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I saw him hitchhiking on the shoulder of I-35 the other day. He was walking with his back to the traffic and with his left thumb stuck out. This was just north of San Antonio, right near the town of Selma where the old city hall is now a Hooters restaurant, and the only remaining residential street was cut in half rudely by the interstate in the late 60s, leaving a string of tattered houses on either side.

He was wearing black, of course. So melodramatic. I had to laugh.

I pulled onto the shoulder, driving slowly alongside him. He refused to acknowledge me. I stretched over as far as I could, with my left hand still on the wheel, and rolled down the passenger-side window.

“I know you see me. Why don’t you go ahead and get in. I’ll give you a ride to wherever the hell it is you think you’re going.”

He kept walking. I kept the car moving right alongside him. Finally he stopped, exhaled dramatically, and looked at me over the top of his glasses.

“You haven’t been returning my calls.”

I wasn’t much in the mood to take his shit.

“Yeah, well I’m the one who has three kids and a couple of REAL jobs. It’s not like I can just jump out of bed whenever you call and sit up all night writing everything down. I mean, we have to sleep. You people don’t seem to understand that.”

He stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout and mimed playing a violin while making a whiny noise. “Mi mi mi mi mi mi mi.”

I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself.

“So are you gonna get in or what?”

He looked far up the road, as if he was weighing his options. I groaned and laid my head back on the headrest, looking up at the headliner. He has no options. He has to get in the car. I know that. He knows that. Always with the drama, this guy.

“Okay, but I want French toast.”

He climbed into the car before I could reply.

“French toast? It’s like 1:30. I just ate lunch.”

“I have two words for you. French. Toast.”

I paused for a few moments, looking at him. He looked back, very confident. He knows I’m going to take him wherever he wants to go.

“Yeah, all right.”

“Go to Jim’s,” he said. “They have the good diet cokes in those classic coke-shaped glasses. And they have limes.”

I took the next exit and made a U-turn, heading back to town. We drove in silence for a bit. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the first to speak. That’s his job. Finally he said something.

“Do you even remember any of them?”

“Sure, of course. Listen, I totally respect your work, man. It’s just I’m so tired. Seriously, sometimes I just can’t bring myself to get out of bed and get my notebook. But lately, you’ve done some amazing stuff.”

He smiled and fiddled with the radio knobs.

“Did you like Wednesday night’s?”

“Um, was that the one with the llama from Napoleon Dynamite, and I was like a sheriff or something?”

“No, that was last week. I’ll give you a hint. Waterrrrrr….”

“Oh yeah, the island dream!”

“Bingo. What did you think?”

“Oh, I loved it. That was nice. Very cool images. The island, that was from Perelandra, right? That’s how I pictured it while I was reading.”

“Yes.”

“I knew it. And that little city with the winding, medieval streets. That was from Matt’s book, Midwinter, right? The floating city.”

He nodded.

“Okay, so who is that woman anyway?”

“You know her. She’s your muse, your other voice, your anima, your inspiration, your…”

“Yeah, fine, right. I read Jung.”

“You really should listen to her, you know.”

“Well, she’s pretty pushy and…” I paused. “Between you and me, she can be pretty racy. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me. I wrote, produced, and directed all of them. Listen, we’re not held back by your prudish, Judeo-Christian so-called ethics. Paganism still rules on the dark side, my friend. Old school.”

“Whatever.”

I pulled into the Jim’s parking lot and we got out. My door slammed just a second before his. I held open the door for him and we sat across from each other in a booth. He picked up a menu and didn’t look up when the waitress arrived. She looked at him, then at me.

“He’ll have an order of French toast. No powdered sugar, but bring extra syrup. Link sausages and a diet coke with a lime in it.”

The waitress scribbled on her pad. “And for you?”

“I already ate. Just give me a diet coke. Also with a lime.”

She returned with our diet cokes a minute or two later. He peeled off the end of the paper wrapper on his straw, put the open end in his mouth, and shot the wrapper at me across the table. He always does that, and I never acknowledge it. I just close my eyes when it hits me in the face, then open them and go right on with the conversation.

He took a long pull from his straw and got right to it.

“Listen, who do you think you are?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said. Just who do you think you are?”

“I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“Exactly! And that’s why I’m here today. Listen to me. I’m serious now. Listen.”

He leaned forward and motioned with his hand for me to lean forward as well. When he spoke, it was in a whisper.

“Your whole life has become like a house of cards. All masks. All roles, do you get me? Husband, father, preacher, pastor, writer, good Christian boy, friend to the needy, everything that everyone who meets you needs you to be. You can’t keep it up. Do you understand me? You’re going to get yourself into some serious trouble.”

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop being any of those things.”

“I know, that’s why I’m here. Just listen to me.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Look, I’m all for your doctor and the little white pills. That’s fine, but that’s not the only thing that’s going on, okay? Don’t buy into that chemical, pharmacological, bullshit worldview. That stuff helps, but it’s not the only thing. Do you get what I’m saying?”

I nodded.

“Listen to her. Don’t disrespect her.”

“Ugh, I hate that.”

“What?”

“When people use disrespect as a verb. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.”

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, then back at me.

“Fine, don’t be disrespectful to her. I don’t care how you want to say it, but she’s speaking to you right now like never before. Every night. When you drive around and think about all that stuff and talk to yourself, that’s her speaking. You listen. And I don’t care about your sleep or any of that. Just listen to her.”

“Okay, but then what do I do?”

“You don’t need to know any of that. You just listen.”

The waitress returned with two fresh cokes and his French toast. She laid the plate in front of him and he dug right in. I caught her eye and said, “Thank you very much.”

He flooded his French toast with syrup. I winced. He picked up one of the link sausages with his left hand and took a bite out of it. While he chewed he swabbed a piece of toast around in the syrup with his fork, then popped it neatly into his mouth between chews. He spoke with his mouth full of food.

Zuh Thying is, Sees got you, gyot a hode of you.”

He swallowed, pointed his fork at me, and continued.

“You gotta remember that all of us down below, we never lie. We tell the truth. It’s all we know how to do. You people up here...”  He waved his fork around, sending drops of syrup flying. “You people are all liars. You can’t help it, poor saps, but you lie to yourselves all the time.”

“So once again I’m to believe that you came all the way out here for my own good. Just because you care about me or love me or whatever.”

We stared at each other for a moment while he chewed and swallowed a massive bite. His head tilted a little to one side, then he reached out his hand and gently pressed his palm to my cheek.

“Of course I love you. Of all the loves you will experience in this life, mine is the most true. Because I know you inside and out, all the way to the bottom and back up. In and out, up and down, light and dark. You’re a little too preoccupied with yourself sometimes, but you’re precious. I adore you.”

I stared into the top of my diet coke, stirring the soggy lime wedge with my straw. I nodded.

“Okay, tell her I’m trying to listen. I am. I mean, I will."

"Good!" he said, snapping his head down quickly in one sharp nod before turning his full attention back to the French toast. "That's all we ask of you."

rlp

 

I'm a few pages away from finishing Deirdre Bair's amazing biography of C.G. Jung. I was absolutely fascinated all the way through. Jung was one of those incredible people who are somehow able to intuitively grasp truth. Perhaps this is one way to think about the people we call geniuses. It's really hard to understand, for example, how Einstein came up with his ideas about the universe. I mean, how does a person even get started thinking about relativity? Jung was like that, but what he saw was the mysterious human psyche.

I was saddened to find that Jung's insights did not lead him to a peaceful inner life, nor did they enable him to have good relationships. He was a terrible father and, according to the ways most people think about marriage, an equally terrible husband. The cult-like gathering of his disciples was rather frightening. He had a strange way of attracting rich women who pretty much gave their lives to furthering his philosophy/psychology.

Jung's activities during WWII were surprising. He secretly worked against Nazi Germany, but was branded a Nazi by many people for the rest of his life. Bair certainly doesn't take a romantic view of Carl Jung, so I trust her conclusion that Jung was innocent and misjudged in this matter.

I've read "Memories, Dreams, Reflections," which is said to be his autobiography. Reading that was an important step in my own development, so I was saddened to find that Bair's research casts serious doubt on its validity. The publication of MDR was an unbelievable circus with numerous people fighting over the rights to it. At the same time, it is very unclear what parts of the "autobiography" are from Jung and what parts came from his manipulative editors and Jung's children, who fought hard to "clean up" his language and create an image that fit their idea of polite society. So, if you read "Memories, Dreams, Reflections," do so with some healthy skepticism.

But the biography was a great read. Apparently Ms. Bair had greater access to Jung's heirs and materials than anyone before. If you have any interest in Jung, you really have to read this.

Click either image to purchase from Viva. They keep these in stock, of course. Support independent bookstores!

rlp

 

Shortly after reading “Memories, Dreams, Reflections,” by C.G. Jung, I tried a free association fantasy exercise. I found a comfortable place to sit and breathed carefully until I was fully relaxed. Then I let my mind follow whatever images and thoughts came to me. I imagined that I dove off a high cliff into the ocean. I could see easily under water and had no trouble breathing. Using an overhand stroke I began to claw my way toward the ocean floor which was covered in a very thick forest of kelp. When I reached the kelp, there was room between the strands for me to make my way toward the bottom, though the going was hard. I don’t know why I wanted to go to the bottom, but I had a great desire to see it. After a few moments of fighting with the kelp and making some progress, a loud, angry voice said, “NO!”

Have you ever been on the edge of sleep when suddenly a voice startled you awake? At first you can’t be sure if you heard it or thought it. This voice was like that. The intensity of it frightened me. I opened my eyes and the daydream was gone.

What is this voice? Whose voice is it? I’m certainly aware of the names people have given to it. Some say it is the devil. Others would say it was only my lively imagination. Still others claim that we have a secondary consciousness, a part of the mind that works like a production company, creating dreams and casting them with characters and images from our lives that have symbolic meaning for us.

If that last scenario is true, I suppose I was about to see something that my production company wasn’t ready to release in my dream theater. My intrusion on the set obviously pissed someone off, and they had security throw me out.

In case you’re wondering, I lean toward the idea of the subconscious mind, but I will humbly admit that I don’t know where the voice comes from or whose voice it is.

Sam Todd taught me this particular kind of humility.

Until 1998 I thought the devil was a very unsophisticated idea, some kind of leftover image from the middle ages. As far as I was concerned, Satan was a convenient scapegoat for people who would not take responsibility for their own lives.

But then I met Sam.

Sam was an Episcopal priest (I assume he still is) who was the rector at a church I frequented in those days. I studied in their library, walked their grounds, and occasionally sneaked into their sanctuary for a quick nap on the back row. Sam was a very learned man who read deeply and broadly. He smoked a pipe and was a beautiful writer. I would pick up his sermon manuscripts from the table at the back and read them with great appreciation. He knew how to find the hot spot in a text and take you there before you knew what was happening to you. That’s good preaching.

It was Sam who introduced me to the idea of spiritual direction, and he was my spiritual director until he left for a church in Houston. And that’s the last I’ve heard of him. I wish that he would read this, but I’ll just leave that up to chance, or fate, or providence. Whatever you want to call it.

Sam told me that each year he took a retreat of silence at a monastery near the coast. He said the first 48 hours were the worst. Unable to bear the silence, his mind turned inward, and he would berate himself mercilessly about his sins and weaknesses. He felt like he was under assault. He said it was as if there was another voice inside of him.

“Yeah, I think I know that voice,” I said.

Sam looked very seriously at me and said without hesitation, “It is the voice of our ancient foe.”

He wasn’t embarrassed and he made no apologies. He didn’t try to analyze his statement or explain it away. He offered no caveats or disclaimers. He just said it and looked at me quietly. And because it was Sam, suddenly the idea of Satan didn’t embarrass me or make me laugh. It didn’t sound like a silly, fairy tale. The whole thing was a little scary, to tell you the truth.

I still don’t know where the voice comes from, but I do believe in the existence of the voice, and this voice is, without a doubt, my ancient foe. No matter how happy and healthy I am, there is a voice that calls me back to things that are not good for me, things that don’t even bring me pleasure. It’s like eating an entire bag of Cheetos while you’re watching a movie. You do not enjoy the last three fourths of the bag, but something tells you to keep eating. And you do.

This voice contains the hollow echoes of past regrets and bad memories, but it is compelling nonetheless.

When Jesus encounters the demonic in the pages of the Gospels, he often demands to know the name of the evil spirit. In the ancient world, knowing someone’s name gave you a certain power over them. It still does, by the way. If you know someone’s name and call it out loudly in a crowd, that person will stop, turn around, and look at you.

The spirits did not want Jesus to know them. In the Gospel According to Mark, a spirit saw Jesus and shouted out these very haunting and grammatically strange words:

“What to us and to you, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know you who you are.”

That’s a literal translation from the original Greek. For some reason the particular construct of those two sentences has always scared the hell out of me.

If you pushed me and asked me to give this voice a name, I still would not be able to do so. I’m like a lot of liberalish, educated people. I’m uncomfortable with black-and-white ethics and simple answers. So I cannot yet name this voice. Perhaps that is why I ultimately cannot defeat it.

The Christian spiritual path begins with stark humility. It begins with an admission that the voice has haunted you and that you have not been able to overcome it. If ours was a 12-step program, step two would be admitting that a power greater than yourself will have to help you deal with the voice.

Steps 3 to 5 would walk you through the shocking discovery of just how much this transaction costs. That's where the whole business of an innocent person dying for another comes in. Like Aslan in "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe." The rest of the steps would have to do with discovering how all of this will change your life in ways that were impossible before.

As I move slowly through the days of my life, loving my family, working for my daily bread, and walking in faith with my friends at our little church, I often remember Sam Todd leaning back in his chair with his pipe in his hand, naming demons without fear.

“It is the voice of our ancient foe,” he said.

Sam said that to me.

rlp

Dolphins have no reason to fear darkness. When they move into deep water, they use their built-in sonar echolocation system. They see with sound waves instead of light waves. This would be like having a flashlight permanently embedded under your tongue. If the lights go out, you could just open your mouth. Of course sound waves have no color, but when you're heading into the eerie black silence of Davy Jones' s locker, you'll take whatever you can get.

I wonder if the world bursts into color when dolphins break the surface of the water and use their mammalian eyes. It must be like Dorothy opening the drab, grey door of her Kansas home and discovering Oz. ...

Click here to read the rest of this essay at The Christian Century online.

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

a Christian Magazine 
Christian Writing

rlp