Doubting Thomas's Book of Common Prayers
Authorized Prose Edition
By Thomas Burton
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
âIn Memoriam XCVI
Preface
Human limitation coupled with apparent abandonment has not been more dramatically expressed than by the words of Jesus on the cross: âMy God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?â
But the feeling is common to most of us. We find ourselves in circumstances similar to an incident told me of a handicapped student at Baylor University. When this young man went out with his buddies, theyâd often joke with him about being too slow or awkward on his crutches. His characteristic response was, âThatâs okay, Iâm really Captain Marvel, Jr.â One evening when horsing around in a dorm room with his friends, he attempted a headstand on the bed and became helplessly wedged against the wall. Completely frustrated, he yelled outâperhaps for us allââShazam, dammit, Shazam!â
Frustrations with self, with personal beliefs, with relationships human and spiritual, with the nature of thingsâall seem like Samuel Johnsonâs apprehensions, beasts we never slay, only continually beat back to their dens. Even the poets seem to have no adequate response. Their bootless cries as well as ours often âtrouble deaf heavenâ with âno language but a cry,â even though theyâas we mustâchallenge monsters of the dark and deep with heroic fortitude in overcoming doubt and despair.
Some of these common frustrations without the security of a net or golden chain from heaven are the inspiration of these prayers.
Contents
Part One
1. On being a Little Mad
2. On There Being No One Else
3. On Someone to Work Things Out
4. On When Thereâs Nobody
5. On Coded Behavior
6. On Dealing with Reality
7. On Disunity
8. On the Cruelest Month
9. On Fixing It
10. On Washing Away Stress
11. On the Roughest Day
12. On Giving Up the Faith
13. On When They Muck Up
14. On Personal Chaos
15. On Rocky Ground
16. On Moisture
17. On Detachment
18. On Waste
19. On the Creative Force
20. On Being Alone
21. On Stimulation of Consciousness
22. On Being a Little Tired
23. On Mucking Through
24. On Being Human
25. On Slack
26. On Starting Over
27. On the Groaning Spirit
28. On Garbage
29. On Talking Things Out
30. On Opening Up
31. On Rednecks
32. On a Soulguard
33. On Human Beans
34. On Tides
35. On Help
36. On Knights of the Holy Grail
37. On Being World Class
38. On Dancing
39. On Enjoying a Sunny Day
40. On Dying
41. On Needing a Little Help
42. On a Disease
43. On Christmas
44. On a Touch
45. On a Heaven
46. On Running to a Woman
47. On Hugs
48. On Gratitude
49. On Dark Clouds
50. On a Voice
51. On the Need of a Temple
52. On Human Contact
53. On Breaking the Hedge
54. On a Dilemma
55. On Serving Only God
56. On Two Masters
57. On a Person in Need
58. On Feelings
59. On Plurality
60. On Compartmentalizing
61. On Duality
62. On Commitment
63. On Independence
64. On Being Out of the Ashes
Part Two
1. On Needing to Talk Again
2. On thinking the Bases Are Covered
3. On a Person in a Hollow Tree
4. On Drifting
5. On Beginnings
6. On Relationships
7. On Lancelot and Guinevere
8. On Being a Contender
9. On Batman and Bruce Wayne
10. On Admiration
11. On a Son
12. On Pride
13. On Servitude to Work
14. On a Reunion
15. On Cremation
16. On a Suicide
17. Of a Siblingâs Death
18. On What Dreams May Come
19. On a National Treasure
20. On a Server
21. On Outsiders
22. On Checking Out
23. On Your Being Only in My Head
24. On a Coach
25. On an Alter Ego
26. On a High Church
27. On a Pentecostal Church
28. On the Via Media
29. On Day-to-day Morality
30. On a Decent Conversation
31. On Going Home
32. On Pardons and Paroles
33. On Belief
Part One
1. On Being a Little Mad
Lord, admittedly Iâm a little mad. Maybe Iâve got the crazies as well. But Iâm not really mad at you, just kind of mad at everything. What can I say? Everyone has their own point of view. Everyone has their own right and is right. Everybodyâs going their own way. No one owes me anything. So to hell with it. Isnât that what you say?
And if I feel this way, it really doesnât matter if Iâm justified or notâdoes it?
What I need is vision. Iâm down here mucking around and donât know what in hell Iâm doing.
By the way, I donât buy your zapping Uzzah for trying to hold the ark when the dumb oxen stumbled.
2. On There Being No One Else
Lord, you donât talk to me. But since thereâs really no one else I can express my feelings to, Iâll talk up to you. At least I wonât have to mince words as though you were humanâor at least I hope not, unless you play Browningâs Setebos to my Caliban.
If you were a human (even if you were one of the few who are in tune with what I try to say) and you and I were exploring the mixing of our atoms or anatomies, we would be on guard lest our capabilities of accepting reality were exceeded. We would note harmonies, not cacophonies. We wouldnât want to know whatâs out of joint, but what dovetails inânot scratches and knots, but exotic smoothness. Who wants to hear, âHere you miss, or there exceed the markâ?
With people everything must be parceled out: lovers, this; friends, that; associates, audiences, and strangers, the restâsometimes âI must hold my tongueâ and âsometimes I am whipt for holding my peace.â
Come to think, however, youâre not stone deaf to critique yourself; but, as it is written, take Horebal exception.
3. On Someone to Work Things Out
Lord, I understand why people believe in you. It would be great to have someone directing everything toward good regardless of how things appear. It would be great to have someone forgive all of oneâs mistakes and say, âThatâs okayâyouâve done the best you could, so now Iâll take over and do the rest. Not only do I forgive all of your blunders, but Iâm also going to make everything turn out right in the end. Moreover, all this muck wonât matter any longer because the life youâve mucked up is going to be converted into another one where there is no muck.â
God, I want to be good, as well as what I do to be goodâat least okay. I want things for others to be good too. And to believe in someone you knew could work all that out would be good. Great if someone would.
4. On When Thereâs Nobody
Lord, David had to be a stand-up kind of guy. Yet when he was down and out and needed a little help, he often went to you. And there were times when he went to others, like Bathsheba. Guess he didnât feel that you were enough. He needed flesh and blood, although he (like all heroes) probably thought he should have been completely self-sufficient. You shouldnât have felt rejected, however, because youâre the one who made him that way.
But what did David do when he didnât have Bathsheba? A man who shouldnât show any fissures or signs of weakness. And what about anybody when thereâs nobody, but who needs somebody?
Letâs face it. A god is a little abstract. I look unto the hills, and I see a lot of trees.
5. On Coded Behavior
Lord, this womanâa proper ladyâcame right up to me, somewhat in my air space. She had gotten a divorce recently; and as we talked, she darted a glance to determine if I were wearing a ring on my left hand, which however was in my pocket.
I mentioned one of my sons out west, but realized that the circumlocution didnât really tell her anything. It seemed too obvious to drop a marker like âmy wife and I,â although I did keep saying âweâ like some candidate, which I wasnât, nor intended to be.
If Iâd been off somewhere on a meeting, I wouldâve suspected my motives in all the unintentional equivocation. But I had no design, except not to embarrass her by making her think I thought she was thinking what she probably was thinking. All the same, I noticed her pretty eyes, but not-so-pretty mouth, and the âWâ her cleavage made at the top of her low-cut sweater.
And she kept yanking up the sleeve of the sweater, which would promptly slide off her nicely rounded shoulder, and scotching the neck of the sweater under the strap of her purse as though to say she wasnât trying to pull anything. Then sheâd stretch the bodice of the sweater down, as if not to cover up prudishly. Believe me, the bouncing back and forth made it rather difficult to concentrate on the conversation.
But I talked playfully on and kept my left hand in my pocket since it sported no golden round. But then I felt kind of silly with it there like some adolescentâs attempt in concealment at a dance. So I pulled my hand out and stuck my thumb in over my belt, but I wasnât at ease with that either. And she was doing practically the same thing, it seemed. She crossed her arms in a fold across her chest, revealing her naked manicured fingers. Then just before I left, she said, âWhatâs your name again? Mineâs . . .â A come-on, I wondered? Women deal with this sort of thing from the time theyâre little girls, but I was way over my head.
A wedding ring for married folks is probably a good thing. It may or may not mean anything to the wearer, but it might to an observer: âOh, I see youâre married.â
Unmarried folks who have other types of meaningful relationships donât have such symbols. Even if they did, there would need to be color coding. Say, blue (level one), green (level two), and red (level three). Then others could note, âOh, youâd like a blue involvement, I notice.â And the response could be simply, âYes.â Or perhaps, âYes, but Iâd really be interested in at least a nice green.â
6. On Dealing with Reality
Lord, why do two people get angry and turn away from each other? When things arenât right, thatâs the time they need each other the most, to say the least. You certainly should know a lot about that. You had one of the very best in heaven say, âTo hell with it allâ and then run out on you.
The story goes you threw him out, but I donât believe that. I think he caused all that disorder and got out of there. Not because you forced him out and not because you were intolerable and not because something was so bad in itself. I think he got mad and opposed you because it was too hard for him to deal with the reality of things. He couldnât cope with the truth, so he flew the coop. It was too much for him to expose the real reasons he wasnât happy and then go to you and say:
âLook, this isnât working out the way it was supposed to. I think Iâm changing even if youâre not. Our spirits arenât fusing. This just isnât doing it for me. This isnât heavenly bliss. Iâm miserable as hell. Iâm a certain way, it seems, and youâre another. Iâm not fitting in here anymore. Letâs do or change something about it. Iâm not blaming youâmaybe itâs just your nature. And, for heaven sakes, you shouldnât blame me for mine.
âBut Iâm not alone in this. Others feel the same as I do. So if we canât work out something here, Iâll work out something somewhere else. There are other spheres, you know. Of course, I canât immediately make a heaven of hell. But with some help from you (which I think weâd both agree I deserve) I can create something better than what weâll have here when all chaos breaks loose.â
But he didnât do that. That takes some stooping. But if heâd been able to deal with the truth (even if you hadnât been perfect, and he certainly wasnât) there would have been no war in heaven. Apparently his angelic nature had too much darkness in it to perceive, accept, and deal with light. Instead he obfuscated it: âIâm tired of being kicked in the teeth [the head or however the text goes]. Iâm tired of always being considered second. Iâm not going to be treated this way because I donât deserve it. You might enjoy playing God, but not me. Youâve even gone out and created someone else to take my place. Now, by damn, youâll pay for it. Iâm going to give you hell.â
Thatâs, no doubt, when he gathered up his forces, caused all that trouble for everybody, and went away madâmaking you look pretty bad too. Of course he sweated for it as well.
If in fact he did love you, and you were good and he was good, it seems you could have worked out something for good. At least for better than all that worse, all that hurt and suffering and isolation.
Why do two beings not do that? Why canât they deal with the truth? Are they too demonic?
7. On Disunity
Lord, how do you cope with a dearly belovedâs becoming more and more less one with you? How long do you continue partaking of whateverâs left to share and overlooking the rest? Whatâs your cutting-off point, âThis far and no moreâ?
I know your flaming sword has cut off quite a few. Yet the son of man seems more long-suffering than you.
How much disunity then can humans sustain? One way to endure would be to care less, if we could. For by caring too much, weâlike your sonâare pulled out of joint.
8. On the Cruelest Month
To some, April is the cruelest month, not this one with grayness everywhereâto Eliot with that. For now there is the stench of a strange cologne diffusing throughout the temple that I would enter as a holy place.
9. On Fixing It
Lord, I donât like this stuff one bit. Fix it. I canât or I would. If you can, do it, for the love of god. I donât know if I can stand it or not.
This may be just more reality that Iâm supposed to face, but I donât care if it is. Iâm coming apart at the seams.
Damn it, do something good for pity sakes. Thatâs your job. Itâs not that I deserve it. I just need it. Please.
10. On Washing Away Stress
Lord, women are allowed tears to wash away their stress. Time was, men could fight and bleed. Whatâs a man to do when the natural self is denied, curbed by custom and reason? Just fight the inner fight and bleed within?
11. On the Roughest Day
Lord, I know that âcome what come mayâ you say that thereâs a season for everything. Whatâs this one for? To pluck up, tear down, cast away, rail against, keep silent, strike back, turn from, run to, wade on, seek within, or weep?
I guess the time is to love through the roughest day and look to the morrow.
12. On Giving Up the Faith
Lord, I know you sometimes forgive a misdeed or failure in judgment. Even entering into Astarteâs tent, if a person is still yours in heart. But what about when one gives up the faith, treading the pearl underfoot?
13. On When They Muck Up
Lord, it must have confused the hell out of you when all those angels cleared out of heaven. And you must have felt pretty discouraged when Solomon followed after false gods, and David was unfaithfulâone after your very own heart.
Bet you were really disappointed when the children of Israel messed up your plan of the promised land. Maybe as much for that as for simple infidelity. You had it all worked out. They were chosen people. Things were going pretty well. Then they mucked it up. Got to you, didnât it? Well, how in hell do you think I feel?
You just canât control where a personâs feelings go, can you? But when itâs someone you least expect, of all the people in the world, that oneâif I had a sanctum sanctorum, Iâd hide in there too.
14. On Personal Chaos
Lord, how comes such personal chaos? What quirk in your brain? What divine design? Is my outcast state given that I should reckon with reality or mark my mortality? Itâs seemingly senseless, no rhyme or reason. I canât fathom it.
Must I fall back on the poetâs word, âPatience her injury a mockery makesâ? or yours, âAll things work together for goodâ? Thereâs as little balm in âonce, at least, it was Elysium.â
15. On Rocky Ground
Why so steep and rocky, Lord? What is the reason?
Sorry, I canât accept that tale of a garden cankered with Adamâs blowing it and, consequently, his seedâs growing among weeds. Why not fertile ground, bathed by gentle western breezes and sweet-showering skies?
Self-pitying questions, no doubt. And, agreed, from no sterile wasteland on my part. But why such wind and rainâproduces character and wisdom? Thatâs the nature of things: rose and briar? I should be happy a daisy touched, though soon plucked from reach?
Even forgetting about the reason, what else is better forgotâif, that is, a tiny wit can separate mental tares from wheat?
Has all the field been gleaned and this present shade a shadow of that boastful final swath?
These questions take the consideration of a Solomon, my having known a lily of the field.
16. On Moisture
Lord, I donât expect a spring, especially from you. But what about a few drops from one who knows dryness first hand? Itâs not a stream out of a rock Iâm talking about, more just a little moisture to slack my thirst.
17. On Detachment
Lord, I know that since there is a time for everything, there is a time to keep and a time to cast away. A time for jessing a hawk to nurture it, and a time for loosing one âto prey at fortune.â
A time to quit deep emotions of despised love that murders sleep, sleep that could knit up the golden, airy thread unraveling. A time to relinquish longing for another, who is shuffling off to be free and whose closeness lessens ipso facto.
Yet detachment seems like giving up. Or is choice that which freedom is all about? The sine qua non?
18. On Waste
Havenât talked to you in some time, Lord. My voltage has been a little low for transmission. But I must say, I could have used more than a little help, a quick charge at least.
I might add that there is certainly a lot of waste with what Iâve recently gone through. All that stuff I learned over the yearsâwhat programs to watch, which kind of flowers to buy, when to order anchovies, where to stack the picnic plates, how much cream to put in the cup of coffee. Completely useless now.
I guess itâs best just to forget all thatâif I could.
19. On the Creative Force
Lord, Iâve been told that when you created heaven and earth out of nothing, love was the creative force.
It seems to me that when humans love one another, they engage in that same cosmic force and bring forth being. Loving creates a love, which not only has existence, but also can have life. And similar to everything that has life, it continues to survive as long as certain factors exist. Love, like a puny or vital seedling, can be denied water and consequently die, or be nurtured and grow into a towering strengthâeven if the axe is laid at the root, and the tree fruitless is cut down, it has been. When love comes into beingâlike a child, even though stillborn or destroyed by some defect of natureâit can continue to be, if only in memory.
Lord, can you uncreate? Can you revert something into absolute nothing? I canât.
20. On Being Alone
Everybodyâs coming to you saying, âSave me, Lord. Heal me, Lord. Help me carry my load.â But whom seek ye when itâs lonely as a tomb after theyâve come and gone? An angel?
Guess you just go on alone because that goes with the territory.
21. On Stimulation of Consciousness
Lord, I need something to stimulate my consciousness, to wake me out of my sleep, my drowsiness of existence. A book, a poem, a song, a conversation.
Yet, sometimes I donât talk with you because your being silent makes my talking seem useless. If there were anybody else, I wouldnât bother now.
But I need someone to think with. Ideas bounce around the walls of my head like a racket ball or a blacksmithâs hammer on an anvil. And even if I forge a thought, I canât tell if it will ring true unless I sound it out.
I just canât seem to reason in isolation. Talking with someone, though, I can slice off a thought and see if I can swallow it.
Guess Iâm using you like an old friend. I lay all my cards on the table, and itâs all right whether or not you pick any up. But thereâs a difference. A friend has a certain slant of mind that knows what Iâm talking about and generally responds. With you, I have to assume everything.
I wonder if youâre like the one I once knew and considered more than friend. I felt we were âone anotherâs bestâ and empathized with each otherâs every thought. God, was I ever wrong! But thatâs done and gone. And I donât really know about you.
22. On Being a Little Tired
Lord, I just get a little tired of trying. Not just one thing in particular, but a bunch of things. If I discussed them with you, youâd no doubt have the right things to say, âLay aside every weight which doth so easily beset you and run with patience. . . .â Iâve heard all that stuff, and Iâd probably even agree with you, although Iâm not so sure.
However, like most everybody else, I keep trying. And, intellectually, I think thatâs good enough. Not winning, just trying. Yet if just trying were all thatâs required, then I ought to be feel satisfied. But I donât. Even when I try hard, I donât feel good enoughânot good enough by othersâ standards, not good enough by my own.
If I could snub my nose and say, âMy soul, be satisfied with weeds even,â then I wouldnât care if I were good enough for others, including you. But I canât seem to steel myself not to care. And I donât seem to be able to do any better. Even if I gather a flower here and there, what difference does it make? Like in a mile run. If my time were below four minutes, a few seconds would be great and might achieve a first. But since my time is eight minutes at best, what difference do a few seconds make? Not any, except to me. And since firsts win the day, Iâm a little tired of seconds.
Iâm sure all this is probably a little tiring to you as well.
23. On Mucking Through
Lord, it seems like a lot of living is just mucking through. We want, need, canât fulfill or be fulfilled. We canât escape hurting or hurting someone else. Imperfection to the core.
Some, like you, create their own world, a pantheon, and Elysian fields. They claim their wiles to be willed. It gives them means to make itâso whatâs a heaven for?
Maybe thatâs what itâs all about. Just mucking through the best one can. And thatâs good enough. Better than freezing up or melting into a dew.
24. On Being Human
One problem, Lord, is your making humans feel that we can do something. That even lower than angels, we can be godlike in some respectâhelp a few others not to feel so bad, help them along their way. But you know weâll screw up somewhere. And then chances are those few will feel as bad as before, if not worse.
25. On Slack
Lord, you may have given me lots of slack a bunch of times. Like all those passing trucks Iâve almost pulled out in front of, but didnât.
Often, however, when Iâm trying to do the best I can for everybody concernedâreally tryingâitâs only after messing up that it becomes clearer what the better choice might have been. Then itâs too late. The other options no longer exist. And things have become such a gaum, as folks used to say, that there doesnât appear to be any solution.
If I choose on the basis of reason, I donât have enough data or canât compute what I have. I say to myself that I should just go with my feelings. But experience tells me that then all bedlam can break out and chaos come again.
God, give me a break. The options have too many variables. Theyâre too complicated. If you want to prove I donât have godlike omniscience, forget it. Thatâs about the only thing I do know.
How about when I get to the next fork in the road and count âeeny, meeny, miney, mo,â you tell me something besides âmene, mene, tekel, upharsinâ? Even computers beep errorsâcouldnât you beam me down an icon next time before my world crashes. Iâm trying, for pity sakes. I need a little slack.
26. On Starting Over
Lord, how long do I have to pay for my mistakes? I acknowledge them and confess. Okay? Canât we just start all overâreturn to Go? Youâre supposed to have all that power, why donât you do it?
Someone told a story about a minister who preached one Sunday morning on the subject âthe Lord will provide.â Going home from church, the preacher was attacked by a bear. After fighting it off, the minister returned to his congregation that evening and told them that he wished to qualify what he had previously preached. He said that although it was true you would help out in most things, that when it came to a bear fight, you really werenât worth a damn.
It seems to me like youâre barely helping me out at all. And since things arenât fixed, I guess Iâll have to make do, in spite of everything, with my own âwill, and strength, and meansââeven forgive myself.
27. On the Groaning Spirit
The spirit groans, Lord. Is that because you groaned when you breathed your spirit into us? Must life begin and end with a groan? How much groaning will remove its edge? Wanting and trying to do good doesnât seem to be good enough. It is for me with my childrenâwhy not for you with yours?
Why does your spirit in us groan? Or is it really your spirit that causes us to want to be more than we are, understand more than we do, have more power to create, have more control of life? Can our flesh just not match your spirit, or is your expelled breath deficient in some vital oxygenic substance?
Or does a person have a human spirit, apart from any godly inspiration? We arenât gods, but we have that breath which makes us more than dog or cat. Breath that allows us see the possibilities and limitations of dog and cat, as well as of human. And we certainly see with godlike vision how limited human is. Is it then our own weak human spirit that groans?
Caring, feeling, lovingâare these godly, or are they human? Is being more human, really being more godlike or less? Does it even matter which?
Is our groaning simply the result of misinterpreting the possibilities of spirit, human or divine? And living, caring, tryingâbreathing deep and into othersâafter all, are enough?
28. On Garbage
Okay, God, here I am again. Not particularly depressed, but certainly not elated. Mainly tired, and a little frustrated that Iâve spent a lot of time and energy on garbage. Stuff thatâs got to be done, but doesnât amount to a hill of beans. And when itâs finished, thereâs just more. And the important things go untouched. I need to talk to someone who will be a little more than casually concerned. Maybe have a cup of tea and laugh a little before I return to the junk.
It helps somewhat to say this to you, but you donât drink tea or ever say anything for Christâs sake.
But I donât know if itâd do any good to talk with anyone else. Seems like when I do, I just get more stuff stirred up without any releaseâand waste all that time.
29. On Talking Things Out
Lord, I know that the Apostle Paul recommended confessing one to the other. And everybody knows that itâs a good thing to talk things out between two people.
However, if somebody I care about upsets me or gets on my nerves in some way, but they donât mean to, and they donât always feel too good themselves, and if I did say anything to them, theyâd get depressed, and it wouldnât change what they had said or done or probably wouldnât correct anything in the future eitherâwhat would be the sense in talking about it?
30. On Opening Up
Since I havenât been talking with you as much lately, Lord, Iâve tried to talk more with others. Thatâs supposed to be good. âOpen up,â they say.
There are some advantages, I suppose. But if I talk with a know-it-all, I resent what they say. If the personâs someone who simply assents to everything I say, it doesnât help. If the individual hasnât the same slant of mind, itâs frustrating. If itâs a female with sympathetic understanding, Iâm asking for trouble. And if Iâm really trying to track out the caverns of my mind to their âinmost cell,â itâs too much for anyoneâs stamina.
Truth is, generally no one really cares that much. So Iâm right back where I startedâsolo.
Then thereâs you, Lord. Are you listening and do you empathize? Or am I just whistling in the wind?
31. On Rednecks
Lord, have you ever noticed the rednecks in a beer joint? I donât mean the regular delivery-truck drivers and construction workers who come in on their way home for a few brews with George Jones. I mean rednecksâdrinking, chewing, beer-bellied, coarse low-lifes who are arrogant in ignorance and donât give a damn about anything or anybody except themselves. Not your common fishes-and-loaves folks, but your longneck trash, hitting on the Marthas and Marysâwho will kill even their buddies for nothing if it comes to that.
Come to think about it, however, Rednecks are classless. Take Othello for example.
32. On a Soulguard
God, I donât have anyone to tell me how I do. Whether itâs in a small group or large assembly. Sometimes, a smirk tells me, or a hush at the right moment. But often itâs like calling out in an empty hallâno response but my own. And I donât have a clue of anything else.
Never mind the body, I need a soulguard. Whenever I say or do anything, I need an empathetic companion. Not a cheerleader, but someone whose opinion I respectâwho wonât be quick to judge, but whoâll be honest without being disparaging? An angel would be nice.
Even those who think theyâre led by your Spirit donât have a soulguard. What they have is certainly greatâconfidence. Confidence that they are right since âby faithâ itâs you speaking through them. And if they happen to be wrong, theyâve simply misinterpreted divine will. But the âSpirit Ledâ donât have the kind of complement Iâm talking aboutâa companion whose eyes and ears see and hear for them, shaping strengths and honing values.
Pride might substitute, but that can be tragic. Believing compliments is deceptive. Indifference is arrogance. Obliviousness is stupid.
Why donât you just give me something within to know.
33. On Human Beans
Lord, why do I have to work so hard for such little yield? Did Adam or I sin so? Must I labor by the sweat of my brow even in the dark?
I donât mean to complain, but my lot seems poorly, whereas some folks have such rich estates. I know I sound like the Israelites murmuring in the wilderness. But my state is different, at least to me. For one thing, they wanted it easy without paying the price. Iâve paid my dues. For anotherâunlike themâno oneâs granting me a promised land if I just continue to plow through.
Maybe I shouldnât be doing this work at all. Maybe I just havenât got the feel for it or the tools. Maybe I should go into the market place. Maybe Iâm even working against your will, and your sign to me is my scrimpy yield.
On the other hand, maybe this is my row to hoe. And I must take my stand on the only ground I have.
After all, as a child said, weâre just human âbeans.â We sprout, grow in the light, or get stomped on. Some are half-runners. Others reach realms of giants. But all just human beans.
34. On Tides
Lord, I guess those tides of yours that lead to success or shallows and miseries are diurnal. Some just recede farther. And missing the right tide can make all the difference, leaving us high and dry on the bar. But sometimes if weâre lucky, a later one will take us moaning off the edge and out into the deep.
35. On Help
Since youâre apparently not going to come down in some machine to save the day, whoâs supposed to help?
âThe Lord helps those who help themselves,â youâd probably say. Thank you very much.
When Saul couldnât help David fight Goliathâeven the kingâs armor wouldnât fitâDavid reached down for a rock. But what if weâre not as smooth as David? Maybe we reach way down deep, and the bagâs empty, or thereâs a toad in it weâre supposed to eat?
Right now my aimâs a little blurred, and it looks like the Philistines are upon me. Still again, it would be great to go out and slay single-handedly a Gath-damned giant.
36. On Knights of the Holy Grail
Lord, there are several things about the knights of the Holy Grail that I really envy. First, they were highly skilled and thoroughly fit. Some were better than others, but all of the very best. Another thing, they were bound together by great faith and high calling. Just imagine riding out with Perceval and the other Grail knights, seeking the ideal!
But perhaps even more important to me is that the Grail knights had the possibility of personal confirmation in the present. If they persevered, they could see the Grailâbesides receive its spiritual benefits. Those who did achieve the quest would know absolutely, âOur faith was true and we failed not.â
Itâs not the same, Lord, for you to hold out a heaven somewhere in the future. Thatâs little help. If I make it to a heaven, Iâll know everything for eternity anyway and wonât need any affirmation.
Itâs now I need the Grail.
37. On Being World Class
Lord, Iâd like to be world-class in something. Iâm not sure it would matter in what so much, although there are some preferences. (Not a world-class failure, if you please.) It wouldnât have to be the best of anything. It wouldnât have to be your gift to the world in whatever, but be world class in something.
Intellect would be nice, or artist or master craftsman. Solomon was world class in wisdom, Samson in strength, and David in sanguinity. For pity sake, Iâd take any one of the three. How about categories of mentor, lover, or friend? Youâve surely done more for less deserving, and (admittedly) less for more talented.
I would make us both proud. Iâd be no Achilles in his tentâsorryâno Elijah oblivious of his peers. And if you wanted to go big time, you could put me in the Archangel Michaelâs class. Not even the Arch-enemy could touch Michael. How about a world-class human Michael?
Anyone who says, âOh, you can be anything you want to be, a human Michael if you want to beâ is full of teufelsdrockh. Approach the status of a Michael, who is like unto God? who intuits the mind of God? leads the seraphim? and wields that terrible sword? No way.
The only chance I see is a world-class human. Though no Michael-man, still boggling.
38. On Dancing
The Wu Li Masters say that the main thing in life is the dance, the process. Even though one person may say their pursuit is reality in philosophy, another, truth in religionâboth are dancers, and whatâs important to each is the dance. Itâs not what people do thatâs mainly important to them, itâs the doing.
I donât think that youâd go along with all of that completely. I donât think I would either, although thereâs a lot of truth in what theyâre saying. I would agree that the process (the manner, the style) is important. But what I do (the matter, the content) is of prime importance to me. And itâs not that only one course is the best to take or that there is an absolute hierarchy. But I think some things matter and others donât very much.
Survival is of primal importance to many. Itâs about all they doâbread on the table, roof over head, and very little else. How they conduct themselves, how they dance that limited tune, is of course important to them tooâwith strength and fortitude. But itâs not the dancing thatâs primarily importantâitâs surviving. And beyond survival, there are lots of choices of matter that matter to me.
As a matter of fact, I think your light-under-a-bushel metaphor contrasts the Wu Li Masters. It was always made clear to me: âChoose some meaningful goal and make the world a better place.â
But when one has pressed toward that goal over a long haul, what then? Can one choose another meaningful one? If so, meaningful to whom? To the world, to others, to oneself? How meaningful? How much light must a person produce? All the candlepower they can? Or may they shed light that is less intense, more mellow, more an aesthetic glow?
What about, just learn more? Too often learning is for some limited purpose at the expense of general personal enlightenment. Shouldnât there be a time to catch up? Can one never enter the Palace of Art and learn for the sake of learning, not for the sake of anything or anybody else? Or is that dancing under a bushel?
39. On Enjoying a Sunny Day
Lord, I need your thoughts on something. You see, I have trouble enjoying this sunny day because I saw the forecast. Even if I hadnât, Iâd think itâs bound to change. Iâve seen dark days. I donât want to miss out on any bright, blue sky, but when one knows the weatherâs going to break, it seems already changing. And a person doesnât have to be a god to judge seasons longer than diurnal. Itâs almost fooling myself to say, âOh, what a pretty day,â if I know a storm is on its way.
Or is it just perspective? Should I say: âIâm going to soak up every ray I can, but keep my windbreaker handyâ? Will basking in the present balminess warm me in the impending wind and rain, and save this day as well?
40. On Dying
Lord, yesterday morning I felt ready to die if necessary. Not that I was elated. It was just that simply living seemed enough. I could have âgone on,â feeling pretty good about everything.
Donât know what I wouldâve gone on to. Probably nothing for a while. Used to be that used-up people would go on to dirt and grass and flowers, but now a person doesnât replenish the earth. They fill a body full of spirits that would turn stones brown and then seal it up in a vault. Iâve been thinking about being turned to ashes. But dust to dust might be best unless it were on a pyre in a way that meant somethingâwith locks of hair, salt, and wine.
I donât feel, however, the same today as I did yesterday; but Iâve got to go on anyway, some way. My god, how things change, sometimes in the twinkling of an eye.
41. On Needing a Little Help
Lord, it appears to me that the strong need help as well as the weak. The difference is that the strong donât often get it, yet survive anyway. Whereas the weak usually get a hand or they falter.
I like the idea of being the one giving, rather than receiving. Maybe just so Iâll feel superior or in control, but I donât think so. Yet, sometimes I need a little help too.
42. On a Disease
Lord, I saw Jeanie recently. Her body was swinging around like a childâs Appalachian limberjack to a wild, cacophonous tune unheard by me. ParkinsonâsââItâs a sorry disease,â she said. âIt doesnât give you a chance.â
I donât know whether to feel mainly resentful toward you or grateful for me. Neither she nor I deserve what we have. Deserve is really neither here nor there. But generally all of us humans feel like we should get what we deserve, that is, receive results in our favor and âescape whipping.â
A lot of those people who call themselves yours believe weâre all in a hothouse of some gardener with a mighty green thumb. I think rather weâre like seeds that fall sometimes along the wayside, sometimes on fertile ground. And the answers of why sometimes given donât for me âassert Eternal Providence.â Marcus Aurelius, on the other hand, makes a lot of sense: what happens is all in the nature of thingsâneither good nor bad, but simply that which is. Jesus posed about the same thing, donât you agree, in his rhetorical question about the eighteen men in Siloam crushed by a fallen tower? âThink ye that they were offenders above all the men that dwell in Jerusalem? I tell you, Nay.â Iâd go with him.
Still, a sorry diseaseâMarcus and Jesus notwithstanding.
43. On Christmas
Lord, itâs the holiday season. But though I hardly feel like joining the crowd standing, around in stores like dumb oxen, I muse:
On Christmas Eve, on Christmas Eve,
Looking oâer the reality
Of all the change that has come to be,
I turn to thoughts of a mother and her baby.
44. On a Touch
Sorry I havenât talked with you in a while. My word-hoard has been locked. As when I called someone to talk about what I couldnât somehow sayâinstead, rattling on about something else. Underlying the call was the consciousness of a loving touch that had almost gone out of memory. A consciousness fading in mists of fantasy mixed with reality, in memories of unrealized dreams and ghosts of former selves, of tented strength and Grecian faithlessness, concoctions in the brain of abler souls and beasts with two backs, of Roxanne and Christian with Lazarus at the feast of love.
A loving touchâand a mute, imprisoned prince aroused, reaching out in the dark.
45. On a Heaven
Lord, I wish there were indeed a heaven. There are so many people Iâd like to tell some things that just canât be said here, or at least there never seems to be the opportunity.
There was Jo Ann in the third grade. Sheâs the one who won me over from the blonde-haired girl who jumped on my back. I painted her initials, JAM, on the stern of my little battery-powered motorboat. I can only hope she knows that when we went to the afternoon movieâwhich my grandmother didnât approve of on Sundayâshe didnât have to place the dime admission in my hand on the way down the aisle. Come to think about it, since then Iâve always paid when Iâve gone down the aisle.
And that summer when I stayed with my country kin working in the wheat. What a harvest. The box supper seemed innocuous enough. And it would have been, if I hadnât elicited the help of one cousin in outbidding another for his girlâs prize basket. A few hours eating and another one in the cool of the following evening, when she brought some homemade ice cream over after Iâd worked all day, may have lost her a suitor and me might near a cousin. In a few days, however, I was back in the city. I donât have a clue if she knows what it meant for her to have leaked the description of her basket over the eight-party telephone line, or what those two days mean to me.
And there was Cathy, the older of the two sisters who lived over near the canal. She used to get cramps in her calves, and she would rub her legs with Sea Breeze while mine set up with rigor mortis. Lord, your ritual with the anointing oil canât hold a candle to that. I remember dancing with her in gym class once when it was hot, and she unmercifully kept wiping the perspiration from her upper lip. She didnât seem to be too much interested in me though. Later on I dated her sister, who was actually prettier but who had no muscle problems. I never had the courage to ask Cathy if I could take care of the messages. But if she and I make it to heaven, I hope you have some Sea Breeze.
There was that girl, younger than I, who went to the state meet, I think, just to see me perform. God, what provocative lips. I did get to kiss them a few times, but I didnât tell her that âa thing of beauty is a joy forever.â I moved away soon after that, and she disappeared I know not where.
And there was another girl way back in the sixth grade at the class pool party. The teacherâthe one who sent me to the office because her dress got caught accidentally on my crossed foot as she passed down the rowâkicked both the girl and me out of the pool for kissing under the water. So we just went down to the ocean. Neptune didnât seem to mind. I saw her years after when she was selling jewelry in a department store, and I wanted to tell her then that Iâd never forget that pool party. She was the sixth gradeâs Sophia Loren, the same complexion and potentialâreally out of my class. She certainly inspired my seeing a lot of Italian movies.
Speaking of movies. Romy Schneider was in the first art film I ever saw. I was in college. She was on the screen in a little theater in Nashville. I donât know if you look in on art films or not. You may like Cecil B. De Mille. Anyway, her husband, as I remember, had mistreated her in some way. And she was despondently disrobing in a luxurious bathroom. That was my first consciousness of the difference between eroticism and aesthetics. The luxury of Romyâs bath contributed, Iâm sure, to the consummate beauty of the scene. Yet Iâve had the same impression often in much different contexts, once looking through the rods of a brass bed at a work of art, not in a spacious bathroom, but in a cramped block shower stall. Would Romy, I wonder, even in heaven be interested in my response? Or would I have to be a movie star as well? I used to think painters were sex fiends, but once you become aware of a living Rubins, you understand their fascination. And poets also marvel: âTwo hundred years to adore each breast.â Absolute beauty, idea stamped on spaceâoverwhelming. The best thing, Iâm told, you ever created. Yummy as well.
It took me a long time to be conscious of a lot of things. For example, in Tennysonâs âOenone,â why would Paris run off and leave his lovely Oenone for Aphroditeâs promise of the most fair and loving wife in Greece? Then I was studying the poem in a class with Rita, a queen of beauty if ever there was one. And I knew. Though I never really knew Rita. But I didnât get to tell her that she was the best critique of a poem I ever saw. âAge cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite varietyââand for that Antony willingly traded Rome.
Yes, and Jackâs neighbor, whom I met when I stayed overnight in his house at end of term. I never had the chance to respond to what she said after the movie and smooching in the car parked under all that Spanish moss. Inside her back porch screen, the curfew met, the last time Iâd ever see her, the final words from her foam-born form: âThank you for not taking advantage of me tonight.â
Iâd also like to tell that first girl I ever touched how I really felt. It was that time I went home with Billy for Thanksgiving. You can believe that I was the most thankful pilgrim a New World had ever seen. What a marvelous gift. She was gentle, quiet, sweet smellingâoh so sweet smelling. I didnât want to go to sleep that night for fear Iâd forget that sweetness.
Who knows what if things had been in sync or Iâd had a chance to say some of those things? Who knows where the wind blows?
46. On Running to a Woman
Lord, I seem to run to a woman when I feel down and out, lonely, hurt, or tiredâwanting to be held, loved, understood. Just to rest or find relief.
Makes me wonder about my running now to you when I donât have anyone else to talk to. Since I donât seem to receive what Iâm searching for from you, maybe you really are our Father.
47. On Hugs
Itâs too bad I donât know if I believe in you, Lord. If I did, when I sought your help, Iâd feel at least youâd give it, whether you did or not.
Actually I could use a little today, and thatâs no joke. I could ask someone else for help, but a personâs got to watch what they ask for. One can get all screwed up and screw up others as well. Screwed up or nailed, itâs about the same thing.
You see, lots of people are going around needing helpâgood peopleâmaybe just the least little hug. A person begins to think they should give one or accept one, but that sometimes leads to hugger-mugger.
Some might ask why a person âfully growedâ would need a hug anyway? Especially if they had their own good hugger. âIsnât that like preying on innocent people? Howâd you like your hugger, even needing hugs, hugging another?â I canât easily answer that, but I do know that humans need about all the hugs they can get. And it seems to me to be more like innocent praying.
Why donât you, Lord, take on the responsibility of giving hugs?
48. On Gratitude
Yes, Lord! Thank you, Lord.
49. On Dark Clouds
Lord, it seems our weather comes from the west. When itâs stormy there, here at least itâs gray. Pressure zones in the flat lands and the mountains arenât exactly alike, but truth is, wind and rain are much the same both here and there. And Zephyrus moves those dark clouds across the plains to these green heights.
50. On a Voice
Lord, sometimes I get a little sad, not melancholy, not really down, not despairingâjust a little sad. There are a lot of reasons to feel that wayâno need to go into that. And there are a lot of reasons not to feel that way, but those donât count for much when one gets a little sad. What I need then is a voice, not to say, âPoor, sweet Babyâ or speak truths or say anything particularly. Just a voice, a special voice, one that sinks into crevices deep down to where the brain will know, know that everything is really okay.
5l. On the Need of a Temple
Lord, Iâve been thinking about the design you had for the Temple. First, an enclosure for a courtyard, allowing your people to mingle with each other apart from the world in the marketplace. Then within the courtyard, the Temple itself where higher things were to be observed. You separated it into two parts: the Sanctum, where the lower priests performed their rites, and the Sanctum Sanctorum, where the ark was kept.
Thatâs just the sort of structure I would like in my life. I need an enclosure to escape from the marketplace. I need to mingle with those who are concerned with refinement of the human spirit. I need to talk with those who can sympathetically respond to what I think and say, who can understand really what it is Iâm all about. Not necessarily the smartest people in the world or the best, but those of a certain slant of mind. I need to mingle with my kind of people. I admit itâs a pretty restricted group, but so was yours.
And Lord, I also need a Sanctum where holy vessels are lifted up with dignity and respect. A chamber to celebrate the sacraments of the temple, where I might seek a cleansing of spirit on the altar of flesh.
Then of course a Holy of Holies, a place where spirits fuse and godly unity is attained. Where the spiritual partakes of and has insights into the divine. Where only those of the high priesthood enter, and the covenant is reaffirmed. I seek that epiphany, Lord.
But if I were of the Order of Melchizedek and worshiped in the Holy of Holies, would I even need the Sanctum? Or might I still justifiably descend there to assuage conflicts and frustrations issuing from the limited self?
Should I make my Temple, enclosed by its courtyard, solely a Sanctum Sanctorum? Or does that depend on how much of the common priest I am?
52. On Human Contact
Itâs human contact that I want, Lord, human contact. Some mutual recognition with another person that weâre both trying to make it through. Dispense with the competition and acquisition and all that other stuff, and just establish contact. That weâre not aliens on a strange planet, but just strangers alienated. Donât people know that their tickets, whether first class or tourist, are restricted? Theyâre flying high and low or taxiing on the ground for a very short time? Then all their baggage is unloaded and their tickets are voided?
Just saw a girlsâ softball team in a yogurt shop. They were laughing and jostling: âThanks, coach, for the yogurt.â Their coach looked at me and grinned. She asked me how I would like to corral her bunch of girls for a season, which she was only just three hours into. How would I like to put up with, for example, that one in front of me? At which point the girl, a third my age, said, âYouâd like meâI have a good sense of humor. But you might be too old for me.â âOh,â I replied, âI was thinking the same thing about you!â It was fun, and we went on our way smiling to ourselves.
Sometimes, however, the need for human contact is a problem for me. Especially when itâs a female whoâs not just a person, but a real human being. I guess the ultimate human contact is consummation. And thatâs really nice, but it can get awfully complicated. Psyches are too fragile, too needy to be fulfilled by occasional physical infusions. We all want to be the one, not one of the ones. And once two people are one, theyâre off and running.
Itâs great to have a special person for whom special things are saved. To go away, come back, and there they are with a smile. Thatâs really something.
But what about those times when I just want a decent conversation, empathyâhuman contactâand not really anything else? And the other person has more interests, more needs, more desire than that, or thinks I do? Then what do I do?
53. On Breaking the Hedge
Lord, there shouldnât be any problem with letting good people know theyâre appreciated. That seems to be something that should be done, right? But when itâs a person of the opposite sex, then the hedge can be broken and the serpent bite. Intimacy with his little pin bores in, and farewell castle walls.
No harm done by one human spirit touching another, creating a new realm. But that nouveau state offers little jurisdiction. And the iron gates once torn reveal what it is that the court inside really wants, what everybody needsârealization of the soul. âThe stingâs in that.â Makes me wonder if I should just hold my peace.
Still, good people need to be told that they are. And I needs must tell them. Havenât you said that oneâs wickedness is great who withholds bread from the hungry? Iâm sorry to say, but youâre not too good about reassuring the unspotted, though great in illuminating the stains on their whitened robes.
Your mirror is certainly not soft-lit. On occasion you might provide a reflection of a personâs worth, but the image is quickly dashed since one isnât confident of the comeliness they see. They think instead itâs something that probably should be repressed, knowing pride goeth before a fall. God forbid that they should think well of themselves!
The good are quick to see the best in others and pride in those who act like theyâre god. But those who would be godly donât believe that they themselves might be, lest they wonât be.
I think the good should be told. How can I hold my tongue when for many âthe nerves prick, and the heart is sick, and all the wheels of being slowâ? Aye, thereâs the rub, âwhen the nerves prick and tingle.â
54. On a Dilemma
Lord, excuse me for belaboring the subject, but I canât get this particular dilemma out of mindâand thereâs no one else I know to go to. There are lots of folks who would eagerly listen, but not for the right reasons.
As Iâve said to you before, thereâs no problem when someone of the same gender comes up to me needing a kind word. I think it pretty mean spirited not to give it to them. Of course, I know from the beginning that they need more than words. They need someone to appreciate them, to lift their spirits. And I think I can do that and be helping myself as well. Grow, feel deeper, learn more what things are about, without hurting anyone or taking from anybodyâdoing something good for a change.
But god, seems like it doesnât ever work out right when that person is of the opposite gender. I give more, receive more, and thatâs really nice even if the time is shortâexcept often thereâs at least one other person who doesnât want all that to be going on. And I understand the point of view, because I wouldnât want any serious thing going on with a special person of mine either. I accept that I have somewhat of a double standard hereâphysically, but not in theory, not spiritually.
So, do I give the kind word or not? I guess gods donât have that kind of dilemma, but whatâs a human supposed to do?
55. On Serving Only God
You say, âThou shalt love the Lord, thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.â Well, what about the Egyptian gods? They were pretty cool in a lot of ways. I donât know if they could renew life annually or not, but they were responsible for a lot of great sculpture and architecture. The sphinx alone is something else.
Thatâs not even to mention the Olympian crowd. Would you have me overlook Venus Aphrodite? Thereâs one you could write home or virtually anywhere about.
Then thereâs that Germanic bunch: Odin, Thor, and Freya, just in terms of wisdom, strength, and love.
Why âand him only shalt thou serveâ? Do you mean by âonlyâ that you want to possess us, or do you command us thus for our own good? Does the commandment state an immutability, the best way? Or is it given because of our limitations? Or was it simply to give order to some murmuring sheep in Sinai?
Why not delete the second clause about serving and keep just that first part about loving. If you are love, isnât everything thatâs good and loved well, you yourself? Maybe I should ask if I could love even one god. Regardless, however, I am to love you. And, my god, what does âthy Godâ meanâyou are mine? Moreover, I am to serve you. Is service the realization of loving? Meanwhile, you love the whole world, and they serve you. Gods have it really nice.
56. On Two Masters
Lord, I think I do know why you demand that those who love you, love only you. Itâs not really that you are a jealous god enraged by infidelity. Itâs that plurality is too much strain.
Itâs a lot easier on you and everybody if a person loves only one. You donât have to cope with other feelings that have meaning and purpose, other duties and responsibilities. You donât have to deal with moral dilemmas. Itâs easier to have simply even a mediocre love solely than a devoted one divided.
I am aware of your conundrum, âNo man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other.â A provocative metaphor that might work as a hyperbole for God and mammon, but not for all that I know, spirit made flesh.
What if for opening I moved, âEither he will hate the father and love the mother; or he will hold to the sister, and despise the brotherâ? You would counter, âThatâs different; thereâs no conflict because theyâre different kinds of love.â Then you would have moved into checkâof course, thatâs the point: all loves are different, each a different mixture of agape, eros, charity, fidelity, etc.
To prolong the play, you might add, âYes, but those loves are not physically consummated.â Checked againâabsurdity, that all that matters is matter. You above all shouldnât let the question ride on flesh. Surely, you wouldnât deny the very realization of the soul because of deference to anything about the body. How could a function of the body damn the ideal quest of the soul? Everybody thatâs anybodyâs aware that spirit, not matter, heads the hierarchy. In your words, âGod is a spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.â
We could continue to a stalemate, yet for Christâs sake, how can you, for the ease of it, answer those that hunger and thirst, âIf you refuse to eat only my manna, then starve!â? Or âSince you eat pigs, no fatted calf for youâ?
A son of God can feed multitudes. Surely a son of man, provide for more than one. Even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones, as is written, goes not without its reward. But you who move upon the face of the deep know only too well that the waters get muddy and that if you donât want to swim, youâd better not get wet.
57. On a Person in Need
Lord, there is this person who needs me. She doesnât have me at night or at suppertime or Sunday afternoon. Just a call when I can take it or a tea now and then. She needs more than that. And it seems like I should be able to give more, ease her mind in some way. I try, yet it isnât enough. Thatâs why Iâm sad today. But my sadness doesnât match her loneliness.
58. On Feelings
Lord, things are no good unless they involve the feelings. But when the feelings are involved, things get so complicated that I donât know if theyâre good or bad. If you have given me emotions as well as reason, whoâs to blame here, Lord, you or me?
59. On Plurality
Lord, sometimes situations are simultaneously good on the one hand and bad on the other. Like all the people who fall in love with each other, but whose love canât be reciprocated meaningfully without causing pain to others, who may also be lovedâa good/bad situation. It doesnât seem right to say that such a case is bad and that any good, therefore, is negatedâor vice versa. I guess your point of view again would be that a person has to make a choice of primary good because no one âcan serve two masters.â I still think thereâs something skewed in that argument.
60. On Compartmentalizing
Lord, somethingâs wrong with the scheme of things in my personal relationships. It seems right, logical, and modeled on the ideal. But maybe thatâs whatâs wrong. Itâs ideal, and Iâm not.
I realize that I have compartmentalized. But Iâve always thought that if I gave everything I could in each slot, things would work. And when my procedure involves others who also compartmentalize, things do function moderately well. However, people who are placed in compartments normally feel confined, âcabinâd, cribbâdâânot good enough for the whole pie, just a slice. A love segmented can feel like an illegitimate childâa lovely being, but liable to feeling sinister reproach.
One has only so much emotional and physical energyâso much time. At first the drain from each enclosure is slight, more power coming in than going out. But as the draw increases, the allocation becomes increasingly difficult. Overloads, shortages, and burnouts. Frustration everywhere.
Much more is needed than can be generated. The alarm is sounded: âThereâs a deluge in B; no light in Aâdonât know what in the hell is going on in C. More powerâincrease the power. Theyâre drowning, hungering and thirsting, suffering. More, more.â
I try, but still, âItâs not enough.â
What to do? Itâs clear enough to B, âHelp me or I sink.â But thatâs to the detriment of A and C.
When I was a kid vacationing at the beach, I was deliberately dropped from the arms of my uncle as a big wave crested so he could pick up my sister. I didnât drown, of course, but it was scary being under water before I could catch my breath. No one wants to be sacrificed. And sacrificing someone else, as you know, is sometimes much harder than sacrificing oneself. But it seems that in failing to choose, I fail everybody, allowing all âin Tiber melt.â
61. On Duality
Lord, a person can love two people, but an individual canât very well live two lives. Even a âtwin,â as I amâfor although Iâm just another John Doe, my name is Thomas. A good one for me, considering its implications of doubting, poking into, and duality.
62. On Commitment
Lord, I donât know what all I do believe in. But I know that I am a part of more than I comprehend. Maybe that more is you.
Also, Iâm not sure how I really fit in with everything that is. But here I am with a brain and some feelingsâboth limitedâand with the sense that Iâm to make the best of it. Yet to make it at all, I think I have to find something or someone I can commit to. Without that Iâm just wandering between worlds with no fixed star. Maybe commitment is belief. Maybe I shouldnât even worry about what I believe in, rather just determine what I can commit to. Be dedicated to it as long as I can, then turn to something else. And let it go at that.
What I do commit to will help determine what I am and give me meaning. I donât know whether there is a fixed order of meaningful choices, but I think I have the ability to choose. To choose things that are good or at least less bad than othersâthings better than the limited self. Giving to the needy, for example, is better than hoarding, though something even that simple isnât an absolute and involves all kinds of dilemmas. But as far as Iâm concerned, the idea of giving to the needy is still a truth, a reality, a good. And committing to what seems good is the best I can do, whether it has ultimate meaning or not.
Itâs easy, I think, for some to be committed to a Miltonic vision of sorts, everything justified and providential. Fair enough. But they would have me accept it too. Sorry. However, I do like Doreâs illustrations of Satan.
No one else can dictate what or whom I must be committed to. Even when I know, I must feel it feel it as well. And although I canât really delineate knowing and feelingâboth might be chemicalâit doesnât matter to me. I sense a difference.
I do know that commitments like other plans oft go awry, especially when two humans are involved. Things can get screwed upâpromises broken, as well as hearts. But even muddled, fidelity exists as long as commitment survives. Giving up on commitment, Â one generally denies the faith.
True minds unified never give up. They bear it out âto the edge of doom.â But all true minds arenât truly unified, nor all unified minds true. Thus, time may tell the dauntless to tear through the gates of dark towers, though tyrants sling their outrageous arrows: âInfidelity, recreant.â
63. On Independence
Lord, I donât want to sound like the Israelites murmuring in the wilderness. But from your perspective I probably do. Actually, I donât feel too good myself about complaining. I certainly donât want to be an infant crying in the night, especially over spilt milk. (No wonder the Hebrews were called the children of Israel.)
Come to think about it, youâre not doing anything about my bootless cries may be exactly what I need. Perhaps youâre avoiding the mistake my father made in not letting me do much myself while working with him. Oh, I got to do a lot of holding tools and following directions. But not much just on my own. You know, make something, even a mistake, without any backup.
My father, whoâs now in âheaven,â was a manâtake him for whatever else he was. Did most everything he set out to do by himself. Heâd have made a great frontiersman, like a lot of other farm boysâmy neighbor, for example, from down in the country on the river. He hardly ever comes to me for anything, though Iâm always running to him. And when I goof up, he says, âJust take out your little black book and write that down as education.â Seems like agrarian folk lost a lot when they formed towns and became dependent on help.
I appreciate that even Ulysses was a part of all he met, but like all heroes he was mostly on his own. As was Jesus on the cross, not forsaken, but alone.
Guess thatâs what itâs all about. Like the song says, âYou got to walk that lonesome valley; you got to walk it by yourself.â And not murmuring, even walking through a wilderness. And not with the language of an infant crying. But with the spirited voice of an epic hero: âThe time is not to sit upon the ground and mourn all the might-of-beenâs and the if-onlyâs, all the slings and arrows of fortune, the soiled plumes, and the milk of human kindness spiltâwhat was not, nothing is. âNowâs the day, and nowâs the hourâ to lay on till damned despair itself cries out, âHold, enough.ââ
64. On Being Out of the Ashes
Lord, I havenât needed to talk with you lately. For a time I seemed smothered in a bed of ashes, flame licked, but no breath nourishing the coals. But now I have a commitmentâworthy of beliefâand I feel ignited, alive, burning.
So feel free to call me. And if need be, Iâll call on you.
Part Two
1. On Needing to Talk Again
Well, God, here I am again. I tried talking with a couple of others, but itâs not working. You probably knew Iâd be back. I really donât know what to say. I just donât feel right. I donât expect things to be perfect, far from it. But I do want to feel okay so that I can deal with everything. The outside stuff, however, is undermining the inner. What Iâd hope would complement my strength and my will is opening up my veins. I know Iâve got to do something on my own to purge these sickly feelings and to stop the bleeding. Frankly, though, Iâm not sure what to do.
2. On Thinking the Bases Are Covered
How can you think you know someone so well youâd bet your life on it and doâthen discover when youâre down to the nitty-gritty, you donât have a clue? Oh, in many ways you do, yet thereâs something down deep thatâs eluded you. Not a tragic flaw, but a fly in the ointment that spoils it all. The rest doesnât seem to matterâitâs rancid.
You know what the person likes and dislikes: the food theyâll eat or not, the friends theyâll make or wonât tolerate, the music that stirs their heart or sets their teeth on edge. And you even think you complement all that. Not expecting things to be perfect or satisfying every need. But feeling all the bases are coveredâand certainly home plate.
Then in the final innings you stand in the box with a good stance to hit away, but youâre given nothing in the zone and strike out every time. In the ninth, you throw your bestâyour slider works, your curve breaks, and your fastballâs down the pike. But nothing looks good at the plate, and all are let by. Perhaps you could accept the batterâs calling every pitch, or just lob them in and go as many outs as wished. But thatâs not a game to play.
3. On a Person in a Hollow Tree
You know, Lord, Iâve been thinking about Merlin. He could see a bunch of stuff, and, of course, his vision caused him a bunch of problems. But his problems really started when he got involved with Vivian. He talked with her a lot and got to feeling that she was of his mind, as well as magical and pretty sexy too. I think he also felt he needed to do something for somebody special, rather than just for the kingdom in general. When she finally wrapped herself around him, he did everything in his power for her, even sharing all his secrets. Yet, no matter what he did, it was never enoughâlike the song says, he gave her his heart, but she wanted his soul. After she got everything but that, she enclosed Merlin within a hollow tree, shutting him completely out of the world she lived in.
Merlin reminds me of a Norman Rockwell drawing of a fisherman carrying a big lobster trap across his back. The fisherman had caught a mermaid. Or so he thought! What he didnât realize was that he was the one who was caught.
Odysseus could have told the fisherman that mermaids and their songs are beautifully seductive, but that they are also controllingly destructive. The wily Odysseus knew to tie himself to the mast of his boat lest he be drawn to the sirens and dashed against the rocks. He might well have warned Rockwellâs fisherman to get that mermaid off his back by releasing her to the sea. She wouldnât be satisfied in the fishermanâs world, although it would never be the sameâand she wouldnât or couldnât take any man into hers.
Lord, what do you think about Merlin? What happened to the magic? How does one get out of a hollow tree and back to use?
4. On Drifting
The record says that after creating the heavens and earth for six days, you rested on the seventh and declared all of it good. But what did you do on the eighth? Did you just drift a little, not really create or rest, just kind of float? I feel a little like that now.
When I finally get down to something, say splitting wood, I can go like the devil. But after bolting out enough to burn a while, Iâll quit, soak the handle head, or spend time mulling over what the next chore should beâall of which are worth the doing. But I feel like Iâm tooling around when I should be getting back into the swing of things.
Right now, for example, I think itâs good for me to try working through this thought with you, but a cup of tea would be nice before getting on with it. So, I think Iâll float a teabag, if youâll please excuse meâthen again, maybe you wonât.
5. On Beginnings
For me the New Year is a good time to refocus on where I think I should be headed. Even though most of my New Yearâs resolutions are simply repetitions of past ones, it still seems good to have the sense of a fresh start. I know you have had some new beginnings yourselfâsome pretty spectacular ones. That flood thing, for example, was a doozy. Iâm glad you didnât have to repeat that one.
A friend of mine had a good idea about making new starts. She had a summer solstice party with a few close friends. And all of us brought several items that represented things we wanted to rid ourselves of. Then we all sat in front of the fireplace and took turns burning up our items. If we didnât have an appropriate representation, we could write the topic down on a slip of paper. Some of us gave hints about what we were throwing in the fireplace, while others burned away silently.
I think it would have been better if everyone had felt at ease to say outright what was being thrown into the fire. One of your own writers says that thereâs healing in confessing oneâs faultsâthatâs true. Of course these werenât necessarily âfaultsâ that we were burning. In some cases, they were just things we wanted to let go ofâyou know, putting our hands to the plow and not looking back.
At least for me there are times when I need to take stock of where and what I am, Â and accept the purification of whatever fire Iâve gone throughâand not turn to a pillar of salt either by looking back.
6. On Relationships
You know, Iâm thinking about a particular couple that I know pretty well, and I canât picture what attracted them to each other or why they stay together. I wonder what a gal like her sees in him, and what a guy like him sees in her? Does the relationship in fact work? It doesnât seem to. Iâm in no position to sit in on judgment, but I canât see it. Sure, each one of them has admirable qualities, but they donât seem to mix. And I guess whether or not the couple will make it very long is yet to be seen.
I shouldnât care very much one way or the other, but I do a fair bit. I even wonder why Iâm concerned at all. Maybe Iâm actually questioning myself, âThere must be something wrong with meâif that guy can stick it out, then I should be willing to in a similar situation.â No, I think I could, but wouldnât because doing so would just be a lie. Maybe my concern about the couple is purely academic, an observation that the relationship is merely one of many that shouldnât be, and probably wonât for very long.
On the other hand, the couple may be one of numerous relationships that hang on incomprehensibly forever because one or both parties involved receive something vital, or termination is simply too complicated.
Yet, I must say about a few such relationshipsâif I could exchange places with the guys, I would create something really good, appreciate the untouched, and thrive on bread cast upon the waters.
But then, what do I know?
7. On Lancelot and Guinevere
Lord, Iâve been thinking about asking you for a favor. Could you see your way clear to grant me a liaison, an affair? This may come as a shock to you, but Iâm serious. My life seems stagnant, routine, zestless. I need a boost to pump a little vitality into it, some new blood.
I could handle this adventure on my own, but I know what the outcome would be. In a short while itâd be like Lancelot and Guinevere: âTwice as much grief, twice the strain for us, as we had known beforeââand Lancelot riding off to war within and without, Guinevere going to a convent.
Thatâs the way it goes. At first: excitement, exhilarationâlife! All you can see is Aphrodite, the foam-born, standing in a shell ready to be swallowed like a raw oyster. But all too soon, you come to where two roads cross. One, the other personâs not too neat, or you bore her. The other, sheâs really neat and she really needs you. If youâre one-and-twenty, you bugger off or run away and get married. But if youâre farther on down the road, you hear a voice: âShe has commitments, and you both have lots of baggage.â Still you see Aphrodite, her smile beguiling even amidst a turbulent surf thatâs ready to engulf you.
But, Lord, if you bequeathed a tryst, you could compose the plotâLancelot inspired to greater glory, Guinevere to enhanced realization.
How about it? A boon, my lord.
8. On Being a Contender
Lord, Iâve been wondering a lot lately, Could I have been a contenderâcould I âhave been somebodyâ? Thatâs not to say Iâve always taken the count or become a bum. And Iâve had a shot or two at a title. But there are âtitlesâ and there are âtitles.â I know youâre credited with âItâs not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.â Yet that decision rings clearer at the bell if youâll be wearing the belt.
Itâs written, youâre pretty tough on those who take a dive, burying their talent. But what about us who use whatever we have and only win a few? Have we misjudged and trained for the wrong gameâand that made all the difference? I thought Iâd gone through all the right ropes. Was I fooling myself, avoiding or being oblivious to the big bouts, and boxed myself in?
How am I supposed to know? Is your answer, âWhen you donât winâ? Or, âNo, youâve talent for the game and youâre a pretty good slugger who can take a punchâIâll give you thatâbut you were never meant to be a contenderâ?
One time when I was a kid, we strung a rope for a ring, and my cousin helped me train by holding up a pillow, then refereed a match with me and another kid in the neighborhood. It wasnât much of a contest and didnât last very longâthe best that can be said is I was brought on too fast.
But what about now? Iâve trained hard, I donât have a glass jaw, and I believe I can go the distance. Also, Iâm willing to enter arenas that once seemed secondary. And, Lord, if indeed you are our father, you should or could look out for me. I see others
whoâve had less promise, yet wear a crownâand admittedly some, whoâve had more, that remain unknowns. Should I forget all that and simply âfight the good fightâ?
Even then, thereâs still the question, Could I have beenâor beâa contender? A yes would have a nice ring to it.
9. On Batman and Bruce Wayne
Lord, thereâs this former NFLer who works out in the gym where I occasionally go. When weâre both there, I sometimes catch our reflections in the wall mirror. And I can hardly reconcile the images. He looks like an economy-size Batman; whereas, beside him, I look like a pint-size Robin. If we were on Star Trek, youâd say that both of us were humanoids, but that he was from the planet Krypton or something.
In the catalogue of dogs, there are big ones, little ones, skinny onesâand I donât think too much about the differences. But I just canât master all the shapes and sizes of people. The ubiquitous fast-food sows, the utterly incredible Holstein cows, the slinky minks, and the rest of the menagerie.
I canât quite get a handle on what could be called âphysical profiling.â Some people look intelligent, whereas others just donât. Yet some of those who appear dumb as rocks glisten when held up to light. Others seem coarse by voice and skin alone. Then there are those who have the unmistakable look of privilegeâitâs more than cheekbone, hair, or Landâs End. Itâs the sum of all that and more, something I donât have and never will. Maybe itâs the way they feel about themselves because of whatâs been given themânot consciously, but innately acquired. Like Bruce Wayne.
Sometimes Iâm quite content with the way I am. But sometimes I wish I looked like Batman or Bruce.
10. On Admiration
Donât know if you are interested in old movies or not, but I am. One I recently watched is about a dozen felons in the army selected for a mission into Germany. The mission is all hush-hush, and in the training process, one of the guys is beaten up rather than spill the beans. Later, the same guy is responsible for the missionâs not being scuttled. I really admire that character in the film. And the actor who portrayed him is so convincing that I tend to admire him as well. Then I saw the same actor in a similar part, a street boxer who staked his winnings and himself, when he wasnât obliged to, on a match to save a foolish comradeâs neck. As in the other movie the boxer had what it took to get the job done, and he did it. Wow, thatâs neat. I love it.
Traditional epics, I think, are basically the same as these old movies. They are exciting stories about guys who are strong, guys with character, guys who are the kind youâd like to beâguys you admire.
But of course there are admirable people all around. For me, teachers head the list. There are a number of teachers over the years I really admire. Teachers who really knew their subjects and were committed to expanding the appreciations of their students. Teachers who wore the mantle of their discipline with pride, and who didnât care how smart you wereâonly if you were a disciple of truth and beauty, and if you aspired to touch at least the hem of the garment.
Another group I admire is cafĂ© waitresses who know their stuff. You know, the ones who know how to help you enjoy your meal, whether itâs soup beans or steak. They get up every dayââto-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrowââand give a hard dayâs honest work. Their grammar might not be too good, and they might squander too much of their tips on a jukebox or lottery ticket. But while youâre in their cafĂ©, youâre treated as a human being and served well.
Iâm sorry to say I donât generally admire politicians, although undoubtedly there must be some good ones. I do, however, appreciate some of them for being real professionals, people who are highly skilled and committed. Politicians are good at juggling power and popularity, even though they consistently drop principleâtheyâre politically sagacious and committed to being elected. A few are as slick as Faulknerâs Flem Snopes, and sometimes when you see them in action, you canât help but stand back in wonderââAinât he a sight, now?â
But what I appreciate is one thing, and what I admire, another. I suppose what it all comes down to is that I admire really good people who are really good at what they do. Theyâre basically Platonists. They perceive the ideal and seek to give it substance. They see little difference between who they are and what they do. And they range from those with years and years of training, and salaries out the wazoo, to those traditionally trained with years of experience, and earnings on the margin. But they all say the same thing, âIf Iâm going to do it, Iâm going to do it right.â
âReally good people who are really good at what they doâ . . . that gets us back to heroesâmovie, epic, and otherwise. Would like to be one.
11. On a Son
I met a friend of mine whose son was a friend of my son. I hadnât seen him in some time, so naturally we asked each other about our boys. His son had followed his own profession and was now practicing medicine. I had plenty to brag about on mine, but tried not to be chauvinistic. In reality, each of us was a jockâs dad on the sidelines yelling, âThatâs my boy!â
Weird, isnât it? As though whatever was favorable about our sons proved something positive about us, that is, the horses confirming the studs. Of course the foals could have been plugsâat least hisâthen our conversation would have turned on the weather. But fortunately, our young stallions were winners, and we proudly led them around the ring.
The encounter smacks somewhat of one I recently had at an art exhibit. A man who has never been associated with any art, other than seduction, arrived with what appeared to be an escort (paid for in one way or another), a real model type, if you know what I mean. I donât think his date made him cool except to himself, although the two seemed pretty cool to each other. With some guys like him, if itâs not glamorous women, itâs cars or boats or houses. With my friend and me, it was our sonsâ accomplishments.
I suppose we think that all those material things will impress others because weâre impressed by them, knowing even at the time that they have little or nothing to do with personal quality. But the worldview, the con of others, out-cons us.
Come to think about it, Lord, what about you and all that Old Testament bunch? Werenât you a little chauvinistic about the âchildren of God,â like Joshua and David? What about Jesus? . . . and what about us?âperhaps youâd rather talk about the weather.
12. On Pride
Lord, my take on what really bothers you is ârejectionââyour people turning to other gods. That smarts. Like the time on Mount Sinai when they made the golden calf, you were ready to nuke âem. On the other hand, you gave King David all kinds of slack because he hung in there with you. Not so for his son Solomon because he built all those strange temples for his wives. Maybe your demand of singular service was necessary to control a people in a land full of seductive gods.
Now, with the Greek gods it was different. What really raised their hackles was not rejection, but hubris. Zeus and his bunch didnât cut any slack for anybody, man or woman, whose excessive pride stood up in their face. A king or whomever, the Olympians would cut them off at the knees or poke their eyes out.
I think Iâd go with the Greeks on this one. I react more to arrogance than to rejection, although Iâm pretty used to both.
I wonder why arrogant people trouble me so. Maybe because they make me feel inferior. But, if theyâre really as good as they think they are, know as much as they say they do, and are as clearly superior as they poseâthey shouldnât have to flaunt it. They should see the complexity, the uncertainty, the multiplicity of things. They should appreciate the essential worth of others and the ultimate inadequacy of themselves.
I know the arrogance of others threatens to outcast me, but certainly it should be different with the pantheon of gods. Their state should be unshakable. Maybe itâs more elemental with themâmaybe itâs just bad form, the denial of order, rude behavior, and they wonât tolerate it.
13. On Servitude to Work
One of your writers has that wonderful statement about there being a time for planting and a time for reaping, a time for this and a time for that. Well, there seems to be a time when you have to give up almost everything in order to achieve a particular goal. Sacrifice everything working toward that end if youâre going to make itârecreation, family, friends, everything. And if youâre not willing to make the sacrifice, then forget about the goal. Of course youâve got to decide if the goal is worth all that work. But if it is, then everything else has got to go. Work and work alone lives within the volume of your brain.
Of course, once the goal is achieved, the mindâs at liberty to compensate all those other things. âAy, thereâs the rubââthe mindâs not at liberty. Rather, Workââscourge and ministerâârefuses to release the promise of servitude. All other service has only relative merit and is acknowledged minimally at best. Strict accounts must be made, schedules kept. Time must be scrupulously accounted for, scrutinized, and evaluated. One item, and only one, set down as credit in the tablesâwork. âO cursed spite.â
I accept that there is a time for this mind-set. But âHow long, Oh Lord, how long?â During one period in my life I had to charge groceries because there wasnât enough check each month to go around. Now I buy whatever groceries I want. Once there wasnât enough time to go around for a number of important things. Now there is, if I could get my niggardly mind to spend it. But work has become a habit that oâer-leavens my staff of life and seeks to burn all other virtues.
How then can I compensate for those things sacrificed? Recreation has atrophied for lack of developed hobbies. Golf, tennis, and all the rest being long since neglected. As a fisherman, for example, Iâm like a fellow I overheard at a rest stop who bragged about always catching something when he went fishing, and whose buddy said, âYeah, a damn cold.â
Family have grow up and apart, changed, and left for different reasons.
Friendsânow thereâs perhaps the best bet for compensation. Perhaps with friends I might break Workâs chains, regain my freedom, discharge the ghost that haunts me. Yes, troops of friends (realistically, single files) shoulder-companions, soul mates, pals, loving companions, good neighbors, and the salt of the earthâall who exchange with me the name of  friend and are worn âin my heart of heart.â With them I could toast the chimes at midnight or sit upon the ground and tell tales. Commune with and serve one another before ânight comes and no man can work,â when all âthe rest is silence.â
14. On a Reunion
Lord, I just went to a high school reunion. In some ways itâs funny to refer to the event as a reunion, as though the class was ever united. Moreover, some of those I had once felt close to greeted me casually as merely an acquaintance. What does that mean? That I never mattered to them in any special way? That I chose the wrong âfriendsâ by making selections on foam that has since blown away?
I hate to confess it, but at the end of the day I felt there werenât many Iâd want to spend much time with now. I wonder if they viewed me the same? Yet, what I wanted to feel over that space of several hours was a sense of unity by recapturing lots of mutually warm and personal moments. On the other hand, maybe I was not being completely honest about the depth of my own feelings. Maybe I had created a fanciful notion and was in reality deceiving myself as well as others. Perhaps none of us had ever been more than travelers of sorts who stopped briefly in a certain place before continuing on down the road. Simply pilgrims who paired off and consorted in groups to wile the time away.
However, it does say something that a goodly number showed up for the reunion. High and low churchmen, doctors, lawyers, and merchants. The well- and pretty-well-to-do were there, but not the socially down-and-outs. I wonder if theyâthe ones who hadnât âmadeâ itâstayed away to conceal the marks Fortune had placed on their foreheads. Maybe they knew all along who their friends were.
Lord, am I looking at things askew? What do you think? That a few of us were in fact true friends, and all have shared in different ways a meaningful part of our lives? Iâd have to agree. But what would have been really good is a reunion in deedâthe kind there wasnât time for. Time to look at our scars beneath the makeup and starched shirts. Time to tell of our deepest dreams disturbed, of our steps on the ladder slipped, and of all our losses cut by force. Time to sit upon the floor and tell stories of our dead and dying. And clear the impending fog from our throats.
15. On Cremation
Lord, the Greeks had a pretty good concept in the funeral pyre. Stack up some wood, then chuck on a little salt and wine, maybe a lock of hair or two, and, of course, the guest of honorâand youâve got a nifty bone fire.
You can no longer get laid to rest for a dollar or two. Youâre often screwed before youâre chewed. Time you pay the fee for a bed of clay, youâve put out a pretty penny just to push up daisies. (Actually, âyour whoreson dead bodyâ wouldnât fertilize anything in a vault, and if it could, its embalming fluid would be deflowering.)
Yep, the way to go is cremation. Thereâs no question about it. Thatâs why I taking out a contract. Once youâre signed up, youâre basically locked inâyouâre paid for. Of course the Middle East situation might drive up the price of crude oil. But, baring that, youâre home free.
16. On a Suicide
You know, Lord, the reunion I told you about? Well, on that Saturday night an old friend and I had our picture taken together. On Sunday, I left for home. On Monday he left for some untraveled bourn, I know not whereâhe killed himself.
Shock is the word everybody uses about it. Thatâs a good word in the attempt to diminish death. Of course, no word is good enough when âa part of the mainâ slips off into the sea.
Something that really bothers me is that we didnât know anything. I stood right there and didnât have a clue. He appeared to have been one of those who made itâmoney, success, the whole bit. For all I knew he could have been leaving the next day to start a new life with some beautiful woman, or to become the CEO of some mega firm, or to sell off everything and sail around the Caribbean. No doubt many of us were thinking, âWish I had done as wellââand didnât have a clue.
He joins another alum who took the same journey years back soon after he began college. He was one of the rich kids too. As a high schooler, he was driving around in his parentsâ four-door caddy. Like his successor, he was smart, a class officer, and one in truth most likely to succeedâa really good guy and friend. Didnât matter to him that my folks had radio instead of TV.
Why would either one launch himself out to where âno traveller returnsâ? Was it âthe thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir toâ? Or only one or two? Just the right one would do it. I wonder, Was it cowardice to be or cowardice not to be? And is your cannon leveled ââgainst self-slaughterâ? Puzzling questions.
O answer me, Lord, Father, royal king âor at least defend me from these shocks.
17. On a Siblingâs Death
So you sent down an angel to take my sister, did you? A little early, donât you think? Besides her own agenda, I personally wasnât finished. We had just begun to really talk. Like about our father. About how she felt as the firstborn being the first to feel the wrath as well as the rodâwhile I cowered until the storm passed. No spoiling of her, I can guarantee you. There were so many different things for us to sort out.
The other sibling is six rungs down, under a new dispensation. You know all about thatâchanging with time. The baby girl of the family would never know what it had been like in the hands of an angry god-like man.
I always felt that, as the only son, I should have been the one to bear the heat and receive the blessing as well. But I wasnât, and I donât even know if I would have been suited for it or if I could have cut the muster as well as she. (I was never like my uncle, a burly, hairy man.) Being the one in the middle, I wasnât to be the hunter or the herdsman. I was to stay in the tents and tend the fields, lend a hand to a sickly mother. They say thatâs the way with the via media.
But I was the one who got to hear all the stories. Tales my mother told of her grandparents in the Southâdefense of honor, flight west, abandonment of land to an unscrupulous kinsman, loss, loss, and more loss. Tales she heard from her father in MissouriâFrank and Jessie saving the widowâs mortgage, Frank later becoming a circus celebrity. And lots of stories on the radioâall of the best of Oxidol, Lux, Shredded Ralston, Wheaties, Merita Bread: âReturn with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear . . .â And although you canât buy Lifeboy, the fragrance hasnât completely washed off, or the grit of Death Valley Daysâ Twenty-mule Team Borax.
Not that my portion was a mess of pottage, but my big sister would never have changed her birthright for anything. Anyway, as I said, there was a lot more to talk about, and I wasnât finishedâor so I thought.
18. On What Dreams May Come
Mother used to recognize me, Lord, but now she just mainly sleeps. Sheâs not in any pain, and she eats pretty well when they get her up. But then itâs back to bed and sleep.
I wonder what dreams may come to her while she sleeps. Are they of joining Daddy, whose name she no longer recognizes? Or are they just of you? Sheâs always had the âsubstance of things hoped for,â and Mother knows not âseems.â
Does she dream of Granddaddyâher father, who at times would take her as a child to the train station where he worked, and set her on the ticket counter so all his friends could see what a fine daughter he had? I think he also set her on the bar when he had that drink some days before going home to Grandmother, who wasnât supposed to know, but did. He was proud of his little girl, who grew to be a strong-willed woman, though never more than four feet eight in her silk stockings. He would have been even more proud if he knew that she always talked about him as long as she could form thoughts into words.
She used to dream of being a painter and a writer, and after college going to some island to pursue her art. Maybe thatâs what she was daydreaming when she was silent, walking me as a child along the beach with the surf up to the hem of her dress. Has she given up on that dream?
Maybe she dreams dreams that no one except you has ever known. I wonder and presume to ask what they are. Answer me, and I will swear on my grandfatherâs Knight Templar sword never to speak of it. Then again, I should be content that she is as restful as angel songs in flight.
19. On a National Treasure
Lord, Rayâs a friend of mine, Iâm happy to say. Heâs a mountain man for real. Has lived his whole life on land belonging to his forefathers. He tells of one ancestorâs buying it for a hog rifle, a hound dog, and a sheep hide. He has electricity now that his folks didnât have, but not much more. Water from the spring, heat from the wood fire, money from off the landâherbs and such. But heâs âabout had it,â he says. Cancerâs got him. Heâs worked hard âto keep Ole Pete from off the table.â And he, his wife, and five children have made it through a lot of winters, warm and with something to eat.
Heâs quite a philosopher: âYou got to keep a willinâ mind and take the bitter with the sweet. You canât die as easy as you think you can. And like Mama always said, âYou got to cheery on.ââ
For a while Ray was known as a cradle reaper, reaping buckwheat and oats. His long frame and strong back got his name out, he says, all the way to Vilas and Valle Crucisâfifteen or so miles away. Growing up, heâd go and listened at night to his grandfather tell about the adventures of Jack and Jackâs brothers, Will and Tom. Later on, other folks wanted to hear those talesâfolklorists came to record Ray, and organizers to put him on the festival stage. Then he was known internationally as a traditional storyteller and was recognized as a national treasure. But he still lived in the house built by his father and grandfather, still dipped water from the spring, and still cut fuel from the woods.
I hesitate to invade his privacy any further by asking him what he thinks about his life, but I canât help but think about it and to compare his with mine. Stuff heâll never have, Iâve always had, education, security, and promise of more. Likely, heâs never read a single book completely âwhereas Iâve read manyâbut there are more than one written about him. Heâs never been to the Big Apple, as I have; but he was featured in The New Yorker. Heâs never been in an airplane, but Iâve read an article on Ray in a flight magazine on the way across the Atlantic.
I wonder if Ray is content with what heâs done, or wouldnât have done if he hadnât loved those old tales. At any rate heâs taken so little from the world, but given back so much. On the other hand, Iâve received so much; yet, it seems to me, returned so little. Should I be depressed that my fruits are so limited, or joyful that my store is so abundant without them?
I know that regardless of what we achieve, most of us are never content. Even Shakespeare desired âthis manâs art and that manâs scope,â and was âcontented leastâ with what he most enjoyed. And Alexander the Great wept over there being no more worlds to conquer. Yet I also know that regardless of art or scope, even Alexander like Caesar, âdead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away.â
These thoughts, Lord, turn me back to Ray, whose life seems to say, as perhaps you would agree, âCradle reaper or celebrity, rich in talents or poor indeed, nothing staves off the grimness save to have a willing mind and to cheery on.â
20. On a Server
Lord, Iâve got to tell you about what happened this morning when I was having breakfast at the Southern CafĂ©. My friend Ben and I try to go there pretty often, mainly to keep in touch. Usually there are the same two waitresses, Maggie and Sharon, who work the morning shift. The last time I went, however, Maggie wasnât there. When I asked where she was, her cousin who was substituting said Maggie was staying two or three days with her granny in the hospital.    Today, Maggie was there, and Sharon as well. Sharon seemed the same, but Maggie had lightly bleached her hair, which formerly was slightly scarlet.
I was running a little late because I had stopped on the way at a gas station to use the restroom. I donât like having to use the restroom at the cafĂ©. Itâs tidy enough, but I hate walking through the kitchen past the link sausages and other food on the steam table to get to it.
When I got to the Southern, Ben was already seated in a booth with his back to the street drinking a cup of coffee. I sat down opposite him facing the plate glass at the front. I was glad I was on that side because from there I could see the hill that overlooks the town. And framed perfectly in the upper portion of the window were the three crosses that crown the hill with the sign below them in large red letters, âJesus Saves.â
Maggie came up and started talking while writing my order down from memory: âPork tenderloin, two eggs over medium, biscuits, hash browns, and a glass of water.â
âGrits,â I said.
âMissed that one, didnât I?â
I answered, âYeah, and Iâve missed seeing you.â And she responded that she had missed me too. Then unexpectedly she sat down beside me and put her arm across my back. I kind of cuddled in. And instantly she said, âShoulder, honey, shoulderâno pillow this morning!â
Well, that just cracked me up, and Ben too. Sharon heard the laughter and wanted to know what was going on. So Maggie repeated the whole thing for her.
Then a frail little lady in her eighties came in the door and was making her way toward a table. Maggie jumped up and was immediately at her side giving a hand, a strong meaty one with the skin tone reddish from being burned more than once.
After a while Ben and I went up to pay. Sharon was at the register, but Maggie noticed our leaving and waved. And a thought struck me. Wouldnât it be neat to have a snapshot of her next to the window at this moment, a photo to hang in the middle of all those other photographs tacked on the wallâwith an inscription:Â A Hand Sanguine on a Field of Crosses.
Lord, youâd like Maggie. âSheâs a nice-un,â as they say. She made my morning for sure. In fact she saved my whole day.
Iâm upset, Lord. But I donât mean simply angry. Something has unsettled me, turned me inside out. I canât get it off my mind. And each time I think about it, I get in a funk.
I donât know if you know what happened or not, but I would imagine that your son, if he knew, might have felt like cleansing a temple or a plow or two.
What occurred was at this little clapboard âsign-followingâ church out in the middle of nowhere called âThe Church on the Rock.â I was visiting some friends who were members. Anyway, there was this guy on the front pew, obviously an outsider like me, who was clapping his hands and singing big time. He repeatedly wound his arm around the pastorâs wizened mother as he whispered beguilingly in her ear.
Turns out the guy, ironically named Peter, was a Hollywood actor who flew in from the coast the week before with another guy, a writer, who had gone forward one night to have a demon cast out of him. They say he fell to the floor in a âtranceâ and slithered on his back until believers reached down and took him up. On this night, however, the writer was subtilely taking a back seat while the actor requested divine healing by the laying on of hands. In simple faith, a couple of my friends and a dozen or so others encircled himâhands raised or placed on his head and backâpitching their voices high for one of the nine spiritual gifts, the power of healing.
Turns out, these two guys have joined up to produce a movie version of the folks at this little church.
Iâm certainly in no position to cast stones and canât claim the gift of âdiscernment of spirits,â but seems like it would have been a great time for you to give a sign of warningâ perhaps the stones crying out or a few falling down from the sky. You wouldnât have had to zap anyone, but a thunderbolt would have been a nice touch.
22. On Checking Out
Lord, I was going to a piano concert the other night, so I decided to âclean upâ as they say around here. Got out the blue blazer and the monogrammed French-blue shirt. I felt pretty sharp, as well as cultured. The Rachmaninoff was familiar, but I hadnât heard the Prokofievâit wasnât the âRomeo and Juliet.â
After the concert, I thought I would take advantage of already being out by running to the video shop for a movie, and the grocery store for some bread.
Since it was late, I was able to get the movie quickly and then next door to the grocery. In the checkout line there was only one person, a guy in a bill cap trying to get his food-stamps card to register in the automatic debit meter. The card was broken, although not across the magnetic stripe, and was still held together by the thin plastic coating. His right arm was in a brace. The left had a wide, unsutured slash on the forearm. What first caught my attention was the scattered red, chickenpoxey marks on his face, and his stringy moustache. He was having no success with his card, and the checkout lady kept saying, âOkay, try again.â She had already sacked his few items, including a small opened bag of chips she hadnât charged him for, even though he had insisted: âNo, run that throughâI was a little hungry, so I just ate a few.â
Something about the system wasnât working. The screen kept repeating, âPlease insert card.â He tried againâpunched several buttons at the top, swiped the card, and entered his pin number. He did everything he knew, but with no luck. As the cashier attempted to complete the sale, he turned to me with apologies and small talk. âHow are you doing tonight, sir? Sorry to hold you up.â
I answered, âIâm doing fine, no problem.â And I added, âThatâs a pretty nasty cut on your arm.â
âYeah,â he said, âbut itâs healing up pretty good. I put some Neosporin on it. I keep some in my kit. They call me Doc. I was a corpsman and keep a few things like that to fix up the guys at camp when they get banged up. So they call me Doc.â
The system still wasnât working, so I tried his card for him with a little help from the young woman who had come up in back of me, âPush debit, then swipe the card,â she said. I tried that and a couple of other combinations, but something wasnât right.
While the cashier went over to the assistant manager for some help, the guy said, âYeah, I just got the cast off this leg. It was killing me. These fingers on my right hand are getting so I can move them, but these on this hand are crooked and wonât bend.â
âWhat happened?â I asked.
âA fella came into camp and really worked me over. But I finally laid him out with my stick, that one right over thereââpointing toward a six-foot pole leaning against the wall near the door.
The assistant manager came over and, knowing the system, punched the right buttons, andâvoilĂ âwas successful. The guy saluted us and left the store.
I looked at the woman behind me, and we both shrugged our shoulders. She muttered that she wished she had one of the storeâs âsavings cardâ so she could take advantage of the offer of two bottles of grape juice for the price of one. âHere, you can use mine,â I said. She ran back for the other bottle while the cashier ran up my groceries. âIs this pretty good bread?â she asked, passing the bar code across the sensor. I replied, âThe staff of life.â
I had better luck than the guy before me. I punched in âcredit,â swiped my Visa, signed my receipt, and made for my car. As I walked past the video store, there stood the guy who had been in line with me. He had his pack and cudgel, which was adorned with several feathers, Indian style.
I waved as I veered to avoid coming up to him, but yelled, âHave a good night.â He responded, âAre you going down that-a-way?â and pointed towards town. âNo,â I said, pressing toward my car on the other side of the handicap spaces. âWell,â he said, âIâm gonna go in the liquor store here and call a cab. I just donât feel up to walking down the hill. Hope we get to talk again sometime.â He turned towards the door of the store.
I seemed compelled to say, âHow far are you going?â
âJust down to the bottom of the hill, near the station next to the Mexican store and the Chinese restaurantââit was no more than four or five blocks away.
âCome on, Iâll take you,â I said, somewhat hesitatingly.
âThanks a lot. I really appreciate it.â
The distance was not a factor. The guy seemed high on something, alcohol, perhaps, or drugs, and it was the middle of the night. On the other hand, he had been respectful to the cashier and friendly to the rest of us in the groceryâand honest about those chips. But was this safe, was this rational? Would I live to regret it? Would I live? At that point, however, none of that mattered. I had committed myself, and there was no turning back.
Since my car has only two bucket seats, I opened the hatch, put my bag in and his, including the staff, which was hewn from a hardwood sapling. Then I unlocked the doors, and we got in.
We went straight down the road to the station, made a turn left, and drove another block. He said he was staying at a halfway house on the right, but not to stop there. I asked where he wanted out, and he said anywhere along where we were. I pulled over into a cleanerâs parking lot. By this time I had forgotten about his stuff. But remembering, I got out, raised the hatch, and unloaded his gear.
I asked about the guy who beat him up. Had he been a former enemy? He said, âHe was bad, man, bigâover six feet, 200 pounds.â He had come into the camp, was obnoxious, and wouldnât leave for three days. âHe came back while I was asleep, pulled me out feet first, and beat me half to death.â
I asked about the camp. It was out a ways from the back gate of the V. A. Hospital, along the rail track, past the overpass. He said he had lived in the woods most of the winter, and he kind of liked it. But finally he couldnât take the bitter cold, and they took him in. I presumed âtheyâ were the V.A. Hospital. He said he had been sick, but was better now.
I held out my hand to say goodbye. And when we clasped hands, he stretched his forefinger up my wrist and said, âIâm checking your pulse. I was a corpsman. Iâm checking your heartbeat.â Then he lifted my hand up and kissed itâtook several steps backwards and gave me a proper military salute before turning and walking off. I got in my car and drove home.
The first thing I did was guiltily wash my hands with antibacterial soap. Then I sat down to justify myself with a bottle of single malt.
So, Lord, just how do you check it all outâas star-crossed . . . Eternal Providence?
23. On Your Being Only in My Head
Lord, it seems that sometimes youâre my best and only friend. But if you should not really be out there somewhere and only in my head, Iâm just talking to myself. Ergo, it would actually be me that would sometimes be my best and only friend. Thatâs a little lonely, but at least Iâd know whom I could count on.
That would also mean I am my own god. What then? Lay down my own commandments for my behavior, and reward or punish myself accordingly? Make my own heaven or hell? Rule in the nutshell of my skull?
Thatâs all right with meâmost of the time. But Iâd rather have someone else to have a decent conversation with and to count on for reinforcement. If youâre only in my head, I have no one ultimately to complain to and no one else to blameâIâm just one of a pantheon of individuals contending with one another over personal domains. Iâd rather have someone to share the responsibility, as well as someone in charge who had some real control.
If youâre only in my head, all I have is just a wait for the GötterdĂ€mmerung, at least a long one I hope.
24. On a Coach
Lord, how do you like being a âcoachââyou know, the âcoach in the skyâ that Iâm always hearing about?
I know a guy who used to play for the pros, but whoâs now a football coach. Heâs a nice fella; and unlike some coaches I know, heâll speak to you. In fact weâve had some pretty decent talks. The other day we got on the topic of losing.
He told me that one of the problems about losing is that the guys in the locker room start projecting blameâlooking around and pointing fingers at the mistakes of others. âAnd,â he said, âwhen that starts, the team really falls apart.â
He coaches offensive line. But this year he has all freshmen starters. âSometimes,â he said, âthey really try my patience. They havenât learned what it is to be a college football player. They donât have discipline, the mind-set that keeps focus when theyâre beaten down. Boys right out of high school come up against bigger, stronger, faster playersâand they quit, they give in. They donât have the discipline that comes with experience. I coached at a military school before coming here, and I try to teach these kids that kind of discipline.
âBut youâve got to know when to âripâ âem, and when to pat âem on the shoulder. Iâve had some of the best offensive coaches in the world, and Iâve modeled my coaching after theirs. Still, Iâve had to change with the times. If I coached like I did years ago, the guys would quit. Youâve got to know when to rip âem and when not to. But I never go at a guy on a personal level, like call him a pussy or stupid or something like that. I rip âem for mistakes. Thatâs allâlike I was ripped for mine.
âAnd they make mistakes. Thatâs for sure. When youâve got some real talent in the quarterbacks and receivers, you can get by with a lot of mistakes. But when you donât, the line canât get away with anything. And if you canât get it right in practice, it âs not going to happen in a game.
âI like to win as much as the next guy,â he said. âWinning helps to solve a lot of problems. But losing, particularly having a losing season, will tell you what kind of coach you really are. Itâs tough. But winning is not what itâs all about with me. What I most want to see is the guys improve. Thatâs what I want more than winningâsee âem improve.â
I was pretty impressed with what he said, Lord. Now, what kind of coach are you? And what kind of players do you have? Do you have any real talent or discipline on your team? Or do they just sit around blaming others because theyâre losers? Do they get it right in practice? Or is winning what itâs all aboutâgoing to the Super Bowl in the sky? Have you changed any with the times? And are you really interested in helping us to improve or just in ripping us?
25. On an Alter Ego
Someone told me that one meaning of âalter egoâ is a trusted friend. It is that unarticulated voice within which encourages and cautions. You know, âSure, you have the abilityâjust do it,â and âWhoa, youâre better than thatâdonât go there.â I know a lot of your people who say you speak to them in that way all the time.
The voice within me, though friendly, is often paradoxical. It says, âYouâre obsessive about work and overlook many of the joys of life. You should live a little. Sit back and smell the roses. Spend more time with other people, more time relaxing and revitalizing. Enjoy yourself. Youâre going to get to the station and feel you missed the train.â
On the other hand, when I take this advice, the voice tells me that Iâm wasting time and that time will soon waste me. Iâm indulging myself and not getting anything done. âYouâll have nothing to show for light granted when the night cometh. The fields are white unto harvest, and youâre still in your pallet. A reckoning will soon be made of your empty ledger. Sloth is a deadly sin, and idleness is the Devilâs workshop.â
Anyway, I checked the word out, and found that âalter egoâ literally means the âsecond self.â And instead of the other selfâs being a friend, it can be the opposite side of your personality. If you take the view that human nature is good and that you should attempt to fulfil that viewâthen your alter ego would say that human nature is basically evil and that you should just âgo for it.â On the other hand, if you were a petty, self-serving, cruel person, your alter ego might haunt you in a nagging voice of guilt. The voices: a âspirit of health,â encouraging and cautioning as a trusted friendâand a âgoblin damnâd,â gleefully lending a helping hand down the primrose path.
At this point Iâm wondering, is my alter ego completely my own voice within me, (with or without a second self)? Or is it entirely your voice within me? and if so, would that mean you have an alter ego?
26. On a High Church
Well, Lord, I thought Iâd try out what Iâd call a High Church for lack of a better term. This particular church has been around for a long time. And its services are pretty regimented. At the one I attended, you really had to have a program how to follow it in order to enjoy the game. There were a lot of directed standings and sittingsâand respondings in unison. There were vessels, standards, books, candles, and a lot of hand motions. Actually, I had a little trouble following who had the ball, but it didnât seem to bother anybody else. They mainly watched the guy in the robe who was calling the plays. One advantage or disadvantage of this kind of service, according to my perspective, is that there wasnât much chance of going to sleep or into overtime, as there was in the church where I went growing up.
Ritual gave this service a sense of dignity and security. (I think your people in the Temple had a lot of ritual, but I must say it is also foreign to me.) Even though everyone at this service got to participate in some way, things were in control. No one had to get worked up to participateâdidnât have to worry about what to say or do. Just listen and read the correct lines at the right time. Everything was controlled, but also a little impersonal. I guess all formality is. And you can understand why some people like it and some donât.
I guess itâs all a matter of tasteâlike religion itself maybe?
27. On a Pentecostal Church
After going to a high church service, I thought I would try something entirely differentâa Pentecostal congregation, one principally of Black membership. I have gone to lots of services at Pentecostal churches where some of my friends are members, but theyâre all white folks.
I know the politically correct term for some is âAfrican-American,â but that sounds foreign to me, and these folks arenât foreigners. And if I used âAfrican-Americanâ for their church, I would have to call my White friendsâ church âScotch Irish,â or something more nearly accurate like âScotch-Irish-English-German-French-Cherokee-Melungeon.â Thatâs what most of them are. And since Blacks are as mixed blood as the rest of us, blood designations seem a little ridiculous anyway. As one of my Black friends said, she probably had more Scotch-Irish blood in her veins than I had in mine. A designation by oneâs predominant race doesnât seem bad, but âNegroidâ and âCaucasianâ are awkward, to say the least. I kind of like âRed, Yellow, Black, and White, all are children in His sight.â
Anyway, I went to this Pentecostal church where a few members were White, but where most were Black. And I found that there seemed to be some significant differences between this church and that of my White friends.
First off, I noticed that they dressed better. They âcleaned up goodâ as the saying goes. And they seemed happier to be there. Then when they got âin the Spirit,â they were really happyâsmiling, clapping, shouting. âOh, how good the Lordâs been to usâheâs so good!â The White Pentecostals âin the Spiritâ will also clap, dance, and shout, âThank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord.â And the White folks talk about âjoy unspeakable.â But to an outsider not in the Spirit, it doesnât appear to be joy. Their faces will often be distorted as in pain, and theyâll be literally crying. Thatâs not the same as what I witnessed at this church, where they said: âHow many of you are having a good time in the Lord? Hold up your hands. Yes, weâre having a good time in the Lord. We love you, Jesus, because you first loved us.â
They were having a big time, feeling really good. And the drums, the piano, the organ, and the choirsânot just one choirâall got really cranked up. And then, by god, even I was feeling good.
28. On the Via Media
Well, I tried out the Pentecostal and the high church services, so I thought I might as well try out the middle way. I methodically chose one right in town, a big congregation. It was a service where you could join in the singing, but if you wanted to, you could just sit back, relax, and let everything be done for you. The minister would do the talking and praying, the choir the singing, the pianist and organist the playing, and the ushers passing the collection plates. You could drop in a dollar, wait for the closing prayer, and be out of there in time for lunch.
Would anyone but you have guessed that the services of this denomination a hundred years or so ago were close to what the Pentecostal ones are todayâan expressive, emotional display by the immediate and direct spiritual experience of the preacher and other worshippers? Thatâs changed for sure. Everything at this church was dignified. The sermon, delivered by a Doctor of Divinity, appealed not to emotions, but to reason. There were lots of stained windows, red carpets, and cushioned pews. Very respectable and upmarket. Very comfortable.
Thereâs nothing wrong with being comfortable. I guess itâs a matter of what it is youâre comfortable withâor should I say more nearly acceptably, a matter of that with which it is you are comfortable?
Anyway, is the via media, among churches, the way to go? Or is there a middle way, even in each of the other individual churches, a golden mean between extremes?
29. On Day-to-day Morality
Lord, all the day-to-day moral decisions can really puzzle the mind. Thereâs no easy ruler you can whip out to check if something measures up to standard. Just the other day I was in a grill having lunch with a couple of friends who had done some work for me. And there was this guy at one of the tables with several boxes of binoculars who was offering them for twenty bucks a pair. My friends knew him and went over to speak. When they came back and sat down, I asked them how the guy came by the binoculars. They said that he had bought them off someone alongside the road who had probably stolen them. One of my friends said, âI wouldnât normally buy stolen goods, but I would buy a pair of night-vision binoculars for twenty dollars, wouldnât you?â
Well, I kind of hemmed and hawed without really answering. First off, if I had said No, I might appear self-righteously responding: âLook, what do you take me forâa dope who hasnât been around the block? I wouldnât dirty my hands with that creep or touch those glasses with a ten-foot pole.â On the other hand, I didnât want to say Yes, because I didnât know for sure if the binocs were hot or not. I did think that it wouldnât be as though Iâd be acting as a fence if I made a purchase. And after all, wouldnât there be some tolerance for uncertainty?
In truth, a light didnât immediately go on in my head to reveal that the deal would have been definitely wrong or, conversely, that there wasnât a significant moral issue involved in a case so cloudy. I have to confess, though, that my judgment was party eclipsed by the thought that kept circling in my mind, âWow, night binoculars for twenty bucksâthat would be a great gift.â But since I just couldnât see myself clear to buy one, I didnât pursue it.
After that incident, I was hurrying late to meet someone at a prescribed time about fifteen miles away. I was distracted in thought, but noticed, just as I passed on the other side of the road, someone pushing a pickup truck off the pavement. I didnât get a good look, but I thought the person was a female. Now, as you know, thereâs nothing I enjoy more than rescuing fair maidens. But in this case I calculated (customarily slowly) as I drove on, that the truck was already off the road and that I didnât have a towrope in the car, or a cell phoneâand that there was a string of cars behind me. Then I began asking myself, Should I find a good place to turn around and go back? . . . Wonât she get a ride easily with someone else at this time of day? . . . What about my obligation to the person whoâs waiting on me?
But by that time and distance, these were moot questions. The only reasonable thing to do was settle down in my bucket seat and continue flying down the road. I kept thinking as I drove that I wouldnât be a very good pilot: âFuel leak in the right wing engine . . . Two seconds before it blows . . . Switch off toggle 50-80 . . . Too slow . . . Close, but no cigar . . . Boom!â
Soon after the incident of the stalled pickup, I was faced with another conflict. It occurred one evening late as I was coming out of the restroom at a convenience store. When I had gone into the store, there was no one present except the cashier. When I came out of the restroom, the first thing I saw was a gun holster on the hip of a rough-looking guy with a scraggly ponytail. I wasnât scared or alarmed. I wasnât anything. My brain simply failed to go into emergency mode and tell me something like: âContinue nonchalantly out the door without establishing any eye contact. Get in the car and scope out the situation. If warranted, immediately call 911.â Instead, I went out the door somewhat unconscious and was almost to my car before my brain finally relayed the need for a response. Once my brain did kick in, it started computing that the holster was not a modern one, nor the bloused cotton shirt, or the floppy hat perched on top of the manâs scraggy headâhe was merely a reenactment soldier.
What Iâm trying to say, Lord, is that I could use a little assistance in these day-to-day moral decisions. If you could help me be a little more perceptive and help me make decisions a little more decisively and quickly, I think I could really improve my peace of mind, as well as my percentage of admirable conduct. How about it?
30. On a Decent Conversation
Iâve told you lots of times, Lord, that itâs good to talk with you even though itâs one-sided. Itâs good as far as it goes, but sometimes I need a little feedback. I need a decent conversation.
You know how it is when you just crave a steak or something salty to eat? (Perhaps you donât actually experience that sort of thing.) Anyway, I can eat a ton of other stuff and not be satisfied until I get that steak or french fries. Well, sometimes Iâm that way about a decent conversation. I can work, read, watch TV, piddle aroundâbut nothing satisfies. I need to talk with somebody, somebody on the same wavelength.
The talk can be about feelings or ideas, but itâs got to be like in tennis, volleying, just hitting with a good partner. Itâs not like a match, so youâre not trying to make points. Youâre keeping the ball in the court and giving your partner something solid to return while, at the same time, trying to stroke the ball well yourself. If the other person tries to slam everything out of your reach or to show off or not give you thumbs-up for a nice forehand, then itâs no good. You might as well quit and go have a beer.
Sometimes I crave a decent conversation in the worst way. Itâs almost like I need a fix. Absurdities may be engulfing me, or despair sucking the ground from out my feet, or the crazies having me by the throat, or whateverâand Iâll need a talk.
There are times when you can get the same effect almost from just being with somebodyâthe right person, a really good companion. Someone who knows what youâre feeling and whose feelings you know. Someone who responds to the same things you do in the same way.
Still, sometimes, you need wordsâpartly because you may not know what it is you do think or feel until you try to express it. But in that attempt, whatever it is begins to take shape. And the right person can help flesh it out or smooth off the rough edges. Then you might simply respond, âYeah, thatâs it.â Or you might burst out laughing because what has emerged is so absolutely true.
But a decent conversation is hard to come by, and most of the time Iâm stuck with you, not even on a court, but at a practice wall.
31. On Going Home
Lord, you know my friend Ray who was in the hospital with cancerâheâs been transferred to a health-care center. Although heâs tough and keeps hanging on, I donât think heâll make it much longer or go home again.
As a real mountain man, heâs about as close to a frontiersman as you can get. His life has been pretty much that of his father and grandfather, raising almost everything his family has to eatâcorn, tatters, cabbage, apples, and little else.
If Ray were to get out of the health center, I canât imagine how it would be for him now, living at his house in the dead of winter. I spent a few hours there recently so that his son could go visit him. Since the fire was low and it was after sunset, I never took my jacket off, kept close to the wood stove, and nearly froze to death anyway. There are so many cracks and crannies in and around the walls, doors, and windows that during this time of year the cold wind comes inside at will. The family can stoke that big potbellied stove so itâll really put out the heat, but then it consumes a lot of wood. (Their stove is much better though than my freestanding fireplace, which is like a lot of peopleâhigh maintenance but little warmth.)
I know Ray wants to be at home. He likes being in his chair near the stove, occasionally throwing in a stick of wood and poking the coals to keep them alive on the bed of ashes. But I think he knew last week when he said, âIâm a-goinâ home,â that he wasnât goinâ back to the mountain.
32. On Pardons and Paroles
Lord, this older Black guy in the restroom at the Board of Pardons and Paroles said to me, âWhether youâre Black or White, rich or poor, I think you ought to get a second chance.â Then he said something about his son and repeated, âI think you ought to get a second chance.â This guy and I had sat in the Waiting Room all morning long to be called in for the scheduled hearing on the petition of our respective inmate.
The hearing itself wasnât like in the moviesâa defiant prisoner in chains escorted by a couple of cops into a small room to make his plea, and his aging mother crying out for mercy before a white-haired man and several stone-faced women seated at a table. Instead, the scene started with a multitude of people who arrived as early as possible in order to sign up at 6:30 a.m. when the doors of the building opened, and who then waited for hours to be herded by groups into the Board Room like sheep or goats.
The casting of the Board, however, was spot on. The only difference was that the white-haired man was an African-American and that he and the two women, as well as a secretary, were seated in positions of power on a raised dais. The inmate wasnât present. Neither was the âmother.â In our group, the attendants consisted of about a dozen members of family and friends, only two of whom could address the Board and for no longer than five minutes each. After the two speakers of our group had made their ineffectual, rather feeble statements, the Board conferred for a couple of minutes, the secretary read the negative decision, and we exited by a door in the rear of the room.
More interesting and less predictable in some ways than the action in the Board Room was the scene in the Waiting Room. It was somewhat like a company of sondry folk at the Tabard Inn, although with no knights or prominent pilgrims. In fact, there were perhaps only four men in suits throughout the entire crowded room, one a young handsomely dressed Black preacher with a fashionable pair of wire-rimmed, small, round, thick glasses. Another man suited for the occasion was a graying-templed one in pinstripes, who was attended by his stylish wife and daughter. Other than those two ladies with him, there were no other apparently wealthy women. The female most noticeably dressed was a Black woman who was seated and wearing a black tailored dress with a low-cut square bodice, revealing lots of cleavage. She looked to be a corporate businesswoman. And standing above her was a corpulent, leering lawyer.
One of the men in the room seemed almost a specter. A metal pin stretched across his skull where his nose had been, and not much of his face had been left by some deadly disease or accident. There were two young guys who stood together and talked, the teeth of one rotted down to the gum line, the facial skin of the other swarthy and pocked. One of the few White women present had a blue tattoo on her upper arm and was rather shapely in tight jeans, certainly not obese as many of the other females were. Another woman had large scars on her shins as though both legs had been badly broken. One woman was crippled and clutched her side, but managed to shuffle across the floor with a walker. Overall, the room was a harrowed mass of humanity appalled by doomsday gloom.
I could have used a drink, but there was only a coke machine in the room that wouldnât take dollar bills. Other than that, there were no concessions to be had. Upstairs there was a snack bar, where I was able to get a fish sandwich on plain bread that wasnât too bad.
I must say that the whole event was quite a dramatic experience, yet one which I do not wish to take part in again, at least not soon. And I donât know, Lordâyour judgment might be differentâbut I feel that at the end of the day we all need more than one second chance.
33. On Belief
Okay, Lord, letâs get down to the nitty-gritty. Do I believe in you? Do I disbelieve in you? Do I simply not believe in you? Pretty tough questions. Letâs see . . . what do I believe?
Well, first off I believe that belief is important. I know some religious folks who do some pretty amazing things through their belief in you. They handle fire, they take up serpents, they drink deadly poisons, and they heal the sick. Now, some of the results of these practices are not verifiable one way or the other. But some are evidently efficacious or without bodily harmâand undeniably remarkable. Their belief is a powerful force for them physicallyâthey donât get burned, for example, when they handle fire. But there is also a powerful force for good in their everyday lives, in their mental and social well-being. It changes some of these folks dramatically, and without the power of their belief, they would likely continue to wallow in the sloughs of desperation.
Yet, that doesnât mean that I believe that this power comes directly from you. It could, or it could come from withinâfrom just believing. Of course, if you created the believers, you could justifiably take credit for any effect of their belief, direct or indirect. But then, I canât prove you created them, can I? Still, I do know that belief is a great power.
I also believe that there is something more than I am. At least part of that âmoreâ is a power of creation. Thereâs all that creativity going on out there in spaceâamong the stars. Then thereâs all the creativity going on here in our own little world. There seems to be some force outside us, as well as within, that demands manifestation in some formâin leaves of grass, babies, ideas, objects, art, or whatever. Nature and mankindâall needs must create. Perhaps you do tooâhence the âbillions and billionsâ of stars. Here again, I donât know if the creative force within and without comes from you. But even though âmy wit is short,â I have enough sense not to deny the possibility of something that I donât know or understand. Yet I could easily believe that the creative force is you.
Now back to the initial question, âDo I believe in you?â I guess Iâd have to answer that I believe as much as I can. Thatâs about as far as I can go. I hope thatâs enough. Regardless of whether it is or not, I needs must express these prayers.
Copyright © Thomas G. Burton 2021