I’d intended to let this wait for tomorrow, but the pressure inside me has built to an irresistible level. First, a brief vignette from about twenty years ago, when I hadn’t yet gained much confidence in my ability to tell a story.
I attended a critique group that met once a month. Most of the members were at relatively early stages in their development as writers. There were a couple who showed some promise, but most were still groping. The group met for an hour and a half, during which the leader, a self-described agent, encouraged us to read snatches of our work for group commentary.
On the occasion in question, there was a new attendee, a woman whose name I no longer recall, who had nothing prepared to offer. The leader had exhausted the other members’ offerings, and with about fifteen minutes remaining to our session she turned to me and asked if I had anything prepared. I did, of course: the story “Good Guys,” which is part of my early novel Chosen One.
Rather than reproduce the whole story here, I’ll excerpt the relevant part for you. A young female engineer named Celeste has decided to investigate the possibility of romance with Louis Redmond, the young Catholic hero of that book. However, just before their second date, Celeste discovers that she’s pregnant. (Yes, by someone else.) For reasons not germane to this diatribe, she probes for Louis’s “causes,” and discovers that he’s pro-life. It precipitates the followings exchange:
Trying to sound casual and failing completely, she said, “Any causes?”
He turned and looked at her without speaking, then let himself out of the truck and went around to her side to help her out. She took his arm again as they began the walk to her door.
“If you were to take Route 231 through the city, turn south onto Fullerton Boulevard, and stay on it for about half a mile, you’d come to a light industrial area. On the southern edge there’s a medical park, just a few one-story buildings that share a parking lot. Most Saturdays when the weather is good, you’d find me standing at the entrance with a sign that says ‘Pregnant? Please talk to me first.’”
Katie was right.
“Operation Rescue, Louis?”
He shook his head as they mounted the short flight of concrete steps that stood before her door. “No, I don’t much care for that bunch. When they’re there, I’m not. This is just me, and sometimes another fellow who feels the way I do.”
Instead of unlocking her door at once, she turned to face him. He stood with his hands clasped before him. She could read nothing from his face in the dim moonlight.
“And how is that?”
He looked down briefly. “That abortion is a horrible thing. That it should be a last resort, to save a mother’s life, not a first to spare her some inconvenience. That most women who have abortions wouldn’t, if they knew how they’d feel afterward.” He said it calmly, no strain apparent.
“Are you a Catholic by any chance, Louis?”
He stood a little straighter. “Not by chance, Celeste. By mature choice, and by the grace of God.”
Something in the words flicked her on the raw. Scorn poured into her voice. “I see. And of course that ‘grace’ gives you the right to interfere in the mature choices of women you’ve never met?”
His eyes flared wide. “I interfere in no one’s choices, Miss Holmgren. I force myself on no one. I present information and alternatives. Sometimes it seems as if the rest of society is practically shoving women into abortion clinics, rushing them in with no chance to check other options or think about what they’re doing. I don’t block the doors. I stand beside them with an offer of assistance. If that be interference, make the most of it.”
He started away, then faced her again. “By the way, you might have the wrong idea about something else as well. I’m not opposed to abortion because I’m a Catholic. Being opposed to abortion is part of what qualifies me to be a Catholic. Give that a spin on your mental merry-go-round and see where it gets off. Thanks for your company this evening. I’ll see you at the office next week.”
He strode off into the darkness before she could reclaim her voice.
When I finished reading the story, the new attendee erupted in fury. The sentence I’ll never forget was “How dare you bring God into it!”
Let that sink in for a moment.
The above is “backdrop:” an illustrative tale that makes plain just how reluctant some people are to grapple with another’s religious convictions, even when the “other” is a fictional character. It didn’t occur to me at the time to probe for my attacker’s faith, if indeed she had one.
It also didn’t occur to me at the time to cite the old saw that “Without God, everything is permitted.” One who believes has accepted an Authority that can’t be overruled by any mortal agency. The great majority of Americans still profess a belief in God, no matter how casual they may be about the matter. I hadn’t imagined that there would be any controversy about writing a believer into a story.
Keep that in mind as we press onward.
Just a little while ago, I stumbled over this at Gateway Pundit:
View co-host Joy Behar, in a Friday morning airing of The View, made a disgusting comment regarding Donald Trump’s speech on Thursday night at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee.
Behar stated that Trump shouldn’t have mentioned God in his speech.
The View co-host stated, “I was raised Catholic. I’m a Christian girl. When something like this happens to you, like this assassination attempt, and you say something like ‘God was watching me,’ that is a very un-Christian thing to say because it’s very narcissistic.”
“The bandage Trump had over his ear “should have been over his mouth,” added Behar.
“Raised Catholic,” Miss Behar? Apparently it didn’t “take.” Not that I’m in a position to talk; I was raised Catholic too, and I was away from the Faith for more than thirty years. But note: this venomous harpy dares to call Trump’s invocation of divine favor – which is neither verifiable nor falsifiable, as is always the case with possible interventions from the supernatural realm – “narcissistic.” Frankly, if I’d just had that narrow a brush with death, I’d have fallen to my knees and thanked and praised God until I was too hoarse to continue. But not Joy Behar! And we know why, don’t we, Gentle Reader?
God – the “Big Daddy in the sky” – is the Authority beyond whom there is no review and no appeal. His rules are absolute. Even to allow that He exists is sufficient to bind you to those rules, for He has written them into the fabric of the cosmos, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against them. And a self-worshipping leftist such as Joy Behar can’t have that. It would intrude on “a woman’s right to choose!”
Of course, if you happen to worship God rather than your own pudenda, there’s no problem. You accept the Commandments and do your best to live by them. Nor do you take issue with others who believe that divine power has altered their course through life. Television harridans plainly have other opinions, especially when the privilege of spreading one’s legs without consequences is at stake. Funny, I hadn’t thought that would be of great importance to Joy Behar.
Without God, all rules are man-made. Without God, governments are the arbiters of right and wrong. Without God, all that’s left is the struggle for the power to make and enforce the rules.
What’s your preference, Gentle Reader?
