Читать книгу Driftless - David Rhodes - Страница 18

KEEPING A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE

WINIFRED SMITH HAD BEEN IN FULL- TIME PASTORAL MINISTRY for six years. At thirty-three, she remained confident that God had a plan for her, a purpose, but she did not yet know what it entailed. And though she eagerly anticipated the joy that would accompany embarking on her life’s mission, she avoided imagining in any detail what her future might hold—for fear vain predilections might block the Way in which unseen forces were guiding her. Allowing things to develop all by themselves would open doors of experience.

In just this manner she had been led to the Words Friends of Jesus Church and into her current circumstances. The opportunity had come unexpectedly, while she was waiting for a barber to trim her hair in a tiny three-chair shop in Cincinnati.

As the steady snipping of long-handled stainless steel scissors performed thin, rapid, rhythmic, metallic insect music, she turned the pages of limp glossy outdoors magazines. Oily smells from colored bottles on the shelf along the mirror combined with the odor of men in vinyl chairs and pictures of trophy animal heads to create a not exactly pleasant atmosphere, and her discomfort—not with the room itself so much as her condemnation of it—was reflected in her face shrinking around her eyes.

“So you attend the Bible college,” said the barber nearest to her, resuming a conversation he had attempted to start earlier. Of the three men cutting hair, this one seemed the most dedicated to establishing personal connections, and Winnie thought he might be the owner. His arms, hands, and wrists moved with an effortless, rubbery fluidity. As the youngest person in the room and the only female, she assumed she was fair game for conversation. One of the social obligations of being younger, and female, entailed letting people talk to you.

“Yes, I’ll graduate soon.”

“Congratulations to you, Ma’am,” the barber said, gesturing with his rubbery limbs. “We need good preachers and I understand there’s a shortage of them in all denominations.”

“Whether I will be good remains an open question,” said Winnie. “I will try to be.” She put down the magazine and smiled in what she hoped was a professional manner.

“As far as I’m concerned,” spoke a man sitting next to her, waiting to have his hair and beard trimmed, “women make just as good pastors as men. The Man Upstairs made both men and women and I doubt there’s a whisker’s worth of difference between them in church work.” He smiled at her in a kind manner, though his mouth seemed somewhat crooked.

Winnie attempted to ignore the problems caused for women in the church when even those men in favor of gender equality thought in terms of men upstairs and measured the lack of difference between men and women in whiskers. She reminded herself to listen for the intention of what people say and ignore the words. And the intention seemed reasonably cheerful.

Besides, this was one of those rare opportunities for her to be available, open to others—when divine matters had been spoken of in public. As she knew, most people thought very little about God. Their busy lives consisted of eating, drinking, social climbing, fornicating, and all the attendant thoughts needed to secure perpetuity for those activities. They marched in an ultimately joyless parade of orifice functions finding expression in a complex society. Only on rare occasions did the human spirit break free from these fugacious concerns and seek a greater joy. And Winnie’s primary responsibility, as she understood it, was to nurture those moments while not intruding into other people’s privacy.

“I don’t imagine genitalia matter much,” she said, trying to look both amiable and sincere.

“You both are missing something,” said a middle-aged man with sideburns seated on the middle stool, staring at himself in the mirror. He spoke with authority, as though he was accustomed to having people listen to him. “The reason there aren’t enough preachers is that fewer and fewer people believe such rank superstition. Religion is irrelevant to the modern world.”

Winnie gathered her long skirt carefully around her hiking boots, tilted her head back, and shook it. She then remained suspended in a moment of hesitation, as though standing at the end of a high diving board from which she felt the compulsion to jump.

“Actually,” she said, leaping forward, “there has been an increase in church attendance in the past twenty years. People flock to churches because modern life leaves them longing for something more. Especially the fundamentalist and Pentecostal faiths have experienced a sustained resurgence in membership. But I’m truly interested to know what you see as superstitious.”

The man with sideburns spoke again. “Fewer and fewer people attend church on Sunday. Television evangelists have completely soured the well of religion and people now see it as just another pocketbook scam.”

Winnie laughed. “I love that phrase, ‘soured the well.’ Thank you for using it. I wonder where it comes from. The images it brings to mind are so vivid. I’m afraid, however, we must be very careful to not take our personal experiences as representative of society as a whole. If you know fewer and fewer people attending church on Sunday, it is probably due to your associating more and more with like-minded fellows. Reliable statistical data confirm that more and more people are attending. As for television evangelism, which you are right to criticize for its sometimes shameless tactics in fund-raising, it is just one more example of how people thirst for the Word in these modern times. Even the most flawed messenger can find acceptance.”

“Look around you,” the man said, gesturing with his open hands. What do you see? Over here, a leader of a church stands behind a pulpit and condemns sexual immorality and the next day is found in bed with animals. Over here, Christians maim, torture, and kill Muslims, and Muslims maim, torture, and kill Christians because of their religion. And just yesterday, out in some backwater town not far from here, a man murdered his wife and children—shot them in the head—because God told him to get them to heaven as quickly as possible. Turn over any rock and you’ll find a politician pressing his hands together in public prayer while he’s accepting bribes, cheating on his wife, and sending his neighbors’ jobs overseas. If there’s one critical imbalance in the world, it’s too much religion.”

Winnie continued to smile. “But all the examples you’ve given are of men violating religious principles, not acting in sympathy with them. You’ve cited exceptions to the general case, which is why they are put into headlines. The religions of the world offer hope in times of darkness and assurance that moral integrity is rewarded. The majority of people find courage in knowing that charity is divinely supported and goodness will eventually prevail. It helps them to be better people.”

“Then how do you explain the lack of preachers and priests?” He was now inspecting Winnie’s reflection in the mirror.

“The economy presently allows people to better provide for their families outside the ministry.”

“You mean they can make more money if they are not professional followers of Christ?”

“I suppose that would be fair to say, though your choice of words is a little harsh.”

“Then despite the growing number of people in churches, few of them let religion interfere with their material ambitions. I guess that would make them hypocrites—isn’t that the word for people who profess one thing but do another?” He smiled straight into the reflection of Winnie’s eyes in the mirror, as though to drive the final nail into her argument.

“Oh, no,” said Winnie, rising to her feet and smoothing her skirt over her narrow hips until the finely woven material fell without a fold or wrinkle to within an inch of the floor. “Serving God is not limited to working inside the church. People serve wherever they are. In whatever line of work they choose, many people are doing their part. It’s simply that fewer are choosing full-time ministry. You yourself may choose to serve God while having your hair cut. You may—”

“I see,” the man interrupted. “Then perhaps everyone at every moment is serving God. Perhaps even thieves, rapists, terrorists, murderers, and other criminals are serving God as they go about their crimes.”

The haircut concluded, and the barber unclipped the neck cloth and tipped the chair into its upright position. The man took several bills from his wallet and accepted no change. He abruptly crossed the room, opened the door, and walked outside.

Winnie went after him.

“No one can serve God while hurting others and no one can serve God unconsciously,” she said, walking briskly beside him. “That’s impossible. Service is a form of worship, and worship requires more conscious attention than anything else.”

“Being conscious of a lie and insisting everyone must believe it doesn’t strike reasonable people as reasonable,” he said.

Winnie’s long legs matched his, stride for stride. She continued: “I’m afraid you’ve committed another error in your thinking, which is common among people just beginning their spiritual journey and you should not feel badly about that. Dogmatism plays the part you are attempting to cast for belief. In truth, the same vital intuition that informs reason even further informs belief. Believers are more ardently concerned with removing the Great Lie than nonbelievers.”

Followed halfway around the block, the man stopped and turned. “Leave me alone. My parents used to talk just like you. I’ve had many very bad experiences with cruel, greedy, and ignorant people who call themselves religious. They beat you until their fists are bloody and then read from the Bible. My childhood was a nightmare of perverted religion.”

“Oh,” said Winnie, touching her face with her hands. “Oh, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t know. What you talk about is a real problem, for sure. I’m sorry. Believe me, I’m very well acquainted with nightmarish childhoods. My own was—”

“You’re a hopeless fool,” he said. “I doubt if you’ll ever amount to anything or if anyone will ever care anything about you.”

The man stepped from the curb and moved quickly through traffic to the other side of the street.

Winnie walked back. You did it again, she whispered to herself. You did it again. Why can’t you pay attention! It’s not right to intrude too far into other people’s lives. Let them say whatever they want. You must learn to respect that. You keep forgetting. How many times do you need to be whacked on the head by something you already know?

Back inside the barbershop, the older gentleman who earlier had been sitting beside her had taken the place of the man with sideburns on the elevated chair. Winnie sat down, folded her skirt carefully around her boot tops, and blushed.

The barber grinned from ear to ear. “There are some people born to preach and I believe you are one, young lady. You’ll do a bang-up job. And I know for a fact there are many churches looking for pastors. My sister, for example, attends a little church in Words, Wisconsin, which is an area so rural that God left His shoes there. They haven’t had a full-time pastor for over a year.”

“What an astonishingly odd name,” said Winnie.

In the library that evening she looked up Words, Wisconsin. Then she found an old Wisconsin map with Words on it and immediately experienced several short bursts of panic, beginning in her stomach and radiating into her extremities. The area in southwestern Wisconsin where God had left His shoes and apparently intended to send her was not far from the town that her father and mother had grown up in, as well as the place they had lived together, married, and eventually separated when she was a child. But she trusted that her guardian savior would not allow her father to hurt her again, even if he found her.

To be further satisfied that no harm would come to her, she found a telephone book for Thistlewaite County and searched for all the listings under Smith. There were of course a number of them, but none with the first name of Carl, and she assured herself that the others had no relation to her.