One.6 - Saint Marks 1

Thursday is my day to visit Saint Mark’s—a home for aged Lutherans and so I always double my dose of Prozac. That and a triple espresso are the only things that keep me from the fetal position on Thursdays.

Saint Marks is a one story building that hides itself among houses of an older neighborhood. Twisted trees mark entrance, like petrified flames, yes, just like those flaming swords from Genesis but even God knows that this no Eden. My custom is to walk around the block three times before going inside. Everything in threes: the trinity, three strikes and you’re out, on the third day he rose again, Groucho, Harpo and Chico and Barbie’s measurements: 39-23-33.

Crows fly overhead like black angels hovering over an upside down graveyard and I’m suddenly overcome by my grandmother’s Catholicism and I stretch my arms out, open my palms in a likeness of Saint Francis of Assisi and for a moment I believe that birds will come down and land on my arms. Belief, like those arching and aching gray clouds is a moment that passes in silence.

Finally I’m able to drag myself toward the entrance of Saint Marks. The first smells are the most difficult to take. The suffering, smothering heat saturated with the smell of urine hangs in the air and is there is no escaping it. Dying smells and I start believing that it’s infectious, that with each breath I take I’m aging 10-years at a time, wasting and withering away with each step.

Like children, the elderly gaze curiously but cautiously toward any new visitor. Perhaps, they’re hoping that one day maybe Jesus will use this same door to come and get them, take them home. It’s like a waiting room for some kind of crazy death camp. Ah, how many more days of disappointment? It disturbs me to witness how the old cling so greedily to life as if one more day will do them any good. It’s simply stubbornness that keeps them alive now. Of course advertising has sold us so much on life that death seems like such a rude interruption; as if we should feel guilty for dying.

At church we sell death. However, heavens charms must be wearing thin, as it seems that life continues to find new ways to keep people from wanting to die—even after they’re dead. I would be the first to admit that the church has not been as aggressive as it could be as far as selling the benefits of death and the life thereafter. But it’s difficult, especially with the onslaught of medical devices to keep people alive beyond their capacity. We’ve entered the Frankenstein era of medicine and as long as there is one breath left they’ll keep you alive. What is the going rate for life these days? The tax advantages definitely belong to the dead.

Helen’s room is my first stop. She has Alzheimer’s, which must be the cruelest disease in the world and most recently she’s suffered from a stroke which has left her mute. When I step into her room it feels like a sauna and I know that I’m going to lose at least five pounds, which my small frame cannot afford. Helen has never acknowledged my presence, although I’ve tried desperately to connect with her. I sit down next to her, open my Bible and begin to read. As usual she doesn’t respond. It’s frustrating and I wonder what the goddamn point of it all is? She isn’t listening or interested and either am I. We’re dying of boredom. Until…I looked and I saw him, The Cat in the Hat and he said to me, “Why do you sit there like that?” It gives me an idea.

“The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play.

So we sat in the ark all that cold, wet day.

I sat there with Noah, we sat there we two,

And I said, “How I wish there was something to do.”

Too wet to go out, too wet to play ball.

So we sat in the ark and did nothing at all.

And all we could do is to sit, sit, sit.

And we did not like it, not one little bit.

And then something went bump.

How that bump made us jump.

We looked and we saw him step in on the mat.

We looked and we saw him, it was God in a hat.

And He said to us, “Why do you sit there like that?”

I know it is wet and the sun in not sunny,

But we can have lots of good fun that is funny.”

She smiled. She actually smiled. I couldn’t believe it but Helen heard me and she smiled.

“What are you doing, Alexander,” a whispering voice asked.

I turned slowly and saw Nurse Judy looking at me with an expression of utter confusion and contempt. “I, I’m reading to Helen.” I paused to recover. “She smiled, Judy. Helen smiled.”

“Really? So does Pastor John know that you’re coming over here and reading people nursery rhymes rather than the Bible?”

Jesus. “Of course not but she smiled. She’s never even acknowledged me before this. Isn’t that worth something? That she can still smile?”

“It’s probably just gas.” Judy waddled over towards Helen and leaned over her fragile body, nearly suffocating her with her enormous breasts, and adjusted the covers that needed no adjusting. “I think you’ve read enough for today, Alexander,” she said, smiling quickly withdrawing the smile in one swift motion before she left the room.

I looked at Helen. My God, she’s been a little girl, a young woman, a wife, a mother and now what? This—this is the best we can do? I looked heavenward, as if God is simply floating above our heads waiting to be beckoned like some mindful parent. I looked up but heard nothing but the murmur of the heat register. It’s a halo and a hell no for your troubles in this world and God only knows about the next one. I leaned over and kissed Helen on the forehead and as I lifted my head up she smiled again; like some minor miracle and maybe God’s just teasing.

“Goodbye, Helen.” I couldn’t look back for fear of tears or turning into a pillar of salt.

One.5 - If a Body Catch a Body

My father is dying. He called from his home out west. That place he ran to after leaving our family; missing the Gold Rush by a mere 120-years. He said he’d had a cold that he couldn’t rid of. He couldn’t shake this cough. He smokes so what’s so impossible or crazy about a cough?

The doctor told him—Cancer. Lung cancer. Jesus, who in their lives has not heard that word and then felt like they’ve been hit in the gut by a goddamn gorilla or something? The word itself, “cancer” is a disease ridden word. Speaking it almost makes you ill, which is why we have the strange habit of whispering it.

“Did you hear?” And the whispering of, “cancer.” As if whispering it lessens our own chances of getting it. But that’s how powerful this one word is.

My father called me. He’s sounded distant as if we were talking into tin cans with a string between them. It’s a dead echo. His voice sounds contaminated by a lifetime of Almosts that can’t bear to be repeated. He says “cancer,” and my mind wanders off into some mental wilderness where, without a compass or any Boy Scout badges, I’m quickly lost. Moss grows on the north side of a tree—what the hell does that mean? And moss makes me think of cancer; some green, spongy crap that grows on things until it takes over completely. Finally, as I stumble out from my mental wilderness, I hear my dad say something about one lung. That a person can live with one lung. Take out the bad one and leave in the good one. One lung? I can’t even imagine that. Your breathing would be all lopsided. It’s too strange to think about. Can you limp with one lung?

We talk about some other things that we really have no business talking about. He’s got cancer and we’re chit-chatting about The Catcher in the Rye. Really, this is what people do? And I think, ‘Yeah, it’s exactly what we do because we’re all crazy as hell and we’re all afraid of this word and what it means.’ I could call my mother and tell her that I’m seriously considering suicide and before I know what the hell is going on she’d be asking me if I’ve tried those glazed donuts from Kwik Trip. We’re all crazy that way. Especially when it comes to dying. We have funerals and as soon as they’re over we descend to the basement of churches and eat ham sandwiches and Jell-O.

My father and I finally say an awkward goodbye. From his tin can he promises to call as soon as finds out more information. The string gets cut and it’s a slow dying silence that fills me from the inside out and falls heavily over my apartment. I wander aimlessly, picking things up, putting them back down someplace else as if I’m unconsciously redecorating. Finally, I walk over the bookshelf and scan the tattered titles before I find it. The Catcher in the Rye. I sit down in my favorite chair and start reading. It’s my favorite because it’s so wide that I can get in the fetal position. I’m reading, I’m hoping, I’m wishing and I’m thinking that I’m on the edge of some crazy cliff in this giant field of rye but knowing the whole damn time that I’ll never be able to catch and rescue that dying man on the other end of that tin can.

One.4 - Angels and Bombs

The air is cool, fragrant with the smell of wet leaves. I walk slowly toward the church, although by nature I’m more inclined to running or fleeing depending on who’s chasing me.

I walk slowly but still find myself gaining ground on my destination and as the church tower clock winds on before my eyes I think of how my life is passing before me and that it’s going so slow. At this rate I’ll live forever. Once again I find myself on the edge of that life-questioning cliff—a lamenters paradise really, where you can walk along the edge and gaze deep into the abyss but you never have to jump. Yes, always stepping out onto the ledge and then, as if someone is really holding me back, I decry the fact that I cannot jump. Yes, that my fate is to live and only the lucky ones get to leap.

I attempt to rein in my feelings, to pull myself together but all I can think of is this feeling of impending doom or worse—an impending sense of nothing.

The church itself is a beautiful building made of pale stone and it looks more Catholic than Protestant in design. To me, most Protestant churches resemble barns or some kind of out buildings scattered about the farmyard. Something of a “sheep to the slaughter” kind of thing that makes me nauseous with all the blood and guts. I would have never made it as a doctor. My high school biology teacher exempted me from dissecting a frog after I passed out from the smell of formaldehyde.

However, Saint Olaf rises boldly toward the shadowy sky like a fortress with its peaks and arched windows. It amazes me when I see a church that seems to contain all of the spirituality of its congregation within its walls and how it can articulate that reverence to the masses that pass by it each day. Even when you walk in the nave of Saint Olaf it has that heavy Catholic silence—the kind that hangs over the pews from the high, arched ceiling and almost breathes. My grandmother was Catholic and I can remember that brooding stillness whenever she brought me to Mass with her; it felt as if God Himself was floating above you and breathing heavily; or perhaps it was a bored sigh.

When I do finally make it inside of the church, the receptionist and niece of Pastor John, one Sarah Beckett, greets me coldly. She’s a lovely little number who’s either an angel or a bomb depending on how you interpret the ticking noise you hear when you walk past her desk. She disregards me in a way that at first I mistook it for attraction. Ah, yes one of those relationship fantasies that drifts in and out of my cruel brain like the tide, yet only threaten to drown me. However, I have since learned through various forms of non-verbal communication that it is simply disregard. Not only does she not like me, she avoids me whenever she can. She is an attractive young woman with her high cheekbones and blonde hair that creeps about her neckline. She has a classic look. I imagine her coming straight from a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. I also imagine her being shot from a cannon—ah, to see her flaming figure fly. She puts the boot into beauty and the cut into cutey and her perfume lingers just long enough for wanting, although I do temper my desire for her with a song as I approach her desk:

“He’s feeling naughty in his patent leather boots

He’s a playboy with a handgun that never shoots

She’s an eastern European with a figure that could kill

And he’s hoping she’ll molest him but he knows she never will…”

Ah, yes I forgot to mention that I’m currently at work on a songbook as well: Songs for Dictators and Lovers. Indeed, I keep plenty of irons on the fire—now if I could only find a match. The songbook is inspired by the war in Iraq but will also draw from other world conflicts and be spiced up with a heavy dose of the many flavors of love. It’s difficult not to get caught up in the spirit of our country’s newfound spirit of colonialism, although I’m somewhat uncomfortable about the armbands for our Muslim citizens. It’s like the crusades all over again and I wonder each time I pass by a Muslim woman if she’s wearing that veil to hide her laughter or contempt. In the end it’s up to God I suppose to decide who gets in and who stays out so I should remember that I’m in the business of religion and not politics.

One.3 - The Norwegian Mafia

I work as the assistant pastor of Saint Olaf Lutheran Church in Saint Paul. The church is located on the campus of Martin Luther Seminary, where I spent two years grinding my spiritual axe. I am the holy ghost of the churches trinity with Pastor John Nielson playing the role of father and his son, Sean, well, playing the role of the son. It’s like being a member of the Norwegian mafia and we’ve got a stronghold on Lutheran souls in Saint Paul. Of course, everything is a number’s game and the soul is just another racket. Its import and export, heaven and earth are full of your glory but everything in between is up for grabs.

The Nielson’s believe in the benefits of weightlifting which gives them uncharacteristically large torsos while their legs remain normal size—like cartoon superheroes and they wear the strain of their heavy lifting upon their handsome faces at all times. Pastor John is a fine figure of a man and handsome too. He has the look of a dignified business man with his nice suits and slicked back, graying hair. He is sort of a celebrity in the Lutheran world, well known for his passionate sermons that are televised weekly. Admittedly, he does offer a rare combination of knowledge and persuasion, while his looks see and close the deal. He is the Elvis of my world because even with my ability to remain aloof of most persons of position, I find myself taken with his charismatic personality.

The church is Pastor John’s private business. Everything in our world is now business and must be taken seriously. The church provides goods and services for a price; the exact sum however, remains a mystery until the end. I’m certain that Jesus has a spreadsheet to his make his own return more efficient complete with a labeling system which, perhaps is color coded. I can see the last day turning into mass confusion and God’s sakes, can we risk that one soul not intended for heaven to slip through the cracks? Or worse, another soul, worthy of God’s highest honor being overlooked and sent to Hell. Mistakes may be made but we have to forgive and forget. I mean think about it—just by the shear volume of souls one or two may be inadvertently forgotten but really, who can pass judgment.

The Nielson’s have a poetic way of uniting the spiritual and economical aspects of our large church and one must truly admire them for that. They’ve all but carved their names into the side of the building. Just a hammer and a chisel away, or a slap and a tickle; it all adds up to good clean fun and if a few souls get saved in the meantime, well then good for that.

Sean is a 34-year-old replica of his father, although less assured. When his father isn’t around he always seems to be looking for him. He also has the habit of talking through his father and when the three of us are together I have the feeling that I’m being entertained by an incredible ventriloquist and his life size dummy. When Sean’s personality does emerge beneath its wooden surface, I do see glimpses of humor and warmth but his father is quick to put the kill on those rare signs of life.

Dr. Wagner, the President of Martin Luther Seminary, assured me of my good fortune when being placed at Saint Olaf for my first year. At the end of my tour of duty I will be called to a wanting parish in need of a rare personality. It’s like franchising where I will have my own church with complete backing and support from the corporate office. To be honest, as my one year trial comes to a close I feel more prepared to sell life insurance than I do being put in charge of a parish. It’s not that I’m bitter, although I usually am, it’s the idea of something that one creates in the mind is always better than the reality which one must face. When I thought about becoming a pastor I had Jesus in mind, minus the beard, and some kind of social and spiritual relevance that would nurture my quivering soul. However, as it is, I feel more like a game show host and although the contestants leave happy, some more so than others depending on the size of their parting gift, I return to my apartment or my office empty handed, empty hearted and without any of those beautiful product models to stroke my ego.

One

Last night I had dream that I was in a rowboat with Christ. We were in the Dead Sea and I was rowing while Jesus was talking about how his father was really pressuring him to take over the family business. “You know, I, I don’t even like woodworking. All the dust and the splinters, you know, I’m just not good with my hands and hours are lousy.”

Suddenly, he stopped speaking and looked upon me in the way only Jesus can look upon you and he said, “You seemed burdened by something. Tell me what it is my brother?"

“Well,” I said, “I was just wondering if you were going to help me row?”

Most of the people I deal with as an assistant pastor believe that God is truly interested in their daily lives—helping them row. No concern is too big or too small and they believe that God hears every prayer, every request, even the ones they cannot articulate. They believe that the miraculous happens in life’s smallest events, where like a slight of hand, God reveals His goodness in the most unexpected ways. How else can one explain the good fortune of free coffee and donuts after Sunday services?

To be honest, I think of God more like Woody Allen—a neurotic Jew who wears glasses, paces the floor of Heaven incessantly while nervously rubbing His hands together and lamenting the world that He’s created. “Geezus, what, what the hell is going on down there? You know, I don’t really want to be God anymore okay? I’ve got these terrible headaches, my ears are constantly ringing, which is probably cancer or some rare neurological disease that doctors have never heard of. Does anyone else hear that ringing? (He pauses).

“It’s awful, you know, ahem, all those people running around like ants and they’re all counting on me to make life have some sort of meaning for them when , you know, I’m really just kind making it all up while I go along. Hey, did anyone else read in the Times where matter is decaying? Am I the only one who saw that? (He hears laughter). “Hey Adam, go tickle Eve someplace else, will ya.” (Watches as Adam and a scantily clad Eve exit stage left). “Although, I must admit that when I created woman, I think that I, you know, did a pretty decent job.”

It’s not that I don’t have any faith. Perhaps I simply expect too much. I believe this comes from my mother’s early expectations of me; when I was five and asked her where I’d come from she told me that I was gift from God. Since my father had left our family three-years earlier, leaving me with few distinguishable memories, I took her story to be absolutely true. This belief caused me to be a serious child, although somewhat an outcast among my peers.

As I got older and discovered the story of Jesus I felt as though I’d found the perfect role model and I quickly substituted myself in the role of Christ. When I had to write a poem in fifth grade I wrote out the Lord’s Prayer and tried to pass it off as an original work. It’s funny because even back then I knew that I wanted to either be a professional baseball player or the Pope. The fact that I wasn’t Catholic didn’t diminish my desire—The first Protestant Pope in the history of world, right? Unfortunately, not only was I not Catholic but I was not a gifted athlete either. So rather than being a player on our high school team, I become the teams first official mascot. Our nickname was the Saints and I was a real crowd pleaser to be honest, although after the first home game, the manager insisted that I no longer dress up as Jesus and stop parading around the bases in-between innings while carrying a cross.

One.2

I shower and I dress as I do each day—wearing the whole armor of God. Having my loins girt about the truth and putting on the breastplate of righteous; putting on the helmet of salvation, wielding the shield of faith and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God, and oh yes, my glasses. As I look out of my apartment window and witness the daily chaos I feel small, helpless. Or perhaps, more realistically, it’s the feeling of being under whelmed that is doing me in and I think that maybe a prayer will steady me, although I doubt it. This one way relationship with God has grown old to be honest. It seems that I do all the talking and I’m tired of hearing my own voice, especially when I’m begging. I tell myself, “I’ll make it,” and unfortunately I know that it’s true.

Yes, I know that I’ll make it but what I’m not so sure about is whether it’s faith or resignation that makes me believe this—devotion or doubt. I’m 30-years-old, that landmark year for Jesus when he decided to go out and preach. Those 40 days and 40 nights in the desert half starving to death and being tempted by the Devil being taken to the top of temple to look upon the world. At least Jesus traveled. I’ve been to Iowa and drove through Wisconsin and meanwhile, I’m still waiting to be tempted by my next door neighbor, Esme. I need an event, something to assure me that this is my true calling. I’m tired to being the one who has to carry the cross around the baseball field. I need a sign, you know, just a hint like if God would sneeze or I’d meet a homeless person that was really an angel in disguise or, you know, if I could get a date.

My first temptation came in Becky Nelson’s basement at the age of six. We sat on an old sofa and kissed until her father came downstairs and mentioned something about cleaning house. It was my first time fleeing. In high school, when I became the state fleeing champion, I could look back upon that summer afternoon in Becky’s basement when a bit of pride. Still, it seems that I’ve never overcome being in the basement in one sense or another. After my first go around at college when I became a comedian for a short while, I was always the first guy on, the cellar dweller, competing with the $4.95 fish special for the audience’s attention. There always seemed to be a Becky in the crowd and how I tried to seduce each and every one of those girls from towns like Davenport, Cedar Rapids, Omaha or Rapid City. Seduce them, bring them back to my cheap hotel room and kiss on the couch until their father’s came to get them.

As I get ready to leave, I wait for the sound of Esme’s door opening. I have been under her spell for the entire seven month’s that she’s lived here. She is broodingly beautiful; an oval, pale face cropped so neatly by her black bobbed hair—so perfectly framed, if only I could hang her on my wall. I wait twice a week, alternating days so as not be too obvious. Her boyfriend, who is one of those squarely-built guys who wears his ball cap backwards, has thwarted my attempts on more than a few occasions.

I hear her rustling about her door, wait and then finally open mine, fumble my keys for a delay until she appears in the dimly lit hallway.

“Hi, Alexander.”

“Oh, hi Esme. How are you?”

She makes a face, thinking. “Okay I guess.”

“Really? Just okay? You know I’m always miserable and then if something good happens I work my way up to being a little less miserable.”

She smiles and Jesus it’s like a flame when she smiles. “Interesting approach. What are you doing today besides saving souls?”

“I don’t actually save souls,” I explain. “I just lease them out with an option to buy. I’ve got a meeting this morning actually and then I’m visiting old people at Martin Luther Home, which is always a lovely experience.’

We’re walking down the stairs and if I had any courage at all I’d ask her to marry me right then and there. Right beside the cracked drywall and the coffee-stain on the carpet.

“Don’t you like old people?”

“Not so much. They’re like big wrinkled kids who think that because they’re old they can do whatever they want. Honestly, when I get too old and start drooling on myself and you know, can’t hear anything and am all hunched over looking like the goddamned Hunchback of Norte Dame, I hope someone has enough sense to take me out to the woods and shoot me.”

She’s smiling yet, concerned. “Did it ever occur to you that you may be in the wrong profession?”

“Once, twice maximum.” I pause for dramatic affect. “Old people are fine it’s just I don’t want to be the last person they see before they die. Every Thursday when I walk into that place there’s always that pressure weighing on me that I may be the last living person they see and I don’t even want to be the last living person I see before I die, so….”

Esme was laughing as we stepped outside. Her laughter spilling into the cool air and that laughter was like a wave I felt I could ride to some unknown happiness I’ve never known. “Good Lord, Alexander. You always make me smile. I swear I can be having the worst day and you can make me forget about it.”

I nervously rubbed my hands together, “Well, there’s not many us out there but I do what I can.”

And then, we parted. Her towards the university and me six-blocks toward the church, still riding that wave of her laughter like some crazy magic carpet. That was it. A sign from God—a beautiful young woman laughing on a cool, crisp morning. God had created woman and your damn right—it was good.