Deuteronomy 28:62
Friday, 19th October: Angie Merill was a Rubenesque woman of forty. Her hair was a golden cascade above a beautiful childlike face. She had had a good day. She hadn't been working. Baxter didn't like the idea of the wife of the proprietor of Merill Manufacturing having to earn a dollar. But she was on the board for the Springfield Festival and she'd been doing what she thought was a good job. One of her enterprises was to organise the annual visit of a small troop from the New York Metropolitan Opera House, who performed in Springfield's Symphony Hall each year. Today she'd finalised the details for the next visitation with her friend Jennie Moore, who was the pianist who worked with the team from the Met on their visits to Springfield. She liked spending time with Jennie. They were close friends.
That was plus number one. Then there was Baxter. For whatever reason Baxter was in a good mood. He'd been kind to her, even courteous. He had been like that when she'd married him. When they'd made love last night it had been the old Baxter, soothing her, caressing her, and she had given herself to him without reservation, and she'd not had to pretend. That was plus number two.
And then she'd felt so great physically. The pummelling she had been getting from Baxter had abated lately and she had sort of healed. The bruises were still there but she didn't ache as bad. That together with the fact that it had been a glorious summer day with enough blue in the sky to fill the ocean made for plus number three.
They'd had an early supper, some late season native corn followed by steak and salad. Then Titus started to bark. He did that, even before the door bell rang. She liked to think that the dog had sixth sense, the canine equivalent of female intuition; but Baxter said it was more likely the result of the sharper hearing of the canine species combined with the feint crunch of footsteps on gravel.
She got up. "Baxter, you expecting someone?"
"Yup."
"You didn't say."
"Nope."
She indulged him with a wry smile and went to the door.
It was Bishop O'Malley, boldly dressed in a purple shirt with a cross at his neck big enough to wave at a vampire. His hair was slicked down helping preserve the illusion of youth which he cultivated. His expression was serious.
"Please forgive me Angie but I need a private word with Baxter. Would you mind?"
"Of course not Bishop, come right in. I'll leave you boys alone in the den."
Which she did.
The den was Baxter's territory. He'd chosen the furniture. He'd fixed the walls. It was not to Angie's taste but he had a bar in there, a plasma screen television that was almost wall to wall, one of those Scandinavian stereo systems that was a teckie's dream, and stacks of copies of Playboy and National Geographic going back to the days Baxter had been in short pants. And on each of the walls, which were windowless, Baxter had huge Andy Warhol prints. The genuine article including a pastel Marilyn Munroe. Angie didn't like them one bit but she didn't tell Baxter that. And last but by no means least there was a large mahogany desk trimmed with gold-edged leather that was clear and uncluttered save for an onyx pen set with silver naked lady reaching for the sky flanked by two black pens set in holders at rakish angles.
Once Angie'd closed the door on the two of them, Baxter clasped the bishop's hand in both of his in what Baxter regarded as a man to man handshake and they both sank back into a pair of armchairs big enough to accommodate a sumo wrestler, Baxter opened the conversation.
"So what do you want Bishop?" Inquisitiveness twinkled in Baxter's friendly eyes.
The bishop smiled. "Call me Patrick. It would make me more comfortable."
"OK Patrick, what did you want?" smiled Baxter.
"God help me; I feel awkward just spitting it out."
"God help you? God help us all Bishop. Are you sure there is a God to help you?"
"Oh yes Baxter, there is a God. But he won't help me in this."
Baxter was in no mood to get to the point quickly. He was enjoying himself too much. "Why? Why is there a God I mean? If he exists seems to me he doesn't help much with anything. If God exists, who created God?"
The bishop looked startled, then he relaxed and sighed, sinking back into his chair. "I'd noticed you'd not been much in evidence Baxter. You don't attend mass often, at least I presume that's the case. Are you in trouble?"
Baxter nodded, then took another slug at his ample drink. "But never mind me bishop. You're dodging my question. Who created God?"
The bishop sighed for the second time. "Now I wouldn't want to do that Baxter. Dodge your question I mean. God created God."
"What?" said Baxter, genuinely surprised.
"And please call me Patrick."
Baxter nodded his assent. "Go on."
"Well God is eternal. Without beginning. Which is hard to grasp. It is hard for our minds to go backwards forever. Going forwards forever is easier. The scriptures tell us that the church is the bride of Christ and the product of this union will ultimately be a new heaven and a new earth. Beautiful as an idea don't you think?"
"I suppose," said Baxter, unconvinced.
"So who's to say that process does not continue, that there isn't a glorious greater purpose in all that is? For heaven read God, for earth read all creation. Everything goes on. But reborn better in the sense that it is more awesome than even this near infinite universe. Can you accept that?"
Baxter nodded. "I guess."
"So it is. And you can run the process backward in time. Or you could but for the fact that time itself is born new with each new creation."
"You've lost me now Patrick."
The bishop smiled at the acknowledgement of his Christian name. "Our problem is that we find it hard to recognise that God the Father transcends time and space. He is the Alpha and the Omega. The beginning and the end. But that is not a temporal beginning. Nor does creation, the sum total of creation, the "world without end" of our prayers, truly have an ending. Perhaps it doesn't even have a beginning."
Baxter was clearly puzzled and said so.
"Well no beginning on the grand scale. This universe had a beginning but who's to say there aren't others. Some scientists postulate the possiblility of a multiverse; many universes either side by side or concurrent. But I digress. In terms of the world we know and love, look at it this way. The Holy Spirit is God working in the world. A vibrant life force but still God, still a persona. The creeds do us a disservice when they say that the spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. That is true and less than the whole truth. The Spirit is the Pneumos Hagios of the New Testament scriptures. The accurate and literal translation is 'Holy Ghost' but the name is unfashionable. That is what the Spirit is. The very ghost of the living God. The Spirit is here with us in this world, wrenched from the body of God as a child is wrenched from its mother. The supreme God transcends time and space which is why prophecy happens, why God can know the future."
"Enough Patrick!" And Baxter was laughing out loud now. "You have truly lost me. Sufficient to say, from all of that, that you believe in God."
"I do," answered the bishop.
"Well that's good enough for me. I'll fix you and me another drink."
Which he did. And passing the glass to the bishop he said, "Now Patrick, what was your problem?"
But the bishop shook his head. "No Baxter. You go first. Something is troubling you. You said so. What is it?"
So Baxter told him. He had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. But he didn't look at the bishop's face. Instead he stared at a corner of one of the Warhol prints as he spoke. "Merill Manufacturing is going bust. I'm finished bishop. Not even sure I'll keep the house. Angie doesn't know. Oh she knows things are bad. I over extended you see." Now, almost reluctantly, he moved his whole head to match the bishop's stare, eye to eye. "Anyway it doesn't matter what I did. Point is the business is finished. Just signed the papers with the lawyers and the banks two days back. A weight off my mind. They've given it a week's grace before we tell the staff. A week to run up more debt. Ostensibly it's a week to find a buyer. It won't happen. Anyway, either way, I'm finished."
The bishop's heart went out to Baxter. He looked gravely at the broken man. He admired his stoicism. "Is there anything I can do?"
Baxter shook his head, his brow wrinkling momentarily, then he smiled. He looked at the bishop with friendly eyes. "It's really not so bad. The end of a nightmare." And Baxter laughed. "Drink up Patrick. Now it's your turn. What's your problem?"
And the bishop suppressed the hint of a frown, then smiled in turn. "Ah you can't help me. You can't help me at all Baxter. I came here to borrow money you see."
And for the second time that evening, Baxter found himself laughing. And the bishop, to do him justice, laughed with him.
1 comment:
Good for people to know.
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