ONE
Thursday, September 17
In the soft, blushing twilight of a September nightfall, as one of the last glorious summer days fades away, I feel the taunting touch of the north wind, a harbinger of the cold months ahead. Stifling a shiver, I slip my hands into my pockets for warmth.
Ordinarily, this first kiss of autumn triggers the departure of my carefree summer disposition, reversing my governing mood back toward melancholy. I lament the passing of cloudless days and wispy warm breezes. I shudder over thoughts of the advancing, frost-bound season of dread. I stare headlong into winter, that disproportionate but unavoidable part of life in Michigan.
Tonight, however, as though released from decades of behavioral bondage, I feel none of these anxieties. In fact, quite uncharacteristically, I sense a sort of anticipation for all that dwells beyond the pleasant shroud of summer. There is no shrinking back, no programmed limit to my spirit’s ascendancy, only a willingness to embrace what lies ahead, to continue onward in defiance of the sun’s sinking circuit. Far above the cyclical thrum of the natural world I soar, untouchable and free.
Sitting on the mossy bank, staring into the Looking Glass River, I see a watery luminescence spreading eastward along the surface, evidence that the sun is blazing through a distant horizon. As the colorful water flows past, rippling joyfully as it changes, the thought occurs to me that, like the stream, I may be changing too — no longer what I once was, perhaps not even what I genuinely believe myself to be. And so I wonder: Who really am I at this particular point in time? How can I accurately discern the underlying truth about myself? What can I do to raise the level of my own self-consciousness?
Unfortunately, my indistinct reflection on the water fails to provide a window into my soul, and I am left with the sense that my life is incomprehensible and deep.
The evening light dims to dusk, and I consider the residue of what was once a perfect September day. Reluctant to depart from this peaceful respite by the river, a place of escape I frequently enjoy, I suppress the pull of obligation and attempt to rekindle the sense of freedom and contentment that glowed within me just moments ago. Sadly, the soaring feeling is gone, irretrievably lost, and in its place, a string of unanswered questions about my secret life.
Regretfully, I foresee little likelihood of genuine understanding in matters such as these — matters of the heart and soul. And even less chance such understanding can be communicated with someone else, someone equally muddled in the normal state of human consciousness. Moreover, should I fail to disclose my true self to others, then some part of me will remain unknown, untapped, un-communicated — perhaps the key to me, perhaps even some frightful, treacherous or conniving portion. What shows on the outside may just be the manifestation of a role I play, an obtuse character I adopt to wheedle about in my search for truth or in the discovery of others.
But just as there is no escaping the natural world, I am equally stuck with myself, with what I have become through four-and-a-half decades of life. Though I may choose to believe I am free to change without limits, I will remain subject to nature, relationships, an aging frame, a set of ethics and morals, a mortgage, a job. Consequently, if all people live their lives under similar constraints, bondages really, how can anyone ever experience true freedom? In fact, freedom may be entirely illusory. And it is therefore possible, even probable, that none of us will ever truly know what it means to be free, or succeed in becoming that which we desire most desperately to be. Tonight, though, I want to be convinced — and indeed I believe I am so persuaded — that what I am down deep, what I possess with certainty, is life.
The night’s curtain has now almost completely descended upon me and my undulating thought life. As I fasten my parka against the creeping damp, I stare upward toward the brightening panorama of a world heretofore hidden behind a veil of light. Delicately appearing in the firmament are the celestial bodies that were there all along — just obscured from view.
A lonely frog croaks, and then I hear another. They were there as well.
I arise and begin the steep trudge back toward home where my wife and the very real part of my life await, where I am known as “Chip” Halick (Randall being my given name), a freelance journalist in his second career.
Renewed by my moments alone, I hike with a lilting expectancy that springs, I now realize, from what is within my grasp: the auspicious confluence of personal, professional and relational symbiosis. How many people can boast of that, I wonder? Come to think of it, I cannot imagine a thing I would change about my life or anything I would add to improve it. Possessions that every self-respecting person works a lifetime to achieve — the love of a faithful spouse, a satisfying and successful career, a modicum of notoriety, a sense of financial independence — all these universally elusive qualities I enjoy. By some quirk of circumstance, I, among others, have been supremely blessed.
Atop the woodsy strand, our renovated bungalow huddles with the maple and oak, windows ablaze with incandescent light. I climb along a well-worn passage, accompanied by the sound of my rhythmic footfalls and my audible breaths. Nearer to the house, my appetite is stirred by the smell of burning hickory mingled with a pleasant garlicky cooking aroma. From the brow of the hill I see the patio door open and my friend Dan Greening emerge onto the deck.
“We were about to arrange a search party. How’s the famous political snoop?”
Dan is no doubt referring to the defining days of my journalistic career, to the spate of feature stories I wrote about the governor and his rise to the top. Contrary to Dan’s opinion, though, I did not “snoop” while collecting my material. Nonetheless, many pundits have ascribed the governor’s victory to the year-long publicity swirl that began with my story in the Lansing Ledger and continued unabated, ultimately lifting him from state senator, representing northern Oakland County, all the way up to the big office at Michigan and Capitol.
I reply facetiously, “Well, Dan, I feel like I finally got a firm grip on the existential dialectic. Unfortunately it turns out to be a handful of warm Jell-O.”
He laughs at this. “Maybe you’d better inform Anthony Robbins.”
“Nah, he knows more than I do about such things.” I pause to catch my breath from the hike. “Sorry I wasn’t here for your arrival, Dan, but chasing truth is a full time job, you know.”
“Chasing it? Don’t you mean defining it?”
“They are one and the same,” I reply, shaking Dan’s large hand. Stepping through the threshold into the brightly lit country kitchen, a piquant bouquet of aromatic herbs ignites a smoldering fire in my belly. “Smells fantastic in here.”
“Compliments will get you nowhere with the hired help,” Maryanne quips. “How about lighting the candles and pouring the wine?”
“I can do that. How about I cut some bread as well?”
The soulful sound of Joshua Redmond’s horn wafts in from the front room stereo, elevating the dinner mood. Maryanne has crafted a perfect setting for our evening.
“What’s your pleasure, Dan? A mellow California Chardonnay aged in new oak casks, or a spicy, fruit-scented Cabernet from the North Coast?” I’m practicing for my next career, should one become necessary. Dan, I know, prefers a hearty red wine and predictably chooses the claret.
You might describe Dan Greening as a complex individual. Having lived briefly in both Israel and India, he brings a wealth of experience to his job teaching Non-Western Civilization at Michigan State University. Tall, barrel-chested and swarthy, with black and gray wiry hair, he could pass for a native almost anywhere in the tropics. In fact, Dan is of mixed race. His mother was a nurse from Nigeria who met his father during World War II, when the elder Greening was serving as a military doctor attached to the allied invasion force in North Africa. They were married shortly after VE day.
Like any professor worth his tenure, Dan can hold sway for hours in or out of the lecture hall. In addition, he is affable, kind, intelligent, entertaining and a true gentleman. You could also say he has wisdom beyond his years, but for someone in mid-life (Dan is 50), you’d be misapplying the idiom. He has, nonetheless, “been around” as they say, garnering a certain je ne sais quoi that defines his presence and spirit. He commands a room just by being in it, but never with an over-lordly manner. Everyone likes Dan, even his students. Maryanne and I love him.
Among the many facets of Dan’s multi-dimensionality are a richly textured religious background and a hobby of political stargazing. I hope to draw from this storehouse of knowledge and experience tonight as Maryanne and I prepare for a formal reception at the governor’s mansion tomorrow evening. Though an enormously successful politician, Colin Rierdon, our governor in his initial year, is a difficult person to understand at gut level. For example, why he invited us to attend the unveiling of his new home remains a mystery to me. It is certainly not because Maryanne and I are big financial supporters, or pillars in the local community, or members of the local glitterati. Quite the contrary on all counts.
“Honey, would you cut regular slices please? I’m not fond of those wedgy chunks you always do.” Maryanne instructs me while conveying place settings to the table.
“Anything for you dear.” I saw into a new loaf of ciabatta I snagged earlier today while in town. Fortunately, the holes remain in tact no matter which way you carve the loaf.
“So you two are going to the mansion with a personal invite.”
“Yeah, and he’s as pumped as a fireman about it,” Maryanne says.
“I’d say stumped would be the more appropriate descriptor. I’m baffled as to how we made the guest list, given our lack of social standing and our relative insignificance in the political world.”
“Don’t underestimate your worth Chip,” Dan says. “Especially considering the power of your pen. You are at least qualified to be a useful idiot. Besides, maybe it’s Maryanne who has the commanding persona.”
“Oh, please, I’m just window dressing; let’s face it.” She places a steaming tureen of Thai soup on the farmhouse table. “Sit down and get started; I’m keeping the curry hot on the stove.”
I hand the basket of crusty bread to Dan. He, of course, reaches for the heel.
“Don’t tell anyone, Dan, but we don’t use pens anymore. It’s been all word processing for fifteen years.”
“You’re kidding. Who knew?” He smiles as he dredges his bowl for a chunk of chicken.
“How’s the soup — too spicy?” Maryanne has seated herself at the end of the rectangular table. She is an appealing and engaging woman who has not lost a bit of her charm over the twenty-three years I have known her. Her multi-toned, golden hair is abundant and naturally wavy. Swept across her forehead in her usual simple style, cut just above shoulder length, it accentuates her mildly angular features. She has haunting green eyes and a clear beige complexion. No one would suspect that she has put in a full day’s work and single-handedly prepared a meal as she holds her soup spoon in midair, awaiting approval, eyes sparkling, looking radiant.
“You’ve left yourself no room for improvement, I’m afraid.” Dan is sometimes given to backhanded understatement.
“It’s outstanding — my favorite,” I add. I have many favorites, relating directly to what is being served at the time.
“It sure beats the macaroni and cheese I normally have on Thursdays,” Dan says.
“Please, Dan, you don’t really eat that stuff, do you?” Maryanne is obviously repulsed by the thought.
“The life of a single guy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I see you’re doing nothing to enhance the mystique,” Maryanne says.
“He’s just fishing for sympathy. My guess is that he’d be having a burger and a beer at Harper’s, were it not for his dedication to help the needy here tonight.”
“Chip, you should not be so quick to assume. You have no concept of the lonely life I lead. What would a single professor of fifty do among crowds of coeds and young studs? My life is a constant burden of improbable circumstances.”
I cannot let this pass. “Such melodramatic cynicism. I believe you’ve missed your calling, Dan.”
“I see nobody gets a break around here, as usual.”
Red embers are popping in the kitchen fireplace, curry aromas tantalizing our appetites. As I sip from my glass of wine, I realize I’m with the two people I love most in this world — and this is living, right here and now. Nothing I do in the hurry-up world of journalistic madness, nothing in the sphere of power politics and manipulation, nothing I could fantasize for my yet-to-be-lived life can compare with this: a simple home and a meal with friends.
There was a time when the pleasant, unadorned satisfaction I feel tonight eluded me. Much like truth, happiness can be illusory. Mind you, I believe I’ve always been a happy person, always having seen the proverbial glass as half full. Nonetheless, even with excellent health, economic stability and a consistently happy marriage, a few years ago I drifted into the doldrums of mid-life. And though I have since managed a comeback, there is still the aching memory of those years, not so long ago, when pleasure could not be found in anything I did.
I believe my former discontentment stemmed from a career that gradually became unexciting and lusterless. The gloss had worn completely off the apple. My once-enviable and desirable occupation had turned rotten, like fruit left too long on the vine. I could have toughed it out, sure, choked down the bad taste in my mouth, but prolonging the experience could also have poisoned me incurably.
Now, only memories remain from my twenty years as an automotive plant engineer, memories that represent a large slice of my adult life. Like a million others, I had counted on one of Detroit’s “Big Three” — specifically General Motors — to grant me the American Dream. And, truth be told, I was not entirely disappointed, having achieved a semblance of the good life when others did not. But even so, after being a GM gypsy for years, shuffled all over the Michigan landscape — Pontiac Central, Buick City, Clark Street/Fleetwood Assembly, Poletown — and finally settling into a staff job at Oldsmobile in Lansing, another transfer back to the Motor City would surely have been fatal. Or so I believed. So I opted out; I jumped without a parachute.
And that’s how I found the cure for my mid-life ills. Perhaps it was the challenge of a new career, perhaps the involvement with people beyond the inbred automotive community. Something made the difference, and now, I couldn’t be happier.
More recently, I have become convinced that I was altogether destined to be a journalist. It just took me a quarter century to discover this ordination. Toward the end of my career in engineering, I used to have to drag myself up in the morning and around all day, but since I’ve been writing features and columns, I rise early and look forward to each new encounter. Interviewing people in the news and in politics is intriguing for me, and research provides nourishment for my overly cultivated left brain. Plus, lately, words have begun to pour out of me into engaging, lucid and marketable pieces. My work has been good enough for the Lansing Ledger to give me a contract for three articles a week relating to the political scene in Michigan. And earlier this year, through my work, the paper achieved national recognition, winning a couple of journalistic awards. As a bonus, my life seems to have improved on all fronts, maybe not in measurable economic terms, but my outlook has brightened visibly. Few are so fortunate, I suspect.
While we nibbled at the last remnants of our gingerbread cake, Thomas Jefferson gazed attentively upon us from his vantage point above the mantel. What might he think regarding the experiment he helped initiate two centuries ago if he were here to observe America on the threshold of the Twenty-First Century? The gingerbread might be to his liking, but the larger society could easily be seen as irretrievably lost, or perhaps just skewed tangentially and loping off toward certain destruction. On the other hand, Jefferson might be so busy defending himself from frontal assaults by the media that he would have little time to spare for gazing at the big picture. It is truly amazing how many scandalous acts he has been accused of posthumously by historians and the media alike — both of whom are represented in this room and could be the reason why he is wearing such a scowl at the moment. Nevertheless, with all Jefferson managed to accomplish in his intensely public life, it hardly seems possible that he also could have been a serious architect, an ambitious horticulturist, a gentleman farmer, a wine enthusiast and a married man who also managed to keep foreign and domestic mistresses. Where did he find the time and energy?
Be that as it may, were he with us tonight, the elder statesman would most likely be found at his beloved Monticello, alternately tending his garden and providing both theoretical ballast and rhetorical neutralization to the country’s headlong pitch toward political and societal collapse. But the shape of politics in these modern times might not only serve to capture the interest of the worthy patriarch, it could easily wrest him away from the gentle quietude of his agricultural idyll in Virginia’s Blue Mountains. And perhaps, with Jefferson’s guidance, we all might be better off.
Moments ago, during dinner, Dan, Maryanne, and I theorized about the current Michigan miracle man and what makes him tick. Mr. Jefferson’s opinions would have been most welcome. I expressed some incredulity as to how Colin Rierdon’s uncompromising brand of religio-fascism could be so popular. Of course the governor doesn’t refer to his politics as such, nor would I use such unvarnished, balkanizing language in a political piece for publication. But, as I recall, Dan offered something like this, “Every successful politician must have a public image and agenda that are viewed as credible and marketable, even if they aren’t exactly representative of the man or his policies. And so a cadre of PR marketeers is hired to apply polish and spin to the so-called truth, a full time job, considering the predominance of spuriously constructed platforms and unmanageable talking heads.”
Dan, though overly verbose, was quite correct. And his observation reminded me why journalists sometimes stray into the realm of salacious discourse. It can be an effective counter strategy to the demagogues and hypocrites presently littering our political landscape. Yet, in my work, I have vigorously shunned these tactics and resisted playing the game of attack journalism. Rather, my approach has been to occupy the middle ground that lies between bald-faced belligerence and the wide-eyed Pollyanna perspective that gushes with praise for every cleverly fashioned burst of rhetoric politicians give forth (usually after reading the polls and deciding what they think the voting public wants to hear at any given moment). Still, I have wondered why the truth itself could not be the primary commodity purveyed in the business of journalism. Why wouldn’t truth sell newspapers and garner ratings’ points as effectively as gossip and hard-edged cynicism?
“It’s the nature of the beast,” Maryanne said. “Human beings thrive on two things: juicy gossip and media-made pabulum.”
“But you should look at it from our side,” I protested. “Every powerful incumbent has an army of anti-media wonks who are prepared to discredit us at the slightest provocation, using our own broadcast spectrum for their message. Let’s face it, journalists and public figures will devour each other in order to get to the top of their games.”
“How have you stayed on top of the wave of popularity, Chip?” Dan asked. “Nobody seems to be trying to serve you up for dinner.”
“Good question, Dan. I’ve never actually thought about why that is. Maybe I am the useful idiot you referred to earlier.”
“Oh honey, you’re just too nice a guy, and besides, you’ve got no dirt under your fingernails.” Maryanne has always felt a need to rescue me.
But she was right about one thing. I don’t dig in the dirt.
Maryanne scolded Dan as he tried to remove his plates to the sink. “Just leave them, Dan. We’ll do them up later. Take your coffee into the front room and relax. We’ll all be more comfortable in there.”
For his part, Colin Rierdon seems to be a sufficiently straight-up, mildly right wing, Christian fundamentalist with a gift for public speaking and a knack for politics. As one might imagine, he is not without detractors, given his solid conservatism. Yet he commands a majority senate and a narrowly democratic house that votes with his initiatives more often than not. In point of fact, some pundits have publicly speculated about the Democrats’ receding power base while the governor has been looming larger and larger above an ever-widening circle of populist policies. He would play in Peoria, as they say, and certainly does in Kalamazoo.
Still and all, my personal, non-objective observation is that the governor and his supporters are marching our long-standing Midwest tradition of tolerance and stay-the-course centrism right off the cliff of truth and into the sea of unreasoning zeal. Rierdon has quite a cabal of cronies, comprised of an emboldened state militia and a vigorous band of neo-political, bible-thumping clergy from every district of the state, each possessing its own malleable collection of human resources. And these people vote, as they say. More important, they believe unrelentingly in their so-called cause: Colin Rierdon’s “New Freedom.”
I fasten myself into the well-trained, overstuffed chair adjacent to our collection of literature and across from the floral-print couch where Dan is now stationed. Maryanne sits on the floor in equilateral triangulation and braces her slight frame with a large, taupe-colored muslin pillow. The window above her shoulder reveals the softly glowing light of a full harvest moon, now ascending over the house. This, the most majestic and mysterious of all heavenly bodies is performing its appointed rounds, predictably and without human intervention. It makes one marvel. Who hung it there, for instance? And how did it begin traveling around our sphere in the first place, all neatly programmed on a monthly cycle with phases and gravitational pull?
Governor Rierdon would have a pat answer; I am quite certain.
“So, Dan, what do you make of the rumors in the wind? With the Republican Convention coming up, and the governor’s party seriously under-represented in the congressional delegation, is Rierdon setting his sights on influence peddling in Washington?”
“No question he is, Chip. The GOP’s advances over the past decade-and-a-half always seem to fall short of sending a Republican majority to the U.S. Congress from Michigan. It’s a weird anomaly that is both statistically significant and historically verifiable as a trend. It seems Democrats have a platform that sells better for federal elected office. The people of Michigan want their share of the pie in social programs, infrastructure allocations and the like. Plus, we don’t want to force out our senior legislators once they’ve developed some clout in the committees where the real work gets done. To unseat these guys, Rierdon has got to punch the right buttons and find some worthy Republican challengers over the next several months.”
Maryanne probes, “That makes sense Dan, but, besides finding some good candidates, how can a first-term governor really give his party a boost in the congressional races?”
“Well, first of all, Rierdon believes in himself, and in the essential mandate he’s been given by the state’s voting majority. Plus, he’s got guts.”
Dan is right about this. The governor got elected by wit and grit and an internal drive to foster his freedom agenda, a platform he has managed masterfully, attracting a diverse collection of interest groups to his bandwagon including many Democrats who have been disenfranchised by the President and his manifold misdeeds, Catholic, working class whites, education reformers, gun enthusiasts and a libertarian or two, along with his core supporters: business conservatives and the unified and vocal Religious Right.
“But won’t he risk going out on a limb and alienating that diverse constituency through reckless endorsements and sloganeered stump speeches?” In spite of evidence to the contrary, Maryanne still believes that the voting public thinks with its head and not its heart. Moreover, she does not realize that in the three years between now and the next gubernatorial race, everything Colin says will either have been forgotten or overshadowed by one question, What have you done for us lately? The bedrock reality is, in spite of all the efforts by my colleagues to fan the flames of discontent, with the Michigan economic climate chugging along as it is currently, Rierdon will have plenty to crow about when it matters, three years hence.
“I don’t think he has much to fear, Maryanne. His core support is so solid that, if someone discovered that he authored the Watergate break-in plan, his approval rating might actually go up instead of down. It’s the mystique of popularity.” Dan exaggerates to make his point that Colin’s supporters are as thick as thieves — my inappropriate idiom, not his — although I think it distills what Dan said down to a quintessential slogan, while simultaneously villainizing the individuals in question, a common device used by savvy politicos.
Dan continues to wax eloquent, “Then there is the state party machine that has become a well-orchestrated juggernaut. Remember that the voting is done in the local precincts, and that’s where Rierdon is the strongest. His get-out-the-vote-from-the-grass-roots strategy has already proven itself. If he starts mustering support now and can deliver large numbers of Republicans to the polls next November — and especially if the other guys have a light turnout — voila! You’ve broken the trend, and you get national attention as a bonus. Besides, I think he’s actually less likely to get into trouble on the national scene than when dealing with state issues where he can be personally called into account. The upcoming Right to Life bill for instance. Now there’s a hot political tar baby if ever there was one.”
With the Right to Life bill bottled up in committee in the U.S. House of Representatives, Congress has been beset with gridlock over the abortion issue. So, beginning last spring, in a desperate effort to head off the legalization of the abortion pill, RU-486, a nationwide movement was launched in every state by conservatives to call a Constitutional Convention to amend the U.S. Constitution by making abortions illegal in America. Pro-life supporters refer to their movement with the euphemistic acronym RLA, which stands for the “Right to Life Amendment.” State legislatures all across the country have begun introducing and voting upon bills containing the language of the proposed amendment. If and when thirty-eight states manage to pass these carbon copy bills, the United States Congress will be obliged to vote on the proposed amendment at a Constitutional Convention.
In that eventuality, where essentially a super-majority of support would have been garnered among the states for the rights of the unborn, two landmark Supreme Court decisions that have established and protected a woman’s right to an abortion — Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey — will effectively be set aside. As one might suspect, Michigan’s right-leaning Senate, in its first action following the summer recess, has promised to bring the amendment banning all abortions, except in cases of rape and incest, to a vote this fall. And the bill will probably pass in the republican-dominated senate, though its fate is somewhat more tenuous in the democrat-controlled house. There, crossover votes must be gotten from conservative democrats if the amendment is to make it to the governor’s desk for signature. I have been following this issue rather closely and, just this afternoon, I submitted to the Ledger my latest in a series of articles on the subject, juxtaposing abortion rights with the so-called New Freedom.
With Dan and Maryanne continuing the discussion on political strategies, I have nearly drifted off to Memphis with Kirk Whalum on the bluesy gospel groove that has been gently emanating from the speaker on my left. The cumulative effect of the dinner and the wine, on top of a busy day has begun to induce sleep. I’d have a bolt of coffee if I thought it wouldn’t keep me up half the night, but, generally, that is my fate if I imbibe after six. My fear over the prospect of dinner at the governor’s place tomorrow night snaps me back to life, and I attempt to turn the conversation ever so slightly.
“So where do we fit into the governor’s grand plan, or is dinner tomorrow just a function of Rierdon’s largesse?”
“You’re one of his keys to success, Chip. He needs a legitimate and objective voice in the media, so he’ll schmooze you and Maryanne on the hope that you’ll continue to grant him and the GOP favorable visibility, especially with the convention coming up next weekend.”
“And I thought we were just popping over to the mansion for dinner and drinks with several dozen of our closest friends. Meanwhile, you’re implying that he believes my allegiance can be bought, and my opinions swayed.”
“Not swayed exactly, just nudged. In fact he’ll probably be happy if you write anything that isn’t negative. And forget about the drinks, Chip. Rierdon is a tea-totaler.”
This point, which I had completely overlooked, is the unadulterated truth. Colin Rierdon has managed to keep himself “pure” from the reputation and the vices that plague the bulk of modern society. He apparently does not drink, smoke or womanize. His upstanding Christian private-life and his exemplary record of moral leadership are both enviable and powerful. With organizational and religious affiliations aplenty he is a veritable poster boy for clean living. The governor is precisely what many people look for in a candidate for high political office — a man beyond reproach who cannot be derailed by his past or his personal indiscretions.
Still, I muse, “That is something I just don’t get. How do you properly entertain dignitaries without champagne?”
Maryanne is quick to jump in, “Oh, please, Chip, you don’t have to get people loopy to have a good time. And since when are you a dignitary?”
“I was referring to you, dear.” Her look says that she knows BS when she hears it. “But seriously, my point is simply that adult beverages of some form are traditionally acceptable, and even expected at a dinner party.”
“Chip, your point is not lost, but Rierdon’s tradition and culture are quite the opposite.” Dan pauses for a breath, then continues, “He comes from a strict fundamentalist background, you know. No doubt he believes that alcohol is the closest thing to the devil himself.”
“Well, I’m still surprised that he would be so bold as to give dinner parties where he basically denies the culture of his guests.”
“The thing is, many of the guests may be non-drinkers as well.”
“Great! A whole mansion full of stuffed shirts, wound up tighter than a Swiss watch, and not a drop of relief in the building. I’m really looking forward to this.”
“It’s the New Freedom, Chip. Get with the program.”
“Oh, I get it — loud and clear. He’s free to break with tradition because he’s the governor. But where the rest of us are concerned, there is a well-defined mark to toe.” I am obviously loopy myself, recklessly expressing frustrations over what I feel is the governor’s ultra-narrow view. Sarcasm is not my usual motis operandi, but considering my lack of experience dealing with Rierdon’s brand of fanaticism, I grope onward. “For my money, all of his sloganeering with the so-called New Freedom has gotten us nowhere, except dangerously close to the grip of tyranny. In practical terms it adds up to nothing more than rhetorical bunk.”
Stirred perhaps by my sermon, Maryanne jumps up to take Dan’s cup to the kitchen for a refill. “I’ll get you a warm-up for your coffee, Dan. You know, I have been after Chip to write about his concerns. I think there might be a good story there.” She is speaking louder in order to be heard from the other room. “He just isn’t comfortable with the idea yet. What was it you said Chip, something about journalistic ethics?”
“I just don’t want to go off half-cocked. He is the governor, after all. Besides, I’m not exactly prepared to take on the entire right-wing coterie as the lone voice in the wilderness of journalistic impartiality.”
“Since when are you guys impartial?” Dan asks. “Seems to me that the press has developed a reputation for the reckless use of innuendo and other assorted smear tactics.”
“Well that reputation is not deserved across the board, in my opinion at least. Besides, I don’t want to be painted with that brush, so I’ll remain on the side of caution. Plus, there is plenty of verifiable news out there that is worth reporting. You’ve just got to go out and find it.”
Maryanne adjusts herself onto the rug again. For a moment I fight back the urge to snuggle up next to her. But I realize that I still haven’t gotten to the heart of my planned agenda, and the evening is fading fast, so I jump somewhat awkwardly to the salient topic. “Dan, in your learned opinion, what is the appeal of religion anyway?”
“Geez, Chip, that’s like asking me the meaning of life. I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer such a question.”
“Well you’re the most qualified guy I know.” Dan has been a Catholic and a Protestant, basically some form of professing Christian his whole life. I, on the other hand, can’t say I’ve been anything religiously labelable.
“All right, I’ll take a stab at it. Let’s look at some of the major religions of the world. The Hindus, for example, like to believe that, with every incarnation and each subsequent life, they can improve their standing in the next life and ultimately spiral into god-like perfection. The Jews, on the other hand, believe that they’ve already arrived in God’s family by virtue of their birthright. They simply have to conform to the Mosaic Law and the Ten Commandments in order to keep the blessings flowing into their lives and avoid the natural consequences that come through disobedience to the law and the prophets. Keep in mind that we’re talking on a strictly theoretical level.”
“Of course. So far I haven’t heard anything that reminds me of life in the real world.”
“Right. Not our modern world anyway, Chip. I’ll grant you that. Let’s see, now… Well, then you have the various Christian sects and denominations… and I guess a common thread among them would be that they believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God. Beyond that, doctrines and beliefs diverge significantly. For example, the Catholics have a form of afterlife punishment called purgatory, which, although you certainly want to avoid it, it won’t keep you out of heaven. The Protestants recoil in horror over this notion. With most of them, you either make it to heaven or you burn in hell forever, based on some combination of divine election, God’s grace, your own good works, personal sacrifice, holiness and the like. It varies with the denomination. The purpose of life to these people is tied to saving themselves and others from an eternity of regret.”
Maryanne interrupts, “So they follow their religion primarily for what it means to them in the afterlife.”
“Right, Maryanne, although that really isn’t the entire picture. Another thing is that most evangelical Christians are busy concentrating on how to get the rest of the world saved through whatever ritualistic set of steps they hold as sacred — preaching and baptism come to mind as examples. It’s almost as though they don’t trust God, Himself, to be capable of orchestrating all of that over time and eternity. Also, you would think that their main concern might be for their own salvation and spirituality, but they are equally interested in everybody else. Let me give you an example of what I mean. You’ve no doubt heard of the parable of the wheat and the tares.”
“I have only a vague recollection.”
“Me too,” Maryanne adds. “Don’t ask me to describe it in any detail.”
“Well, okay, I’ll sum it up for you. Keep in mind that it is almost universally held among Christians that the farmer in this parable represents God, the planting field is His entire creation, and the wheat represents all Christians. Meanwhile, the unsaved masses are the tares, or ‘weeds’ in modern language. How that last characterization originated I can’t imagine, since the parable states explicitly that the enemy planted the tares. So, according to the popular interpretation, the devil is somehow responsible for bringing all the evil people onto the scene, and that is a gross contradiction of the story of creation. But let’s look at it that way for the sake of illustration.”
Dan is becoming more animated by the minute. “Now the farmer, God, says that these tares, or weeds, are to be allowed to grow until harvest, so the good grain won’t get ripped out accidentally. Then, after both the wheat and the tares are harvested together, the tares are separated off and thrown into the fire to be burned. This, then, provides the basis, actually the reinforcement, of a belief system which suggests that believers — the wheat — are going to heaven when they die, and the unsaved — who are represented by the tares — are going to burn in hell.” His lecture is being delivered to an audience on the ceiling and evidently only visible to Dan.
“Naturally, the Christian, whose future appears secure according to this theory, will see himself as better off than the poor, unsaved person whose fate awaits him in an eternally burning hell. Still, believers are almost universally taught to feel some sort of compassion for these condemned souls, so they strive to get them saved by offering them a particular flavor of salvation. And they believe that potential converts hearing their message will want to buy-in if they know what’s good for them. But here’s the rub: The whole idea that we live in a world where the good people oppose the evil people spawns a sense of self-righteousness among Christians. They consequently see themselves as better off than everyone else.”
“That point is made clear everyday in the real world, I will admit, but you’re getting awfully deep for this late hour, Dan.” I throw in an appeal, “I hope there won’t be a test afterward.”
“After what: the evening, your life, the end of the world, a point when time fades into eternity? This stuff is complicated, Chip, but remember — you asked the question.”
“Well you can skip the meaning of life for the moment, Dan. Just get to the point.”
“Okay then, back to the parable. Alternatively, let’s say that the wheat is God’s spirit and the tares are the human, corrupted spirit, and that they are both inside the same person, which is represented by the field. In this case God, the farmer / creator obviously has responsibility for both. The question then becomes: Which individuals will allow God’s spirit to grow and thrive within them, and which individuals will permit the tares to choke out the good grain, rendering them unfruitful as human beings? In the end, when both are harvested together, the tares will be burned. And if that is all your life has been able to yield… Well, perhaps it’s best if you draw your own conclusions.”
Dan’s dissertation has taken on the aura of a golf lesson right out of Caddyshack. Maybe it’s just late, but I’m not grasping what he is implying. I think it would be easier to “be the ball.”
“That is certainly thought provoking, Dan. But I’ve been wondering, perhaps I should drop by Rierdon’s church one Sunday morning to get a better handle on what he really believes. What do you think?”
“Well, if you can learn anything valuable in one visit, I’d be both surprised and impressed. Rierdon has had an entire lifetime of programming.” Dan gazes more directly at me. “Look, Chip, I would not want to tell you how to do your job, but I don’t think you’ll find a story there. You may, however, get saved.” He chuckles.
“Not likely.” I retort.
“How can you be so sure there’s no point investigating, Dan?” Maryanne asks.
He re-assumes his professorial address. “Oh, I’d say if I’m sure of anything it’s that the Sunday church service script could be written by any one of us, and besides, all of the attendees will naturally be wearing their Sunday-best, put-on dispositions. Not that they plan it that way; it’s just habit.”
“Holy cow, and I thought I was the skeptic.” But, reflecting upon the idea, I realize that Dan has hit upon an important point. “I guess we’re really just like them, though, when you think about it. We’ve got our minds made up, so don’t confuse us with the facts.”
“Well, I do anyway, Chip. The typical church scene is not for me anymore. But if you want to test your theory, go ahead and visit. It can’t hurt. Maryanne can accompany you for moral support.”
Dan suddenly looks somber and reflective. “Here is the sad truth. At least from my experience, Jesus Christ, who they all profess to be living among them, will be hard to find in their ritualistic approach to worship.”
Maryanne senses his remorse and responds, “Sounds like a colossal waste of time and energy.”
“And life,” I add.