Have A Little Faith Part 7

After the Israelites safely crossed the Red Sea, the Egyptians chased after them and were drowned. G.o.d's angels wanted to celebrate the enemy's demise.

According to the commentary, G.o.d saw this and grew angry. He said, in essence: "Stop celebrating. For those were my children, too."

Those were my children, too.

"What do you think of that?" the teacher asks us.

Someone else answers. But I know what I think. I think it is the first time I've heard that G.o.d might love the "enemy" as well as us.

Years later, I will forget the cla.s.s, forget the teacher's name, forget the girl across the room. But I will remember that story.

JULY.

The Greatest Question of All In any conversation, I was taught, there are at least three parties: you, the other person, and the Lord.

I recalled that lesson on a summer day in the small office when both the Reb and I wore shorts. My bare leg stuck with perspiration to the green leather chair, and I raised it with a small thwock. thwock.

The Reb was looking for a letter. He lifted a pad, then an envelope, then a newspaper. I knew he'd never find it. I think the mess in his office was almost a way of life now, a game that kept the world interesting. As I waited, I glanced at the file on the lower shelf, the one marked "G.o.d." We still hadn't opened it.

"Ach," he said, giving up.

Can I ask you something?

"Ask away, young scholar," he crowed.

How do you know G.o.d exists?

He stopped. A smile crept across his face.

"An excellent question."

He pressed his fingers into his chin.

And the answer? I said.

"First, make the case against Him."

Okay, I said, taking his challenge. How about this? We live in a world where your genes can be mapped, where your cells can be copied, where your face can be altered. Heck, with surgery, you can go from being a man to being a woman. We have science to tell us of the earth's creation; rocket probes explore the universe. The sun is no longer a mystery. And the moon-which people used to wors.h.i.+p? We brought some of it home in a pouch, right?

"Go on," he said.

So why, in such a place, where the once-great mysteries have been solved, does anyone still believe in G.o.d or Jesus or Allah or a Supreme Being of any kind? Haven't we outgrown it? Isn't it like Pinocchio, the puppet? When he found he could move without his strings, did he still look the same way at Geppetto?

The Reb tapped his fingers together.

"That's some speech."

You said make a case.

"Ah."

He leaned in. "Now. My turn. Look, if you say that science will eventually prove there is no G.o.d, on that I must differ. No matter how small they take it back, to a tadpole, to an atom, there is always something they can't explain, something that created it all at the end of the search.

"And no matter how far they try to go the other way-to extend life, play around with the genes, clone this, clone that, live to one hundred and fifty-at some point, life is over. And then what happens? When life comes to an end?"

I shrugged.

"You see?"

He leaned back. He smiled.

"When you come to the end, that's where G.o.d begins."

Many great minds have set out to disprove G.o.d's existence. Sometimes, they retreat to the opposite view. C. S. Lewis, who wrote so eloquently of faith, initially wrestled with the very concept of G.o.d and called himself "the most dejected and reluctant convert in all of England." Louis Pasteur, the great scientist, tried to disprove a divine existence through facts and research; in the end, the grand design of man convinced him otherwise.

A spate of recent books had declared G.o.d a fool's notion, hocus-pocus, a panacea for weak minds. I thought the Reb would find these offensive, but he never did. He understood that the journey to belief was not straight, easy, or even always logical. He respected an educated argument, even if he didn't agree with it.

Personally, I always wondered about authors and celebrities who loudly declared there was no G.o.d. It was usually when they were healthy and popular and being listened to by crowds. What happens, I wondered, in the quiet moments before death? By then, they have lost the stage, the world has moved on. If suddenly, in their last gasping moments, through fear, a vision, a late enlightenment, they change their minds about G.o.d, who would know?

The Reb was a believer from the start, that was clear, but I also knew that he was not crazy about some things G.o.d allowed on this earth. He had lost a daughter, many years ago. That had shaken his world. And he regularly cried after visiting once-robust members of the congregation who now lay helpless in hospital beds.

"Why so much pain?" he would say, looking to the heavens. "Take them already. What is the point?"

I once asked the Reb that most common of faith questions: why do bad things happen to good people? It had been answered countless times in countless ways; in books, in sermons, on Web sites, in tear-filled hugs. The Lord wanted her with him...He died doing what he loved...She was a gift...This is a test... The Lord wanted her with him...He died doing what he loved...She was a gift...This is a test...

I remember a family friend whose son was struck with a terrible medical affliction. After that, at any religious ceremony-even a wedding-I would see the man out in the hallway, refusing to enter the service. "I just can't listen to it anymore," he would say. His faith had been lost.

When I asked the Reb, Why do bad things happen to good people?, he gave none of the standard answers. He quietly said, "No one knows." I admired that. But when I asked if that ever shook his belief in G.o.d, he was firm.

"I cannot waver," he said.

Well, you could, if you didn't believe in something all-powerful.

"An atheist," he said.

Yes.

"And then I could explain why my prayers were not answered."

Right.

He studied me carefully. He drew in his breath.

"I had a doctor once who was an atheist. Did I ever tell you about him?"

No.

"This doctor, he liked to jab me and my beliefs. He used to schedule my appointments deliberately on Sat.u.r.days, so I would have to call the receptionist and explain why, because of my religion, that wouldn't work."

Nice guy, I said.

"Anyhow, one day, I read in the paper that his brother had died. So I made a condolence call."

After the way he treated you?

"In this job," the Reb said, "you don't retaliate."

I laughed.

"So I go to his house, and he sees me. I can tell he is upset. I tell him I am sorry for his loss. And he says, with an angry face, 'I envy you.'

"'Why do you envy me?' I said.

"'Because when you lose someone you love, you can curse G.o.d. You can yell. You can blame him. You can demand to know why. But I don't believe in G.o.d. I'm a doctor! doctor! And I couldn't help my brother!' And I couldn't help my brother!'

"He was near tears. 'Who do I blame?' he kept asking me. 'There is no G.o.d. I can only blame myself.'"

The Reb's face tightened, as if in pain.

"That," he said, softly, "is a terrible self-indictment."

Worse than an unanswered prayer?

"Oh yes. It is far more comforting to think G.o.d listened and said no, than to think that n.o.body's out there."

Life of Henry He was now approaching his thirtieth birthday, a criminal, an addict, and a liar to the Lord. He had a wife. It didn't stop him. He had a daughter. It didn't stop him. His money was gone, his fancy clothes were gone, his hair was unstyled and coa.r.s.e. It didn't stop him.

One Sat.u.r.day night, he wanted so desperately to get high that he drove with two men to Jamaica, Queens, to the only people he could think of with both money and product-drug dealers he used to work for.

He knocked on their door. They answered.

He pulled a gun.

"What are you doing?" they said, incredulous.

"You know what this is," he said.

The gun didn't even have a firing pin in it. Luckily, the dealers didn't know that. Henry waved it and barked, "Let's go," and they gave him their money and their jewelry and their drugs.

He drove off with his friends, even gave them the valuables, but he kept the poison for himself. It was all his body wanted. It was all he could think about.

Later that night, after he'd smoked and sniffed and guzzled alcohol as well, paranoia set in, and Henry realized the dumb mistake he had made. His victims knew who he was and where he lived. And they would want revenge.

Which is when Henry grabbed that shotgun, went out front, and hid behind a row of trash cans. His wife was confused and scared.

"What's happening?" she said, crying.

"Shut the lights!" he yelled.

He saw his daughter, watching from the doorway.

"Stay inside!"

He waited. He trembled. Something told him that for all the trouble he had escaped, this would be the night it caught up with him. A car would come down his block, and he would die from a spray of bullets.

And so, one last time, he turned to G.o.d.

"Will you save me, Jesus?" he whispered. "If I promise to give myself to you, will you save me tonight?" He was weeping. He was breathing heavily. If, with all the wrong he'd done, he was still allowed to pray, then this was as close as he came to true prayer. "Hear me, Jesus, please..."

He had been a troubled child.

A delinquent teen.

A bad man.

Could he still be a saved soul?

The only tyrant I accept in this world is the still voice within. The only tyrant I accept in this world is the still voice within.

MOHANDAS GANDHI.

AUGUST.

Why War?

The summer moved quickly. The war in Iraq dominated the headlines, as did a battle to put the Ten Commandments in front of an Alabama courthouse. I found myself phoning the Reb in between visits. His voice was always upbeat.

"Is this Detroit calling?" he might begin.