Worthy Of This Great City

by Mike Miller

  Given which experience, it naturally becomes your responsibility to explore and maintain the faith, especially when that’s exactly the kind of exegesis you love, when you have a real genius for clarifying universals, clearing off the sentimentality and dogmatism and unearthing the simple truths, the useful stuff. “Because I never really understood the sacrificial aspect that everyone is supposed to just accept, the “Christ died for our sins” part. It makes no sense. It’s just an excuse, like how they used to try to explain people inventing dragons before they realized it was from finding dinosaur bones.”

  Settled in another coffee shop but by appointment this time, for a formal colloquy between spiritual heroine and faithful biographer. Only months after our summer encounter and I’d been pulled into her game after all. This was the second of our three interviews; the first and most exhaustive was at PHA - about the station, about her family. For the third we returned to PHA and environs, and she ended it by describing a nonsensical Atlantic City event.

  So anyway a couple of years back Ruth, baptized in infancy but thereafter separated from any faith, finally collected the nerve to join her church. But you see this was questionable to begin with or just too late, after so many years devoted to intent contemplation of Christian philosophy guided only by her internal sense of truth. Her instincts had by then led her to construct a fairly baroque, certainly idiosyncratic, and above all highly heretical theological edifice: not today’s lazy nonsense of an understanding, all-forgiving deity eschewing both insistence and punishment, although not absolutely not that, either. Ruth embarked on her journey back to the fold weighted down with fatal originality. Blundering in, fully expecting the experts to examine her soul but for some reason unafraid. “I felt God wanted me to return to the Church and obviously He knew what I thought.”

  She basically she lied.

  She rendezvoused with her church-appointed spiritual guide at the double glass doors of the parish elementary school; the Askews had recently and reluctantly abandoned Center City for a commodious, fifties-era fieldstone place in Chestnut Hill. Now as she reached the bottom of the few cement steps a man loomed out of the October dusk, a big, broad man past retirement age wearing a lightweight blue windbreaker, exuding decency, booming affably.

  “Hello there!” Patting her back as if this were an accepted form of special attention and Ruth, familiar with the social practices of ward politics, recognized a neighborhood player. His hair was sparse and colorless, his bland features enlarged with age and bonhomie, his bulk comforting.

  “I’m Lou.” And taking her elbow he guided her into the vestibule, dimmed at evening. Saint Pat’s Elementary was a newer building and lacked the anticipated redolence of chalk and disinfectant; designed low to the ground, it was as contemporary and unsubstantial as a small dentist’s or Realtor’s office in a strip mall, and this impersonal ambience was emphasized by the décor of low, bright blue couches against off-white walls, and beige drapes backed by artificial plants. It was so unremarkable it felt defensive, like someone was running a scam or there was anyway something modestly disreputable going on.

  “Foll-ee me, my dear.” And Lou directed her through the neutral lobby and into a corridor bearing evidence of the structure’s purpose: Halloween themed crayon drawings taped just below eye level down the hall, doors with glass on top giving onto shadowed rows of tiny desks. They traveled a fairly convoluted trail along dim, tiled hallways, Ruth of course feigning interest in the art works. Eventually descending a flight of metal stairs to an over-heated basement and almost immediately turning into a brightly lit room.

  An aggressively welcoming space, casually furnished with deep armchairs and a visibly luxurious old sofa upholstered in some durable beige plush material. There was a tiny kitchen area with a microwave and an apartment-sized refrigerator right inside the door. A small round table held a coffee maker, paper plates and cups, and an open tin of Danish butter cookies. A half dozen people were sitting around, some with refreshments, most openly nervous.

  Ruth assessed the group and settled herself on the sofa next to a lovely young Hispanic girl with a supermodel smile, clad for her introduction to the faith in a tight, low-cut knit top, an equally snug black skirt, and plentiful make-up, her mass of gleaming sable hair reaching to her tiny waist. “I’m Angie.” And she lightly touched the thigh of the young man on her other side. “This is Peter.” Then indicating the nearer armchair: “And that’s Loretta.”

  “Loretta Frank.” This was a decidedly more mature young woman, maybe in her early thirties, visible years deeply etched around her mouth and lurking in her eyes. Rising, she shook hands with a nice grip and an inappropriately meaningful expression, as if something of great moment had just passed between them. Loretta was fully as tall and sturdy as Ruth, with light brown hair in a flattering pixie cut and dark-lashed hazel eyes; she was dressed in a pearl sweater, good wool pants, and polished loafers. Sitting again, her shoes inadvertently brushed Ruth’s booted feet; both women hastily withdrew their extremities.

  “Evening.” That from Peter, wedged down in the soft depths of the sofa. He looked like an habitually courteous young man, not that you can really tell, but he was neat and unremarkable in his shirt and slacks and unbuttoned cardigan. He had a frame that seemed a bit too fragile, sweetly affectionate features, and an overall attitude that struck Ruth as inappropriately trusting, almost to that disquieting degree where you have to be careful to maintain your distance.

  Three more people sat around the tiny kitchen table: a thin, jittery blond in her thirties, an Asian woman of about the same age in a flowered cotton housedress, and an older woman of the determinedly nice breed in a peach blazer. Ruth rose, collected herself a Styrofoam cup of instant coffee doctored with enough chemicals to make it passably drinkable, considered the cookie tin but bypassed it for appearances’ sake, and settled back into the soft embrace of the sofa with an inadvertent sigh of general relief. Lou saw everyone settled, then positioned himself in a plain wood chair next to the kindly peach woman and looped a heavy arm over her shoulders. “This is Betty; her job is to keep me in line and make sure I get it right. She’s been working at that job for forty-two years, with what success you’ll be able to judge for yourselves the next few months.”

  Only months then, not years - reassuring to Ruth, the religious secret agent.

  “Well.” Lou put his hands flat on the table. “Think it’s time to talk about God?” That was Betty’s cue to assume command. She said, “Let’s all introduce ourselves, and each please explain why you made the decision to come tonight.”

  Angie was engaged and really wanted to be married in Saint Pat’s. “I’ve seen a few weddings in this church and it’s the most elegant setting you can imagine when it’s all decorated.” Peter was fulfilling a promise to his new Catholic fiancée and future stepson, so he wasn’t Angie’s intended. Loretta was a serial seeker: Eternal Word television, serious Buddhism, a dalliance with Judaism – nothing seemed to suit her soul. The high-strung blond woman was repaying a secret debt to God but declined to go into particulars.

  Their accepting eyes turning to Ruth, really interested to learn about this celebrity. “I’ve studied religion and specifically Catholicism in some depth. Religion matters to me, I take it seriously, it’s the most important thing in my life, and I’ve come to realize that the Church has consistently anticipated my own discoveries about God. I feel now as though I can maintain my faith through those times when I don’t agree with the Church.”

  “Well said, young lady.” Lou nodded gravely while examining his own clasped hands. “That’s exactly what faith means.” And Ruth sank back into the sofa cushions with a surreptitious little glance at Loretta and gulped sweet coffee as a kind of reward. Truth can be so useful.

  This isn’t my interpretation, obviously, but Ruth’s own retelling that Black Friday, reflecting on her experience. “I think I’m a pretty good interpreter of Church policy; I see layers of meaning behind stricture
s that, taken on their face, seem archaic or legalistic. You have to understand the Church as the literal body of Christ, organic and evolving. Maybe sometimes it’s not ready to accept change because the old ways have something to finish, but that’s why there’s a process of absolution or reconciliation: in order to give everyone time to catch up.”

  They toured Saint Pat’s to establish familiarity, a devout little clutch staring up into the usual shadowy, vaulted interior, running their appreciative hands along the polished pews, examining the amateurish plaster plaques depicting the stations of the cross and the unremarkable stained glass windows displaying, in that light, the dark purples and greens of bruising. Lou opened a closet to show them the huge plastic bags of communion wafers, a thousand little Styrofoam discs, and took them into the vestry to explain the ordered rows of vestments, specific costumes for each phase of the calendar.

  Back at the main church they deposed themselves on both sides of the central aisle, Lou facing them from further towards the alter, his meaty hands on the pews to either side. “When we use the term “ritual” we’re saying that everything that happens in the church has a very particular meaning and history. It’s being done to remind us of what we believe and to reinforce us in our everyday faith. When we say the Apostle’s Creed we’re stating what, as Catholics, we affirm. When we pray the Glory be to the Father we’re saying that the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are one God. In this church we believe that Mary, Jesus’ mother, was herself born free from corruption. We believe in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. As devout Catholics we believe that the consecrated Host is the physical body of Christ.”

  He leaned his backside against a pew while they reveled in the mysterious dust motes and evocative trace of incense, the tired gentility of the rose velvet kneelers and dark patterned carpet, the golden wood and racks of misaligned missals and hymnals.

  “These beliefs are mysteries; they are revealed to us, but they’re never explained to us. This is because God wants us to approach Him only through our faith.”

  Ruth shifted, although not merely at the tyranny; she could never tolerate a mystery. “I tend to think of the Holy Spirit as a kind of universal synchronicity. And grace as the measure of how our life circumstances match reality, what we want versus what’s possible.”

  Later on everything got substantially more intense, in fact almost too intimate for Ruth, who felt the drama artificial, a travesty of passion. Was authentic fervor even possible under those circumstances, God lurking so close, or only some desperate performance designed to placate the hovering deity?

  Now they were required to utilize their familiar basement haven as a confessional, to share deeply. This brought silence and tilted heads poised to jump or swiftly evade, everyone rehearsing their portion. Angie looked downright terrified; Peter sat up very straight and polite in his armchair, listening with widened eyes, while Betty nodded serious encouragement.

  Loretta spoke up impulsively, wanting it over, her eyes half closed and her hands on both chair arms to hold herself up. “I’m a cliché: no particular father, mother with a series of abusive boyfriends. When I was fourteen I took off with this guy; he did heroin so I did too. He hit me, we broke up, and for a long time I did nothing but try to survive, which means exactly what you think.”

  And she grimaced in a studied, wry manner. “Well, anyway, I was lucky: I began to have visions.” Ruth was entirely drowning in envy. “So I started to read, which I’d avoided up till then.” She used both palms to smooth down her boyish hair. “This whole experience was terrifying; I think it changed me physically, like altered my brain chemistry. I literally became someone else.” She paused a moment on this pronouncement. “My family didn’t have any idea of religion, so I started doing research, I guess. Something about Jesus always attracted me, and when I turned to Christianity and I felt this sense of welcome. That’s the best way I can describe it.”

  A respectful silence.

  “I don’t actually relate to Jesus.” Ruth offered this conversationally, as if it didn’t much matter. “Or I only relate to the idea of Him, but not the meek Jesus but the one who brings a sword. Not as Jesus, either, but as the Christ. The whole sickly-sweet Jesus embarrasses me; and then so many of the people who love that image are plain unintelligent about it, and I’m a social coward.” She sat forward and clasped her hands in front of her knees. “That kind of Christianity is too nice, and I’m not nice. I prefer God the Father, the remote, severe God. That’s how I feel, anyway.” Cautiously looking round for their reaction. (Anyway, that’s what she claims she said, but I wonder; Ruth really is a social coward and that was awfully brave and concise.)

  The class twitched and wondered how best to respond, but Lou merely nodded emphatically. “We all come to Him in our own way. He’ll take it from there.”

  Lily, the agitated blond, made her confession at the following session, sitting stiffly from beside Ruth on the sofa, speaking from within Ruth’s protection you might say, her pale hair making a sharp angle against her cheeks, her expression brittle but resolved. “You should know I didn’t come here for what you’d call religious reasons like the rest of you. I’m not convinced of any of this.” This delivered in a rapid alto, practically a low hum. “My daughter got a really bad cancer; she was three. I made a promise to God that I’d join the church if He’d help her like she wanted me to help her, but I couldn’t. It was almost hopeless, her prognosis, but then out of nowhere, like one morning she was in remission. So I’m keeping my promise.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Betty said, seeming neither troubled nor especially surprised. “Well, then we know that God wants you here for His own reasons, and that’s all we need to know. And we are so glad that your little girl better and that you are here with us.”

  Which startled Ruth into viewing ordinary, overweight Betty in the divine light of pure good will made manifest. And there was Peter catching her glance for a moment, so they nodded to each other in mutual understanding. Ruth briefly considered hugging him but didn’t.

  “But that was a very real moment.” Ruth was staring down into the dregs of her coffee, explaining all this to me. “I accept that I’ll always disagree with the Church on certain things but it doesn’t really matter. It really doesn’t, though.” That last to my skeptical expression. “If there’s one thing I know for an absolute fact, it’s that God wants me to think on my own.”

  “Really. And have you figured out how there’s a heaven without time and context? What about ultimate kindness and the victory of virtue?” But she just shrugged, unfazed. “Betty and Lou, they’re worth something. You and I both know I just bullshit and wait for the applause.”

  “You’re maybe a little facile.”

  So now after confirmation she’s drifted from the church’s more stringent rules and expectations to become a holiday Catholic at best, and she’s pretty much lost touch with her classmates. And forget about skipping the Eucharist because of not having made your confession. And forget about confession.

  She was smiling to herself that Christmastime afternoon, a little flushed from all the self-exposure, meanwhile carefully examining the tinsel garlands across the café windows, the pink wreath at the cash register and the cardboard reminders to be joyful. “Another absolutely true thing is Christmas Eve, that universal hushed expectancy. Something important happening.”

  But despite her defense of Catholicism, by then Ruth was more into New Age stuff, seeking support in the wisdom of the ages, hooked on Internet and magazine horoscopes. When did that start, that digression into sentimental, undemanding spiritualism? I don’t know because she was wisely shy about this stuff. I think she just needed specifics, certainty: what would happen, and where and when. I only found out about it at all when I happened to catch her reading this crap on her phone; being a garrulous Gemini, she launched into explanations. “I know it seems crazy but you can’t ignore the history or dismiss the coincidences. Only first you have to forget the popular misconceptio
ns, the idea that the stars control us. It’s nothing like that. It’s that everything is naturally synchronized. I mean, theoretically you could tell the future of the universe from a study of bathroom towels or restaurant menus. The difference is astrology has been charted for millennia; it’s an accessible map of the Holy Spirit. It’s about grace; it’s about moving through time accurately, with wisdom. That’s what real miracles are, they’re raising your hand and commanding the waters to part exactly when the waters are going to part anyway, except of course they wouldn’t unless you were there commanding them, because it’s always a hundred percent on each side of every event. That’s another thing people don’t really get yet, how responsibility isn’t divisible and one hundred percent on one side actually means there’s also one hundred percent on the other.”

  Even at work, even though she had sense enough to keep deleting her browsing history, continually drawn to those encouraging website truths straight from the angels and the nurturing universe, the supportive warnings and opportunistic hints delivered on a daily, weekly, monthly basis: Reject negativity, because a positive attitude attracts opportunity. Reject toxic people. You don’t exist in order to meet everyone else’s needs; your first responsibility is to live your own life. “I know! You get all that vague clichéd crap, too! You just have to learn who’s who.”