|
GI_chica
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Bethany
Country: United States
State: Maryland
Birthday: 10/28/1982
Gender: Female
Interests: Being married, making the perfect over-easy egg and pureed potato leek soup, crocheting, telling people what to do, pontificating on Jewish women's literature (it's the bomb diggity), becoming a rock star, planning my life abroad, writing literary autobiographies
Expertise: Acrobatics!
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
5/14/2002
|
|
| He's much smarter than me.(Compelling thoughts, that dovetail with much of what's been on my mind this year, and years past, as I muddle through life. Excerpted from Richard Beck's stimulating blog.)
If William James is correct that faith configurations may be more or
less existentially defensive (e.g., the contrast between the
healthy-minded and the sick soul) then is seems worthwhile to speculate
as to what a respective faith configuration feels like. In
this we are following James' phenomenological approach. In Beck (2004,
2006) I attempted to do this descriptive work, pulling from diverse
literatures regarding the religious experience to describe two modes of
faith: A existentially defensive faith called defensive religion versus a more existentially aware faith called existential religion.
Obviously, the defensive orientation parallels James' healthy minded
type while the existential orientation parallels the sick soul.
Again,
pulling from diverse theological, philosophical, and psychological
literatures (theoretical and empirical) regarding defense mechanisms, I
created the following descriptions of the defensive and existential
orientations. First, we look at the faith configuration of the
defensive orientation. Specifically, a defensive faith configuration
will generally involve five themes:
Defensive Orientation:
Special Protection: The belief that you will fare better in life (physically speaking) than others.
Special Insight: The belief that you can discern God's will clearly today and tomorrow.
Divine Solicitousness: A "butler" view of God, where God helps out with even the most trivial of our inconveniences.
Special Destiny: The belief that God has a unique and specific plan for your life.
Denial of Randomness: Seeing each detail of life as Divinely intended and purposeful.
Why
these features? Well, to feel that one is protected, guided, served,
special, and living in a well-ordered world, is, to put it mildly, a
very comforting worldview. A very cozy worldview. In short, faith
systems configured in this manner appear to be operating defensively,
repressing the confusions, pain, and difficulties of life.
To
illustrate, think through each facet of the defensive faith
configuration. Take special protection. Rather than living with the
existential truth that Christians are not differentially more healthy
or live longer, these believers think they are somehow "different." For
example, they might pray for healing or travel mercies in the face of
the evidence that Christians die of cancer or auto accidents at the
same rates as everyone else. Insurance companies don't give Christians
breaks. They simply are not protected. And that's scary. And
unsettling. And that's my point. Rather than adopt a faith in the face of this existential reality, the faith is adopted to deny this reality. The faith is a defense mechanism.
We could do this for each feature. But I think one example is unsettling enough.
In
contrast to the defensive configuration the existential believer denies
or, more precisely, doesn't endorse the belief features of the
defensive orientation:
Existential Orientation:
It rains on the just and unjust: The believer fares in life (physically speaking) the same as others.
Inscrutability: God's intentions are difficult to discern.
Divine Autonomy: God intervenes in life on his own unpredictable schedule.
Choice and Responsibility: God rarely guides life choices demanding responsibility from us.
Ubiquity of Randomness: God does not micro-manage the world. Most of the time accidents are simply that, accidents.
This,
then, is the existential orientation. Many will be put off by it. But
let me quickly hasten to say that this is only the start of the journey
toward authenticity. This is a point of faith, or a gateway. It is not
a final resting place.
Let me be more clear. For faith to be
truly authentic at one time or another the faith system must pass
through this existential gate. Why? For at this point the faith system
is doing no existential work for you. Look it over. Nothing is being
repressed. All the pain and randomness is endorsed while, at the same
time, faith exists. The faith denies nothing. It is free from the voice
of Freud's Ghost. It has stepped outside of the warm, cozy house of
defensive faith into the icy wind of existential realization. And then
it takes its coat off. And stands naked.
And in that moment, do you still believe?
For
if you do, you have, to use the phrase of the existentialists, "the
courage to be." Or, for our purposes, "the courage to believe."
After
passing through the existential gate the believer may return to
previously held convictions although it is doubtful that she will
return to a naive faith configuration. There is no fully going back.
You come back "frostbitten" to a greater or lesser degree. Some
believers might force themselves to stay out in the cold, consistently
demonstrating to themselves that they believe from free choice, not
from existential comfort or solace. Really? Who does this? Here is
Kierkegaard:
"Faith is precisely the contradiction between
the infinite passion of the individual's inwardness and the objective
uncertainty. If I am capable of grasping God objectively, I do not
believe, but precisely because I cannot do this I must believe. If
I wish to preserve myself in faith I must constantly be intent upon
holding fast the objective uncertainty, so as to remain out upon the
deep, over seventy thousand fathoms of water, still preserving my faith."
Many
wander in and out of the cold throughout the life span, verifying over
and over the authentic choice undergirding their faith.
Demonstrating again and again that they have not lost "the courage to believe." | | |
| I lied. It isn't a new weblog entry.But I'm entering some writing contests this summer, and I'm wondering two things: One, does anybody know anything about what kinds of work win writing contests? And two, does anyone think something like this might fare well (it's unfinished, by the way, and very much open to suggestions about its development)??
The Old Gray Mare Ain’t What She Wishes She Were
by Bethany G. Blanchard
Who doesn’t love the student life? I have written so many papers over the last couple of weeks, I was almost afraid my brain would start melting and dribbling out of various cranial passages. Fellow students, can I get a what what? It was really exciting, though (*nerd alert!*), getting all my thoughts out and honing them and trying not to mix metaphors (perhaps my greatest intellectual weakness).
I've been realizing of late just how inefficient I am with language most of the time—especially with that mixing metaphors business. I tend to ignore what words are actually saying and just think about my concept of what they mean. One example: a horrible line I wrote about an author who "recounts her childhood through the lens of learning Hebrew." What the heck does that mean?? How can you recount through a lens? I knew what I meant, and I was late for class and needed to print the paper out, and I knew my professor would know what I meant even though I hadn't actually said what I meant, so I didn't bother changing it. Lazy. But so often I write stuff like that without even realizing that I'm talking gibberish, as if the actual words I use are insignificant, like I was raised that way. I grew up in the age of the image, of TV and recorded music—where pictures and sounds are used to quickly reference something else and switch to the next picture or sound without any term for pondering meaning, where visual and aural productions are removed from their original context and presented in textbooks or online or on my TV in my living room. Think about the difference between listening to a gospel CD in your car on your way to a dentist's appointment, and going to a gospel concert where everyone is clapping and swaying and singing along, and someone grabs a trumpet and starts riffing on the piano theme, and someone else starts dancing in the aisle and the choir director pulls him up on stage and he dances in the midst of all the singers and musicians. Context provides meaning.
Most people call the easy removal of original context "decontextualization" which is very apt, and I love words that are apt. But that particular word emphasizes the removal of one context and doesn't give much attention to the new context. Now, obviously, textbooks and cars and living rooms don't have the contextual meanings that concert halls do—meanings rather consistent, even when considering those pesky inescapable perspectives one brings to the concert hall. Cars present aspects completely foreign to the gospel choir performance specifically, to pick up the previous example: trying to turn left onto Shore Acres Road when there's a lot of traffic, a cell phone call from Ashley about her day at work, wondering whether a trip to the grocery store is necessary after the appointment, the lingering flavor of the fluoride gel on the way home. Being so varied, it's hard to discuss their meaning on a general level. But still, those random, unrelated circumstances do provide a context which sheds a very different light on the gospel performance than the concert hall provides. I personally find the concert hall a much more meaningful context for a gospel choir than my car; sometimes the distractions suck the meaning right out. But sometimes all the unrelated experiences provide new meaning or spur new thoughts, like when the gospel choir is hollering "I've got the victory" when Ashley is telling me about the customer who cussed her out and intentionally spilled his drink onto the register counter. Makes one ponder, what does that victory actually mean in everyday life, when people are jerks and you want to punch them? And all this because that one gospel choir performance was recorded and burned into thousands of CDs, one of which I happened to buy one day when I was feeling like a soul sista and had a rare $20 bill in my wallet.
And there's also that whole issue of how poor people who can't afford the concert tickets can now hear the music in the context of their own lives. Not even gonna touch that right now.
A wiser man than I once said: "The technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition. By making many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction to meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation, it reactivates the object reproduced....[Film's] social significance, particularly in its most positive form, is inconceivable without its destructive, cathartic aspect, that is, the liquidation of the traditional value of the cultural heritage." (The wiser man is Walter Benjamin, in "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.”) Now, Benjamin was a Marxist living an increasingly horrified existence in 1930s Nazi Germany, so he had lots of reasons to be pro-the liquidation of the traditional value of the cultural heritage. You know, the masses and all. But he makes no bones about it also being destructive to certain meanings.
It's that whole idea of certain contexts being removed and in some cases liquidated that has now pervaded our culture, and for better or worse has also filtered into our concept of how the world functions and thus into how we use language. Once decontextualized, some concepts are not recontextualized but merely personalized. I find myself doing this with words: I ignore the context or specifics, the wrapping and presentation, and head straight for my interpretation of its significance—what it means to me in my life, or even at that moment. And that ultra-personalization of definition has been resoundingly ineffective. To disregard what a word has meant to the generations that came before me results so often in my words saying what I do not wish them to say. That, or they say almost nothing; often when I appropriate a word, it has been so stripped of meaning that even my personalization cannot give it deep significance. (Or perhaps they’re really revealing that I am saying nothing, though the words are trying their darndest. “Deep significance” for example. I could have used words like astute or penetrating, like purport or gravity or consequence. All of them allude to a general concept; only one of them accurately communicates my specific intention.) It's pretty ridiculous: I'm a writer who ignores words. Or maybe I’m just lazy. Either way, it's a great hindrance to my becoming a genius academic with a Ph.D. from Cambridge.
Having been so consistently exposed to writing that means almost nothing (whether I’m reading it or producing it), I find some redemption in my explorations in Jewish literature. The Jewish concept of scripture is that every word, every letter is there for a reason and means something. I’ve read pages, for example, on why it’s important that the book of Genesis begins with the Hebrew letter bet instead of the letter aleph. No minute detail goes unconsidered in the quest for meaning. It's fantastic. (That's one thing so great about a liberal arts education in general, if you take it seriously—it forces you not to be lazy with language. GOOooooOOO humanities majors!) Language cannot survive decontexualization like other artistic productions, and Jewish literature, born out of a culture obsessed with the meaning in words and in actions, never asks it to. Oh, that I would take a page from their book, goy that I am.
This befuddlement over verbal meaning, a source of much anxiety and insecurity in my quest for a well-lived life, for writing abilities, and most importantly for acceptance into grad school, is, I guess, the proverbial Man keeping me down. I thought I‘d escaped him, being middle-class and white and largely non-ethnic. But everybody has a cross to bear. Mine is obtaining a dictionary. And a reading list.
So there 'tis. Comments, suggestions, mute expressions of digust and pity? Please do not hold back.
Also, largely unrelated to this post, the following is a word of genius:
| | |
| Brain is still a-kickin'Wow. I have written so many papers over the last couple of weeks, I was almost afraid my brain would start melting and dribbling out of oraphises (oraphi? I don't even know if I'm spelling that right). Fellow students, can I get a what what? It was really exciting though (*nerd alert!*), getting all my thoughts out and honing them and trying not to mix metaphors (perhaps my greatest intellectual weakness).
I've been realizing of late just how inefficient I am with language most of the time--especially with that mixing metaphors business. I tend to ignore what words are actually saying and just think about my concept of what they mean. One example: a horrible line I wrote about an author who "recounts her childhood through the lens of learning Hebrew." What the heck does that mean?? How can you recount through a lens? I knew what I meant, and I was late for class and needed to print the paper out, and I knew my professor would know what I meant even though I hadn't actually said what I meant, so I didn't bother changing it. Lazy. But so often I write stuff like that without even realizing that I'm talking gibberish, as if the actual words I use are insignificant, like I was raised that way. I grew up in the age of the image, of TV and recorded music--where pictures and sounds are used to quickly reference something else and switch to the next picture or sound without any term for pondering meaning, where visual and aural productions are removed from their original context and presented in textbooks or online or on my TV in my living room. Think about the difference between listening to a gospel CD in your car on your way to a dentist's appointment, and going to a gospel concert where everyone is clapping and swaying and singing along, and someone grabs a trumpet and starts riffing on the piano theme, and someone else starts dancing in the aisle and the choir director pulls him up on stage and he dances in the midst of all the singers and musicians. Context provides meaning.
Most people call the easy removal of original context "decontextualization" which is very apt, and I love words that are apt. But that particular word emphasizes the removal of one context and doesn't give much attention to the new context. Now, obviously, textbooks and cars and living rooms don't have common meanings that concert halls do: beyond bringing one's perceptions and perspectives to the context, which happens everywhere and all the time, cars present aspects completely foreign to the gospel choir performance, to pick up the previous example--trying to turn left onto Shore Acres Road when there's a lot of traffic, a cell phone call from Ashley about her day at work, wondering whether a trip to the grocery store is necessary after the appointment, the lingering flavor of the flouride gel on the way home. Being so varied, it's hard to discuss their meaning on a general level. But still, those random, unrelated circumstances do provide a context which sheds a very different light on the gospel performance than the concert hall provides. I personally find the concert hall a much more meaningful context for a gospel choir than my car; sometimes the distractions suck the meaning right out. But sometimes all the unrelated experiences provide new meaning or spur new thoughts, like when the gospel choir is hollering "I've got the victory" when Ashley is telling me about the customer who cussed her out and intentionally spilled his drink onto the register counter. Makes one ponder, what does that victory actually mean in everyday life, when people are jerks and you want to punch them? And all this because that one gospel choir performance was recorded and burned into thousands of CDs, one of which I happened to buy one day when I was feeling like a soul sista and had a rare $20 bill in my wallet. And then there's also that whole issue of how poor people who can't afford the concert tickets can now hear the music in the context of their own lives.
A wiser man than I once said: "The technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition. By making many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction to meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation, it reactivates the object reproduced....[Film's] social significance, particularly in its most positive form, is inconceivable without its destructive, cathartic aspect, that is, the liquidation of the traditional value of the cultural heritage." (The wiser man is Walter Benjamin, in "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" [embarrassment avoidance: Benjamin is pronounced "ben-yah-meen"].) Now, Benjamin was a Marxist living an increasingly horrified existence in 1930s Nazi Germany, so he had lots of reasons to be pro-the liquidation of the traditional value of the cultural heritage. You know, the masses and all. But he makes no bones about it also being destructive to certain meanings.
It's that whole idea of certain contexts being removed and in some cases liquidated that has now pervaded our culture, for better or worse, that I think has filtered into our concept of how the world functions and thus into how we use language. I find myself doing this with words: I ignore the context or specifics, the wrapping and presentation, and head straight for my interpretation of its significance--what it means to me in my life, or even at that moment. It's pretty ridiculous--I'm a writer who ignores words. It's a great hindrance to my becoming a genius academic with a PhD from Cambridge. I think this whole issue is one reason I so appreciate my explorations in Jewish studies. The Jewish concept of scripture is that every word, every letter is there for a reason and means something. No minute detail goes unconsidered in the quest for meaning. It's fantastic. That's one thing so great about higher education in general, if you take it seriously--it forces you not to be lazy with language. GOOooooOOO English majors!
So there are my thoughts for the day, the source of much anxiety and insecurity in my quest for a well-lived life, for writing abilities, for acceptance into grad school. Also, pretty everybody who answered my song quiz from about five years ago answered with approximately the same level of correctness, so you all get a CD. Xanga message/email me your addresses, so I can mail it to you! And anybody else who wants a mix CD.
| | |
| Prize!So the short story post dive bombed. I was afraid of that, as it looks intimidating. But in reality it's a very short story (less than two real life pages) and it's very good, especially for anyone who's ever struggled with doubt and faith. Go ahead. Give it a whirl. It made me cry, if that prods anyone. 
Today, though, I'm going for an interactive post. I've been thinking of my life lately in terms of song lyrics, which isn't unusual--but I thought it might be fun to actually post myself through someone else's poetry today. The interesting thing (to me...) is how I often find myself in the same old songs even though my life has changed so much in the past three months...but then again, I still work at Starbucks, I still go to school, and I still go to and work for the same church, so how different can I really be?
Anyhoo, enough of this boring meandering through my self-obsessed brain. Here's the fun part: whoever correctly guesses two or more of the songs (and their performers) from which the following lyrics are derived gets a free B-licious mix CD! (No lyric googling allowed. That takes the fun out.) I won't make you speculate on what the lyrics mean to me... But if you find yourself in these lyrics, and you describe to me how they've hit home, you'll also get a free B-licious mix CD! Yay! I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with... My next post will include the answers to which songs I used. If you don't like either option, but you want a free B-licious mix CD! then how's about you write me a really convincing argument on why I should send you one anyway (anyone who's had to deal with college professors should be really good at this--but you're certainly not limited by that particular skill set). If you don't want to comment or post your responses, just shanga message me.
Here it goes!
1)
Been running so hard
When what I need is to unwind
The voice of reason
Is one I left so far behind
I waited so long
So long to play this part
And just remembered
That I'd forgotten about my heart
Head over heels
Where should I go
Can't stop myself
Outta control
Head over heels
No time to think
Looks like
The whole world's out of sync
2)
Whatever you want to do
Is all right with me
'Cause you make me feel so brand new
And I want to spend my life with you
Since we've been together
Loving you forever
Is what I need
3)
Feel that you've gone astray
The righteous on a one-way trail
One that leads you here
Feel like I want to stay
And make you understand me
Oh cause fear doesn't live around here
4)
i knew then it would be
a life long thing
but i didn't know that we
we could break a silver lining
and i'm so sad
like a good book
i can't put this day back
a sorta fairytale
with you
5)
I stared a century thinking this will never change
As I hesitated, time rushed onwards without me
Too scared to break the spell, too small to take a fall
But the Absolute luck is, love is in our hearts
I lost some hours thinking of it
I need the strength to go and get what I want
I lost a lifetime thinking of it
and lost an era daydreaming like I do
6)
Everything is free now,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever loved,
I'm going to give it away.
Someone hit the big score.
They figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.
I never minded working hard,
It's who I'm working for.
Every day I wake up,
Hummin a song.
If there's something that you want to hear,
You can sing it yourself.
Someone hit the big score,
And I figured it out,
That I'm gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.
There's only so much you can learn in one place
7)
The more that I wait, the more time that I waste
I havn't got much time to waste
It's time to make my way
Are you ready to jump
Get ready to jump
Don't ever look back oh baby
Life's gonna drop you down like the limbs of a tree
It sways and it swings and it bends until it makes you see
I'll work and I'll fight till I find a place of my own
It sways and it swings and it bends until you make it your own
8) While you make pretty speeches
I'm being cut to shreds
You feed me to the lions
A delicate balance
And this just feels like spinning plates 9) I need love. It is patience, it is kindness.
I need love. It is rain after the dryness.
I need love. Sister Wisdom, help me see
It's the one thing that I need.
The only thing that I need.
10)
You know my wandering days are over Does that mean that Im getting boring? You tell me Im tired of listening to myself now You know my bip-bopping days are over I hung my boots up and then retired from the disco floor Now the centre of my so called being is The space between your bed and wardrobe with the louvre doors 11)
I don't understand about complementary colors
And what they say
Side by side they both get bright
Together they both get gray
But he's been pretty much yellow
And I've been kinda blue
But all I can see is
Red, red, red, red, red now
What am I gonna do
12)
So you lost your trust
And you never should have
And you never should have
But don't break your back
If you ever see this
But don't answer that
In a bullet proof vest
With the windows all closed
I'll be doing my best
And I'll see you soon 13) When the Lord rings my front door And asks me what I got to show Besides the dust in my pockets And the things that just eat away my soul Strange apparition Haunting my brain 14)
you're up with the sunrise
and down when the work's been done
with excellence industry
diligence naturally
i would like to be you
just for a few habit-forming years
laziness cuts me like fine cutlery
i need a miracle - someone to help me sweet jesus, i need you
forgive me this sin
not hookers or heroin, gambling or gin
it sounds so ridiculous, but i just can't lick this
i need a miracle - someone to help me help myself 15) Oh great sights upon this state! Hallelu–
Wonders bright, and rivers, lake. Hallelu–
Trail of Tears and Horseshoe Lake. Hallelu–
trusting things beyond mistake. Hallelu–
We were in love, we were in love
Palisades palisades I can wait, I can wait
[Lamb of God, we sound the horn. Hallelujah!
To us your ghost is born. Hallelu–]
16) Born stubborn me
Will always be
Before you count
One two three
I will have grown my own private branch
Of this tree
You gardener
You discipliner
I never thought I would compromise
I never thought I would compromise
I never thought I would compromise 17)
I will surprise you sometime
I'll come around
I will surprise you sometime
I'll come around
when you're down
| | |
| What God would sayThis might be illegal...
"The Expert on God" by John l'Heureux:
From the start faith had been a problem for him, and his recent ordination had changed almost nothing. His doubts were simply more appropriate to the priesthood now. That was the only difference.
As a child of ten he was saying his evening prayers when it suddenly struck him that Catholics believed in three gods, God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. He blushed and covered his face. What if the kids school found out? They were Protestants, and therefore wrong, but at least they had only one God. Instantly it came to him that there were three Persons in one God. It was a mystery. He was very embarrassed but very relieved, and he actually looked around to see if anyone had heard his thoughts, and for the rest of his life it remained for him a moment of great shame. At eighteen, when he entered the Jesuits, he got up the courage and told this story to his confessor, who laughed. Matters of faith, he decided then, were better kept secret.
There were other doubts. He doubted Christ's presence in the Eucharist. He prayed for faith, and some kind of faith came to him, because he left off doubting the Eucharist and moved on to other matters: the virginity of Mary, the divinity of Christ, and then later the humanity of Christ. At one time or another, he doubted every article of belief, but only for a while, and only one at a time. Faith demanded a different response to each mystery, he discovered, but doubt was always the same. The initial onslaught of doubt lasted for only a moment, a quick and breathtaking conviction that none of it was true, and then that conviction itself surrendered to doubt, leaving an awful lingering unspeakable ache.
In the end he doubted the love of God, and that doubt did not pass.
He was a popular priest but he had no friends. He kept other Jesuits at a distance, he forced them away. He had no time for intimacies of his own kind, caught up as he was in his assault on God. He prayed for faith. And when that did not come, he went on anyway, teaching, preaching, saying Mass at the odd parish whenever he was asked. That is how things stood with him on the day of the accident.
It was Christmas Day, not because Christmas is symbolic, but because that is when it happened. Snow had fallen for nearly a week, and then on Christmas Eve there had been hail and then rain and then a sudden freeze. The streets were ready.
He had said Mass at Our Lady of Victories and was driving back to the Jesuit house. It was almost noon and the sun was high. "It doesn't matter," he said. The air was clear and the day was bright after all that snow, and as he drove through the vast open countryside, he marveled again at the absence of God. "It doesn't matter anymore."
He had very nearly achieved a kind of trance, staring at the sun on the ice, trying to obliterate all thought. Suddenly, off to the side of the road, he saw a dark blue car turned half on its side and three boys huddled near it, looking at him as if he might be bringing help. He braked quickly, skidded in a half turn, and came to a stop. It was then that he noticed the tiny red sports car in the field on the opposite side of the road. It was crumpled nearly in two. The priest looked at the boys, but they only looked back, stunned. Finally one of them pointed to the red sports car.
He scrabbled through the glove compartment until he found the little vial of holy oils. He sprinted towards the car, following the wild track it had made as it spun through the snow, and when he got to it, he was not surprised to see the front end was completely demolished. He stooped and looked through the shattered window. The driver had been thrown to the side; the dashboard, crumpled back into the car, had pinned him, head down, in the passenger seat. The door hung on a single hinge, open a few inches but not wide enough for he priest to get in. The door would not give and he could not force it to open wider. He looked around a moment for help and saw that of course there was no one; the boys huddling together across the street were too stupefied to help--or maybe they were injured, for all he knew.
He put the vial of oils in his pocket and jogged rapidly around the car. There was no way in. Somebody was inside, dying perhaps, and though he was only a few inches away, he could not reach him. It was maddening. He struck the car first with his fist and sobbed suddenly in anger and frustration. Desperate then, he braced his back against the side of the car, pushing outward on the broken door and twisting, half crazy, until the hinge gave way. He squeezed himself into the car behind the driver's seat. He could hear a kind of gurgling sound from the man trapped beneath the dashboard. He edged across until he was behind the passenger seat and, with what strength he could muster, he pulled back on it until it snapped and broke loose. He climbed onto it so that he was behind the body. He squatted, doubled up, hunched over, scarcely able to breathe, but at last he got his arms around the body and eased it free of the dashboard.
It was a boy, in his new car, and he was still alive, or nearly. He made a sound that might have been a sigh or a groan. Blood trickled from his mouth. Still he did not die.
The priest held him in his arms. Crushed himself, he nonetheless managed to get the oils from his pocket and to wet his thumb with them and to place his thumb on the boy's bloody forehead, saying, "I absolve you from all your sins. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Then he was silent.
There was no sound from outside the car, no ambulance wail, no curious viewers. They were in the middle of nowhere, he and this dying boy he held in his arms. He had touched the boy with the holy oils and he had offered him absolution for his sins, and something should have happened by now. Someone should have come to help. The boy should have died. Something. But there was silence only, and the boy's harsh, half-choked breathing.
He began to pray aloud, which struck him as foolish: to be holding a dying boy in his arms and reciting rote prayers about our father in heaven, about holy Mary, mother of God. What could he do? what could he say at such a moment? what would God do at such a moment, if there was a God? "Well do it," he said aloud, and heard the fury in his voice. "Say something." But there was silence from heaven.
His doubts became certainty and he said, "It doesn't matter," but it did matter and he knew it. What could anyone say to this crushed, dying thing, he wondered. What would God say if he cared as much as I?
He shook with an involuntary sob then, and as he did, the boy shuddered in agony and choked on the blood that had begun to pour from his mouth. The priest could see death beginning to ease across the boy's face. And still he could say nothing.
The boy turned--some dying reflex--and his head tilted in the priest's arms, trusting, like a lover. And at once the priest, faithless, unrepentant, gave up his prayers and bent down to him and whispered, fierce and burning, "I love you," and continued till there was no breath, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
(From A Celestial Omnibus: Short Fiction on Faith, published Beacon Press, Boston, 1997)
| | |
|
