“But you’re saying this man’s salvation is something outside the norm,” Elder Redd says, “he’s saved because look at how God loves us. John 3:16, praise the Lord, praise God in His magnificence that He raises up children of Abraham from stones. You’re saying, amen, how beautiful, but we can infer, I think you’re saying, that if this man wasn’t moments from dying a horrid death on the cross he would, as he was obviously equipped with the unmerited gift of faith, proceed to follow Christ in the full, eat his Body and Blood, keep the commandments, etcetera. It’s just that in this moment, this particular moment, he could only do one thing and he did it, perfectly.”
“We’ll make a RC out of you yet, brother,” I say, slapping the table.
“I’m telling you,” Elder Redd says, “you need to join the LDS Church, immediately. We need more people like you.”
“If you guys remove the ban on coffee and beer, I’m all in.”
“Really?” Elder Redd asks, missing my attempt at humor. “That’s your one roadblock? That’s it”?
I laugh. “Sorry, I shouldn’t joke.”
A brief moment of silence passes between the three of us. The only sound in the room is Elder Sherlock’s rhythmic chomping on a donut, glaze particles visibly sticking to his upper lip.
“Guys, I don’t want to waste your time,” I say. “Although this has been anything but. I actually wish we could do it more often. The bottom line is that as devout as you are in your faith, I am in mine. I’m not one of those kind-of-Catholic Catholics, one of those I-was-raised-Catholic Catholics. Y’all know what I mean. The heresiarchs and baby-heretics, all struggling for anti-sunlight on the floor of their rainforest of error, all trying to break through and grow to the top, the same people who’d probably have been run out of town, or even burned at the stake, a couple hundred years ago now don’t even try to hide their errors; they’re proud of them. They boast about being still, you know, technically in the Church, but in reality they’re opposed to every possible teaching because well, why? Why exactly? Because like smoking cigarettes it’s cool? Is it just the same old obstinate individualism? Jonathan Livingston Seagull repackaged and reheated again and again? Anyways, although I’m definitely a scumbag, definitely a sinner, a big time sinner, I’m not one of these Catholics, okay? I mean, I believe what the Church teaches. I swallow the whole Barque whole hog, you know?”
Elder Redd has a hard to define look on his face. It’s something like puzzlement mixed with bewilderment mixed with frustration, a heavy dose of annoyance, and then at least a significant, if not thick, veneer of you’re a pompous papist ass and what are you even saying? I think this must be relative to my rant’s devolution into rainforests and razorbacks.
“When you’re talking about whole hog,” Elder Sherlock says, “you mean like a bacon sandwich?”
“As sure as you are about the truth,” I say, concluding, “so am I. We don’t have to get into all the history, all the theology, the Principle, the arguments, any of that.”
Elder Redd looks at Elder Sherlock. “Okay,” he says. “Can we leave you a pamphlet? It’s a really nice guide to any questions you might have. I even refer back to it myself from time to time and I’ve been LDS my whole life. Maybe you can take a look at it later?”
“Sure,” I say, and at that very moment an idea comes into my head. I reach into my pocket and pull out my rosary. “I’ll take your pamphlet if you take my rosary. We’ll trade, one believer to another.”
I extend the rosary and Elder Sherlock makes a start as if to reach for it. Elder Redd shoots him one of the dirtiest looks I have ever seen in my life. Elder Sherlock recoils. He places his hands back on his lap.
“Okay,” I say, “well, if you won’t take my religious item I can’t take yours. I guess that’s that.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Elder Redd says to me, “someone like you, a devout believer like you, and I can tell just talking with you this brief time someone intelligent like you…you would make an amazing member of our Church. Heavenly Father has plans for you that you can’t even imagine. All you have to do is open yourself to his will.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” I say. “The Catholic Church could use people like you. Do you know how many lukewarm, apathetic, half-taught, good for nothing Catholics there are these days? I’m sure you do know. Too many to count. These people have been given the greatest gift in the universe, Christianity in its original and full form, and what do they do with it? They don’t care. They can’t even make it to Mass once a week. But you guys, look at you guys. Your conviction and dedication is beyond question. You’ve given two years of your life, and a good two years, when most people your age are going off to college and partying and enjoying themselves, in the service of your faith. Far away from home, going door to door knowing the majority of those will be slammed in your face, and we Catholics can’t even get out of bed for Mass on Sundays.”
Elder Redd exhales. “Well, I appreciate that. But the reason we do it is because we’re messengers of the Truth. We do it, we have this commitment like you point out, because we’re spreading the restored Gospel, the true religion, the real Church of Christ.”
“That’s what I mean,” I say. “Your conviction is amazing. I can’t tell you how much I respect that. I disagree with you, but I see you guys and I think what if young Catholic men and women went on two-year missions across the world to spread the Faith? The whole world would be Catholic.”
The missionaries don’t say anything. Elder Redd is a little upset; all this work, all this talking, and for what? Elder Sherlock keeps this look of mild disinterestedness on his face the whole time, he just seems chill, certainly amiable regardless if the waters beneath the surface are shallow or deep; and I just don’t know either way. Elder Redd is coming to realize that he will get nowhere with me, this Romanish, papocentric and un-American, probably anti-Star Spangled Banner, definitely on the Utah public enemies list, heretic.
Another thought comes to me in this second brief intermission. Few religions know the teachings of other religions as well as Mormons do, another reason I have a lot of respect for them. And so within this vein I ask,
“You know what was amazing about the apparitions of Our Lady of Guadalupe?”
Elder Redd rolls his eyes and bites a knuckle.
“That was in 1531, in Mexico, right?” Elder Sherlock asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You know what was so amazing about that apparition? She converted an entire nation, millions and millions of people, just like that.” I snap my fingers, loudly, at the last word. “And you know what,” I lean forward across the table and lower my voice just a few notches, like I’m about to tell the world’s longest kept secret, “imagine if that happened in Utah: Our Lady of Nephi. The Queen of Heaven, the pink-sashed Queen, the most beautiful, most fierce, most pure and magnificent woman. Guys, not just woman but Woman, you understand? When Christ says to her at Cana, ‘Woman,’ as in ‘what’s it to me?’ about the wine running out but still he, HE, GOD, does what his Mama asks for and shows Who He is, performs His first miracle and begins his ministry specifically at her bequest, and then when the One and Same Lord and Savior says to John from the Cross, ‘Woman,” as in ‘behold your son,’ do you understand that He’s mixing Genesis and Revelation? He, the Alpha and the Omega, mixing the alpha and omega books of the Book. She is the Woman clothed with the Sun, stars on her head and the moon at her feet, she’s the one who crushes the head of that most vile Dragon. And so I’m telling you, if she comes for you guys, all of you, you’re done, you’re toast. I’m sorry, it’ll be lights out in the West, night-night time, tuck me in and cuddle me to sleep, Mommy. And then, suppose this happens, just imagine it. The Mormons, some of the best and hardest working Americans—no, the best Americans period, in my opinion—founders of the American West, quintessential Americans in just about every way, become Catholics overnight. No more Catholic raised Catholics, these converts already have all the tools to set t
he world ablaze. And, do I even have to say it?, how I wish it was already ablaze. This happens and I’m telling you the puzzle pieces fall into place fast with all of Mormon history being one great preparatory phase for the re-evangelization of the West, well, at least the stars and stripes, the US of A. It’s like John Paul II planted something out here in Denver back in the 90s. It’s like, that’s the real conspiracy to me, forget the airport.” I lean back in my seat and can’t help rubbing my hands together in some type of giddy anticipation.
“My uncle Wilbur,” Elder Sherlock says, “he says that too: You, S, of’A. But he also calls it the FROSBEATT. (the) Free Republic Of the Screaming Bald Eagles And (their) Terrifying Talons.”
Elder Redd stands up from the table and extends his hand. “Well, it was good talking to you—,” he realizes he hasn’t asked my name or, if he did, he doesn’t remember it.
“Rhett,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Nice talking to you, Rhett. And thank you for the orange juice.” He finishes his orange juice in one fell swoop, full to empty in a split second, in efficient and terrifying speed. He starts for the door and Elder Sherlock is soon after him.
They leave.
I regret that we didn’t have more time for pleasantries. They probably would have appreciated knowing that I’m from their neck of the woods, assuming these young men are, in fact, from Utah, Idaho, or Mormon Idaho; and Taysom Hill. We could have talked about him. I absolutely love watching Taysom Hill, one of these Mormon Idaho Mormons, play football.
And so like a wet dog emerging from a cool pond after a dip on a hot summer afternoon chasing in joyful exuberance after his master, I chase down the bike-riding, in full compliance with all safety regulations helmet wearing, starched shirt missionaries and tell them, basically, ‘why don’t y’all come back, right now, how about staying a few more minutes, yeah?’ This is not at all what I actually say, but indeed the Montesquieu-ed spirit of it.
Why do I invite them back in? (They agree by the way! Elder Sherlock enthusiastically so, almost breaking my ribs a la bear hug). To play some NCAA football 2002, of course. We agree to one game but end up playing five, into the early afternoon. Out of a mutually intentioned ecumenical charity, I play as BYU and the Mormons as Notre Dame. Game three is LDS missionary vs. LDS missionary with the Catholic in the stands. Elder Redd, when he loses the coin flip to play as the Cougars, looks like a kid whose candy was stolen by a guy in an Easter bunny suit who, while showing him the Easter Bunny isn’t real, tells him Santa Claus is also made up. Elder Redd is forced to be a team of Elder Sherlock’s choosing, such as the rules here. With a smile failing to hold back the deep pleasure behind it, Sherlock makes Redd play as the hated Utes from Salt Lake City.
What a very nice morning we enjoy together.
“Rhett, Rhett,” Shelby says, turning up the radio in the car, “here it is, special-dition.”
We are driving in the car on the way to Piggly Wiggly which, unfortunately, happens to be on Highway 12.
Highway 12 is bearable on game days. Everyone is on campus tailgating. It’s a little after eleven o’clock and Shelby and I are picking up some last minute items for our tailgate. Everyone else is already there.
What Shelby wants me to listen to is a special edition of the EWTN radio show Catholic Answers Live. It’s her favorite show and the network’s most popular and successful offering. Catholic Answers Live is exactly what is sounds like: a Catholic radio show (two hours long) dedicated to questions about the faith; an apologetics and evangelization program hosted by Patrick Coffin, holder of theology and philosophy degrees from McGill and Franciscan University of Steubenville. I know this because Shelby has told me. Shelby really likes Patrick Coffin. He is a good looking guy, no doubt, tall with dark hair, a Canadian forty-something cross between Gregory Peck and Archbishop Fulton Sheen. I sometimes wonder if Shelby listens to the show for the faith or for Patrick Coffin.
I once tried teasing Uwe about how much Shelby likes Patrick Coffin. I think it’s the only time I’ve ever tried teasing Uwe. It didn’t work. The man’s silent apathy is impregnable. You know, Uncle Uwe, you better watch that Aunt Shelby doesn’t run off with Patrick Coffin. Keep an eye on her, ya here? I remember Uwe giving me this look, this who is Patrick Coffin? look. Then another facial expression: who the hell cares? Fingers proceeded to unscrew top of near empty Jack Daniels bottle. Jack was poured into glass. Knocked back, hard. Ah, much better. Business as usual.
“Ooooo,” Shelby gushes as Patrick Coffin opens the segment, “that Patrick Coffin. So smart, so hann-sum! I’ever tell ya that I don’t think there’s a betta’pologist in the Church ta-day than Patrick Coffin?”
“Yes, Aunt Shelby.”
We pull into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Piggly Wiggly is now called Vowell’s Market. I’m going to stick with the original name.
“I’ever tell ya that I think Patrick Coffin should get an award from the pope?” Shelby asks, parking the car.
“Yes, Aunt Shelby.”
Everyone is at the tailgate when Shelby and I arrive: Uwe, Shannon, Parker, Austin, Bill, Anne, A.C., Konrad, and my mom and dad. My dad is playing steady QB in a two-on-two football game on some open lawn behind the tailgating. Parker and Konrad are on one team against A.C. and Austin.
My father looks kind of like Ernest Hemingway, those pictures of Hemmingway with his dark Key West tanned face under a white beard. My father is nearly six foot four. He has a strong, barrel chest, and thick arms and big hands. He has a cannon for an arm. He throws forty-yard passes without showing the slightest effort. I watch him flip a tight spiral to Austin, going over the middle, who catches it and is soon after on the receiving end of a bone crushing hit from his brother; nose onto sternum and driven up through the chin and orbital bones with the attacking party crashing onto the target and down onto the grass. Austin gets up slowly.
“Cześć, kochanie,” my mother says to me, kissing me on the cheek. My mother, although she lived in Poland until she was twenty-two and came to America without knowing one word of English—this was Communist Poland, mind you, where Russian was the second language and the backwoods dialect of those decadent Western capitalist degenerates living northwest of Comrade Fidel wasn’t taught—speaks better English than all of us. But when my mother speaks to us, and by us I mean me, Konrad, and A.C., we speak Polish. It’s strange not to.
“Cześć, Mama,” I say, “jaka była podróż?”
“Świetnie.”
She tells me Uwe and Shelby have taken them around the past day and that after spending some time with us in Starkville her and dad are going to rent a car and drive down to Pensacola, spend a few days in Mobile, and then finish in New Orleans.
“What’s up, man?” Konrad says to me, giving me a hard hug and patting me, again forcefully, across the back.
“Nothin’ much, you?”
“Yo, papi,” A.C. says, giving me a hug too.
“How you guys like Starkville?”
“It’s great,” Konrad says, “I’m pumped for the game.”
“It’s hot,” A.C. says, laughing.
“Yeah,” I say, snickering. “Can I get you guys some beers?’
“Already brought some,” Konrad says, triumphantly. “Dude, this beer I brought is so sick. Seriously, it’s crazy insane good.”
“From D.C.?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s called DC Brau. You need to try it.”
“Will do. You brought it on the airplane?” I ask, impressed.
Konrad nods, raising his chin. “You know it.”
“How?” I ask, “they let you bring beer on a plane?”
“I had to do it.” He slaps A.C. across the chest. “Anson and his Montana bear shit beer, he wasn’t gonna bring—
“Bear shit beer?” A.C. asks, “what does that even mean?”
“It means Montana beer sucks.”
We all laugh. “But that’s a lie,” A.C. says.
“You guys don’t have anything good down
here,” Konrad says to me, “I mean except women and mint juleps.”
“And trucks and country music “ I add.
“I’m still waiting for this legendary D.C. beer,” A.C. says, “Konrad hasn’t shut up about it since we’ve been here and I’m not even sure it exists.”
“Oh-ho, it exists,” Konrad says. We walk over to our tent. We say hi to Bill and Anne. Konrad pulls three DC Braus from a cooler. I’m ready to take the first plane to D.C. It is good. I drink my first like water and resolve to savor the next one or at least the fourth or fifth surely to come down the quick road.
I sit and nurse beer #2. I think about the verb “nurse.”
Sometime later Shannon shows up at the tent. She says hi and disappears into the crowd. Her perfume stays with us a little longer. If I have moments when separation from Shannon’s existence makes me forget how I truly feel about her, it is guaranteed that even two seconds in her presence makes me remember in full measure. This is puzzling, frustrating, enlivening, depressing, and above all stupe-fyingly befuddling to me all at the same time.
It’s getting closer to game time now. Almost four o’clock. Three hours to kickoff. The three of us decide to walk around.
How to describe the game day tailgating at Mississippi State? People begin placing their tents on Thursday, staking their claim to precious real estate all around campus, like homesteaders in the nineteenth century West, that will be completely gone come Saturday. This was something I loved when I was a TA. If you had a class late in the week, in the fall, there was this attitude of, let’s get through this but no one really cares, right? We’re all thinking about something more important, right? Students actually did more in the way of class participation I thought. People were not just relaxed by thinking of the upcoming game but usually in a good mood, too. Not like in the summer, the 130 degree football-free summer.
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