He showed up again,
as he does, coming in after I’d come home from work. I was long and
tired. The bone spur on my foot has been bugging me recently, causing
arthritis in my hallux, exacerbated by damage to the nerves between
my toes. But today was tolerable. Mostly. The pain and discomfort
didn’t slow me. But showered and dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt,
and a skull printed cardigan I felt better. Almost human again. I saw
his face in the window with his slightly bulging, hyperthyroid eyes –
and that drooping, lazy left eye turned slightly downward.
He came with
geologic and atmospheric convulsions. The sky trembled and the earth
rumbled. Hah. Not really. There were no earthquakes, no lightnings.
Sometimes his being here feels bigger than necessary. Slightly
dangerous. But really he’s just Gunner; he’s just a guy I know
with a slightly drooping eye. He doesn’t particularly care for me.
He is generally dismissive of me and just about everything I say. I
acknowledge it for what it is. He doesn’t worry me. Not too much. I
have my reasons for letting him stick around. They are my reasons and
nothing of his. And that is enough for me.
“Be serious,”
he said and I knew we’d begun. I didn’t yet know what it was we’d
begun, but I knew we were off. “Be serious,” he said again.
“What’s on your
mind, my brother?” I asked him.
“It’s just that
exactly,” he said. Seriously. “I am not your brother. You are a
heretic, of course. And not a Christian of any stripe. I know this.
You know this. What I don’t understand is why you continue to deny
it.”
“Because it’s
not true,” I sighed. “Do you want coffee?” He waved me off but
I poured him a cup and he accepted it. And asked for sugar…
“We come from
different traditions,” I began. “Different Christian traditions,
but…”
“No buts,” he
interjected. “You’re lost. In your natural body and in the fatty
folds of your mind, you are lost.”
He has in the
course of our brief acquaintanceship called me foolish, silly, inept,
and satanic. He’s used that one repeatedly. It’s become one of my
favorites of his accusations. He could call me contumacious, but I
doubt he knows that word. Maybe it’s a little pretentious that I
know it… “In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; in
all things, charity,” I said sipping at my own mug of coffee.
Outside the wind was ripping around the walls.
“No. No. Nope.
Nothing of Augustine,” he said setting his coffee aside. “Catholics
don’t count either.”
“Well it’s not
Augustine. It was…
“I don’t really
care who said it. It’s wrong. What fellowship does light have with
darkness? What harmony can there be between Christ and
Belial?”
“And I take it that I am Belial in this
telling?”
“What else would
you be? You openly embrace socialism. You belong to a denomination
that endorses women pastors and generally accepts abortion. You
defend Christless Muslims and the gays and trans… There’s nothing
of Christ in you. By the way,” he said picking up the coffee again.
“What’s with the skulls. On your sweater. And I saw the cow
skulls in the garden out front. You live in death. Christ is life and
you live in death.”
“Ah, just a bit
of Memento Mori, I guess.”
“It’s
devilish, is what it is. I keep saying that you are full of
inconsistent demons.”
The
wind was slashing
through the trees in the backyard. Whistling like one of Gunner’s
imagined demons.
It’s been so cold this
week. And colder still toward
the weekend. After another sip of my
coffee I said,
“No question. No
doubt. No fear for you. You are confident -cocksure- that you’ve
got theology pinned down, staked out. Lines drawn. Boundaries
permanently delineated. Truth fully and finally realized twenty
centuries after he said that the truth would set us free.”
He nodded. Smug.
Sure.
“And I am not.
Not sure. Taking truth from myth and wonder from mystery. I believe.
I believe and I doubt.”
“Exactly. This is
your error. One of your many errors. But they all stem from this
don’t they? You are full of doubt and disbelief.”
“Well, unbelief,
maybe. But not disbelief. Tell me – does all mean all?”
“What? I’m not
interested in word games with you. You twist. You wrest. And none of
it’s true.”
“No game. Does
all mean all? Does everyone mean everyone? Whosoever?”
He set his coffee
down again and prepared to respond. But I stopped him. “Nevermind.
I just realized what time it is and I need to start preparing dinner.
My wife will be home soon. Can we finish this discussion tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Sure. I
forgot – you’re the domesticated one in this house, aren’t you?
I bet you do the laundry too.”
“As a matter of
fact I do, but that’s not really either your concern or relevant to
the discussion at hand.”
I asked him to
leave. I was tired and uncomfortable. I didn’t need his harassment.
But I asked him to meet me again the next day on neutral ground. I
invited him to join me for lunch at the Family Diner just up the
road.
There, seated in
booth number 24, I waited for him. He slid into the booth and said
“Now… What were you trying to say about all not meaning all?”
“No,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“But,” he
stammered.
“Wait. Just the
silence if you please.” The waitress came by and took our orders
and we sat in silence for a few minutes.
We’d each started
into our meals when he spoke again. “What were you saying about all
not being all?”
“You’ve got it wrong, brother. All
is all. Tell me – will all who call upon the name of the Lord be
saved? Or will you deny the testimony of scripture?”
“No. Stop. You’re
twisting. You’re wresting again…”
“You believe in
the universal effects of Adam’s sin, but not of Christ’s
redemptive work? All died in Adam’s sin, and all are made alive in
Christ. Right? Right? Universal sin. Universal life. All means all.”
“What?” he sputtered, spitting out a bite of his
cheeseburger. He coughed a few times and then choked up a response.
“Universalist. Unitarian. I knew it.”
“Listen,”
I said. “I’ve told you before, I’m a Methodist. You know this.
And for the rest – I don’t know. I believe. I doubt. And all
means all even if I don’t know what that means.”
He slammed down the
last third of his burger and said, “Hell is a place, dude. A place
where the fire never goes out.” He snatched up the last of his
french fries, dunked them in ketchup and added, “Hell is a place
where the worm never dies.” He shoved the fries in his mouth and
stood up from the booth. “Remember that.”
And with that he
left the restaurant, leaving me both checks, of course.
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