3: Philia
The news that I was resigning my job to enroll in seminary created a small sensation at my employer's. My record there was excellent; most people assumed that I was on a career path to the top of the company. My boss tried to keep me on by offering an immediate promotion; it was clear he had no idea of what was at stake. The demands of duty and conscience that had made me such a good employee now called me away.
Anxiety to begin my task tormented me. I felt sure that Solveig was to be yoked with me in the work, but she had said that she was going home to Sweden at the end of the summer. There would be no opportunity for me to enroll in seminary until the fall. I chose a non-denominational Christian seminary within a few miles of my tiny apartment, applied and was accepted for admission. I looked carefully for any sign of doctrinal divergence between the seminary's Confession of Faith and my own convictions about the nature of God and His Son and Their relation to the world, and I was satisfied that there was none. We believed in the inerrancy and Divine inspiration of Scripture, in the historicity, deity and virgin birth of Christ, in the reality of His miracles, that He atoned for man's sins with His death, that He was resurrected in His body and ascended into Heaven, that He will return. We professed the Heidelberg Catechism.
The spring continued to warm and summer came on. I stayed at my old job, having given enough notice to complete tasks I'd made myself responsible for and to leave in good order, with my successor ready and able to carry on. But I attached myself to Solveig's projects. When she appeared at a rally or a teach-in, I was there. I attended the same weekly anti-war organizing meetings that she attended, and usually in her immediate company. But as often as not, Rob Bartley was in her company too. I wished he would go away, but I didn't pray that he would. Jealousy is the province of a God jealous of idols, not of a mortal man seeking to be Godly. I would not make an idol of Solveig, even though I loved her, and sexual jealousy was out of the question, although I had to pray long hours to fend it off. I hoped that God would lead Solveig into a narrower path of virtue. I prayed for Solveig in that spirit. I wanted her to be as good as I wanted myself to be. But Bartley seemed to be a fixture in her life, and the physical pleasure they took in each other's company was unmistakable. Their hands were rarely out of contact; they touched, bumped and butted each other constantly. Their displays caused me anxiety, regardless of the childlike innocence that surrounded them. They smiled, laughed and fondled like Adam and Eve before the Fall. It was almost possible to imagine that the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge had passed them by entirely. And it was impossible to dislike them together. And because I loved Solveig and Solveig appeared to love Bartley, I supposed that I must love Bartley too, just as my faith told me that God also loved Bartley. But my trials at that time would have been less if Bartley had been absent.
Vietnam remained an enigma. Solveig characterized it as a proxy war between two equally unworthy Great Powers, fought on the territory and in the bodies of a dispossessed people who only wanted to be let alone. Bartley's main objection seemed to be that his government was fighting under false pretenses. He regarded every official pronouncement as a probable lie, and he was as resentful as if the lies had been addressed personally to him. He presented himself as cheerfully disposed, but I sensed some anger, subterranean and non-specific, that Solveig's sunny presence regularly disarmed before it could rise up. One evening after a war-resistance meeting, we sat on a sofa before the television in Solveig's apartment and watched the President, Lyndon Johnson, address the nation. From Solveig's opposite side I heard Bartley grumble: "What an oleaginous, smarmy, murderous, hypocritical sleaze-ball! Don't you just want to...?" As he groped for the appropriate sanction, Solveig leaned away from me and snuggled Bartley with such conviction that the sofa shook.
"Hit him in the face with a pie?" she ventured. "Yes, Bartley, I do!"
I peered sidelong to see if Bartley was soothed. He had his arm around Solveig's shoulder and their heads were together. They gazed with dreamy smiles at the President, as if he were not the actor at the center of the world's woes. I smiled too. Solveig seemed capable of bringing the lion to lie down with the lamb, of initiating the Rapture all by herself. (To hear myself say this, these many years later, I realize again how dangerously close to idolatry I came in my relations with her.) I was determined that we should work together.
But how and to what end? I was fiercely anti-Communist and a committed Christian; Solveig seemed indifferent to political categories and behaved like some kind of Nordic pagan. I had not actually broached the subject of religion with Solveig, even though I thought of little else, and it seemed crucial for my salvation that I evangelize her. One day in June I invited her to the Sunday service at the church I attended.
"Would I have to wear a hat?" she wanted to know.
"Most of the ladies do," I said.
"Okay," she said.
Still equipped with a car in those days, I picked her up at her apartment at 10:45 a.m. and drove her two miles to the church. She looked stunning: taller than ever--and taller than I--in heels, a dark blue dress longer to the hem than was usual for her, but still above the knee, nylon stockings (or pantyhose?) with straight, dark seams, and a summer straw bonnet with a wide brim that framed her head like a halo, made her blue eyes dramatic, and reduced her clearance in doorways by a further three or four inches. "Do you go to church when you're at home in Sweden?" I asked her as we drove.
"Sometimes," she said. "We have a church in Stockholm that performs a whole Bach cantata every Sunday as part of the service. It's very nice. I go for the music."
"Bach," I said.
"Ya," she said, "it's beautiful. Bartley took me to a Negro church once with a black friend of his. That music is so great too."
My church, then as now the Gospel Church of the Redeemer, had for music an organist and a congregation singing traditional hymns. I offered a little prayer that Solveig might find our music appealing. We parked in the lot, arrived at the church door just on time and went inside, turning heads. I led us to my usual pew; the congregants there smiled and shook hands and made room for Solveig and her hat.
I no longer remember much of the specifics of that service. A few of the flock went forward to witness. Solveig joined in the hymn singing; she may have known some of the numbers already, but I think she sight-read from the hymnal. At least once I followed her strong, bright voice singing the alto part. I've entirely forgotten the subject of the sermon, although our pastor was charismatic and compelling as always. I thought of myself in the same role in years to come. My introduction to homiletics was to happen that fall.
Out of a sense of pride in my friend that was not altogether appropriate and may even have been sinful, I felt impelled after the service to introduce Solveig to the pastor, who in his smiling progress down the center aisle during the recessional hymn had looked twice at her. We greeted him at the exit. He called me Brother, then took Solveig's hand and squeezed it as I presented her to him. He nodded his head in a courtly half-bow and said, "God bless you this beautiful morning. Thank you for joining us." She said something in reply and he heard her accent immediately. "Will we be seeing you again?"
Solveig's smile shone down from on high like the sun upon Gibeon. "Maybe not," she said. "I'm a visiting Lutheran."
"Our sister in Christ," the pastor said, and handed us down the church steps. "Bring her back, you hear?" I felt somewhat giddy, and conscious again of the attention Solveig attracted by her height and coloring. Faces in several parts of the parking lot were turned toward us. I took her hand and stopped her.
"I think the ladies are serving lunch in the basement. Would you like to eat?"
"Oh, I can't, I'm sorry," she said. "Bartley is coming for lunch. But you could have lunch with us."
"I don't want to crash your party."
"Don't be silly," she said. "I cooking eggs Benedict and Bartley is bringing orange juice. He thinks it's breakfast."
"Gosh, thank you," I said. "I'd enjoy that. Is there something I can contribute?"
"Maybe more orange juice. In case Bartley doesn't bring enough."
On the way back to her apartment we stopped at a convenience store and I ran in for the juice. There were bouquets for sale in a refrigerated case. I bought one of those too. "How nice!" she said, and smiled happily when she saw the flowers. There was no doubting her sincerity then or at any other time. Her candor was complete. I felt thrilled by her friendship, grateful that she had gone to church with me, and hopeful of the outcome.
"What did you think of the church service?" I asked her.
"I had fun," she said. "I like those hymns. It's interesting to see how different churches can be."
"Did you hear anything you especially liked? I mean in the testimony or the sermon or the prayers. Anything that seemed very true to you?"
"It was familiar," she said. "The testimony was different. I have never seen that before."
When we arrived at Solveig's building, Bartley was sitting on the front steps reading a book, a supermarket shopping bag beside him. He stood and embraced Solveig; they kissed quite a lingering kiss, their limbs intertwined more than would have seemed possible for people standing upright. Solveig had removed her bonnet for the ride in the car and not put it back on. She dropped it on the pavement, but held on to my flowers, when Bartley kissed her—or when she kissed him: she was distinctly the taller of the two and could have been construed the aggressor. After several seconds Bartley disengaged his right arm, planted his chin on Solveig's shoulder so he could see me past her blond hair, and offered his hand. "Hi!" he said. "How was church?"
I shook his hand. "Ask Solveig," I said.
"Okay," he said, "I will."
Bartley hoisted his shopping bag, Solveig retrieved her hat, and we went upstairs. Solveig kicked off her heels and we all went into the kitchen, where Bartley spread the contents of his bag on the counter top: a half-gallon of orange juice and two bottles of champagne. "Mimosas for throats parched by joyful noise," he said. I believe he meant no disrespect; nevertheless I took some offense, which I didn't show, and which I promptly forgave. He mixed the mimosa cocktails, distributed them and offered a toast. "To human love and friendship," he said. We clinked our three glasses and sipped.
"To Divine Love," I said. We lifted our glasses and sipped again. It occurred to me that I had never offered a religious toast, nor—on second thought—ever heard of one. I felt all at once that I'd committed a terrible act of profanation. One invokes God for His help in all things, not to congratulate Him on the quality of His mercy. I felt cold with shame. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and prayed silently for forgiveness. But then things got worse.
I should mention that my church held no position on the question of the drinking of alcohol. A substantial minority of my friends in the church—or it may even have been a majority—disapproved of drinking and never imbibed. I had always drunk in moderation and found the sanction for it in many places in Scripture. But this day, without my volition and regardless of my preference, something went wrong.
Bartley and I sat on stools at the kitchen counter while Solveig cooked, and Bartley asked me about my church. This seemed at first a God-given opportunity to begin the work of bringing Solveig to my faith, and perhaps to bring Bartley, whom I liked and God loved, along as well. He asked me to repeat the name.
"The Gospel Church of the Redeemer."
"So—" he said. "Christian, Protestant, evangelical."
"That's right. We believe—I believe—that Jesus died on the cross to atone for our sins, and that I have the obligation as a believer to tell that good news to everyone, because knowing it and believing it and acting on it is the only way in the world to salvation."
"Man!" Bartley said. "Your work is cut out for you. You're operating in a society where everybody has a Constitutional right to his own theory. What do you do to sell yours?"
"I tell the story and trust the truth of it to do the selling. And I try my best to exemplify it in my own life."
"How's it going?"
"I fall short."
Bartley sipped his drink and surveyed me with an indulgent smile. "From the little I know, I'd say you meet or exceed most people's standard for virtuousness."
"I'm a sinner."
"How can you tell?"
"I fall short of Godliness in more ways than I could hope to enumerate. I know what He wants of me, and I fall short in thought and deed."
"Gee," Bartley said. "That's tough."
I reviewed the tone of that remark. I replayed it in my head, listening for the inflection of irony. There seemed to be no trace. Bartley sipped again and said, "You know, I feel quite virtuous. I may be one of the happiest people in the world. And I couldn't be happy if I didn't feel virtuous. And I don't believe that you're in any way a worse man than I am. Is my standard so low? Or are you measuring yourself against a standard not meant for human beings?"
"I'm measuring myself against a standard that isn't worldly."
"But isn't the world where the action is?"
"The world is where the fight for salvation is. The action is in Heaven."
"This is funny," Bartley said. "You're the unhappy Christian, and I'm the blissful secularist trying to shrive you of the conviction of sin. Who will save whom?"
I felt a stab of fright. Satan adopts any guise necessary to outflank the wary Christian. I looked at Solveig, who was puttering happily at the stove, and saw her for the first time as the Other. I set down my mimosa glass, bowed my head and prayed to God for guidance and protection. I asked Him to show me if I had stumbled into the den of the Adversary. I shook with fear. After several seconds the fear passed, and I understood that God was with me as always, that I was safe, and that my task was to witness to Bartley and Solveig, who were not Satan's agents but his targets. I picked up the glass and moistened my dry throat.
Bartley was still talking. "Solveig likes you. I like you too, but it's not the boon that being liked by Solveig is. That's why I'm knocking myself out trying to come up with the formula to convince you that you deserve to be happy."
"I am happy," I said. "Joyful, actually. My faith gives me joy."
"Really? I hope so."
"I hope so too," Solveig said.
"Because I'm thinking," Bartley said, "that maybe you've tied into a set of metaphysical obligations that the human mind was never meant to confront or designed to understand. I mean, if God is running the world, how do you account for Vietnam? I want to retire God and put Solveig in charge. On the strength of the evidence before me, Solveig is kinder and more loving than God."
Bartley's monstrous, unexpected blasphemy took my breath away. I glanced again toward Solveig, almost hoping not to see her there. But she was there, seemingly oblivious to Bartley's remark and assembling the egg servings. I asked God to forgive the three of us and to sustain me.
"But Bartley," I managed to choke out, "there can't be any comparison. Solveig's love is human love. God's love is Divine love. They're just not understandable in the same terms. When God was on earth in Jesus, He appeared as a man filled with love that was recognizably human, even though it was subsumed in the Divine. But God's love is not human. You can't look at it and say you understand it."
"Amen," Bartley said, and laughed. He laughed! Then he climbed down from his stool and sat at the dining table, leaning back, placid, with a smile of seeming contentment. After a moment his face grew serious and he said, "Do you understand it?"
"No, of course not," I said. "But I hope to."
"Here's what I don't get," said Bartley. "If we are made in God's image and God requires certain behavior of us if we are to be called good, why is the world he's given us to live in such an ethical nightmare? I mean, shouldn't it make moral sense to us? Shouldn't we, as God's simulacra, be able to see the pattern of his commandments for us reflected in the human condition?"
"Don't we?"
"I don't think so. Tornados chop up trailer parks and kill children and poor folks. Their survivors weep and wail, lie awake nights for months or years afterward, wondering why they were punished. What is that about? What lesson are we supposed to learn from such an example? Surely God doesn't want us killing children and leaving their parents to suffer indefinitely. He's told us he doesn't. So why does he do it himself? Why does he sponsor a world that seems utterly indifferent to human happiness, where there's no detectable correlation between virtue and reward, where his creatures go to war, mistreat and murder one another in generation after generation? Why does he require me to believe in his goodness if I'm to be saved, but deny me the capacity to believe? That's what I don't get."
"It's a profound mystery," I said. It would have been better if I had ignored the generality of Bartley's observations and remonstrated instead that God denies no one the capacity to believe, that He has imbued every human creature with free will; but I was oddly off my form.
Bartley stretched in his chair, folded his arms behind his head, and turned to watch Solveig at work. "You know," he said, "I don't think I've ever been happier in my life."
I felt somewhat dizzy, as if my mind had projected itself partway out of my body and uncentered me. I looked at the glass on the counter and saw that it was empty. I realized too that I had emptied it once or twice before in the course of my conversation with Bartley, and that Bartley had refilled it each time. Now I looked at him and tried to organize my thoughts. I felt quite engaged with Bartley, as if he were my friend and ally, and that some exalting revelation might be in the offing. I turned to look at Solveig. The turning disoriented me; I felt myself tipping. I placed a steadying hand on the counter top until I could regain my balance and focus my eyes, to discover Solveig looking back at me. She flashed her dazzling smile. Without forethought, and to my own amazement, I reached for her, took her hand and kissed it. The revelation that I had anticipated seconds before now struck: that I yearned for her, body and soul. Her face seemed so beautiful that tears welled in my eyes. Something like a sexual wind swept through my body, and I felt stirrings of an erection. Fear seized me and I dropped her hand and sat back, folding my arms across my chest, aware of my heartbeat, my head suddenly clear. Solveig reached out with the hand I had kissed and patted my cheek. "Are you ready for food?" she asked.
We sat at the table and Solveig served. I offered to ask the blessing and was accepted, then ate mostly in silence, although Solveig's eggs Benedict were done to perfection, and Solveig told Bartley about her morning in church. I had switched from mimosas to orange juice, and I had promised God that I would not drink alcohol again until the Work was finished.
I watched my two friends talking happily together. But for the solemnity of my covenant with God, their intimacy might have made me envious.
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