by Conti, Gene;
“I’m very impressed with your analysis, Brother Francis. Let me expand on your race car example—okay?”
“Please do!” He appeared anxious to see how I would flesh it out.
“Our operator’s manual is the Bible. We don’t have to follow it, but then we could blow a rod, following your analogy. If we only believe that the Bible is a nice book that occasionally teaches some good things, and is by and large a storybook, but not a real history book, many tend to reject the whole thing out of hand.”
“Let me piggyback on my last statement, by asking you a question.”
“Okay,” Brother Francis said with a queried expression on his face.
I stood up and approached him. Looking at him with all seriousness I asked, “Can you name for me one book, any type of book—religion, philosophy, math, science, fiction or whatever—” I paused before continuing, “that you read the first few chapters and decided that the book was gibberish, stupid, or not making any sense, and yet you continued to read it?”
“Of course not! Why waste my time!” Brother Francis exclaimed, looking at me as if I were a screwball for asking such a dumb question.
“Take Genesis then, with Noah’s Flood.” I peered back at him with the same expression.
His eyes grew wide and his jaw slacked open—speechless.
“We Christians run around attempting to evangelize the pagans, the evolutionists, the atheists in our own society, telling them to believe the latter chapters, but not the first chapters. We tell them that the first chapters are only metaphor and allegory—brilliant!” I exclaimed in as sarcastic a tone as I could invoke. “And which book of the Bible is the most maligned, attacked, berated and criticized, Brother Francis?”
Looking down at his sandals, he quietly says, “Genesis.” He was silent for a moment.
“And what of the world’s largest catastrophic global geologic event in history documented in Genesis? Unfortunately it is presented as a story, or should I say fairytale.”
“Noah and the Flood.” He paused and then lamented, “Oh, my head hurts.”
“It should,” I replied. “We say metaphor and allegory, but they hear fairytale and myth. So tell me, Brother Francis, how many convicted converts are we making—especially with the youth? And I know you know the stats on this.”
His hung his head. “Overall, the numbers are dismal. By the time they hit college, 70 percent of Christians, Catholics included, have given up on the faith. And specifically with Catholics, within fifteen years after confirmation, 84 percent have turned their back on the church, and less than one in five returns later.”
“And why should they?” I asserted. “We are not answering their basic questions regarding how the universe or this planet came to be from a biblical viewpoint. If the universe truly started with a Big Bang, it also ends with a heat death.”
I continued, “You … we are literally telling the kids ‘don’t believe Genesis—how everything started, just believe the last chapters Apocalypse/Revelation.’ Minor inconsistency in our teaching, wouldn’t you say, Brother Francis?”
“You’re right, Doc. If Genesis is only metaphor and allegory, the kids figure ‘what other parts are also myth and fairytales?’”
“Truth, therefore, Brother Francis, becomes relative—one’s opinion; so why not lie, cheat, steal, covet. You only go around once in life, so make the best of it. These kids aren’t stupid. We told them real history is only learned in school, and specifically that Genesis is not real history—the Bible is a nice storybook. Then they grow up and become corrupt politicians, avaricious bankers, Simon Legreestyle owners of corporations, perverted rock and movie stars, lying media newscasters and journalists, vicious gangbangers … and we have a mess.”
Francis looked dejected. A small tear formed in his right eye. “That was me,” he entreated. “I was living only for today, like there was no tomorrow. Thank the good Lord He brought me back from the brink.”
He asked in an almost pleading voice, “Doc, you say you have evidence for all this Genesis stuff?”
“I better! If we’re wrong, then life arose by meaningless random chance processes; and government, chaos, and the guillotine will rule!” We both stared at each other, nodding our heads.
“Thad has obviously got you thinking. The trip to the fossil site and rock formations should convince you that Noah’s Flood was the real deal; the museums will then tie it all together,” I explained, smiling now at him, trying to end on a positive note.
“You give me the dates, and I’ll make sure I clear it with the Prior,” he stated with enthusiasm, now truly looking forward to this road trip.
We shook hands and I turned to leave. Suddenly he grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. “A thought just occurred to me. If Noah’s Flood formed the fossil layers, and dinosaurs are in those fossil layers, which they are, then dinosaurs didn’t die out millions of years ago!” he exclaimed, half questioning.
I just smiled at him. He didn’t let go of my shoulder as another thought occurs to him. “Job lived after the Flood, and he saw dinosaurs—right?!”
Francis, in contemplation, stared right through me while still squeezing my shoulder with his martial arts grip. He then blinked and gazed at me with a totally puzzled look. “That means that Noah had to have some of the dinosaurs on the ark with him for them to come off the ark after the flood to reproduce for Job to see them. How did those behemoths fit on the ark?”
His grip was so firm now that my arm was becoming numb.
“Brother Francis! I’m surprised at you!”
He looked at me with a very strained confused expression.
“God would have sent Noah juveniles, not lumbering old stodgy giants that needed Viagra to propagate!”
We both started to laugh. “Boy am I stupid,” he stated shaking his head. “I just can’t wait for this trip.”
“I’ll see you on the bus then.” I waved goodbye with my good arm, as I walked toward the social sciences building rubbing my sore shoulder.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
DR. MERCURIO
I crossed through the quadrangle and walked up the path to the social sciences building. Dr. Dorothy Mercurio’s office was on the second floor. Dorothy put on a good front but had a heart of gold. She was a tough bird who wore her heart on her sleeve. Although somewhat rough around the edges, people knew where they stood with her. A no-nonsense woman of integrity, she reminded me somewhat of a female Father Ed, without the collar.
Dr. Mercurio was another anachronistic icon on the campus. An attractive woman, she was probably in her late forties or early fifties, and let her gray show. She favored a ’50s style, mid-calf length print dress, usually with flowers on it. It certainly wasn’t in fashion, but I really liked it—very ladylike. She blew it however, with the sneakers. I probably never saw her with “real” shoes.
Around campus, she was always walking at a fast gait and carrying stacks of files and/or books in her arms with her glasses on top of her head. It was how she got her exercise and kept in shape. She told me once it was to counteract her chain-smoking—only in her office, however.
I climbed up the flight of stairs to the second floor and walked down the hall to her office door on the right. A small simple, glued-on plastic sign, probably from one of the office supply stores, attested as to whose office it was. Dr. Dorothy Mercurio was on the top line. The bottom line stated: Chairwoman—Department of Religious Studies and Clinical Psychology.
I knocked gently, twice. A gravely blustery voice commanded, “Enter, it’s open.”
I took my last good breath and walked in. Her office was decorated in hoarder style and five-alarm firehouse fashion. To say it was cramped would be an understatement. Piles of books and files were stacked all over the place; even the one straight-backed wooden chair for visitors was piled high.
Dorothy’s desk was no better. There was a very large glass ashtray stuffed with mountains of burnt cigarettes smoldering like a half extinc
t volcano. There was a newly lit cigarette hanging off the edge. She was working at her computer, hooked up to an old bubble-butt CRT monitor with a glass screen, that she insisted on using. She had a majestic view out her windows of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance. It was perfect for relaxing, but she was too focused on her work to notice.
“Damn thing, I hate these mechanical monsters.”
“Dorothy, when are you going to update to a touch screen?” I asked while she motioned for me to sit down. “And why don’t you ask for a proper sign to be put on your door?” I looked around for a place to sit.
“Just take that pile off the chair and place it on the floor for now,” Dorothy directed. “And you know damn well, Lucci, I don’t want a touch screen and have those regulatory bureaucratic jackasses watching me. As for the sign, if they can’t read that one, they won’t be able to read a fancy one, either.”
We have had the same discussion before. It was a little ritual we went through.
“You know that the NSA can still monitor all your transmissions, Dorothy.”
“Yeah, just like they were monitoring Hillary’s e-mails,” she exclaimed with blatant sarcasm. “Why didn’t they just ask China or Russia for copies; hell, she had a wide-open server, and in a toilet of all places! We had to wait for Wikileaks to expose her. A lot of good that did.” Her gravelly voice was still dripping with sarcasm as she continued, “And God knows, she probably compromised our national security by opening herself up to blackmail! The whole damn mess is still tied up in congressional committees. So many influential people connected to Hillary and Bill’s ‘activities’ are worried about their careers and money!” With that she pushed the keyboard away, grabbed for the cigarette in the ashtray, and sat back on her comfortable swivel chair, placing her forearms on the arms of her chair. “Okay, Lucci, what’s up?” she asked as she moved her glasses to the top of her head.
“Just wanted to touch base with you to see how it is going with Maggie. I also understand that Santi is seeing you.”
“Maggie is progressing wonderfully. I’m sure you have seen a change in her in class.”
“Dorothy, you must have a magic wand. It’s like a complete makeover with Maggie in just a matter of weeks. She’s removed the black tiger streaks from her hair, which she has also trimmed, and she’s discarded the green contacts. I didn’t even know they were contacts until she came in one day with stylish black glasses. She has beautiful blue-gray eyes. But there’s still something different about her that I can’t pin down.”
“Well, Lucci, she is dressing more conservatively.”
“That’s obvious. Conservative, but still stylish. No more wild woman. There’s something else, though.”
Realizing what I’ve missed, Dorothy smiled at me and said, “Stop thinking about it for a while … it’ll hit you.”
“So what’s your secret, Dorothy?”
“They both need some sincere love by someone they know cares … not just a bunch of pills. And they need an adult mentor. With Maggie, I had her reading the Og Mandino series of books. She really liked The Return of the Ragpicker story. Currently, both are reading Hung By the Tongue by Francis P. Martin. Santi is reading it in Spanish, at the moment. He is, however, bound and determined to learn proper English. Oh, and he’s off those SSRIs and doing just fine.”
“Really! That is awesome.”
“As you know, Maggie approached me on the day of the World Ecology flag dedication. That’s why she wasn’t there. She mentioned something important was about to take place by the flagpole, and we watched it live on her tablet. You realize that both Dietrich and Owens now want your head on a silver platter!” she said carelessly flicking some ashes on the floor.
“Well, it’s still securely on my neck, and I plan on keeping it there. And I’m not going to make it easy for them. Molon Labe is my battle cry!”
“King Leonidas you ain’t, Lucci. And you don’t have the three hundred to back you up,” she observed as she exhaled a large plume of tartar and nicotine smoke into the air.
I changed the subject back to Maggie. “Do you know, the day after the flagpole fiasco, Maggie waited until the class had arrived before entering the room? She then walked calmly up to the cussin’ jar and put her dollar in and sat down.” Dorothy was aware of what had happened between Maggie and Tom, and everyone seemed to know about my cussin’ jar.
“Let me tell you, Lucci, that took a lot of guts and class. She’ll be fine. If you can believe it, she and Maria are starting to become friends.”
I leaned forward a bit in my chair. “I need to ask you about another one of my students that I’m concerned about.”
“Which one is that?” She asked with genuine interest.
“Jude. That same day, I arrived early, and Jude and Matt were already in the room talking. Jude had a cast on his right hand and forearm from an … um … incident a couple of days earlier. As I was inquiring about how his injury was doing, I noticed he was wearing a large pentagram ring on his left hand with a horned goat on each side. Very ostentatious, the ring was black and the silver-gray symbols were raised. It had a large faux emerald stone in the center of the pentagram. He attempted to cover it when I commented that it was an unusual ring.”
“Oh yes!” Dorothy sat up with the cigarette still dangling from her mouth. “That fellow is a ticking time bomb. I’m not sure how he even got into this institution to begin with. His MMPI is a disaster.”
“Do you mean the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory?” I asked.
“Yes. I really would have liked to run the MCMI-III on him.”
“I’m unfamiliar with that one.” I responded.
“It just gives me more info on one’s psychopathology. Jude is aggressive with an underlying depressive disorder. He’s also antisocial with paranoid features. In short, watch your back, Lucci,” she warned, blowing smoke from both her nostrils.
CHAPTER FIFTY
MARX’S FRIEND
“Where does God enter into the picture with Jude?” I asked Dr. Mercurio, canvassing for an intellectual psychiatric reply.
“He doesn’t. That’s the point. Jude doesn’t want God in his life—that would make him accountable for his actions and make him feel guilty. Our modern society coddles people. Guilt! Sin! Oh, we can’t have that!” She stood up and walked to her windows; then turning to me she said, “And you do know he is a homosexual.”
“I had my suspicions,” I said shifting in my seat still uneasy with her pronouncement. “Lucci, you are looking at this with just the logic of scientific evidence. These people could care less about logic and evidence. Perish the thought. That’s why many pseudo-intellectuals vote Democratic. The Democratic Party gives them what they want— with its blessing. ‘Vote for us, and we promise to support every perverted anti-biblical lifestyle.’ Remember the Democratic National Convention of 2012?”
Dorothy gazed out her windows through the haze of accumulated cigarette smoke residue. “That’s right, I almost forgot. Their official position, as part of their platform, was to reject God. YouTube kept a video of it—‘Democrats Boo God.’”
Dorothy turned to look at me. “The Republicans aren’t any better. They play to a conservative base. Some are truly legit. But just like a small handful of Dems who believe in the Almighty, the true conservatives must toe the line or they are marginalized. Without the party support there is little money for their campaigns. Remember, it was Senator Mitch McConnell’s Republicans who continued the support for Planned Parenthood, and put the Iran Nuclear Deal over the top for Obummer. And now they have nukes. Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” She shook her head back and forth with each word, while waving her cigarette around in circles in the air.
A bit frustrated, I pleaded, “What of the constituents who do believe and want America back on a biblical footing?”
Leaning back with her arms stretched behind her and the heels of her hands on the window ledge, smoke still floating upward from the cigarette in
her mouth, she explained, “Like Vladimir Lenin’s ‘useful idiots,’ they play them like a violin for their vote.”
“What’s their goal?” I asked, seeking to understand the psychology behind the politicians thought processes.
“Lucci, for a smart guy, sometimes you are really dumb!” She proceeded to take a long drag on her cigarette, while apparently waiting for me to respond.
I just stared at her and then out the window, trying to think of some fancy psychiatric pathology behind all this.
Dorothy shook her head back and forth, frustrated with me, while a cloud of smoke enveloped her head. “Lucci!” She practically screamed at me. “What did you and Ed develop?” She always called Father Ed just Ed. “The Matrix Exposed. What is it to expose? Think!!”
I rattled the cobwebs from my brain. “Oh, yeah … a … that’s right. Money, which leads to power, and ultimately to absolute control.”
“And why are they craving for the seven deadly sins, Lucci?” She was coaching me, although she looked like a fire breathing dragon at the moment.
“They don’t want to believe in the God of the Bible.” My mind readjusted its thinking away from the psycho-babble.
“Ding, ding, ding! You win the door prize.” She feigned exhaustion and turned back to the window with her arms crossed. “And has there been a human on earth, beginning with Adam, who didn’t want to do his or her own thing? Being answerable to no one but themselves? The ’60s hippies think they started and invented that expression. The fools!”
“Dorothy, you’re right. There’s not a teenager alive who’s not bucking his parents, or should I say his or her co-creator in some way.”
She walked over to her desk and put out the butt in the ashtray, adding to the heap. Then she lit up another one and sat on the edge of the desk.