15

God-Botherers

rimettere il diavolo in inferno
– Giovanni Boccaccio, Il Decameron (Day 3, story 10)


“Putting the devil into hell.” Quite an elastic concept also, in its way. Then there’s that trick of taking a lighted match, holding it between two fingers, and letting it burn right down to the stub before you suddenly pinch it black with two pads of skin. It stings, scorches, sears (if you’re lucky).


“Gracious ladies, you who have (perhaps) never heard of the operation of putting the devil into hell, there was once a young man who couldn’t sleep. It began, at first, with too intense a concentration on the things of the day. He would lie awake, for hours, in his little apartment, as his mind went over the immense things he could accomplish in just a few hours, or days, or years – starting next morning. When the morning came, however, he found he was invariably too tired to put any of these plans into practice.

“His friends noticed his persistent fatigue, and began to prescribe antidotes. ‘Take a hot bath before you go to bed,’ said one. ‘Clear your mind of the things of the day by repeating these few words,’ said another. ‘Pour yourself a drink of whisky / hot milk / camomile tea,’ chorused the others. All of these remedies he tried, but none of them worked.

“Finally he went to the doctor with his problem, and was given a sleeping draught. At last he could sleep again. But when he awoke he felt as tired as ever: stale, used-up, thick-headed, as if his sleep had not refreshed him at all. So he stopped taking the draughts, and lay awake as before, his mind going over and over the things of the day …”


You are writing in your notebook, a little story about a man who couldn’t sleep, when the doorbell rings. You think (as one does) of not answering it, but curiosity is too strong. Your story bores you [and me], anyway.

There are two of them, quite young. She (perhaps eighteen?) is wearing jeans, a halter top, bare midriff. No, no, no: in order. Long dark hair, hanging down upon slight shoulders, serve to frame a tanned, unblemished face. Her

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eyes are an intense blue. Histoire de l’oeil: Bataille – Tale of the Eye. Slim waist, slim hips, thin legs, black boots combine to form an image of adolescent innocence – or outrage?

He, by contrast, blonde and freckled, thick, half-strangled by incongruous (unaccustomed?) tie and jacket, shorter than his platform-heeled companion, hand outstretched, looks ready equally for scrum or barbecue. The other hand holds, half-shielded, a dark, not unfamiliar book.

“Yes?” (Not unsnottily).

“We’re going door to door to talk about the Lord Jesus Christ and what he’s done in our lives and what he can do in yours too if you’ll let him …” (faltering slightly after that breathless apostrophe) “Would you be interested in talking to us about that?”

The girl smiles, half-nervously, as if to back up her companion’s asseverations of life-changing events without associating herself, necessarily, with his naïve sense of mission.

The flat’s a tip. You’re blinking, bleary-eyed, in tee-shirt, jeans, bare feet.

Why not?

“Why not? Come on in, both of you, and tell me all about it. I warn you, though, I’m not going to buy any steak-knives or subscriptions to video-clubs.”

They exchange disconcerted glances, the first sign of any complicity – intimacy? – between them. [Psycho killers, rules for the detection of: First, unusual determination to invite one into any malodorous vehicle or dwelling they may be occupying at the time; Second, refusal to abide by conventions of polite speech (in this case, dismissal with protestations of uninterest); Third, “looking like everyone else:” indistinguishability from the rest of the population in general affect (no giant warts, seven-fingered hands, ill-concealed claws, insect-like eyes) …]

“Come on in! I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Further glances. Still, this does come with the territory. They sidle nervously in.

Fighting your impulse to give a sepulchral laugh, slam and bolt the door, and turn on them, leering, with the words: “So the great lord Dagon at last sends me my prey …” you bustle over to the kitchenette, and start to pour water loudly into a kettle.

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They stand, uncomfortable. The table is overflowing, as usual, with papers and the detritus of breakfast (it is approximately 10.35 a.m.). You move back to clear two chairs for them, which they deign, doubtfully, to occupy.

Now that you have them here you wonder what to do with them. The girl is young and pretty, but (let’s face it) a Christian, and probably connected with the boy. He looks (at least on superficial indications) to be quite probably a dork.

“So what did you want to tell me about?” you ask, returning them the initiative.

“Oh, well, we’re here to talk to you about the Lord Jesus and …”

“Yes, I kind of gathered that. But who are you? Why are you here, now, talking to me?”

“Well, our church sends out volunteers to witness in this area …”

“You’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, are you?”

“No, we’re not.” He sounds quite indignant. “We’re from the Christian Fellowship, just over the hill from here.”

“What about you?” you ask, turning to the girl. “What are you here for?”

Your tone of aggression obviously perturbs her. She was coasting along quite nicely, thank you, on the wings of her companion’s eloquence, but is now forced rudely back into the conversation. How much more comfortable to be a critic of others’ efforts!

“I’m … like him.”

“What’s your name?”

“Judy.”

Blondie reasserts control. “I’m Philip.” Putting out a brawny hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

You shake the hand: “Bruno, Giordano Bruno. You can call me Jordan, though, for short. You know, like the river.”

“Jordan?”

“Precisely.”

“Nice to meet you, Jordan.”

“Well, now, Judy and Philip, so you’re going to tell me about the wonders of your faith, are you? Convince me to accept the Lord Jesus Christ into my life as my personal saviour?”

“Look, would you rather we left? I mean …”

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“No, no, no, Philip, please forgive my brusquerie. I’m quite willing to hear what you’ve got to tell me, just as long as you do me the courtesy of listening to me in turn.”

“What’s that?” asks Judy, unexpectedly.

“What’s what?”

“That word. Brusquerie.”

“Oh, a rude or unpolished manner, lack of finesse in one’s conversation … something like that.”

“Are you a teacher?”

“Well, I suppose I am, sort of. I’ve got a brother who’s a musician, and another one who’s a boxer: Pete and Frank.”

They exchange more glances. Clearly they’ve been warned against teachers – or was it intellectuals in general? Unrewarding to talk to, improbable as converts, and always full of lengthy provisos … seed that fell on the waste ground, for the most part.

“Well,” Philip doggedly resumes the scent. “We’re here to talk to you about our personal experience of the Lord Jesus …”

“What was it, then? Tell me about your personal experience of him. Did he come to you in the form of a blinding light, which only left you in the city of Damascus? Did you meet him as a traveller on the road to Emmaus? Or is he just a voice whispering in your head? What’s he saying now?”

“Look, mate …” Philip is going to lose his cool in a moment, so Judy sees this as her moment to intervene.

“I hear him talking to me sometimes.”

“Do you indeed? Tell me about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I just hear him.”

“Words forming in your head out of nowhere? Or is it an actual tone of voice that you recognise?”

“I know it’s him.”

“But how do you know? Is it because of the things he says to you?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“What’s he telling you now, right now, about me?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t happen very often, you know.”

“Couldn’t you ask him? You know, a word or two of advice?”

“Of course. Would you like to pray with us?”

“You know, I might just do that – but only if he tells you something you can pass on to me. You see, I really do need some advice here.”

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“Can we help?” intervenes Philip, positively unctuous with concern.

“You’re both kind of young. I think he’d probably be in a better position to advise me, what with those forty days in the wilderness and three days down in hell.”

Philip would clearly like to know if you’re having them on, but knows it’s against the rules to ask. Julie seems to be enjoying her new-found spiritual authority as Mouthpiece of God. She takes your hand, then Philip’s, closes her eyes, and intones, “Let us pray.”

GOD

BOY