream Christian attitudes regarding the
Gentiles, Peter told them the whole story and said, “If then God gave them
LGBTQ community. This is a good thing, and I have little to add to their
the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ,
good efforts. Nevertheless, I will endeavor to offer what thoughts I have,
who was I that I could hinder God?” (Acts 11:17).
for whatever they’re worth.
The only place in the Bible that I would concede is definitively speaking to homosexual relationships is Leviticus 20:13: “If a man lies with a
Let’s start with a little Bible study, since one of the first church-wide
male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination;
debates also centered around male genitalia. As Paul relates in his letter to
they shall be put to death; their blood is upon them.” That seems clear
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and straightforward. However, in that same chapter is verse 25: “You shall
So let’s apply Paul’s argument to the issue of gay priests. Particularly
therefore make a distinction between the clean animal and the unclean,
this is an issue in my beloved (and abandoned) Episcopalian church, but
and between the unclean bird and the clean; you shall not bring abomi-
it is there in any number of other denominations as well. Aside from the
nation on yourselves by animal or by bird or by anything with which the
obvious similarity that both issues center around the question of accept-
ground teems, which I have set apart for you to hold unclean.” Bringing
able things to do with male genitalia, both issues constitute an attack on
Acts and Leviticus together, the following proposition seems equally clear
the church’s (in this case already horribly fractured) unity. In the first
and straightforward: If it’s not an abomination for a Christian to eat pork
instance, the decision was that, yes, it does matter whether or not your penis
and lobster, then neither is it an abomination for a Christian man to have
is circumcised. Peter was right about that. He was only wrong about the
sex with another (consenting, adult) male. The same presumably goes for
whether. In fact, said Paul, it’s imperative that Gentile Christians not
women, though female homosexuality is never mentioned in the Bible to
become circumcised, lest they become subject to the entire law.
begin with.
So. Does it matter what you do with your penis if you want to be a
To return to the circumcision debate, the two sides declined to form
bishop? Using the same logic, I would have to conclude that, yes, it abso-
a committee to reach a compromise. Instead, Paul “opposed him to his
lutely does matter. It should be a requirement that all priests and bishops
face, because he stood self-condemned” (Galatians 2:11). Although Peter’s
should be practicing homosexuals, because the church is the bride of
side of that conversation is not recorded, it would appear that he saw the
Christ. Therefore heterosexual women and homosexual men are the only
light, just as Saul had on the road to Damascus. A letter was sent to the
logical candidates for the priesthood, since Christ himself is male. To have
churches, saying, “For it has seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us to
a straight male as a priest seems kind of gay.
impose on you no further burden than these essentials: that you abstain
Sorry. I’m being flippant. Honestly, I’ve always wished that God
from what has been sacrificed to idols and from blood and from what is
would simply confirm any given candidate for the priesthood by shining a
strangled and from fornication. If you keep yourselves from these, you will
heavenly sunbeam upon the person’s head, and maybe letting loose with
do well. Farewell” (Acts 15:28-9).
a bit of angelic chanting. Of course, now that I’m a confirmed anarchist, I
Peter, who used to dive into the waves whenever he was in a boat and
believe God could not care less about the ordination of a few special people
saw Jesus outside of it, who loved Jesus “more than these” (John 21:15), was
within the Structured Church, and thus, refuses to participate in any such
wrong as often as he was right, and the church as a whole, even then, was
shenanigans as those for which I used to hope. Nevertheless, since the
no different, but their willingness to listen to reason gives me some hope
church will continue to ordain priests and other ministers no matter how
that the church today may yet repent of its more egregious sins, even if
much I protest, I would still like to weigh in on who gets to preside.
never fully.
To all who pursue ordination, I would ask, “Do you really feel God’s
call?” If not, then where do you get the balls to presume to lead the church?
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And to you who are privileged to be part of a discernment process, I beg
me, who had evidently been there awhile, was expostulating to no one in
of you: Pray with an open heart to be able to sense God’s call (or lack
particular how Puritanism is what fucked this country up, making folks
thereof) on a given candidate regardless of her sexuality. I don’t care if she’s
believe that sex is a shameful thing.
a drunken adulteress with bad b.o.—if God’s call is upon her, as it was
At some point it entered his consciousness that someone was actually
upon Samson, then do not stand in the way of her calling, lest God give
listening. I could almost see his eyes and mind resolve their focus. He
her the strength to tear down the temple around you. On second thought:
stopped ranting and gave a community-theater-dramatic lookaround to
Keep opposing her, because I’d really like to see that.
make sure no one else at the bar was listening before he said, in a loud stage
whisper, “I’m a homosexual.” And then he began to tell me his story.
As for myself, I was born in a Jewish hospital and was circumcised by a
When they called our table, I waved my friends on. They had par-
mohel while the doctors and nurses drank champagne. Also, I struggle with
ticipated in the conversation only minimally up to that point, mentioning
sin and with understanding the meaning of your grace bestowed upon me
that we all worked at a Christian press, but I was fascinated. Not that I
through the cross. Like Paul, “I do not understand my own actions. For I
was really participating, mind you, but I was listening, and I wanted to
do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate” (Romans 7:15). Also,
keep on listening. (Besides, I knew my friends would order me another
I’m relatively prurient, and have been entirely celibate since my divorce five
Sam Adams if the waitress stopped by the table before I rejoined them.) I
years ago. Thus, I often feel trapped in sin and virtue alike and am not as
don’t remember much of what he told me beyond the fact that he wished
free as I believe you would like me to be.
he could go to church but didn’t feel that his type were welcome in any of
This struggle is the template that many thoughtful, compassionate
the ones he had ever visited, but then he got to what, for me, was the crux
Christians of the conservative persuasion impose upon homosexuality.
of the conversation. He said, “You know what? There’s probably only one
We have assumed that homosexuals know in their hearts that same sex
thing that you and I agree on. And that’s that Jesus Christ is the Son of
relations are wrong, but are as helpless as we straight people to put an end
God and rose from the dead.”
to acting on our sinful desires. The liberal wing of the church has, it seems
Whoopsie daisy. The flaw in my largely unexamined belief that homo-
to us, dealt with the problem by casting aside the very idea of sin, just as
sexuality was incompatible with Christianity was in conflating the gays
they dismiss belief in a literal resurrection, thereby stripping the cross of
with the liberals. It took a drunk guy in a bar to show me how wrong I
its power and focusing instead on tolerance and being nice.
was. Again, I say, Whoops.
Because what do I really expect from my fellow Christians? Simply
My own Damascus road experience took place in a bar. I was visiting
that they believe in God, and that literally. I would much rather have a
my favorite watering hole with a couple of my favorite friends, and we
homosexual priest who believes in the resurrection lead my church than
were sitting at the bar awaiting a table, when I noticed that the guy next to
anyone who doesn’t.
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As for the question of whether homosexuality is a sin, I agree with
same as anyone’s? I mean, yes, many religious people don’t seem to use the
Paul, at least in theory, that the law is fulfilled. It’s a moot point. Every
tenth of a brain God gave them, but that doesn’t mean that your eighth
relationship, sexual or otherwise, is fraught with unhealthiness, but the
of a brain has a lock on the limits of the possible. They’re called miracles
goal in every one is to learn how to love. If one’s heart needs to be changed
precisely because they strain people’s understanding of what’s likely. Even
in any way, there’s nothing can be done except to trust God to change it.
in the superstitious days of first century Israel, it was well known that
As far as God’s holiness is concerned (the idea that one must be sanctified
people who die don’t come back to life, and that Birkenstocks make inef-
before entering into The Presence), well, that’s what the crucifixion was
fective catamarans.
for. By so saying, I’m planting my feet firmly in two wasp nests. The wasps
Because, you know what? It does matter whether or not Jesus walked,
attacking my left shin are explaining that all that atonement theology is
fed, healed or rose from the dead. “What it means” is different depending
crap, while the ones stinging my right calf muscle are quoting Leviticus 20,
on whether the thing is “history remembered” or some weird metapa-
Romans 1 and Galatians 5.
rable told by the Gospel writers to promulgate what they wanted Jesus
to mean.
I know that swatting at hornets is counterproductive, but the alterna-
Proponents of the inherent errancy of the Bible tend to exalt skepticism
tives are either to run away or to stand here and continue to get stung, so
as the only reason anyone would bother to look for deeper meanings there,
I, like so many before me, choose to stand and swat. You’d think I’d know
but that’s bullshit. Neither skepticism nor passive acceptance of received
better, given my experience with an actual wasp in chapter 16, but when
wisdom causes one to delve deeper, but only the desire to prove a particular
they’re angry and en masse, no toothbrush will appease them.
point using the Bible as an authority. (Or, in rare cases, because someone
(Forgive me if you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about in the
actually cares what the Bible really means.)
following paragraphs. If you haven’t had similar experiences and are too far
If you believe that the story of Jesus walking on water was made up,
away to see the wasps, it may look as if I’m just having some sort of seizure.
then the insight to be gained is simply (as liberal theologians contend)
I’m slapping wildly based on my previous experiences with metaphorical
that Jesus is greater than Neptune, Poseidon, or Aquaman, and thus, ipso
wasps, and if you have had similar experiences, you may question why I’m
facto, more worthy of worship than any of those. On the other hand, if you
slapping at certain wasps but not others. The answer is: I don’t know.)
believe it’s simply a true story, it demonstrates that, with faith anything is
possible, more or less literally. Interestingly, if you believe in miracles, then
To those on the left—look—I appreciate your acceptance of homosexuals within your churches, but if you’ve lost your faith in an interventionist
both interpretations are valid insights, but if you don’t, then the second
interpretation is delusional nonsense.
God (while still clinging to some notion of the Divine), could you at least
If you believe that the feeding of the five thousand was the result of
try to remember that your sampling of reality is infinitesimally small,
people sharing what many commonsensically brought with them (as I once
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Consider the Queers
369
heard an Episcopal bishop suggest), inspired by the generosity of one little
To those swarming about my right knee, allow me to paraphrase Paul:
boy, then the point of the story can only be that generosity is a good and
you who preach against homosexuality, are you teabagging, planing and
inspiring practice and that Jesus was the sort of person who brought that
fisting those to whom you preach (Romans 2)? You who claim to love the
out in people. If, on the other hand, you believe that Jesus was able super-
sinner but hate the sin while mocking homosexuals for their desires to be
naturally to multiply five loaves and two fish so that twelve baskets of bits
married and ordained bring judgement upon yourselves. Oh, I’ve heard you
were left over after five thousand people had eaten their fill, then you can
mocking. You thought I was one of you and that it was safe to laugh at them
still be inspired by the little boy’s generosity, but you can also believe that
in my presence, but you were wrong. You think the liberal church is not
God has the power, literally, to provide for your earthly needs even when
really God’s church, yet homosexuals feel welcomed there (even the ones
there’s plainly not enough to go around.
who don’t necessarily agree with the liberal church’s theology), and though
You may think that such a reading fosters gross irresponsibility and is
you may protest till you’re blue in the balls that you accept all comers with
in direct contradiction to observable reality, but read the Old Testament:
outstretched arms, few people are able comfortably to sit through sermons
God’s ability to provide is a constant theme: Did I not provide manna for
condemning their “lifestyle.”
you every day for forty years? Did you ever go thirsty? Did your shoes ever
Do you think homosexuals can be saved from their homosexuality?
wear out? When you complained that your diet lacked meat, did I not send
Fine. If homosexuality is a sin, then surely you are correct, sir, but let God
you enough quail to make you sick of meat? Why are you complaining now?
be the judge of that; not you, not your church, not even The Church. God
Why are you putting your trust in Egypt, in the rich oppressor, in the strength
sees the heart, and the hearts of many in your parish who seem most whole-
of arms and horses? Seriously—Have some fucking faith. Only ask and you
some are black with hatred. They too may be redeemed, but they hate the
shall receive. Only repent from your wickedness and I will once more turn my
queers, the Democrats, the bleeding hearts—and homosexuals are wise to
face to you, you faithless and perverse generation.
steer clear. If someone comes to you wishing to be healed of what they feel
Because we are wicked, faithless and perverse. Look around. We
are wrong sexual desires, then by all means pray with them, but how can
absolutely need to be reconciled to a holy God, and yes, it’s a bloody, gory
preaching that homosexuality is wrong remove any confusion they might
process—what’s your point? The only way you’ve managed to do away with
have? I tell you, your parables and parallels are abhorrent to the God who
atonement theology is by abandoning the very notion of sin, which makes
destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.
about as much sense as doing away with nuclear weapons by abandoning
the notion of subatomic physics.
But, you know, well done with the whole social justice thing.
(Seriously.)
Is that your fear? That God will destroy your country because of “the
pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians,” in the same way that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed? Have
you not read that God would have spared those cities had he found but
ten righteous people there? Do you not perceive the difference between
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consensual intimacy between adults, and an entire city who wished to gang
ass-rape two visiting messengers from God? Have you not heard that it
will be better for Sodom and Gomorrah in the coming day than for those
who did not listen to the words of Christ’s disciples?
One of the most egregious sins a society can commit is claiming that
powerless people have insidious power. Whether it’s Jews, Reagan’s “welfare
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371
I’d like to end this chapter with a final story, that I hope will demonstrate that not all those who appear to be against you actually are.
I met Ovide on my first trip to North Carolina (the trip I mentioned
in chapter 7), He’s about Dad’s age, and he shares Dad’s exasperation with
young folks who don’t take their baseball caps off when they come inside.
You know the type: Conservative.
queens,” illegal immigrants, gays, women, or people of color, the impetus
On the van-ride back, after everyone else had left the dining area of
for the claim is the desire of those in power to cling to their power, their
whatever fast food joint we were patronizing to wait by the van (I’m a slow
status, their wealth, their security. When things go wrong, they blame the
eater), Ovide told me that a week of volunteer work like the one we just left
powerless, and oppress them all the more, sometimes simply out of fear
felt more like vacation to him than work, because he didn’t have to be in
that something will go wrong if the problem isn’t nipped in the bud.
charge. He started telling me about his employees, and how one of them
Please: social justice is near to God’s heart, and your dismissal of it
is homosexual. A customer once asked him, “Why do you let that guy
will be the cause of the very destruction you fear. Jesus directed his anger
work for you when you know he’s gay?” Ovide said, “You really want the
at proponents of the status quo, at religious leaders and profiteers. Such
answer to that?” The customer said he did, so Ovide told him, “Because
people are the same today as they were back then.
I’m a Christian. And I’m supposed to be a light to him. It may be that after
he’s worked here awhile he’ll see the error of his ways, and if he doesn’t?
Finally, to any homosexuals who are still reading: I’m sorry. On behalf
of all the Bible thumpers that have taken up arms against gay priests and
gay marriage: I apologize. Somehow that was the straw that broke their
That’s not my problem. That’s between him and God.”
“That’s right,” I said, surprised and moved, as I often am when Ovide
speaks.
backs (and I went along with them, so I’m just as culpable), but the real
He continued, “That customer didn’t show up for awhile after that,
problem (and there is a real problem) with the church, that had been
but then one day he showed up again, so I guess he must’ve changed his
festering since long before you came out of your closets is that the idea
mind.”
of a God who is also a person was discarded. But in regards to you, we’re
I said, “Maybe you were a light to him.”
wrong: You have every right to marry each other and to lead churches. But
Ovide thought for a second and then said, “I never thought of that.
rejoice! Without the liberal/atheistic priests and bishops to lead the way,
See? I just learned something.”
it’s likely that we never even would have considered countenancing your
marriages and ordinations.
Sigh.
<Skip footnote>
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Confession (1996)
1
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession. . . . I had an impure thought last, um, Thursday. . . . And that’s about it.”
“What was the nature of your thought?”
“Oh, um, I considered—briefly, mind you—eating a cheeseburger on Friday
instead of the usual fish. Um, you know how it is, father, every week the same
old liturgy, holy and, um, sacred, but the deceiver wants to call it dull. I’ve fully
repented, I assure you, it’s just that, well, it’s a little vexing to find oneself giving
in so easily to temptation, especially at my age.”
“How old are you, my son?”
“Oh, um, mid-thirties I should think. After the teens one tends to lose count.
You know how it is.”
“Indeed.”
“So, um, a dozen Hail Marys should do it, do you think, or is it into the lake
of fire with me?”
“I have given the matter such thought as time allows.”
“. . . And?”
“And I can only conclude that you must wholeheartedly renounce this passionless conformity to mindless rituals and go therefore and make a little noise.
Be outrageous, man! Hurt yourself and maybe others, repent of your old routine
and take up drinking in the morning, be callous to your friends, go weeks without
bathing, and become that which you most fear.”
“Uh, okay. Wow. Well, you’re the boss, Father; I will do all these things as
you command.”
“Then you are truly lost. For you have only traded one law for another, and he
who follows a law outside himself will himself be cast outside.”
“But, Father, if what you say is true, then I can’t win. Please Father, I don’t
understand.”
“Aha. Perhaps there is hope for you yet. Go in peace, my son; your sin is
forgiven.”
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23 | Suffer the Unborn
“How fragile is the heart.”
—Loreena McKennit, Dante’s Prayer
Now that we’ve got a handle on homosexuality, let’s talk about
abortion. Have you had one? Peace be with you. Seriously. Read on, or not,
but this discussion is not for you. Are you thinking about having an abortion? I’m sorry you’re in that situation. Peace be with you. I hope you have
friends who can walk alongside you while you wrestle with the decision.
What’s here may help with that, but honestly, you need friends more than
you need any words of mine. If you don’t have any friends you feel you can
trust, then know this: Jesus is in love with you. I know that probably sounds
like cold comfort right now, but it’s absolutely true, and having an abortion
will absolutely not put an end to his love. Please believe that. I would not
lie to you. Whatever you decide, you will have my general support and his
specific support. He will be with you, suffering alongside the consequences
of whichever decision you make, whether you can see him there or not.
For the rest of you. For the rest of us, for whom this is not quite so
1
personal a discussion, let’s keep the above-mentioned people in mind when
we’re talking about it. And yes, I mean you too—those of you who want to
champion a woman’s right to choose. Let’s all remember that a whole person
is involved here, not just a victim of societal strictures. She’s going to feel
guilty no matter how much you try to convince her that there’s nothing
about which to feel guilty. Such guilt is not the fault of those who believe
abortion is murder; it’s a direct result of the fact that abortion puts an end
<Return to main text>
to something that, left to its own devices, would probably grow up to be a
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significant tax exemption. I’m not trying to be funny or disrespectful—it
many are able to read between the lines of your bumper stickers and voting
just comes out that way sometimes.
decisions.
Life is tough. Decisions have consequences. Life is sacred. Life is cheap.
Every living thing that’s ever existed, with a small but doomed community
On the other hand, What the hell were you thinking, aborting a fetus just
because he or she had been diagnosed with Downs Syndrome?
of exceptions, has already died. I guaranfuckingtee that the vast majority
I know. I’m sorry. Truly. That was a harsh and unloving thing for me
of the exceptions will die soon enough. The death of a small one is painful,
to say. Please stop crying. I didn’t mean to pick on you above every other
and I know just enough of pain to understand what I cannot comprehend—
reader of this book. You’re kind to have kept on reading for as long as you
that is, the death of a child who is close to me. But how many people feel
did, and here I’ve repaid you by tearing open that old scab that will never
the enormity of an abortion? If it’s convenient enough, those of us on the
quite heal over. You were doing it for the baby’s sake as much as for your
outside may hardly feel it at all. Losing a child we’ve carried in our womb,
own and your family’s. I understand. But I believe it’s likely true (maybe
however, let alone one that we’ve held in our arms, is pain of which I hope
not in your particular situation, of which I know nothing) that it was an
never to have the slightest inkling.
ignorant decision. How many parents kill their Downs Syndrome children
after they find out how much work it actually entails? I don’t for a nanosec-
It seems to me that death is not a problem for the dead. It is only a
ond want to diminish how hard it is, but seriously—if you don’t think you
problem for the living who are left behind. Their grief is what’s important.
could bring yourself to kill him once you’ve held him in your arms, then
They are the ones who need comforting, not the dead. Right? When a
your decision to kill him before he reaches your arms is cowardly.
baby dies, who grieves the most? Is it the baby? I suspect not. The second
You can be forgiven such cowardice. Seriously. I forgive you. Jesus
cousins? Doubtful. The Baptists at the end of the street? Again, surprising
forgives you. It was more than you were willing (or felt able) to give. So.
as my answer may seem, No.
Your child is safe and happy in the arms of baby Jesus, and neither of them
Right?
holds the least grudge against you. I say the harsh things not to make you
The tragedy of abortion is not that a human being has been cheated
feel bad (I gave you the option to skip this chapter, remember?), but rather
out of the privilege of attending the college of his or her choice, but that
to participate in this weird thing that certain Christians force themselves
the mother so often feels she needs to keep her decision a secret, even as
to do on a regular basis: to “speak the truth in love.”
she grieves the life that now will never be.
Calling someone a coward seems more like an insult than a “truth,” so
What do Christians say to such women, implicitly, and with touch-
I’m sorry, but are you aware that the number of Downs Syndrome cases
ing devotion? They say: “You are an abomination. You have killed your
has decreased significantly since the advent of prenatal tests that reveal its
own child!” They rarely say it in so many words, but believe me, so many
presence, even as the incidence of the condition has risen? Raising a child
words are unnecessary. Women are well known for their intuition, and
with Downs Syndrome is (by all accounts that I have heard) overwhelming,
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377
and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And yet, those same accounts, more
problems. Scoff if you like at the idea, but I’m willing to wager you have
often than not, speak also of a reward, of an overwhelming joy and love,
a similar belief system, even if you perhaps lack the balls or conviction to
that flow from the Downs Syndrome child directly into the world around
take the kind of drastic action that is required to address whatever prob-
her, and I have not heard any who would trade such reward for any less
lems you see. You may scapegoat George Bush or Dick Cheney or Britney
stress-laden currency.
Spears (Britney is available to scapegoat for a wide variety of society’s ills,
Yet there’s no question that I have fallen into the trap from which I
poor girl) or the rednecks in the red states instead of “the pagans, and the
thought anarchy would free me, and for that I am heartily sorry. I know
abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians,” but you still
well how difficult it is to surrender to the trials laid before me. And I’m
blame the problems the country is facing on a group of people that does
calling you a coward? Please, please forgive me! I will understand if you’d
not include yourself.
rather not.
It’s easy, in the oh-so-rational U. S. of A. to be outraged by news out
Abortion is an issue fraught with grief and anger. It is intensely per-
of Zimbabwe (and any number of other places around the world) of an
sonal, whilst debated regularly in the public square, sometimes with a gun.
increase in the incidence of people being accused of witchcraft and being
On one side, you have people who believe that Dr. Tiller, a provider of
ostracized or killed by their friends and neighbors, and sometimes even
late-term abortions, was a hero, and, on the other hand, you have people
family, but everyone is prone to the same impulse, though they may choose
who believe that Scott Roeder, who killed him, was a hero. There aren’t
to couch it in terms less superstitious. It started in the Garden of Eden,
many who will publicly acknowledge their admiration for the latter, but
when they first started saying, “I’m not the problem; she is.”
as an anarchist, I find his willingness to act according to his conscience,
Is it possible that both Dr. Tiller and Mr. Roeder were heros? Yes,
in spite of the inevitable consequences, yes, inspiring, and I suspect I’m
damn it! Bravery and heroism are right-and-wrong agnostic. Willingness to
far from alone.
die or to give up your freedom or your reputation for something you believe
I believe he was wrong, and I’m opposed to his principles, but I think
in is a beautiful thing, even if that something is horribly, horribly wrong.
I understand them. He was playing the part of the Levites who slew their
To those on the prochoice side of the aisle, I want to point out that
fellow Israelites for bringing God’s judgment down upon them all. Roeder
Tiller was one of a handful of doctors in the country who performed
thought that by killing one of the most notorious baby killers in the country,
late-term abortions. For many, that means he was the worst of the worst,
he could save literal babies. And, perhaps (though I have no way of knowing
terminating fetuses that were viable babies. (I won’t use more descriptive
whether this is true), he was scapegoating.
language for what he was doing, because the images and descriptions are
Scapegoating, in case you’re unfamiliar with the term, is the act of
freely available elsewhere. Suffice it to say that the descriptions are horrific.)
placing the blame for the problems in your community on a single indi-
If any abortion doctor can be accused of being a baby killer, Tiller could
vidual and believing that by eliminating the individual you’ll eliminate the
have been. In the abstract, then (for abstract is what this issue is for the
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379
vast majority of those participating in the debate, myself included), it can
that evil was at work in both of them. Whatever. All I want to say is that
seem justifiable to murder a murderer when the laws on the books justify
it’s possible that good was at work in both of them, also. C’est la vie.
his horrific actions. Thus, Roeder sacrificed his legal right to freedom in
order to defend the lives of babies. Are you who are anti-prolife incapable of
About a century ago, when The Times of London invited several
granting, at least in theory, that such a man might be considered a hero?
prominent authors to answer the question “What’s Wrong With the
Really?
World?” one author replied with the following letter, which I quote here
Fine. But you’re going to fail the love’s anarchy final exam.
in its entirety:
As for those on the prolife side, who decry, perhaps, the violence and
lawlessness, but secretly consider it to have been the justice and judgment
of God, I want to point out that Tiller was one of a handful of doctors in
the country who performed late-term abortions. It may be true that only
Dear Sirs,
I am.
Sincerely yours,
G. K. Chesterton
a small percentage of such abortions are due to extreme fetal anomalies
Those of you who want to put an end to abortions, to save pregnant
(like lacking a brain or other vital organs, or a face), but the mothers
women from themselves and from the grief that terminating a pregnancy
who fall into this category have extremely limited options. Their babies
will cause them, need to focus your efforts, not on making it impossible for a
are wanted and greatly desired, and forcing them to wait until after the
women to get a safe and legal abortion, but rather on individual women, and
umbilical cord is cut to watch their child die is no less cruel an option than
honestly, in my opinion, you should wait for them to come to you. Here’s
ending the child’s life before. Such a decision must rank with the very worst
a hint: if they assume (rightly, according to most available evidence) that
decisions a human being can face, and yet it’s made all the more difficult
you will condemn the option of abortion as evil and equivalent to murder,
by the fact that most clinics refuse to perform late-term abortions for any
very few of them will seek you out when the time comes that they find
reason, precisely because there are people like Mr. Roeder who are willing
themselves facing such a decision. If they believe (rightly, because you are,
to protest against it so violently. Tiller had already been shot in both arms,
right?) that you are a compassionate individual whose sole agenda is your
and his clinic had already been bombed. Are you who are anti-prochoice
loving concern for them and for the child they happen to be carrying, then
incapable of granting, at least in theory, that such a man might be consid-
they might just come to you for counsel when making what one can only
ered a hero? Really?
hope will be the most difficult and consequential decision they ever face.
Failing marks all around, then.
Just try to remember your place. The decision is ultimately theirs, and they
It should go without saying that neither I nor anyone else has the deep-
need your love both before and after whichever choice they choose.
est insight into the true character of either of these men. It’s quite possible
<Skip footnote>
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Blurred Vision (1989)
1
The car window framed a streaming collage of undergrowth and telephone
poles and dirt, with litter adding occasional streaks of color. The white line at the
bottom swayed lazily to and fro, emphasizing everything indiscriminately. Helen
wasn’t exactly thinking, but against this chaotic backdrop her mind cast images
of people, like in Dorothy’s tornado:
Her mother, leaning close, counseling her like she would have anyone who
wandered into her clinic. Rick, shifting his feet and telling her to keep the baby,
that they’d run away and raise the child together. Her father, in his recliner,
smoking a pipe and reading a thick novel.
When the white line, dimmed by the coming night, sank beneath its frame, the
blur resolved itself into the parking lot of a gas station, and the images dropped
like snow off a roof. The lack of motion outside the window did nothing to dispel
her sensation of hurtling ineluctably forward.
Her car door opened, startling her, and Rick handed her a plastic bag. She
hadn’t even noticed him get out. The bag was filled with soda, sandwiches and
candy bars.
“Supper time,” said Rick, “Hey, why are you crying?”
She drew the back of her hand across one cheek. It came back wet, so she
pulled a crumpled tissue out of her purse and dried her cheeks while Rick closed
the door, and soon they were moving again. She ate half her sandwich and sipped
some soda, but left the rest for Rick, who was grinding his food and paying too
much attention to the road. She returned her attention to the blur.
At the motel, she took a long, warm shower, searching for shapes in the mildewed ceiling. Afterwards, she went to sleep like a rabbit going to ground.
She didn’t fully awake the next morning until she saw cows. “I want to stop
and see the cows,” she said. She didn’t watch his reaction as he slowly pulled over
into the breakdown lane.
The cows were chewing placidly and only blinked when she stroked their noses.
She breathed their rich, powerful aroma, and admired the soft, whitish-pink of
their disinterested ears.
Suffer the Unbor n
381
After a time, Rick asked, “Are you through talking to the cows, Hel? Can we
go now?”
She half-turned toward Rick, then back to the herd. Had she been talking to
them? What had she said? She looked at Rick again, puzzled, then walked back
to the car.
Helen searched the blur for some memory of her bovine conversation. What
had she told them? What had they replied? She wanted to go back and ask them.
She turned to Rick and said, “I want . . .”
She watched him pull his bottom lip beneath his front teeth—a familiar
expression.
“. . . a cat.” she said. She felt foolish for saying it. She didn’t know what she meant
by it, and Rick didn’t ask, but a few minutes later they passed a hand-painted
sign that said, “Free Kittens.” She gasped and touched his arm. Still biting his
lip, Rick blinked slowly and nodded. He pulled into the driveway and walked
up to the house, leaving Helen to her thoughts, which were no less chaotic and
hurtling than before. Was he really going to come back with a cat? Why would God
answer this prayer, so quickly, and none of the others, ever? Did she really want a
cat? Any more than she wanted the other thing? Rick opened her door and handed
her an exceptionally large and trembly puff of milkweed that stared at her with
impossibly blue eyes. So that was one question answered.
“I shall call you Fate,” she said, and soon it was purring like an electric back
massager.
“Fate, my dear, you’re too little to sound like a truck,” she said. “You must be so
hungry, though, huh?” She searched the bag from yesterday’s supper and pulled
out the waxed paper that had held her sandwich. She scooped a dollop of tuna
salad with the tip of her finger, leaving a greasy smear on the satiny surface, and
offered it to the kitten, who sniffed at it timidly, waiting to see if it would hurt.
Once she decided it was safe, Fate angled her head, opened her mouth, and sank
her tiny fangs into the morsel.
“Mmm,” said Helen, “Good tuna fish, huh?” Vicariously, she savored the texture
and taste of slightly stale mayonnaise, exquisite chunks of tuna, and tiny bursts
of pickle. It had tasted like nothing when she had eaten it herself.
When Fate was done licking her finger, Helen searched for more, but could
find nothing to interest the kitten. After a quick cleaning, Fate crawled up onto
her shoulder and explored her hair, while Helen’s gaze moved once more to the
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window. She couldn’t help speaking out when she saw another herd of cows. “Oh
Fate, look! There’s a horse in the middle of those cows.”
“You want to go talk to it?” asked Rick, with a tired sarcasm that made her feel
as small as a kitten. He pulled over without waiting for an answer and said, “Go
ahead.” He was trembling and red-faced, and not looking at her.
Helen frowned, but said nothing. She retrieved Fate from the fall of her hair
and climbed out the door.
“Oh Fate,” she sighed, hugging the warm, soft kitten to her cheek.
As she descended the small slope towards the fence, the horse walked forward to greet her. Excitement rose from her stomach at the prospect of talking
to this sage beast. The beast, however, was more interested in Fate. Its muzzle
gently investigated the kitten, much as Fate had investigated the tuna fish. As if
she made the same connection, Fate closed her eyes, and laid her ears back flat
against her head.
“You can’t eat Fate, silly horse,” she said. “Even if she does look rather scrumptious, hmm?” She held Fate up close to her own open mouth, close enough to
taste the long silky fur.
“Don’t worry, Fate, we’re not going to eat you, are we horse? Of course not.” She
dropped Fate back to her shoulder and reluctantly glanced back at the car.
It wasn’t there. She frowned and walked back up to the deserted road. Her
frown took root, and she looked at Fate inquisitively. The kitten squirmed and
mewled and tried to get down. She let it down and looked back at the horse, but
the horse had returned to its grazing. She looked at the sky; she looked at the
ground, and all around, and was amazed at how utterly still it all was. She dropped
down and reclined on her side next to Fate. “I think he’s gone,” she said.
Fate batted a stray strand of hair and then studied it seriously, waiting for
it to react.
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24 | Break the Bread
“Sorry to be disappointing.”
—Sinéad O’Connor, Daddy I’m Fine
The apostle Paul defined love thusly: Love bears all things, believes
all things, is always patient, always kind, always letting yourself get stepped on
and asking for more, or words to that effect. Though I speak with the tongues
of angels, if I have no love I am a klaxon. They shall know we are Christians
by our love. Ha! I don’t know very many Christians, do you? I’m not at all
convinced that I’m one. To quote an epigraph in The Brothers K, by David
James Duncan, “If I was God, I wouldn’t answer my prayers either.” Can I
assume you’re not entirely sure that you’re a Christian either?
To quote my favorite Catholic Abbot: “Perhaps today we can let that go.”
You’ve probably never heard of my favorite Catholic Abbot. Not to
worry—I myself disremember his name. Perhaps it’s just as well. I don’t
know if this abbot would get in trouble for having his speech disseminated
here (not that any of the three of us are likely to tell the Pope, but someone
from the Vatican might open up to the following paragraph at random in
a bookstore, so I won’t even mention what town he was in), but I was at a
friary with a group of people from my church a couple of decades ago, along
with a whole mess of tourists. The brothers were inducting a new monk
into the order that day, and the service included communion. Before calling
<Return to main text>
folks up to receive the sacraments, the abbot (I presume it was the abbot)
addressed the outdoor assemblage with words to this effect:
“This is the Lord’s table. Not my table, not the friary’s table, not the
Catholic Church’s table, but the Lord’s table. Now, perhaps you haven’t
been to confession in awhile. Perhaps you’re not sure you’re prepared to
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receive Communion. Perhaps today we can let that go. Perhaps you haven’t
Here is an opportunity for we as anarchists to embrace both extremes,
been to church in a while. Perhaps today we can let that go. Perhaps you’re
because we should absolutely take the Eucharist that seriously. Perhaps
not a Catholic. [pause] Perhaps you’re not a Christian. Perhaps today we
those who give open invitations to all comers ought to warn of the potential
can let that go. This is the Lord’s table, and all are welcome.”
spiritual consequences of receiving the host unshriven (or worse, frivo-
Twenty years later, that story still makes me cry. Seriously. Two tears
lously), for God is a dangerous being. As Annie Dillard famously wrote: “It
are traveling through my goatee in the hopes of meeting each other at
is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should
my chin. There was a long line for communion that day, but of the eleven
all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal
people from my church, only one of us accepted this amazingly gracious
flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some
invitation.
day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can
In the same spirit, I would like to issue my own invitation: Let us
never return (Teaching a Stone to Talk, Harper & Row, 1982).”
cease to tolerate different religions and skin colors and sexual orientations.
To partake of communion is to participate in the breaking of Jesus’s
Let us begin, yet again, the hard, dangerous, bloody task of learning to
body and the spilling of his blood. It is the symbolic (and somehow more
love one another the way Christ loved, willing to lay down our lives for
than symbolic) act of taking his sacrifice into ourselves, thereby becoming
those we find beaten and bloodied on the side of the road. We will not be
one with him and with each other. Enter at your own risk. But far be it
the first to do so, we three, but the consequences of any given handful of
from anyone to presume to limit the guest list based on a particular creed.
people loving in this manner are incalculable. It can stem the tide, if not
You serve communion at your own risk, also.
ever fully turn it back.
You see, what all branches of Christendom (and pretty much any
I’ve had people tell me I must have been mistaken. As if Catholic abbots,
religion) have in common is a completely inclusive membership policy.
by definition, are incapable of putting such words together in that particular
Absolutely everyone is welcome to join them at their communion table so
order. I’ve heard at least one Episcopal priest give nearly the same invitation
long as they’ve officiously officially converted, renouncing any and all other
(which is vastly less surprising), but I’ve also heard an Episcopal priest delay
so-called branches of the faith, and as with most every such branch, it is
communion because he sensed the Holy Spirit telling him that someone in
expected that you sign on to a whole stack of ideological hoo-hah in order
the congregation was harboring unconfessed sin. He said it was dangerous
to do so. Everything from “contraception is evil” to “the elements of the
to receive communion with sin in your heart, and so he directed prayer
Eucharist literally become the body and blood of Christ.”
ministers to step just outside the doors to hear any personal confessions
anyone might want to give.
I’m willing to venture that no one believes such a grotesque claim as
literally as a post-Enlightenment Westerner means by the word “literally.”
A friend of mine once quoted an authority with the Eastern Orthodox faith
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as saying, “We’re not sure how the Holy Spirit changes the bread and wine
to an absurd degree. We don’t need to reach some universal agreement, we
into the body and blood of Christ, but we’re pretty sure He does.” This is
need to toss out the idea of the oldest traditions being the One True Church,
said with a smile and presumably complete sincerity, and is a wonderful
along with the idea that the newer traditions return the church to some
nod to the mysteries of faith, but let me tell you, there would be no need
earlier purity or that the newest traditions are somehow more progressive.
for “pretty sure he does” if it was strictly literal in the absolutely strictest
We need to be in full communion with each other, and I do mean now.
sense of the word “literal,” because human flesh and bread have very little
in common in terms of consistency and taste.
These schisms are akin to the heart/mind split that I never understood
until I became an atheist in college and noticed that, while my mind was
The Anglican Church believes in “consubstantiation,” that Christ is
cheerfully disbelieving in the existence of a deity, my heart, freed from the
mystically present in the bread and wine (once it’s been blessed) in a way
natural skepticisms of my mind, was absolutely certain that Jesus himself
that is different than the way he is present everywhere at all times, or even
was firmly ensconced within its four chambers.
“whenever two or three are gathered together.” He indwells the elements
Within the context of the church, the heart has the better argument
in some special way. Catholics and Orthodoxes would, I have to believe,
for being right, for it clings stubbornly to the truth. The mind, once it is
simply mean (whatever words they use), “No, but he’s really, really present.
separated from the heart, has no defense against further splintering against
Like, totally present. Like, you don’t even understand.” Which, fine; I can
itself. The heart needs to accept the heresies of the mind, and the mind
accept that. But don’t tell me that you’re drinking platelets and hemoglobin,
needs to accept the intuitions of the heart. I speak in such vague terms
because I think more people would vomit during Communion if that were
because the issues are complex beyond my ability to comprehend, and we
the case, and I don’t see any reason for Christ to have meant it literally
need to cut through all the debates and acknowledge our fundamental
when he said, “This is my body which is broken for you. Whenever you
unity. We cannot be pure, for we never were, and God does not demand it
eat it, do this in remembrance of me.” There’s deep mysticism in there, and
of us. We don’t need to have a perfect understanding of you, for we never
1
it’s real, and I can’t explain it either, but stop insisting that people believe
will, and you do not demand it of us. We don’t need to agree upon a creed,
the inexplicable before you’ll break bread with them. Many if not all of
for the belief that you desire is not about you but in you.
your congregants are lying about believing it anyway. Even about the evils
of contraception.
You call us to love you and to love each other, and so long as we abide
by those commandments, or at least strive so to do, we are one. So long as
we reject certain people based on differing beliefs, we are fractured, and
The unity of the bride of Christ is of greater importance than history,
we need to be rebound. This requires humility and submission on all sides.
theology and doctrine combined. The Great Schism between the Western
Nothing can be allowed to impede this process, and everything that does
and Eastern Church was only one in a long, tattered string of disintegra-
is from Satan.
tions. The Protestant denominations have split and divided and fractured
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Fortunately, we don’t need to wait for our leaders to come to terms
with each other before reconciliation can occur. I’ve received communion
formally in Catholic, Eastern Orthodox and any number of Protestant
denominations, as well as informally with at least one each of atheists,
homosexuals, people who’ve had an abortion, wiccans, heretics, Democrats
and Republicans, and by the authority vested in me by the Church of Love’s
Anarchy, I hereby decree that both of you are free to do likewise.
<Skip footnote>
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The Return of the Queen (2005)
1
Susan Ashe had lived in many places, but none of them had quite felt like home.
She and her husband, Jonathan, were living in an apartment in Oak Park, Illinois
when they heard that The Chronicles of Narnia were to be made into a movie.
“Did you read The Guardian this morning, dear?” asked Jonathan, tapping at
the computer with one hand while he ate a bagel with the other.
Susan had been up for several hours by then (she always had been an early
riser), but she had not gotten on-line yet, and she said so.
“Says here in the Arts section they’re making a movie out of Narnia. It’s set to
be directed by the bloke what did Shrek.”
Normally, Susan would have raised a withering eyebrow at the attempted
Cockney accent, but to her husband’s surprise, she made no reaction at all.
“Is something the matter, then?” As he watched her, his concern mounted, for
her face was pale, her jaw clenched, and she seemed to be trembling. Alarmed, he
stood up, worried she was having an attack of some kind.
What he didn’t realize (because she had never told him) was that she knew
more about Narnia than anyone else then living, and the place did not hold
pleasant associations for her. With an effort, she got ahold of herself, looked up
at Jonathan, and said, “I’m sorry. What, dear?”
“Cor. You gave me a turn there. Thought you was ‘aving an embollickum.”
Jonathan had grown up in New Jersey, but once he started with the accent, he
found it almost impossible to stop.
Susan took a deep breath. “Not to worry,” she said. “I was just thinking about
those poor children in Liberia. Really, something ought to be done.”
Jonathan smiled, relaxing, and sat down again. Susan was always going on
about some war or another. He tended to favor the Arts section over the World,
but Susan would have her causes. She’d always had a tender heart toward those
less fortunate. Suffering children, in particular, would get her in a rage. “Don’t
see what that has to do with Narnia,” he said.
“I’m popping out for some coffee,” she said. “Would you like something,
dear?”
Jonathan greeted this with some confusion. “We’ve got coffee . . .” But Susan
was already out the door. He gazed after her for a moment, wondering if perhaps
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he should follow, then shrugged and turned back to the computer. “Blimey. ’Ere
I thought I was the loon in the fambly.”
Susan reached the corner of the street before her shoulders began to shake.
She crossed her arms and put her head down, fighting to keep control. It was
shocking how quickly the mention of that place set her heart to beating, even after
all these years. She forced her chin up, drew her arms to her sides and continued
walking. The air was cool, the sidewalk still damp from the thunderstorms that
had been plaguing them for days. Drops of water fell from the trees, spattering
into her hair and tickling her scalp. She walked more briskly, as if she thought
she could outpace them. She needed a cigarette; unfortunately, she had left them
in her purse in the kitchen.
She was heading for Lake Street, which was the wrong direction for finding
the solitude she desired, but having used coffee as an excuse to get out of the house,
she had unthinkingly headed for Starbucks. She decided she would turn at the
next corner and loop around in the other direction.
Just then, a little girl skipped down the steps of her house and started walking ahead of Susan, swinging her hair from side to side. For a moment it seemed
to Susan that her heart stopped. “Lucy,” she whispered. Of course she knew it
wasn’t her. Lucy had been dead for fifty years. Nevertheless, she didn’t turn at
the corner, as she had intended, but followed the little girl toward Lake Street,
keeping always a few paces back. An insane part of her mind wanted to sweep
the girl into her arms and kiss her and tell her she had been very naught (which
had been a word of theirs) for disappearing all those years ago.
When the girl started skipping again, Susan had to quell the urge to run to
keep up. She found there were tears in her eyes as she approached Lake Street,
and she paused to wipe them away and touch her hair before joining the throng
that was bustling to and fro. She could see no sign of the little girl.
She walked all the way to Harlem Avenue in search of her, though she couldn’t
have said why—she wasn’t about to intrude on a little girl’s errand. She crossed
Lake and headed back in the other direction, thinking perhaps she would stop
in for a cuppa (forgetting that she had forgotten her purse), but halfway there
she noticed a man sitting on a bench, one arm stretched across the back of it, the
other holding a cigarette. He was an older black man, who looked as if he might
have spent the night on that bench, but she didn’t let that bother her.
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“Excuse me. Sir?” she said. The man looked up and smiled. His teeth were
atrocious. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but might you have a cigarette
for a sad old lady?” She wasn’t sure why she had put it like that; for one thing she
wasn’t so old; but there it was—there’s no taking words back when once they’re
spoken.
“Why certainly,” he said. “Have a seat next to me, sad old lady, and tell a—tell
a sad old man your troubles.” He handed her his crumpled pack and she fumbled
one out, then handed it back to him and sat down.
“Thank you,” she said, as he held up a flame. She leaned into it, then let out a
long stream of smoke and sagged against the back of the bench. “Ever so much
better,” she said.
She glanced at the man, who was looking at her with eyes that were inscrutable
but not unkind. His corneas were yellow. She took another drag. “Have you ever
read The Chronicles of Narnia?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “The one with the ship was my favorite.”
“Ahem. Yes, well, I never did. I read a good deal of The Lion, the Witch and the
Wardrobe once in a bookstore, but . . .” She wondered, offhandedly, where she was
going with this, but decided to soldier on for the moment and find out. “Em. Have
you ever actually been to Narnia? I’m sorry: what a silly question.” She laughed
and tried to wave it off, but the man’s inscrutable eyes never wavered. “Yes,” she
said. “Well, I have.” A wave of emotion swept over her as she said this, a sense
of release, as if a logjam had broken up on a river. She glanced quickly at him,
then away. “I’m Susan Pevensie.” She stopped herself from checking his reaction.
“You must think I’m crazy.” She looked around at all the people that were passing
them. No one so much as spared them a glance. She looked at the man beside
her, feeling suddenly lost.
He held out a hand to her, his face serious. “Malcolm Jones,” he said.
She shook his hand. A sort of strength seemed to flow into her from that brief
human contact. She took a quick drag from the cigarette, then continued. “To
tell you the truth, I’ve spent most of my life pretending Narnia was nothing but
a game. But it’s not. It was real. And now there’s to be a . . . a movie made of it.”
Again there were tears in her eyes and she brushed them brusquely away.
“The truth of it, Malcolm, the reason I’ve always pretended it was a game, is
that . . . I miss it.” The cigarette must have been stronger than the kind she was used
to, for her head was feeling light. “I was heartbroken when Aslan . . .” Her mouth
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went tight, contorting into a trembling frown. It had been a such a long time since
she had spoken that name. “I was heartbroken when He said I was never to come
back. When Lucy told me about her adventures on the Dawn Treader, I laughed
at her for being such a child, but really it was envy. I didn’t want to hear about
her adventures. Even when she said Aslan told her she was no longer welcome in
Narnia either. . . . I hated her, Malcolm. I hated her for always being the one who
could see him, even when the rest of us couldn’t. She was always so cheerful and
lighthearted. She was the sweetest little girl. Oh! I’m sorry for blubbing all over
you. It’s just, I thought, I thought I could go on envying her and hating her until it
pleased me to stop, but then . . .” Strangely, a calm descended upon her. No tears
threatened as she related the worst of it. “Then there was the train wreck, and
Lucy, and all the rest. . . . I’ve been alone ever since.” She took one more drag off
her cigarette, then dropped it on the ground and stepped on it, grinding it with
her toe to make sure it was out.
“Well. I feel much better now. Thank you so much for your cigarette and your
listening ear.” She stood up, but Malcolm put a hand to her sleeve. She looked
down at him.
“Aslan still loves you, Susan.”
Susan drew a deep, wavering breath and pulled away. “Yes, well, he has a
peculiar way of showing it.”
She walked away, feeling like she was swimming, like her legs didn’t want to
obey. Before she had gotten very far, she found she was shaking uncontrollably.
Panicked, she ducked into an alley, her eyes closed tight against the tears, her fists
balled as if in rage. She stumbled forward, trying to get as deeply into the alley as
she could before she lost control completely. At last she could go no further, and
leaned against the wall, giving full rein to her sobs.
After a bit she noticed something strange about the texture of the wall and
opened her eyes. She was leaning against the rough bark of a tree and there was
grass beneath her feet. She looked up at the tree, the sweep of her gaze taking in
a long downhill descent, a tiny beach, and the distant ocean.
“At last,” said the tree. “You’ve come at last.”
Susan stepped back. The tree was actually a giant woman. What she had
been leaning against was the woman’s leg. She was unmistakably the dryad of a
Narnian willow tree, stout with age, but graceful still, with long flowing hair that
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brushed against Susan’s own. She looked as old as Susan felt, and of course, even
with her smile she seemed unutterable sad.
“You—you’ve been expecting me?”
“Yes,” she said softly, in a dreamy sort of voice, “I knew you’d come eventually. Coriakin said you mightn’t, but I never doubted you, and I’ve never stopped
asking Aslan.”
“Aslan?” said Susan. “Is he here?” She looked around as though she fully
expected to see the gigantic golden lion standing nearby.
“Oh, no. No, your highness. I’ve not seen him since he gave Speech to the mice,
and asked us to look after them especially. But he speaks to me sometimes, and
I talk to him almost constantly.”
Susan blushed at being called Your highness, and said, “Please, dear Willow,
I’m just plain Susan now. I haven’t been queen for a great many years.”
“Once a Queen in Narnia, always a Queen in Narnia. A thousand years can’t
change that.”
Susan frowned. “A thousand . . . ?”
The willow cast her eyes up and seemed to be counting on her fingers. “One
thousand, two hundred and ninety-four. Or is it ninety-six?” She gazed at Susan
sadly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Remember?”
“Oh, I did think you’d remember. I suppose I’ve changed a lot more than you
have. Why, you hardly seem to have aged at all! And here I am, a whole millennium older than when I raced you and the Splendor Hyaline, and I look every bit
of it, I’m sure.”
Susan gaped, nonplussed, but slowly her memories clicked into place, and she
let out a gasp. “O-o-oh! You’re Cymbeline.” Susan sat down. Her legs just seemed
to crumple beneath her, as memories flooded back of the young willow tree who
had been her best friend at Cair Paravel. “We thought, I thought I had lost you.
We searched all over Avra. I . . .” Her eyes moved back and forth as though she
were reading a book, remembering the details. She couldn’t bear to meet the tree’s
eyes. “You went further, didn’t you? You said you’d race me to the farthest isle.”
“Yes. I thought I was such a wonderful swimmer. I told you no boat made of
dead wood could beat a living tree for swimming. I didn’t even stop at Avra. I just
swam right past it, thinking how surprised you would be.”
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A weight of guilt overwhelmed Susan. This was why she hated thinking about
Narnia. There was so much guilt here, and people were always expecting far too
much of her. She glared at Cymbeline, her anger mounting. Cymbeline was still
gazing into the distance with sad, dreamy eyes. Susan’s anger softened, but her
guilt remained. She said, “Lucy wanted to go farther. Lucy and that beastly mouse.
You remember: Queekle. The First Mouse.”
Cymbeline’s eyes lit up. “Yes! I remember Queekle. How is he these days?”
Susan stared at her, suddenly exasperated. “No, you don’t understand. I, I
left you out there. Lucy said you might be farther along, and Queekle insisted it
was a matter of honor that we find you, dead or alive, but I assured everyone that
you would come back on your own if we didn’t meet you, and it was getting late
in the year, and Peter agreed with me, saying we daren’t leave Narnia ungoverned
for too long, and . . . Oh, Cymbeline! I’ve been saying no to Aslan my whole life.
I’ve been awful! For years I’ve been catching sight of Lucy, and feeling that, if I
only followed after her, we’d meet again in Narnia, and always I’ve told myself
not to think nonsense: Lucy is dead, and Narnia never existed. Only now, when
I finally have followed her, or someone who reminded me of her, and I really do
come to Narnia, I find you here instead of Lucy, and you’ve been waiting all this
time, and it’s all my fault, as usual, and I don’t want any of it, do you hear me? I
just want to go home!”
“There, there,” said Cymbeline, smoothing Susan’s hair with her long fingers.
“I’m a grown woman! I’m too old for these childish games!”
“Your highness, you look like a child to me.”
“I know, to you, I look like a child, but really I’m quite old for a . . .” Susan looked
at her hands. They were smaller than they should be, and not as bony. She put her
hands to her face, and felt skin that was supple and without any wrinkles that she
could feel. The truth finally dawned on her. “Why, so I am a child!”
For a moment she forgot all her rage and guilt, and whooped for joy. Then
she looked into Cymbeline’s eyes, really gazed into them. She was surprised and
touched by what she saw there. Tension left her body as if a sluice had been opened
in her chest. “I am sorry, my dearest Cymbeline. Can you ever forgive me?”
Cymbeline closed her eyes, and a huge, shining tear fell from both eyelids.
“There’s nothing to forgive, my dear Queen: You’re here. You must admit, though,
I won the race by quite a long margin.”
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Susan laughed. And to hear the sound of her childhood voice in laughter
was more than she could stand. Had there been any laughter since she last left
Narnia?
Together, she and Cymbeline laughed and wept, and embraced each other
fiercely, until they were once more as they had been a thousand years ago: the
very best of friends.
When at last they were still, Susan asked, “But why didn’t you swim back,
Cymbel? You must have known, after winter, at least, that we wouldn’t be
coming.”
“Yes, well, there was the dragon, you see.”
“Oh, Cymbel, a dragon! How terrifying!”
“Well, no. Not really. You may not know it, your highness, but on land, a tree
is more than a match for a dragon. We’re both magical creatures, you see. Now,
when I arrived . . . Oh dear, I remember it like it was yesterday, swimming in the
ocean, exhausted, with no earth to draw strength from. I was really quite defenseless. When it saw me it attacked me at once, and there was nothing I could do but
roll in the water to keep the flames from catching. You’ve no idea how tired I was,
but I managed to make landfall in the end, and then I was able to unleash some
fireworks of my own. Anyway, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive so we can kill it.
For only a knight, a son of Adam or a daughter of Eve, can kill a dragon.”
“Oh dear,” said Susan. “I should have guessed there was a reason Aslan wanted
me here. I suppose, if I hadn’t been so beastly on the Splendor Hyaline, Peter and
Edmund and Queekle could have taken care of it. Now it’s just you and me, and
I can’t think how I can find the courage to face it.”
“It’s worse than you think, I’m afraid,” said Cymbeline, sadly.
“Worse? What could be worse than a dragon?”
Cymbeline’s face clouded. “It’s just, you see, I’ve been waiting so long,
and . . .”
“What is it? Oh, dearest Cymbeline, don’t spare my feelings, just tell me what
worse damage I’ve caused.”
Cymbeline was silent for a long while, staring at Susan with her sad eyes, her
sad smile. “Willows aren’t supposed to live a thousand years, my young Queen.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean—Oh no!” They were both crying again,
hugging each other as hard as they could. “How long?” asked Susan, plaintively.
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“Not long, I’m afraid. And we still need to build you a coracle. Have you ever
built a coracle, my dear?”
“A what-acle?”
Cymbeline drew her hands through her hair, pulling out long wands of willow
until there was a large pile at her feet. “There,” she said. “That ought to do for
the frame. As for the rest, well, let’s see, somewhere in here I have a sail-making
kit. . . .” To Susan’s horror, Cymbeline had opened up a crack in her torso, which
suddenly looked a lot more trunk-like than it had a moment ago. She was hollow
inside, and the hollow seemed to be crammed with all manner of trinkets and
baubles and clutter. She dug around for several minutes before she pulled out a
largish wooden box. “Here it is!” she cried, and opened it. Inside was a folded
piece of canvas, a ball of twine, a large pair of scissors, a bottle of resin and several triangular needles. “This should do wonderfully. One of the Narnian Lords
who stopped by not long ago left this with me. Just in the nick of time, too! They
were very sympathetic about the dragon, but had no wish to face it themselves.
It seems they were already on the run from some tyrant or other. Oh, this is so
much fun!”
Over the next several days, Cymbeline taught Susan how to build a coracle,
using the willow wands as a frame. They talked about their memories of Cair
Paravel, and Susan tried to tell her about life in America, but it was all too
foreign and strange for Cymbeline really to understand. Once they finished the
boat, Cymbel pointed out the island she was to row towards and what stars she
should follow during the night, so that she could travel southeast in more or less
of a straight line. Then they carefully descended the mountain to the beach and
Cymbeline gave her lessons on how to paddle it (you paddle in the bow, using
a sort of figure-eight stroke). Whenever Susan asked what she was to do when
she got there, all the old Willow would say is, “There’s a lovely little village there,
where the villagers are lost and lonely and afraid. You must encourage them.” But
why they needed encouragement, she would not say.
At last Cymbel said it was time for her to go.
“I don’t want to go,” said Susan. A tear welled up in her eye and slid down
her cheek. The old Willow reached down and picked her up, cradling her in her
arms.
“There, there,” she said. “Don’t be sad. We may yet meet again, you and I. It
was good of you to come. I wish we could have spent more time together. But
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don’t worry: Time won’t last forever. Commend yourself to Aslan and set out.
That’s half the battle, you know, just setting out. Trust Aslan to see to the other
half.” The old tree smiled and set Susan down. “Good-bye, Queen Susan,” she
said. Susan simply stood, her hands to her sides, unable to speak.
Cymbeline closed her eyes and her womanly form faded away, and she was just
a willow tree, out of place on the beach, and one last leaf fell from her branches.
Susan lay down at her feet for a few hours, weeping a little and sleeping a
little. She considered abandoning the adventure, but she had nowhere to go, and
the dragon would discover that Cymbeline was dead before too long. It would be
best to be with other people when that happened, so she pushed the coracle into
the water and stepped into it.
For three days she tossed on the gentle waves, paddling as much as she was able,
sleeping at times, at other times just gazing at the stars. The weather those three
days was warm and gentle, and not at all like any other time she had been at sea.
It occurred to her that she had never really been alone before, in all her life.
She had, perhaps, avoided any opportunities for it. But now that she had no
choice, she found she didn’t mind it so much. The loneliness seeped into her
bones and the beauty and grandeur of the endless waves, sunrise and sunset, the
large, almost intimate stars seeped in as well, until she was saturated with a peace
she had never dreamed of. Fortunately she didn’t remember (for she hadn’t been
paying close attention when Lucy told her) that these waters were very near the
place the Dawn Treader had been attacked by the sea serpent. When her boat
touched ground, she was almost sad to leave it.
It was early morning when she landed, and a few villagers were out fishing.
Most of them withdrew back to their huts upon sight of her, but one young woman,
whose name (she would later learn) was Margaret, seeing that Susan was only
(as she appeared) a little girl, walked up to her and asked her from whence she
had come. Susan looked back over the water and pointed vaguely. She couldn’t
quite make out Cymbeline’s island. Margaret decided she had been shipwrecked,
as everyone knew that the only island to the west was inhabited by demons, and
this quickly became the consensus in the village.
It was amazing to Susan (when she stopped to think about it, which wasn’t
often) how quickly she was accepted into the community. Margaret’s husband,
James, welcomed her into their home as though he suddenly had five children
instead of four. She learned to do chores with the other girls and no one questioned
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her further about the circumstances of her arrival. When Susan asked how the villagers had come to settle on the island, they were divided in their opinions. Some
said they were ancestors of the Telmarines, a shipload of whom had landed some
years ago. Others (mostly the younger ones) told a story of how their ancestors
had come through a door in a tree hundreds of years ago. Others believed they’d
always been there. Susan couldn’t quite place their accent, but it didn’t sound like
Caspian’s. She thought it might be American, perhaps from the northeast.
On Sundays they went to church. The church was the only wooden building
in the village, as there were few trees on the island. There were no prayer books
or hymnals, but they had one antique Bible, and their service, as far as Susan
could tell, was not so different from the Anglican services she had grown up
with, only distorted, as one would expect after generations without access to a
Prayer Book.
As an adult, Susan had rarely gone to church except to accompany her husband at Christmas and Easter, and then only under duress. It was different now.
She was back in Narnia; she was a child again. She enjoyed sitting in the pews
surrounded by her adoptive family. Miracles were possible. She listened to the
vicar’s sermons eagerly, wondering what Christians thought about miracles, it
being a word of theirs.
To her disappointment, the sermons were more about how God rewarded hard
work and simple living. As far as Susan could tell, everyone was taking that advice.
She began to wonder, though, if they needed to be told every week. She began to
sense a pervasive sadness in the community. Everyone had a routine, and Susan
enjoyed the routine immensely, but she began to wonder if there wasn’t a spark
missing. Something to give their lives meaning and purpose.
After she had been there for almost a year, Susan asked Margaret why no one
ever spoke of Aslan.
“Who’s Aslan, then?” asked Margaret.
By now Susan was used to such responses when it came to modern things from
America, but she was always taken aback by how ignorant these people were about
all things Narnian. They had stories about talking animals and walking trees, but
knew nothing about which direction Narnia lay or any of its history. But to have
lived here for generations, hundreds of years, it seemed, and never to have heard
of or been visited by Aslan; Susan couldn’t understand it.
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From that day forward her happiest times would be telling the family stories
about Narnia by the fireside every night. All about the castle at Cair Paravel, the
feasts and the clothes, their adventures at sea, their travels to Calormen, about
the animals and the trees and the river gods and goddesses.
As the weeks went by, neighbors started stopping by to listen, so that the little
house at which she was staying became quite crowded. Susan was surprised by
how much she remembered from when she was a Queen in Narnia so long ago.
At first she had tried to gloss over her station, for fear that people would think
she thought too highly of herself, or start treating her differently, but there was
no escaping such facts as the stories poured from her heart. There was a passion
there that she hardly would have believed she possessed. Whether people believed
her stories or not, no one ever questioned her, nor, to her unending relief, did they
treat her any differently, though some of the children got to calling her Queen
Susan. She found she didn’t mind.
It was a long time before she could bring herself to say much about Aslan,
though the children clamored for her to tell them more about the lion. “Was he
a scary lion?” they asked. “Yes,” she answered, thinking, but not in the way you
imagine. Susan had been afraid of Aslan her whole life. As she told those old, old
stories, she began to remember that it hadn’t always been that way. Once upon
a time, the name of Aslan had thrilled her beyond measure, and that was before
she had even met him. What had happened since then?
When the villagers asked her to move her storytelling to the chapel, so that
more people could attend, she decided she would start again, from the beginning
this time, and tell the whole story. At first, she found it more difficult to tell her
stories there. It was a less comfortable surrounding, and she found herself telling
the story as she remembered it from Lewis’s book that one time in the bookshop,
rather than from her own memories of being there. Nevertheless, as time went
on she grew more comfortable, and her memories became clearer.
She sat on the steps before the altar, and the children gathered around her in
the aisle gazing wide-eyed, while the grownups sat in the pews, more difficult to
see in the dim light of candles. She felt like some old wise-woman in a tepee in
ancient America, passing down legends to her tribe. The children gasped when
she told them the Witch had made it winter in Narnia, “winter, but never Christmas.” It thrilled her in a way she never remembered feeling when she spoke to her
own children, or her grandchildren. It was like she was becoming a new person,
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or perhaps like becoming her old self again, and that reminded her of how Lucy
used to tell the story of Edmund after Aslan saved him, that “He was his old self
again, and could look you in the eye.” As she got closer to the climax of that story,
she found she would have to stop at times, for fear that her voice would betray the
tears she felt rising. Each time she paused the silence would fill the nave, while
everyone waited patiently for her to continue.
The vicar in particular would express his appreciation for her stories. “You tell
them as though you actually believed them,” he said, and he said it as though he
were paying a high and earnest compliment. She didn’t argue the point.
At last, one chill, Autumn night, she came to the part when she and Lucy had
been unable to sleep and had gone looking for Aslan. As she told of how sad he
was, and how she and her sister had walked beside him with their hands in his
mane, his scent seemed to rise about her again, pungent and wild and warm—so
real that she looked about—but he wasn’t there: just his fragrance. She couldn’t
tell if anyone else could smell it, and she never asked, but afterwards people said
she fairly glowed as she spoke.
She ended the story that night with Aslan’s death. For the first time, people
left the chapel in silence. There were tears in the eyes of some of the children, but
they asked no questions. Susan wanted to tell them it was all right, to comfort
them that he had come back to life, that his mane had grown back, that the mice
had not gnawed through his cords in vain, but she was too sad herself to continue.
He had died. Aslan, the great Lion, the hope of Narnia, had been tortured and
killed so that Edmund, dead these many years, could live a little longer. Her
brother. Her dear brother. She sat in the chapel alone after everyone else left.
She wondered if now, at last, Aslan might show himself.
Once the thought entered her head, she found she couldn’t leave. For the first
time since she had arrived, she wanted him to show up, to convince her with his
presence that he was not dead. She had been afraid, up until then, that he would
show up and give her some task to accomplish, some rescue to affect, that he
would tell her to hurry up and slay the dragon so she could go back, back to the
husband she cared for, yes, but, to the world she loved? No.
She would not have thought she could stay there all night, sitting on the
steps of the sanctuary, but time passed, and at length the darkness eased. Now,
she thought. Now he will come. She waited till the first rays of dawn touched the
east-facing windows. Now, she thought. Now. But he did not come. With a heavy
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heart, she stirred herself at last and thought of her bed of heather. She rose and
stretched, staring at the cross silhouetted against the bright window.
A noise from behind distracted her. She turned. James was entering the
nave, followed by the rest of his family. They spoke not a word, but sat in their
accustomed seats. They seemed not the least surprised to find her there. They
looked, in fact, hollow-eyed and slow, as if they, too, had watched through the
night. Soon others joined them. Within the hour, it seemed the entire village was
there, all silent, all waiting. So far, no one had met her eyes, but all seemed lost
in thought. The children sat with their parents. It occurred to Susan that it was
Sunday morning, but too early for the service. Then she noticed, in the very back,
the vicar, sitting alone, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Susan turned to the cross behind her, gazing up at it. She found, for the first
time in months, that she wanted a cigarette. At last she turned back to the congregation, her family, and lifted her hands. All eyes lifted to hers. She spoke, but
the words seemed hardly her own:
“Rejoice, my people. Lift up your eyes. Cast off your sorrow. The night indeed
is ended, and the day has come at last. The light has shone in the darkness, and
the darkness has not overcome it.”
While she spoke, a gigantic golden lion entered the chapel.
Susan dropped to her knees. “Oh, Aslan!” she cried. The lion paced up the
aisle. A rustling and creaking accompanied him, as the villagers, too, went to
their knees as he passed. She didn’t know how she could look at him steadily, but
she dared not drop her eyes, for fear that he would be gone. Halfway to the altar
he turned into a man. He stepped up into the sanctuary and placed his hand on
her head. “Well met, my beloved.” Susan burst out with a sob that seemed to rip
her heart in two.
The man looked up at the cross and smiled, as though acknowledging an old
friend. Then he turned and faced the congregation. “Alleluia! I am risen!”
As one the villagers responded. “You are risen indeed. Alleluia!”
In that tiny village, on an unnamed island in a world that some consider
make-believe, the church experienced what all churches have longed for since
the beginning. The Lord of Light, the Son of the Emperor-over-the-Sea, Jesus
himself, led the service. I cannot begin to describe what communion was like that
day. Susan received first, then helped him serve the others.
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When the service was over, Jesus shook hands with each one of them at the
door, and as they mingled around outside, they laughed, for each of their faces
was glowing, and they thought their hearts would burst with joy and wonder.
Inside the church, Susan looked stricken. “Oh, Aslan, no!” she cried.
The man who no longer looked like a lion cupped his hand around Susan’s
neck and gazed at her with eyes that still resembled Aslan’s.
Susan wrenched away and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you let
these things happen? Do you like to watch people die? There are children out
there! Children! Do you really intend to stand by and do nothing while a dragon
comes and eats them?”
“Peace, child,” he said, but Susan would not be calmed.
“Everything I’ve ever had you’ve taken away from me! First Narnia, then Lucy,
my whole family, now this! If you hate me so much, why don’t you just kill me?”
Her hands were at her sides, now, fists balled, spittle flying from her mouth as she
screamed, her face white and twisted with rage. The story she had just finished
telling seemed suddenly foolish and false.
“It is necessary for the happy ending I have planned.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the story I am telling, and the war that I am waging, are more
complicated and dire than you can imagine. The dragon is coming, was coming
whether the people here were prepared or not. Because of you, because they listened to the stories you told and believed in them, they were prepared to receive
my blessing. They have been sanctified. Once the dragon destroys this town and
eats his fill of these people you have loved, he will grow very ill. In three years’
time he will die. His death in this manner, at that time, is crucial. It is for this
reason that I have bent my own rules to bring you here. In a few moments you
will hear a familiar sound and return to your own place. I charge you to remember
all the things that have happened here, so that these people may have a witness
and so that you may learn to understand and accept that my ways are never cruel
or capricious. Read the Chronicles of Narnia. Strive to understand the story of
these people in the light of what is to come. Even now Prince Caspian is engaging
his uncle’s troops in battle. He is putting your horn to his lips. Do you hear it?
Strive to understand, and do not lose heart. I have loved you well and will never
leave you or forsake you. Go in peace, my beloved Susan.”
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As he spoke these last words, his voice grew faint, and Susan felt herself being
pulled or tugged straight out of the world. In a moment she was back in the alley
in Oak Park, leaning against the wall, and she could not tell if the tears on her
cheeks were the one’s she had shed before she left, or if they were new. She wiped
them away and walked back toward the street.
Malcolm was sitting on the bench, as before. They stared at each other in
silence while people streamed past between them. He lifted his pack of cigarettes.
Susan sat down beside him and accepted his offer.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Malcolm.
<Return to main text>
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Break the Bread
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Reinventing
Our Future
“I just don’t have much left to say.”
—Over the Rhine, Latter Days
US
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Gr ace
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25 | Grace
“I never expected you to love me the way I love you.”
—Azure Ray, Trees Keep Growing
We never intended to fuck things up quite so dramatically. If anyone
had asked us, when we were young and carefree, what we wanted to be
when we grew up, we would have answered (with Linus, from the Peanuts
gang), “Extraordinarily happy.” Paul McCartney claimed that all we need
is love. Much of the available evidence supports the J. Giles Band’s counterassertion that “Love stinks.”
In all the vastness of the law, Jesus identified two commands as the
greatest, upon which hung all the rest (and the prophets): “You shall love
the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with
all your might” (Deuteronomy 6:5); and “You shall not take vengeance or
bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor
as yourself: I am the Lord” (Deuteronomy 19:18).
These are impossible. The only people to come close are mothers. When
a mother says (as mine has), “Put a sweater on; I’m cold,” she is loving you
as herself.
Do you want to know why it’s so hard to love people the way Jesus
asked us to?
Because it’s like walking on broken glass soaked in salt water and set
on fire (Revelation 15:2). To risk loving another person is to risk getting
hurt. In order truly to love someone you have to be vulnerable. In order
to receive your love, the other person also has to be vulnerable. Chances
are good that they are not vulnerable; thus, they will respond to your love
with their defenses, with their walls, their moats, their pits lined with
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Gr ace
409
sharpened, poo-covered sticks. They want your love, yes, yes, but they will
Here’s the secret: Keep loving. Accept your inability to love truly, and
either trap you (to try to keep you only, always for themselves), or repel you
keep loving, keep opening your heart, keep allowing yourself to get hurt.
(convinced that you want something from them that they are unwilling to
Refuse to take whatever form of morphine promises to ease the pain, and
give). Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you’re not much different. Unless I’m
when you become addicted to the morphine, repent, repent, and repent
some kind of awe-inspiring, semi-divine being of pure heart and highest
again. Do not grow tired of repenting of taking the morphine, and do not
courage, then I am much the same.
1
allow anyone (not even yourself) to tell you that you are a horrible person
And here’s the thing: Until and unless you have formed a bond of
for having this addiction. Seek out friends. Open your heart to them. Take
vulnerable love with another person, kindly shut the fuck up about how
the morphine if you have to, but do not close yourself off unless, in the last
that person should live. And by the exact same token, forgive them when
extreme, you feel you have no other choice. Then close your heart off hard
they tell you how you should live yours. Forgive them and ignore them.
and rest for awhile from your labors of learning how to love, and simply
Completely. You don’t have to tell them to shut the fuck up (though you
pray, as it comes to mind, that God will remind you, once you’ve recovered,
should feel free to do so), but you should by all means ignore every word
to open your heart back up for another round of trials.
that comes out of their mouths. No matter whether the other person is
Because the world we all long for? It’s the same one as this, except
preacher or parent, pop star, poet or psychotherapist: If the pop star has
that everyone is trying to learn how to love and having some modicum of
made a connection with you through his music—opened his heart to you—
success every once in awhile.
then listen hard and listen well. If the parent has kept you at arms length
So where does Jesus fit into all of this? To be honest, it’s really hard to
or held you too close or in some other way not accepted you for who you
say. He lived on earth for thirty-three years, died a horrible death after (and
are as your own independent person, then, well, yes, for a little while you’re
as a result of) loving people just the way I’ve tried to describe, rose from
kind of screwed. Find some friends, if you can. I would suggest looking
the dead, ascended into heaven, and sent his spirit to be with us always.
in the unlikely places. Amongst the loners, the freaks, the poor kids who
For some people in some situations, this is good news beyond belief. For
talk funny. Even (if they’re willing to open their hearts to you and receive
other people, in different situations, it is anemic bull crap.
your open heart) amongst the popular crowd. But don’t listen to anyone
who’s not being open with you. Your preacher may truly have your best
interests at heart, and be trying to do the very best she can, but if you
suspect she’s hiding something (and she probably is), work on learning to
love her with an open heart, but do not follow her advice, not even about
which air freshener to use in your car.
But that and each other is all we have.
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Amor Omnia Vincet: An Alternate Translation (2005)
1
Love’s a many-splendored veil
of tears and fears and years
of yearning, churning, burning
out and in, with ups and downs,
the swish of gowns, the endless rounds
of pride’s malign elope
with all that remains of hope,
but you knew this already, didn’t you?
Do you still believe love conquers all?
I know
that time, in time, will end,
true love just another word for friend,
and life without love is just pretend.
I know.
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Peace
26 | Peace
“I can tell by your eyes that you’re not getting any sleep.”
—Sarah Groves, It’s Going to Be All Right
Three of us are on the upper slopes of a large, mountainside meadow,
on some kind of a deck, perhaps, and we’ve just been suddenly transformed.
How, we’re not sure, but something has obviously happened: we can feel
it. The first of us to figure it out leaps into the air and buzzes around the
periphery of the meadow, shining like Captain Marvel (the Marvel® one,
with the nega-bands) as he flies. My heart breaks open. At long, long last!
1
How long have I longed for the power of flight? To the horror of the last
of us, I leap off the edge of the deck backwards, never doubting that I will
not be put to shame by bouncing on my head. Nor am I. My wings are
invisible, but they work just fine upside down, and oh! It’s the best flying
But it’s hard, you know,
to live like love prevails, to choose,
and choose again, through pain,
and to fail just the same.
It’s such a shame.
We think we have the strength to see it through,
see through it,
and through it, see,
but we’re wrong:
Love defeats us all.
<Return to main text>
dream (for that single moment) ever. I fly around a bit, but it isn’t necessary
to overdo it—the important thing is that I can. Later on in the dream (I
don’t really remember the transition), we’re walking a trail through the
trees, and I wonder what other strange powers might now be ours. I crouch
down with my palms on the ground about three feet apart, then bring my
hands together with power and bring forth fire from the earth.
I’m working at IVP again, ambling down one of the hallways, when the
head of the marketing department tells me that I’m expected in the meeting that he’s hurrying toward. I follow at a more leisurely pace, and along
the way I meet up with the head of my own department, who reminds me
that I no longer attend such meetings, since I’m back at the bottom of the
hierarchy. I assure her that I have not forgotten this fact, but tell her that
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I’ve been invited and by whom. “Well, we’d best hurry, then,” she says, and
the two of us pump our arms as if we’re running, even though we haven’t
picked up the pace at all. Before she opens the door, my department head
turns serious and professional, but I start panting in an exaggerated manner,
my hands on my knees as though I’ve been sprinting, until I see the look
on the face of the head of the editorial department, and I straighten up.
All of the department heads are seated here, and their heads seem too big
for their bodies, too big for the room. Sitting on the floor are most of the
“creative types,” of which I am the least. A video is starting, about our latest
book, in which a group of black people are outlining ways to integrate white
people into this brave, new, post-apocalyptic world.
I’m at a playground with my first girlfriend, and a few other people.
The wind is whipping the tree branches, presaging a storm. She tells me
I better strap in. I’m standing on something that allows me to reach the
top of the swing set, where a leather strap, like a belt, is hanging down.
I wrap one arm in it, realize it won’t be enough to hold me, and see that
there’s a second strap, as well. I wrap my other arm in that. Then I see the
storm. It’s a level 3 or 4 tornado, dark, with lightning crackling about it’s
top, looming over the treeline.
The dream ended before it got any closer. I hope this means that the
publication of this book will create a storm of controversy. I’m not particularly given to prophetic dreams, but if that’s the case, I’m ready (ha!). More
likely, the storm will come from yet more trials and tribulations, based on
the fact that I’ve spent the last year writing this book instead of getting a
job and being responsible. I pray to God I’m ready for that as well.
<Skip footnote>
Peace
413
Love Over Gold (1988)
1
Once upon a time, something happened.
I was sitting outside my mouse hole, gnawing on a kernel of corn, watching
a dragon circle high above, glinting in the late August sun. I was thinking how
beautiful the dragon was, and how scared I was lest it should see me and be upon
me before I could leap backward into my hole. I wished that I were as beautiful,
and could fly.
Then the dragon stopped circling and stretched its neck out full. I cowered
further into the entrance of my hole, but the dragon plummeted to a different
corner of the field. I watched, mesmerized, as it dove straight down, head first,
and at the last moment, faster than my eyes could register, pulled up, flicked its
talons, and rose again, a small grey mouse added to the five it had already caught
on the ends of its talons.
I couldn’t help noticing how graceful the red and gold creature looked as it
soared upward, wings outstretched, exulting in the joy of flight. As it floated away,
towards the mountain rising above the forest, I tried to mourn the loss of six more
of my neighbors, but found instead that I was trying to imagine how the earth
must look from such an altitude.
That night I dreamed I flew toward the mountain, pursuing the killer dragon.
I would avenge my fallen brothers. I felt exhilarated by the cold air streaming past
my face. Adrenaline surged through my body as I topped the mountain’s peak
and beheld a multitude of dragons dancing through the air.
Fear thrilled me, and I paused, prepared to flee, but then the dragons looked
at me, all of them at once, and cheered. For a moment, I hovered, confused. Than
I looked at my feet and found that there were eleven mice squirming on the ends
of my enormous talons.
When I awoke the next morning, the thrill of flight was still with me, but I had
to spend a long time reconstructing my dream before I could remember the final
scene. My shame could not overshout my desire for the dream to come true.
As winter approached, thoughts of dragons faded, and I turned my mind
toward stocking my larder. I spent the winter sleeping and eating, and generally
doing nothing at all. My mind was too lethargic to wander very far. Nevertheless, I would often wake up, late at night, despising the slight weight that held
me underground, and trying in vain to remember how my dream of flight had
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felt. I yearned for spring and the lightening of my mood, if not my body. It was
long in coming.
When at last the snows did melt from over my hole, and water trickled steadily
into the recess I had dug for it, I ventured out and stuck my head into the freshening breeze. The sky seemed to beg me to leap up and keep it company, but my
body held me fast.
As spring ripened, the younger mice started venturing into the woods, trying
vainly to satisfy a desire to see the world. I, who once thought myself too old for
such wanderlust, found myself venturing more deeply into the forest than any of
them. I once walked all the way to the foot of the mountain which separated me
from my dragons. I yearned to attempt the climb, but, fearing that I might get
lost, I reluctantly returned to the field.
On the first day of summer, I woke up around midnight and felt that I could
wait no longer. My sirenic dream was calling.
I crawled out of the leaf pile that I used as a summer bed, trying to clear the
pond scum from my mind, and walked into the night.
The moon was three-quarters full, and traced every blade of grass and every
grain of dirt separately and distinctly. I didn’t like the night, as a rule, but it was
beautiful just the same.
A tree frog peeped shrilly, followed by another, and another, until an entire
chorus burst into song. I took comfort in their presence, feeling that if any danger
approached, the frogs would immediately cease. I took a few breaths of the warm
night air to relax myself, then set off in the direction of the woods.
I reached the edge of the field in a few minutes. It was darker than I had
expected. The trees looked taller and more imposing, and what little moonlight
filtered in caused the forest to look more eerie. For a moment, I didn’t think I
would be able to walk in.
But I couldn’t turn back. My only desire was to watch the dragons as I had in
my dream, and in order to do that, I had to walk into the woods. I took another
deep breath, held it, and strode into the trees.
Almost immediately, I stopped striding, and settled for creeping. I didn’t
like the way the leaves and pine needles felt under my paws. They were damp,
and they rustled, and I kept imagining that they were lying on top of slugs and
centipedes and spiders.
Peace
415
The distant hoot of an owl reminded me of a much more real and frightening
danger, which I had almost forgotten.
I was suddenly terrified. There was no place to hide, no place to run, and at
any moment, the silent talons of an owl might grab me and wing me to their nest.
My urge to fly was not so desperate.
From then on, I kept very close to the bases of trees. As I walked, however,
being as wary as possible, through the endless woods, I began to tire. Sleep and
waking played tug-of-war with my eyelids, and occasionally my mind would skip
over a few moments, so that time seemed suddenly to leap forward without me.
Soon, I had forgotten to be scared of owls, and was walking in a straight line, in
what I hoped was the right direction.
When the sun rose, I found that I was walking uphill. I was ascending the
mountain.
I slept under a rock for most of the day, continuing my journey only after the
sun had passed over the mountain. I wasn’t sure why I chose the night to do my
hiking, except that that was when my desire to see dragons was strongest. Besides,
I hoped to reach the top of the mountain by dawn, so that the sun would be at
my back as I looked over.
It was harder going that night. The ground was rocky and the uphill grade
eventually began to cause a steady burning in my legs. The night was chilly, and
the air rasped in my lungs. I kept myself going solely on the belief that the peak
would bring the end of my quest, and I could rest there as long as I wanted. I tried
to hold the vision from my dream before me as I climbed.
The sun was high above me when I reached a disappointing pinnacle. The
mountain never broke out of the trees, and I could see nothing more than thirty
feet away save sky.
I found another rock, this one with a fair-sized crack in it, and spent the day
there, sleeping a deep and exhausted sleep.
When I woke, dawn was once more near. I decided that the mountain could
redeem itself if I could find a ledge or huge boulder from which I could overlook
the trees. I stretched my aching body, and began the descent towards the other
side of the mountain.
After an hour or two of searching, I emerged from the trees, and was greeted
by a spectacular, but also disappointing view.
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The valley stretched for miles, dotted here and there with fields, and ending
with the most spectacular range of mountains I had ever dreamed of seeing.
The nearer mountains were a deep green, fading to blue and white and purple in
the barely discernible distance. Sunlight glanced off distant snows, brilliant in the
faint light of the mountain’s shadow. I was awed by the existence of such a majestic
view so close to my little field, and I marveled at the tiny scope of my life.
Suddenly, I noticed a large dot in the sky, getting steadily larger. Something
was flying straight at me, and in a moment, I realized it was a dragon. I scampered
back into the trees and cowered behind a large pine, but the dragon continued
towards me. I glanced up at the tree, wondering if it would be able to shield me,
then glanced at the dragon again. To my relief, I noticed that it was not flying at
me at all, but to a spot further down the mountain.
When it disappeared, I padded back to the ledge and looked over. I could
make out nothing discernible, and suddenly, I was looking for a way around the
ledge, and further down the mountain.
Some time later, I was wandering around near the base of the mountain,
having found not the least trace of the dragon. By now, I wasn’t even sure why I
was looking. I didn’t really want to see a dragon this close up.
A sudden drop of water hit me in the nape of the neck and immediately seeped
into my coat. I scrinched my neck to the sudden cold and, looking up, noticed
that the sky had grown dark with clouds.
The droplets quickly grew in intensity until my fur was matted and my
whiskers were continually tickled by the rain. After a while, they began to feel
slightly numb, and in the near darkness of the storm, I bumped into many a rock
and branch that I should have known were there. The tickling sensation spread
to my nose, and I felt constantly on the verge of a sneeze. I decided it was time
to find shelter.
The cave that suddenly loomed on the side of the mountain was much too large.
It was about the right size for the dragon I had been following. Nevertheless, I
was too thoroughly miserable to do anything but sneak a little way in and pray
that the dragon wouldn’t notice.
To my surprise, the cave was not only dry, but warm. As I huddled against
the wall, about three feet in, I could feel the moisture being drawn from my skin.
The cave was too dark, however, to see very far inside.
Within five minutes, I was fast asleep.
Peace
417
I was lying on a pile of leaves when I woke, and I wondered how I had gotten
home. I wondered if I had dreamed my entire adventure.
Then I heard a voice that assured me that I could not be in my hole, since the
voice itself was easily the size of a mountain.
Its depth and timbre reminded me of distant thunder. It said, simply, “Good
morning. My name is Sue.” With a soft ‘flump’, like the sound of a rock landing
in a pile of loose sand, a tiny flame appeared, revealing the nature of the creature
that addressed me.
In the flickering shadows cast by the flame, a large, red and gold dragon was
grinning broadly.
I fainted.
When I came to, the cave was brilliantly lit with flaming branches ranged along
the wall. The dragon was curled up in the middle of the floor and was peering at
me through half-lidded eyes. “Again I say, ‘good morning.’ As long as your heart
holds out, you are in no danger. You are welcome to stay, if you wish, or leave, if
you prefer, but I would be pleased if you would remain long enough to entertain
me with the story of your travels.”
The red along her back was the color of the sun, as it sinks over the horizon
after a humid day. The yellow along her belly was the color of the sun, as it rises,
spreading warmth over a late summer dawn. Her eyes were the color of the sun
in the glory of noontime, and I could barely stand to look at them.
Her tail was longer and narrower than her neck, and ended in a broad, leafshaped spike. Her skin looked tough but pliant, with a texture like a turtle’s shell.
Her wings, though folded, looked powerful and iridescent.
Her legs were beneath her, and that was just as well, as I didn’t want to be
reminded of her talons. A snake’s tongue slipped through her sharp, grinning
teeth.
I was enthralled.
“You can talk, can’t you?”
“What’s the most mice you ever caught at one time?” I asked, much to my
own surprise.
Sue’s laugh was rich and booming, like thunder that’s directly overhead. “I’ve
never played Mausjammer, my friend. Besides, there isn’t enough room for me
to get the proper altitude to puncture you.”
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It took a moment to figure out why I was confused, but after a pause, I said,
“What’s ‘Mausjammer’?”
Sue’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘What’s—’? Surely you— Why, the
puck might just as well ask, ‘What’s hockey?’ or the bull’s-eye, ‘What’s archery?’
Mausjammer is the dragons’ national pastime. Mausjammer is a game, in which
one attempts to ‘puncture’ as many mice as possible in the shortest amount of time.
If I’ve correctly deduced where you come from, then yours is one of the practice
fields. You are one of the pieces in the game. Surely you knew this?”
“A game? “ I asked, dreamily. “What’s the record?”
“I believe it’s ten,” said Sue.
“Then I broke the record,” I said, in a tiny whisper. I walked away and tried
not to think.
Before long, I found myself wandering through a tunnel, I took the various
twists and turns at random, feeling too lost mentally to worry about becoming
so physically.
I wandered for half an hour or so, breathing the cold, wet air, wondering,
despite my best efforts not to, what my dream had meant. At last, upon turning
one final corner, I was confronted with Sue. I’m not sure how she got in front of
me, but she didn’t give me time to ask.
“You need to go flying,” she said. Then she winked at me and nodded her
head, and I found myself lifted off the floor by invisible means. I floated over
her head and alit between her shoulders. She began to unfold her wings, though
there clearly wasn’t enough room, and suddenly there was plenty of room and we
were outside in the sunshine about a mile in the air and my heart was pounding
furiously.
“Magic can be a wonderful thing,” said Sue, looking over her shoulder and
grinning. “So long as you use it wisely.”
Then she began to fly.
Down she plummeted, her wings held close. Up she soared, wings outstretched,
her body curved backwards. She glided, she banked, she swooped, while I clung
between her shoulder blades, giddy and slightly nauseous, wishing it would stop,
and praying it would never end.
It went on for another ten minutes, and then she folded her wings, and we were
back in the cave, and I was lifted off her shoulders and back onto the ground.
“Supper’s ready, if you want it,” said Sue, as she turned and walked away.
Peace
419
Dazed and slightly dizzy, I weaved after her, to the central chamber.
In the middle of the chamber, the carcass of a gigantic, yellow and black striped
cat festered, with its rib cage opened up and smelling. I nearly passed out until I
noticed the kernels of corn that were piled up about six feet away. These looked
so succulent and yellow that I nearly passed out again as my forgotten hunger
suddenly leapt up and started drooling.
“Good corn, good meat; good God, let’s eat!” said Sue, and I stumble-sprinted
to the pile and began to devour it.
When I finished, having eaten six kernels, I looked up at Sue, who laughed.
“You need a mirror,” she said. “Mirror!”
And suddenly I was standing in front of myself, bits of corn hanging from my
slavering jaw. I yelped and threw myself backwards.
“Dismissed,” laughed Sue, and the apparition faded. “I’m afraid you’re going to
be doing rather a lot of that in the days to come,” said Sue. “Yelping and throwing yourself backwards, that is. Magic and technology are somewhat startling
entities.”
I had almost recovered myself, though I was still trembling, when Sue said,
“Oh dear, you seem to have lost control of some of your more basic muscle control
in your fright. But not to worry, it won’t take but a moment to clean.”
I looked behind me and was ashamed to see a long black turd lying innocently
on the floor. My face got very hot, and I started to mumble something, but Sue
said, “Shit!” in a loud and commanding voice, and the turd got up and marched
outside. I stared at it with an odd fascination, then started to laugh.
The laugh began with brief exhalations through my nose and what felt like a
sad/comic expression on my face, then my mouth opened, and the laugh found
a voice, and then I was rolling on my back, with tears streaming through my fur,
screaming with laughter. I was laughing, not only at the marching turd, but at
everything that had happened in the last three days. All the effort of climbing
the mountain, Sue’s voice in the darkness when I had thought the mountain was
talking to me, even, or perhaps especially, the mirror trick and my shame.
When the laughter left me, reluctantly, and I was only giggling softly, I suddenly realized that I felt good. Good in a way that I hadn’t felt since I was a child.
I felt clean—purified. I wanted to fly again.
“You laugh well,” said Sue.
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Eventually, I sobered, and Sue repeated her request to hear the tale of my
travels.
Starting with my desire to see the dance of the dragons, and ending with falling asleep inside Sue’s cave, I obliged her.
“How would you like to take another ride?” asked Sue, when I finished.
I said that I would like it very much.
The city I had seen in my dream was on the other side of the mountains I had
seen from the ledge. As we flew, Sue explained that Svetlavia was the capitol city
of the dragons and was something over seven thousand years old. That’s all she
had time to say, because we were suddenly flying up and over the mountain, and
the sight was fantastic.
We crested the mountain just like I had in my dream, but reality was even
more spectacular. Dragons that looked no bigger than sparrows were weaving and
twisting their way over and around the city. My dream was fulfilled.
The city itself was like nothing I had ever seen. It was built around a gigantic
hole in the ground, into and out of which dragons by the score were flying like
bees. Great colorful mounds of earth and stone reared over each other, hosting
more dragon traffic. I wanted to see more.
“Let’s get closer,” I said.
“I can’t,” said Sue. She spread her wings, and we flew back to her cave.
When we returned, Sue set me down and said, “You know, you have yet to
tell me your name.”
“It’s Mike,” I said.
“Good,” said Sue, and she spread her wings again and disappeared.
Three days passed before she returned, and during that time, I found plenty
of things to worry about. I worried that there was some reason for her inability
to enter the city that went beyond the fact that she was carrying a mouse. I worried that that reason had something to do with her continued absence. I worried
that she wouldn’t come back.
The afternoon of the third day, I ate the last of the corn that Sue had provided, and began to worry where my next meal would come from, but finally, she
reappeared.
She looked tired, but happy.
“Still here, eh? I thought you might run out on me while I was away, but I’m
glad you didn’t. I brought you a few more kernels of corn.”
Peace
421
She didn’t mention her disappearance until after supper. I had one of the
kernels, and she ate another large cat, though this one was tawny, and had lots of
hair on its head. When she had been eating the orange, striped one, I had been
too busy devouring my own food to watch her, but this time, though I tried to
find something else to look at, my gaze was constantly drawn to her meal.
I was surprised to find that she ate very quietly and neatly, with a minimum
of rending flesh. Her teeth were so sharp that she had an easier time eating the
cat than I had eating corn. She was almost dainty. It was an unnerving sight just
the same.
When she finished, she looked up at me and smiled. “A little tough, but I
always get a kick out of eating lions. They come from Africa, mostly. Beautiful
place.” She paused, and stared, until I felt uncomfortable, then said, “I’m sorry I
couldn’t take you into the city. It’s a singularly wonderful place . . .
“I’m afraid I’m not well liked there. Nobody likes a doomsayer. Some people
hate them. At the moment, its none of your concern, but the longer you stay here,
the greater the risk that it will become yours.
“I’m not asking you to leave, of course. On the contrary, I would love to have
you stay; you’re the first friend I’ve had in a long, long time. I just wanted you to
know that things could get a little . . . hectic in the days to come, that’s all. Anyway,
it’s been a long three days, and I simply must get to bed. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I said, puzzled as usual, and went to sleep myself.
The next morning, I was jolted from sleep by a booming roll of thunder that
seemed to be erupting from within my own head. When I realized the thunder
was talking, I hurried out of bed and crept cautiously to the mouth of the cave.
Sue was already there, looking up into the sky and fuming. Following her
gaze, I saw nine dragons hovering in Canada goose formation. The dragon at
the apex was the largest, and was producing the thunderous voice. Even when
my ears adjusted to the volume, though, I could only catch portions of what the
thunderer was saying.
Two of the words I did catch were “traitor,” and “death.” I think they were
repeated several times. The dragon also seemed to want Sue to come with it.
When the speech was over, and the echoes had reverberated away, Sue quietly
and distinctly said, “Fuck you,” and marched into the cave.
“I wouldn’t stand too close to the door,” she said, and lifted me in front of her.
A moment later, the thunder was replaced by lightening and the area in front of
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the cave burst into flame. Although Sue took the brunt of the hot air that suddenly
battered its way in, I felt as though I were being roasted by the heat. “It looks like
trouble got here faster than I expected,” she said.
When the flames died away, after an hour or so, the dragons were gone. Two
of the pine trees closest to the cave were still on fire, but the flames weren’t spreading beyond them.
“That was the Tribunal,” said Sue. “Once a proud and compassionate institution,
now a group of aged headhunters, always on the lookout for more heads. The end
of our millennium is very near.”
The explanation meant nothing to me, but I got the idea that the situation
was dire.
That night, Sue and I slept in one of the innermost chambers. The next morning, explosions ripped the air, and Thunder had a few more words to say. When
the Tribunal left, we investigated the damage and found that most of the cave
had been turned into a crater.
“Just what is it they want from you?” I asked.
“My life,” said Sue. “And I believe the time has come for me to do something
about it. Would you like to witness an insurrection?”
“What’s a—,” I asked.
“Come on; I’ll show you,” she replied.
She lifted me onto her back and we flew once more to Svetlavia.
The city looked exactly the same, but this time Sue did not stop at the top of
the mountain. She was flying so fast that I could make out no new details as we
closed in, and Sue only went faster as we approached.
By the time we reached the city’s edge, the landscape was a blur. How she managed to avoid hitting one of the thousands of dragons that were flying around is
beyond me, but when we were directly above the hole, among the thickest traffic,
she made a ninety-degree turn and plunged into the darkness.
For a long time, the only indication I had of movement was the rush of air that
streamed past, and the fact that my ears were popping. I tried to reassure myself
of Sue’s trustworthiness and sanity.
When at last I noticed a pinprick of light in the darkness, it immediately
resolved into a massive portal through which we proceeded to hurtle. Only then
did Sue begin to slow.
Peace
423
The scene that resolved around us was exactly like a honeycomb. Great, hexagonal cells ranged as far as I could see on either side. There seemed no end to
them, either above or ahead. I had no interest in trying to catch a glimpse of the
floor. Though most of the cells were plugged, I didn’t imagine they were filled
with honey.
“This is the prison,” said Sue, “and in a moment, you will see the guards.”
An ear-piercing shriek filled the air, and in the next moment, we were completely surrounded by a phalanx of dragons wearing scarlet bands around their
heads.
Sue hovered in place as the dragons slowly constricted their sphere. Disconcertingly, she started to tremble. Then she started to glow.
“Just a few more moments,” whispered Sue.
Dimly, I realized that she wasn’t so much trembling as thrumming. Power
seemed to be building within her. I was too terrified just then to wonder why I
was there.
“Uh-oh,” said Sue, and, abruptly, the thrumming stopped, as did the up and
down motion of her wings. In the ensuing silence, I forced myself to open my
eyes.
Sue was no longer glowing, or moving at all. She just hung suspended, frozen,
while the phalanx of guards backed away. Finally, I looked along Sue’s neck. A
golden bowl was upended on her head.
I wish I could tell you what was running through my mind at that moment,
but I was too busy running recklessly alongside the scales of her neck to pay
much attention to what I was thinking. I just somehow knew that the bowl had
to be dislodged.
It was much too big for me to lift, but I grabbed hold of the rim anyway, and
lifted with everything in me. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have stood a chance, but after
walking up and down a mountain, my legs had grown abnormally strong. Also, fear,
and something hotter within me that may have been rage, lent strength enough
to my legs and paws that the bowl moved. It was only high enough to admit a
single kernel of corn, but apparently it was enough. Sue shook her head, and the
bowl bounced into the air. Unfortunately, so did I.
I fell silently, with nothing below me but darkness. Above me, Sue recommenced to glow, only twice as brightly as before, and the thrumming I had noticed
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before was in the very air. The guards were in disarray, and the whole tableau was
growing smaller by the instant.
That’s when Sue exploded. For an instant the honeycomb cells were lit as
if by sunlight, but even as the golden walls glinted, they faded away, and as the
brightness dimmed, each cell released a dragon, who flew upwards, streaming fire
from their jaws, so that I seemed to be falling through a conflagration. The wind
from their wings blew me every which way but up. I had time to think that my
imminent death was easily worth the unimaginable glory of that sight when Sue
suddenly appeared beside me, falling at the same sped, and grinning her toothy
grin. “How do you like the joy of flight? she asked.
I opened my mouth and screamed.
Sue casually maneuvered herself underneath me until I was effectively sitting
between her shoulders.
She slowed to a stop, then soared upwards. As we rose, I had time to study
the spectacle above us. Unfortunately, I have nothing to compare it to. Flames
every color of the rainbow were shooting in every direction as the freed prisoners
engaged their guards in battle.
Sue began to laugh. “Behold the reaping of the whirlwind,” she yelled.
She continued to fly casually towards the exit portal, which was guarded by
half a dozen desperate-looking guards. When they saw Sue, they shouted and
tried to surround her, but Sue took a deep breath, blew a mighty blast of fire, and
sped on through.
When the darkness once more protected us, she picked up speed. I clung to
her scales as well as I could, while the wind tried to pull my hair out by its follicles.
At long last, we shot through the city’s giant hole and high into the air, until the
city was too small to distinguish.
“Well, that was more exciting than I had anticipated,” said Sue. “It required
every ounce of my magic, and finally hung on the strength and courage of a mouse,
but we actually pulled it off. The city will either be reborn or destroyed. Either
way, it will be a marked improvement.
“I apologize for the mortal peril; I had fully expected to fly in and out without
incident. I certainly wasn’t anticipating the Helm of Hrim. It’s a purely mythic
artifact that turns magic in upon itself. I never dreamed it actually existed. If not
for your quick thinking and strong limbs, I would simply have imploded, no doubt
taking you with me, but otherwise causing no harm. So, thank you.”
Peace
425
“Don’t mention it,” I said, breathlessly.
Later, as we stood in the middle of the crater that had been Sue’s home, she said,
“This was a good home, I lived here for 863 years. It won’t be easy leaving it.”
“Where will go?”
“Well, as I think I mentioned, Africa is a beautiful place, with lots of lions and
other toothsome feasts. Ample room for a dragon to spread her wings. Would
you like to come along?”
I laughed. “I think I’ve had more than enough excitement to last a poor little
field mouse a lifetime.” Then I turned serious. “But I’ll miss you.”
“And I you, my friend.”
I watched her for a long time after she had become too small to see.
That was two years ago. Since that time, I have done little save scratch out
this story. I eat, I sleep, occasionally, I dream, but nothing ever really happens.
Now that my tale is complete, I am faced with spending the rest of my life doing
nothing exciting save dream.
I refuse to accept that fate. Tonight is the first night of summer, and the moon
is nearly full. I don’t know where Africa is, but I know in which direction my
dragon flew. I will start from her cave on the other side of the mountain and follow
her to Africa. If I die before I reach there, then at least I will have died in action,
rather than in my hole. But who knows? Perhaps I will actually find her, and we’ll
be able to spend the rest of our lives together, having grand adventures.
Once upon a time, I flew. Perhaps, in the magical realm of Africa, I will fly
again.
The Beginning . . .
<Return to main text>
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27 | Joy
“যে অন্তহীন প্রাণ”
—Garry Schyman, Praan, (adapted from the poem “Stream of Life”
from Tagore’s Gitanjali)
It is our business to be free. The path to freedom is failure and death.
What this means, to take a rare stab at practicality, is that we need to stop
doing what we hate, stop worrying about the direction the world is headed,
and focus on doing what we love. To be absolutely clear, I’m not talking
about what we ought to hate, or ought to love, but what we truly, deep down,
hate doing, like punching a clock or going to church, and what we deep
down, truly love, like playing baseball, counting beans or writing books.
“Ah, but Mark,” I can hear both of you saying, “You are single and have
no family to take care of, no responsibilities, no real consequences to worry
about.” And you’re right, both of you, and I would add that I am in the
minority in knowing what it is that I most love and was built to do.
Common wisdom holds that everyone must do things they hate from
time to time—if not constantly—as if this somehow brings glory to God.
This is what service is, after all, right?—setting aside the things you want
to do in order to do what someone else needs you to do. But what I’m talking about isn’t refusing to take out the trash because you hate doing that,
and instead sitting on the couch playing video games, because that’s what
you really love to do. What I am saying is that God is God. When we take
responsibility for another person’s happiness (I’m not talking about food, or
shelter, for which we may humbly be responsible, but happiness, well-being,
self-esteem, wants, whim and “needs.”), when, I say, we take responsibility
for such as those, we are putting ourselves in the place of God. Even when
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we’re trying to provide such things for ourselves. Yes, love is sacrifice, and
their appropriate roles. This is joy. This is community, both of ants and
yes, love is considering others to be better than ourselves, but if you don’t
grasshoppers (You’re familiar with the fable to which I refer, are you not?).
love the sacrifice, if you don’t actually, literally, deep-down consider others
This is the body and blood of Jesus, alive in heaven, resurrected on earth.
to be better than yourself (while still loving yourself well), then you’re doing
it wrong. That’s okay—we all fail in this regard—but the goal is to love, to
love love, and to love loving.
The Structured Church is rarely the body of Christ. Four friends sitting at a bar drinking beer and talking about God often is. You’ll know it
I have this crazy idea that God created a perfect world—that is, that
if you experience it. You suddenly feel closer to your friends, you realize
it is, even now, at this very moment, perfect—and that we mess it up on
what great people they are and how lucky you are to be part of their circle.
an ongoing basis by refusing to do what we were born to do in favor of
You have a renewed sense of compassion for the long, hard life they’ve
what “needs to be done.” Instead, we need to (as Bob from IVP once said)
lived, and a new sense of hope that you’re not as alone as you sometimes
“Get rid of structure; everyone should feel free to do what they want, and
feel. Informal expressions of church can be places where genuine worship
somehow that will work out.”
“But,” some ask, “If everyone did what they truly wanted to do, who
would take out the garbage?”
is experienced and entered into, where the presence of the Lord may be
made known in the breaking of the bread, where sin can be confessed and
the peace of the Lord may be passed.
“I would,” I reply, in all seriousness. God hasn’t only gifted me with a
I’m not saying that the Structured Church is worthless, just that it’s
talent for sitting on my ass and massaging a computer keyboard. He’s also
secondary and, in a better world, unnecessary. Two or three friends at a
given me a love for carrying things. Whether they be rocks or boxes, socks
coffee shop or on a walk in the woods, or in any number of disparate, non-
or foxes, if they need to be carried from one place to another, I’m your man.
church-looking places is where church really happens. Three or four people
I live to carry; that’s just the way God made me. My crazy theory is that
knit together momentarily into the body of Christ is a much more powerful
God has distributed such gifts of loving service throughout his church.
instance of church than sitting in an auditorium with 8,999 other people
Paul compares the body of Christ to an actual body, calling some
hands, some feet, some eyes. I contend that eyes love to see, and hands love
singing the latest praise and worship songs. It’s more powerful even than
sitting in a pew with 34 others belting out some grand old hymn.
to carry, and feet love to travel. But in this fallen world, the hands are all
Friends and beer are a powerful combination. When the truth is
too often trying to peer through the darkness, the eyes are trying to carry
spoken between friends, when the truth is debated between friends, when
the weight of the body, and the feet are trying to assemble electronics. And
the truth is mangled and torn apart and slowly built back into a horrible
no one’s happy. The hands need to die to their role as visionaries, and the
parody of itself while laughter and tears are shared among friends: That’s
feet need to die to their dexterity, and the eyes need to be squished under
church. That’s communion, if you will. Are there really people who are
the weight of everyone else. Subsequently, they all need to be reborn to
appalled by that statement? I have a hard time imagining it, sometimes, but
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I’ve been led to believe that there are. I’m not saying you’re wrong, if you
never felt anything end up being sent to hell, I’ll offer to go in one of their
happen to be one of those people, I’m just saying, “Lighten up, lady.” Read
places. That’s a scary thing to offer, because, well, I’m serious and . . . hell
the Gospel. The bracelets ask, “What would Jesus do?” I’ll tell you what
if I know, right? I’m just a guy who’s trying to believe and sometimes feels
Jesus would do: He’d party with the sinners. He wouldn’t even necessarily
what he thinks is the Holy Spirit or the presence of Jesus or whatever. I’m
talk about theology unless some uptight asshole asked him why he was
pretty confident in my conception of who Jesus is, but there’s no objective
partying with the sinners.
way (save dying, and seeing what happens) of proving that my conceptions
Mind you, if Jesus isn’t there, it’s just a party, and ain’t nothing wrong
are correct, but I believe Jesus will be in line ahead of me, offering to go to
with that in my book, but just in case the obvious needs to be stated, a party
hell himself in everyone’s place if that’s what’s required. Rumor has it that
isn’t necessarily church. Yes, God is there in people’s hearts (at least in the
he’s already been, and I imagine Satan shudders to consider his return.
hearts of people who look to him in times of trouble), but the church is
Strangely, there are people in pews throughout the world who honestly
where two or three people invoke his name. You can’t force a party to turn
don’t understand why people like me (and possibly you) are so upset. For
into church, nor should you try, because nothing kills a party quicker than
many of them, Sunday service is where they experience God’s love and
someone trying to get all serious. But try talking about your problems at
receive the strength to face the rest of the week. I wince when I hear of such
a party, or try listening to someone else’s problems, or mention how much
people’s confusion, not because I think they’re ignorant and insensitive, but
you hate church, or listen to someone else talk about how much they hate
because I don’t want to be the one to disenchant them. But I implore you
church. You might find that the presence of God becomes palpable.
never to go to Sunday service out of a feeling of guilt. God is not waiting
In case you’re wondering, I’m not talking about feelings here. Just
for you there. He is waiting for you in your heart and in the hearts of your
because I’m a feelings kind of guy doesn’t mean I’m all and only about
friends. Some people love Sunday services (I’m fond of them myself from
emotions. There are people who worry when they don’t feel the presence
time to time), but if you don’t love them? Don’t go. Find your own church.
of Jesus. Was Jesus here? How do we know? Was this church? I didn’t feel
Ask a friend to come to your house once a week and pray together, or go
anything. Did you feel anything? I’m sorry; I’m just not very spiritual. I wish
to a bar, or just throw a party every once in a while for all the partiers you
I was more spiritual, but half the time I’m not even sure I believe in God, you
know, and once everyone (including yourself) is good and drunk, start
know what I mean? Wait. Is that bad? What am I saying? Of course that’s bad.
rambling on about God. Get a good argument going. End the evening
I’ll probably go to hell, but I just can’t help it; I’ve never really felt his presence,
by saying, “I love you guys! So! Much!” And the next time some earnest
not even when I’m down on my knees at night praying my heart out. It just
church-goer asks you if you’ve been to church lately, say “Oh, yeah!” with
feels like no one’s listening, you know?
a little too much gusto. If you’re really feeling mischievous, invite her to
I know. It’s all right. I hereby decree that it’s all right, and that you’re
not going to hell. If I’m wrong, if people who prayed and tried to believe but
your next party. Who knows? She might surprise you.
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433
Joy
The story about Jesus is good news, and if you didn’t hear it that way
As pissed off as you must have been when you banished the Israelites
then someone told it to you wrong. Or possibly they said it right, but you’ve
into the wilderness for forty years, you nevertheless kept on feeding them,
been listening to other voices. Jesus came to set you free from whatever it
and making sure that their sandals wouldn’t wear out. You cared for them
is that has you imprisoned. Your jailers will not let you go without a fight,
even in the midst of their waywardness. That’s love. That’s what you do. Our
but the good news is that Jesus is fighting on your behalf and all you have
relative success or failure has nothing to do with whether or not we’re in
to do is wait for him to win. When the walls fall down, and Jesus is stand-
your care. The Wall Street executive and the bag lady to whom she gives a
ing in the dust and rubble, holding his hand out to you with a weary smile
sandwich every Thursday are both in God’s care, but the world will not be at
and a gleam in his eye, take it. He won’t let go. If you’ve already done all
peace until we’re all doing what God built us each to do. How can it be?
that and just haven’t heard from him since—be at peace. Who knows what
So, please. Fail. Cast off your responsibilities, cash in your retirement
metaphor, what story explains the journey Jesus is walking you through?
savings, or whatever, and go do whatever it is that you’ve always wanted to
He’ll tell you himself, eventually. Until then, remember what angels always
do. Or at least set out on the journey toward finding out whatever the fuck
tell those they visit: “Be not afraid.” They say it because they are terrifying
that might be. No, we’re not all going to join hands and take the plunge
creatures who are messengers of a terrifying Presence. If one of them were
on the count of three; you’re going to have to make the leap all by yourself,
to sneeze and not cover their mouth, the universe itself might be blown to
surrounded, no doubt, by people who are telling you Suicide is never the
smithereens. But they have come with glad tidings of great joy. They have
right answer, and Think of the children, and God takes care of those who take
come to God bless you.
care of themselves. And I can tell you right now that things will get a whole
1
lot worse before they get better. But I can also tell you that you don’t have
Here’s the most radical idea this book has to offer:
to worry and fret and be anxious—not even during the worst of it. You’re
“We can do this.”
allowed secretly to enjoy the fall, to fling wide your arms and pretend that
We wouldn’t even be the first generation to do so. “And the land had
you’re flying.
rest for forty years” is another quote from Judges (3:11, 5:31, 8:28). After
Who knows? Maybe you will.
we’ve cried out to God in our distress, from beneath the heels of our
oppressors, from our death shrouds, you can restore us to full life, with
everyone doing what’s right in their own eyes, and the world at peace. Our
kids are unlikely to understand what the hell we think we’re doing not
giving them what they think they need, and they will likely and predictably undo whatever we build, but that’s life. That’s history. God will take
care of them, as well.
<Skip footnote>
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Thurnglad’s Meadbowl (1994)
1
Thurnglad brooded often in the mead hall, yearning for war and winter’s end.
Folks around him strained to be cheerful, singing and boasting as if the world
were not dead. They would cease their bellowings and beg him for aid when the
wolves descended and prowled the woods. As he envisioned his fists clutched
around two hairy throats his fingers flexed, his jaw clenched, and his eyes smoldered with grim anticipation.
Footsteps approached from behind, carrying the scent of new-washed hair
as if on a summer breeze. A hand touched his shoulder, and the suddenly decaptitated heads of imagined wolves leaped into the air on geysers of blood. One of
Haldred’s waifs cleared her throat.
“More mead?” she said.
“Aye,” he answered, his voice like the ghost of an earthquake.
Her thin arms lifted the great oaken bowl, and as her footsteps receded, he
gazed at the fire, and his fists and jaw slowly unclenched.
Melwyn, he thought to himself, her name is Melwyn.
“Melwyn!”
The shout tore Thurnglad’s gaze from the fire. He turned to see Mordall
clutching Melwyn’s arm, causing her to drop Thurnglad’s bowl. Mordall was a
warrior, one of the best, but the loudest of the braggarts. “Doff thine apron and
dance with me!”
“I’d sooner go a’reeling with a trout,” said Melwyn, bracing her feet against the
tug of his brawn. The hall fell silent. Even through the back of Mordall’s head
Thurnglad could see his darting eyes. In a moment the churl would find an insult
to hurl before stepping away. Thurnglad had seen it before.
This time, however, Mordall leaned back and wrenched her arm in the direction of the dancers. “I asked you to dance,” he snarled.
Thurnglad arose, inhaling fury, but before his ire could be expelled, Melwyn
drew a dagger from behind her apron and slashed at Mordall’s arm. She wounded
only his leathern sleeve, but he leaped back, staring at her in disbelief.
“You filthy fish!” he said in his meanest, most petulant voice, a tone he normally reserved for those few (Thurnglad included) who bested him in sparring.
He reached for his own dagger, but stopped when he noticed Thurnglad striding
toward him.
Joy
435
Thurnglad took no notice now of Mordall’s shifting eyes. His only thought
was to grip and squeeze until eyes burst from sockets. He lunged forward, then
pulled up short when Melwyn stepped in front of him.
“Your mead is coming, sir,” she said. “Kindly beseat yourself.”
Thurnglad blinked, amazed that she would so blithely turn her back on her
foe, but Mordall was at a loss himself. For a moment, Thurnglad studied her eyes,
and was daunted by the fire he saw there. Confused, he stepped back. Where had
she gotten such courage? He had never before seen it in her. Sparing one more
glance at Mordall, he shook his head and returned to his seat.
A bellowing laugh erupted from Mordall. “She put you in your place, eh,
oxwife?” For the space of a breath the hush in the mead hall deepened, then, like
an ice-locked river breaking apart in the spring, the hall erupted with the clatter of cutlery and the scraping of benches as everyone rushed for the walls. In
Thurnglad’s head, the sound was like a great bear roaring the word that in human
speech is rendered “Death!” Without turning around, Thurnglad took three deep
breaths, until it seemed to him that he grew to twice his normal size. He turned
around. Melwyn was still there, hands on her hips, her back to Mordall. The only
way to put an end to Mordall’s chuckling was to go through her, and yet she too
seemed to have grown, effectively eclipsing his foe. Like a bear assailed by a swarm
of bees, he lowered his head and stumbled toward the door.
Outside, alone with his rage and confusion, he wanted to bellow, to rip up trees
by their roots. He wanted to go back inside and kill everyone there. He walked a
few paces into the eerily glowing snow and focused on breathing evenly the thin
frozen air. Slowly the smell of pine trees and cowsheds quieted his roiling emotions, and he stood for several minutes like a tree that waits for spring.
The door opened behind him. Footsteps crunched through the snow. He
smelled mead and new-washed hair. He turned around.
Melwyn was lifting a bowl of mead to him, her arms trembling from the
weight and the cold.
“Here,” she said. Pent-up breath streamed from her mouth as he took the
bowl from her. For a moment they stared at each other, then Melwyn smiled
and hugged herself. “Cold,” she said. She started to turn, then hesitated, took a
breath, and held it. Suddenly she laughed, as if at her own confusion, and trotted
back inside.
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R einventing Our Futur e
Thurnglad stared after her, then slowly turned his back once more to the
meadhall and stared out over the valley. He nodded, as if he understood something,
then hefted the bowl to his lips. Long moments passed while the mead coursed
down his throat. When the vessel was empty, he let out his breath with a gasp.
He cast the bowl aside and walked into the woods to relieve himself. By the
time he stepped out from the trees, his mind was singing with the strength of
the mead, and his stride was wavering pleasantly. He picked up the meadbowl, to
bring it back inside, then remembered Mordall, and suddenly he wanted to uproot
trees again. He resolved to put Mordall in his place, then thought of Melwyn,
and his confusion returned. He stood transfixed, held taut by conflicting desires,
flexing his fingers against the bowl’s wooden resilience.
His anger swelled until he could no longer contain it, and he started to run.
Below him lay the steep ravine that had been cleared of trees generations ago
so that no enemy could take them by surprise. Holding the bowl before him he
leaped over the edge. For a moment, such was the strength of his leap, he thought
he might not come down, but would fly into the night like an owl. Suddenly, his
anger dropped from him and bounced down the ravine, shattering as it fell. His
eyes widened as he realized he was about to follow it. Clutching the bowl to his
chest, he prayed, confessing all his sins since boyhood, and asked for a miracle.
The hard-packed, icy snow crunched under the impact, and then he was
hurtling downhill, racing along on top of the bowl, bits of snow stinging his face
and the wind pulling at his hair. Bumps and hillocks tossed him in the air, and
the glowing snow and the sentinel trees raced past and underneath him until he
was terrified and overwhelmed with joy. When he reached the bottom he slid
for a quarter of a mile, spinning slowly until the stillness enshrouded him, and
for a moment he made no move, his legs suspended above the snow. Then a grin
slashed his lips, fierce behind his ice-flecked beard. He jumped to his feet and
ran back up the mountain.
By morning he had made a dozen runs and was nearly exhausted. The clouds
had retreated, as if the stars had pushed them aside to watch, but the only indication that morning had arrived was the lowing of the cattle. When he reached
the top once more, a small boy was there, bundled in sheep skin, eyes wide with
wonder. Without a word the boy lifted his arms and Thurnglad’s smile faltered.
He was suddenly aware of tiny faces at the doors of a dozen huts. He swallowed
and squared his shoulders.
Joy
437
Walking past the boy, he carried the bowl to the tanner’s shed, where he nailed
a leather strap slack across the top of the bowl. He considered waiting there until
the children lost interest, but his chest was still full of the exhilaration of descent,
so he drew a deep breath, released it, and forced himself to face them.
He carried the modified bowl to the slope and placed it next to the boy. He
settled himself in crosslegged, and pulled the strap up over his knees. Without invitation, the boy climbed into his lap and set his face toward the valley.
Thurnglad tugged on the strap to inch them over the lip of the slope and waited
for the boy to scream. It never happened. The ride was as wild as any of them,
but the boy sat delighted between his knees and faced the descent without flinching. A warrior born, he thought, and was proud of his village. He carried the boy
back up on his shoulders, and was greeted at the top by every child in the village,
clamoring for a turn.
He pointed sternly to two, and gathered them into his lap. They screamed
all the way down, and never had any sound pleased him more. The three of them
ran back up the hill and he took two more down with him. Not only children
were gathering at the top of the slope, but maids, matrons and crones, warriors,
fathers and grandfathers had arrived to watch with puzzled smiles. He spent the
whole day giving rides to children and spending his strength as he had never done
in any battle, real or imagined.
He saw Mordall at the edge of the crowd, bereft of his usual leer. In the spirit
of his newfound exuberance he allowed himself to shout “Grab a meadbowl,
Mordall!” before hurtling downhill. On his way back up, Mordall sped past him,
headfirst like a black otter, with a child riding his back. Thurnglad shook his head
in wonder, and would have stopped, but one of the children with him grabbed his
hand and urged him to hurry.
Melwyn was there as well, leading a few of the shyer children toward him
by the hand. Only once did he catch her eye as she placed a child in his lap. The
levelness of her gaze unnerved him, and when she gave him a push he was almost
killed, and the children with him, for the warm impression of her hands on his
back so stirred his heart that he had trouble staying balanced.
By late afternoon, when the grayness was deepening once more into black,
every able body in the village was hurtling down the mountain on meadbowls
and serving trays and anything else that would slide. When at last Thurnglad
collapsed on his back, too tired to walk up the hill, the two children with him
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R einventing Our Futur e
pulled at him, imploring him to continue the game, but he was spent, his chest
heaving like a blacksmith’s bellows, with nothing but the joy in his heart to keep
him conscious.
Dimly he heard a commotion, and within minutes he was aswarm with
children, all pulling and laughing. By some miracle of communal strength they
dragged him all the way up the mountain. By the time they reached the top he
had regained enough of his breath to let out a roar of triumph into the black and
glittering sky. The entire village bellowed back at him, and it was as if the sun had
returned, and the ice and the darkness, for all their boastings, had no strength
to beat back its rays.
<Return to main text>
Joy
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440
My Consequences
Love’s Beginning
441
9 | Love’s Beginning
“Don’t walk away in silence.”
—Joy Division, Atmosphere
Wow. Did you really just read this whole book? Even after I warned
you? Thank you; I’m honored. I hope the side effects weren’t too severe.
I’m sure this goes without saying, but just in case it doesn’t: Please
be wary of following anything in here that could be considered advice, up
to and including this sentence. I myself was tempted, upon reading my
own musings, to walk out my parents’ door with nothing but the clothes
on my back (and my solar-powered iPhone, of course), and undertake a
walkabout, a vision quest, a forty day sojourn in the wilderness. Once the
idea occurred to me, I felt like it would be hypocritical of me to refrain.
The idea is almost as exciting as it is terrifying. But then I remembered that
Jesus was led into the wilderness by the Spirit, and that, before he ascended,
he charged his disciples to wait in Jerusalem for the Spirit to descend. I
may take my walk someday, or I may not. I rest assured that your Holy
Spirit will let me know when and if you’d like me to set out. To begin on
my own strength, based on my own idea, is to invite the same fate as the
Israelites who tried to make up for their earlier cowardice by invading the
Promised Land only after being told that the alternative was wandering
for forty years in the wilderness. Or have I already reached my Promised
Land, and would a walkabout be tantamount to running away from home?
I don’t know. I really don’t know anything.
How can I? My story isn’t finished yet. I sometimes wonder whether
“the girl [who] awaits” me might actually be my ex-wife, whom I did, after all,
marry. I don’t see us getting back together in this lifetime, but considering
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My Consequences
Love’s Beginning
443
my speculation on the nature of God’s promise to Abraham, I have to
but God had given him a word that very night (which he emailed to me a
wonder whether the “love and adore forevermore” part might not apply
few days later):
primarily to the afterlife. This is not the fulfillment for which I long, but
then, it’s not really my story, is it?
It’s yours.
Another Stephen
One of the other actors in the story of this life is Stephen (not that
Your season is with your family in Tupelo right now. I have been
with you every step of your journey and will never leave your side. I
have ordinance over your demons and they will be gone as of now.
Take the peace offered you and be well. Peace be with you Stephen.
Peace be with you. . . . Peace now and forevermore. You must now
teach peace to your family and others and be an example. Your search
has revealed me, and for those of us who ask, “Where are you, God?”
I respond, “I AM.”
Stephen—another one), and it’s odd that he hasn’t shown up before, since
I’ve known him since second grade, and he spent a winter with us in sev-
After I left him at the airport, I plugged my iPhone into the car stereo
enth grade, when he declined to accompany his parents to Florida. Ours
and played Love’s Anarchy’s soundtrack—the compilation of all the songs I
has been a complicated relationship, in which he’s sometimes envied my
use as epigraphs throughout the book. I stopped for gas along the way, and
awesome parents, while I’ve at times resented his appropriation of my
considered stopping for a cigarette break when I was halfway home, but
awesome parents.
I had already had a smoke in the “cell phone parking area” at the airport,
He’s showing up now because he showed up as I was finishing this
and I kept missing the few turnoffs that looked like inviting smoking spots,
book. He lives in Mississippi with a wife and three kids, but he was in New
so I decided just to wait until I got home. It was just after dawn, the sun
Hampshire for his grandmother’s funeral and asked if he could spend a few
glaring in my eyes, when a dark shape loomed on the right hand side of the
days with us. It was a good visit—better than I was expecting, to be honest.
road. I stopped the car just as if I had been expecting it all along (which,
He’s grown a lot, and he’s drawn closer to you. He also seemed really sad,
of course, I had), and waited for the juvenile moose to lumber across the
though doubtless his mood was affected by his grandmother’s death.
road not ten feet in front of me.
His plane back to Mississippi was leaving early in the morning, so we
After I watched it trundle into the woods, I continued on my way, just
left for the airport at 2:30, which was perfect for me, since I was still awake.
as the song It Is Accomplished started playing, from Peter Gabriel’s sound-
As we got into the car, Stephen said, “God told me to tell you: ‘Watch out
track to The Last Temptation of Christ. In the movie, the song accompanies
for the moose.’” I assumed he was joking, but I never stopped scanning the
Jesus’s return to the cross after overcoming his last temptation (to come
sides of the road for dark, looming, lumbering shapes as I drove.
down off the cross and live a normal life). The joy on his face is puissant
We had a good conversation over the next hour and a half or so, in
which he shamed me by being a lot more honest and vulnerable than I was
willing to be. He also has been longing to move back to New Hampshire,
as he cries out the song title just before the credits start to roll. The movie
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My Consequences
Love’s Beginning
445
version of the song employs actual church bells in lieu of the soundtrack’s
that many people make more money than I do by asking strangers to give
synthesizer sample.
it to them, and that they often play on people’s sympathies by making up
As I listened, I had to steer with my knees, since my arms were lifted
sob stories when they actually intend to spend any money they receive on
drugs and alcohol, but my tendency has always been to give such people
in praise (though my eyes continued to scan the sides of the road).
I may be lost, but apparently you know where I am and where I’m going,
money anyway, because I hate to ignore people or lie about the amount
of change in my pocket, and I’m too lazy and introverted to buy them a
and your eye is on the moose.
sandwich. Besides, they’re not asking for food, they’re asking for money,
Three Homeless People
and who am I to attach strings to my gifts? As for the possibility that he
I began this book with the idea that you come to us from below, not
was lying, well, I would rather have the wool pulled over my eyes 99 times
from above. If that sounds upside-down, it’s only because the world is still
than risk allowing one genuine need to go unmet. So I accepted his story
predominantly upside down. In your world—the world of the spirit—white,
(with a grain of salt) and gave him $20. As is customary in such instances,
straight, male authors are somewhere close to the bottom, along with
the man said, “God bless you.”
dictators and the heads of Christian publishing companies. If this book
“God bless you,” I said.
has spoken to you in any way, then glory be to God, who can use even the
Another time I pulled into a store parking lot in the sports car I had
lowest of the low to bring some tiny ray of light into this dark world. But
driven to Seattle. A man was standing by the door in a tattered parka
the problem with books is that they’re ephemeral. The light from a good
(though the day was warm). Immediately I felt self-conscious, because of
1
book might cling to a reader for several days, but eventually real life will
my habit of rolling up the windows and locking the door whenever I got
overwhelm any residual glow. Better by far to have a friend or two whose
out of the car. I didn’t want this guy to feel like I was doing so just because
light only increases over time. Such friends will tend not to be successful or
he was standing there, but I decided to do it anyway, and sure enough, he
popular or sweet-smelling. In fact, they will tend to be “hungry or thirsty or
held out his hands and said, “Oh, you don’t have to do that on my account.
a stranger or naked or sick or in prison” (Matthew 25:44). When we serve
In fact, I’ll watch over your car and make sure no one else breaks into it.” I
such as these, we are not being as God to them, but rather the reverse.
tried to laugh it off and mumbled a pseudo-explanation, but my face was
I’ll leave you with the story of three such godly people whom I met
when I lived in Oak Park, Illinois.
red as I passed him to go into the store. When I came out, he asked me for
money. I gave him a few dollars and he started talking. He told me about
Because of the irony of its name, I used to have to park a block away
the places he’d worked, his time in the military and his time in prison.
from my apartment, and one night a man rode up to me on his bike and
Suddenly, he stopped, looked up at the sky, spread his arms and shouted,
told me he needed money to put his wife and two kids up in the local
“Thank you, Jesus, for sending me someone who’ll listen!” He gave me a hug
YMCA. Immediately my white-guy defenses went up, for I had heard
before we parted ways.
446
My Consequences
The next time I crossed paths with the man on the bike, he again
needed money to put his kids up at the YMCA, but this time he said his
Love’s Beginning
447
an elaborate con, but so what if it was? Was he not accurately embodying
God to me?
wife was in the hospital. Both the similarity and the difference in his story
made me further suspect he was putting me on, and besides, I didn’t have
Love is the answer. We’ve been saying so since time immemorial.
any cash on me, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, I offered to
According to the Bible, Jesus said that that God is love, that God is spirit,
meet him at the store. I got back in my car, while he set off on his bike. I got
and he went on to say that he himself would appear to us in the needy,
there first, withdrew $40 from the ATM, and bought a soda and a candy
the naked, the hungry and the imprisoned. Someday, God willing, we
bar. When I exited the store he was just arriving. I gave him $35.
will understand what all of that means. The best we can do until then is
“God bless you,” he said
“God bless you.”
The next man I saw loitering in front of the store was maybe 18, and
his jean jacket was in good condition, but he, too, asked for money. I gave
him $5. “God bless you,” he said. A day or two later, he was there again,
and I gave him $5 more. “God bless you,” he said. A day or three after that
he was there again, but I didn’t have any cash on me, so I withdrew some
from the ATM, bought my stuff, and, as I was leaving, gave him $5. He
accepted it, but then broke script. Rather than saying, “God bless you,”
he said, “Man, you have got me every time.” Then he made an odd gesture,
moving his arms away from his sides, but only slightly. I took it as an invitation for a hug and stepped forward. After an awkward man-embrace we
parted ways. Once again my face was red, embarrassed by the possibility
that he had only intended to shake hands.
The last time I crossed paths with the man on the bike, he said, “Ah,
man, I’ve been looking for you.” He seemed close to tears. “My wife died,”
he said. He had told me previously what she was suffering from. I had
half-listened, making sure my eyes looked sincere. He pulled out his wallet
and showed me pictures of his kids. I don’t remember if he asked me for
money that night, and some cynical part of me still wonders if it was all
acquiesce to your inscrutable ways.
448
Nuts (199?)
1
I was running late,
as usual,
so I cut through the park to save time.
There were leaves on the path,
and I wondered,
irritated,
when the grounds crew would get around
to raking them up, for
they made a hideous racket.
Something small
and hard struck my temple. I stopped
abruptly,
but turned
slowly,
the better to glower at the culprit,
but there was no one there but a tree.
I lifted my glare to the branches and caught sight of
a squirrel
in the act
of throwing another acorn at my head.
I caught it, deftly,
and contemplated chucking it back, but
something in the way the squirrel had tossed it
underhand
reminded me of a senior citizen
feeding pigeons or throwing snacks to a dog.
Nonplussed,
I popped the nut into my mouth and
bit down.
It wasn’t very good, so
I waited until the squirrel wasn’t looking,
then spit it out—I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
My Consequences
Love’s Beginning
Beyond the tree was the same old lake,
shimmering
in the early morning sun, surrounded
by the same old naked trees, but
there was something odd—
in the middle of the lake was a
hole.
I was snaking my head around to adjust my perspective, when
a bit of smoke curled out, along with a couple of sparks.
A group of children dressed in clothes that were far too big for them
swarmed across the surface of the lake like
windblown leaves,
lay down on their stomachs
at the edge of the hole and
peered inside.
One of them shouted that it was just a group of frogs
sitting around a campfire grilling trout.
Curious to see this wonder for myself
(but unwilling to trust my weight to surface tension), I
grabbed the lowest limb of the squirrel’s tree
and yanked myself up. With no little difficulty,
I managed to scootch a ways out
onto a high, thick branch
overhanging the water, but
the hole was too deep for me to glimpse its bottom.
An odd cooing sound, louder than any pigeon,
startled me,
and I cautiously glanced behind.
No source could I find,
but the branch on which I sat
began to bounce.
Terrified,
I wrapped my arms and legs around it.
449
450
The bouncing and cooing continued until,
if you can believe it, I started to cry.
Immediately,
the eerie noise and motion ceased, but
my bawling did not, for two higher branches
were descending upon me,
grasping me by the waist and lifting me up.
I was wailing now,
wordlessly,
screaming for help
as the nightmarish branches
deposited me firm
against the trunk of a neighboring tree,
whose bark was not so rough
or cold, and
whose branches held me gently in place.
A dozen or so twigs tapped softly upon my back,
while the squirrel
played peek-a-boo
from the other side of the trunk until
slowly, my sobbing subsided.
Below me, the children with oversized clothing
were gathering to watch.
The tree that now held me made
shushing sounds
and patted their heads with its lowermost branches.
Though its bark was making a
deep
impression in my cheeks,
eventually I fell asleep.
When I awoke, my clothes were far too big for me.
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My Consequences