The process of comparison brought to mind again the content of that dream — as well as my waking thoughts the following morning — and I’m afraid I must have had a rather ambiguous expression on my face when she turned to look at me while waiting for the Fifth Avenue light to change. Her own expression became quizzical, and she said, “Yes?”
“Nothing,” I said, and looked away. Out the windshield, somewhere, looking at the lights and darkness of Saturday night. “Where are we going?”
“For a drive.” The light having changed, she glided us forward.
As we continued west on 55th Street I forced myself to concentrate my attention on the car. It was one of those small luxury vehicles I would occasionally see advertised on the television — an impression of great massive form, yet in actual fact it was very low to the ground and could only comfortably accommodate two people. There was a back seat, but it wouldn’t be much use to anybody with legs. Still, in the most wasteful and pretentious and transitory way possible, it did suggest that combination of wealth and self-indulgence that is called luxury.
And Mrs. Bone, of course, was exactly like the girls usually filmed with these cars on television.
A red light at Sixth Avenue. The car stopped, Mrs. Bone glanced at me again, and by God I was looking at her, no doubt with the same equivocal expression as before. And I had been trying to think about the car.
She frowned at me. “How long have you been a monk?”
“Ten years.”
The light changed; she spun the wheel and we turned right onto Sixth Avenue. “Well,” she said, her eyes on her driving, “that’s either too long or not long enough.”
There was nothing I could possibly say to that, so I turned away, looking out at the traffic, seeing in front of us now a yellow taxicab with a bumper sticker reading Put Christ Back In Christmas. An excellent sentiment, only slightly marred by the fact the lettering was colored red and white and blue, as though Christ were a good American running for reelection. But it’s the thought that counts, however muddled.
Finishing with the bumper sticker, I looked out my side window at the activities of the world. It was not yet eleven o’clock on Saturday night, the thirteenth of December, and the streets were full of people, most of them couples, most of them holding hands. The pagan Christmas icons — pictures of that fat red-garbed god of plenty — were displayed in store windows everywhere, but most of the pedestrians seemed concerned with more personal pleasures: movies, the theater, a nightclub, a late dinner out. Neither of our Western gods — Christ and Santa Claus, the ascetic and the voluptuary — seemed much in the thoughts of the citizenry tonight.
Put Christ back in Christmas. The next thing they’ll say is, Put Jehovah Back In Justice. Think about that for a minute.
How the gods change. Or, to phrase it more exactly, how our image of God changes. Long ago, human beings became uneasy with that stern and unforgiving God the Father, the thunderbolt who lashed out so violently and unpredictably. Western man replaced Him with Christ, a more human God, a kind of supernatural Best Friend, a Buddy who would take the rap for us. (The Holy Ghost has always been too... ghostlike, to pick up many fans. What’s His personality, where’s the character hook, where’s the worshipper identification?)
But even Christ carries with Him that sense of austerity, that implication of duty and risk and the possibility of truly horrible loss. So on comes jolly Santa Claus, a god so easygoing he doesn’t even ask us to believe in him. With that belly and that nose, he surely eats too much and drinks too much, and more than likely pinches the waitress’s bottom as well. But it doesn’t matter, it’s all harmless fun, the romping child in all of us. Bit by bit over the centuries we have humanized God until we have finally brought Him down to our own level and then some; today, with Santa Claus, we can not only worship ourselves but the silliest part of ourselves.
“Four cents for your thoughts.”
Startled, I twisted my head around to gape at Mrs. Bone. “What?”
“Inflation,” she explained. “You were brooding about something.”
I rubbed my hand over my face. “I was thinking about Christ,” I said.
“I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just quoting the Smothers Brothers. We could talk now, if you’re ready to come back to the Church Militant.”
I looked around, and we were no longer in the city, which made not the slightest sense. It is true that over the years my habit of meditation has improved to where I can almost automatically shut out the natural world completely, but I do retain an awareness of time, at least roughly. And I hadn’t been thinking about the manifestations of God for more than three or four minutes, of that I was positive.
Yet here we were in the country. Or not quite the country. Trees and greenery surrounded us, but we were also amid fairly heavy traffic, all moving in the same direction, and the darkness out there was spotted with frequent streetlights. “Where are we?”
“On the Drive in Central Park,” she said. “We can circle in here and have our chat without being distracted by traffic.”
“You want to talk while Traveling?”
“Why not?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m willing to try.”
“Good.” She adjusted her position, as though settling down for some serious activity, and kept her eyes on the cars ahead while she talked. “Your position is,” she said, “that your lease with my father ran out, and my father sold the land, and you people will be evicted so the new owner can tear down the monastery.”
“That’s the position, all right.”
“Why shouldn’t it happen?”
“I beg pardon?”
She shrugged, still watching the road. “My father’s a decent man,” she said. “In his way. He owns property and he wants to sell it. Nothing wrong with that. These other people — what are they called?”
“Dwarfmann.”
“No, the little word.”
“Dimp.”
“Yes. Dimp is a useful functional part of our social system, providing jobs for the working man, putting capital to work, increasing the value of the city and the state and the nation. Nothing wrong with them either. Now, you people, you neither sow nor reap, do you? You’re decent, too, you don’t harm anybody, but what do you have to offer that’s stronger than either my father’s property rights or Dimp’s usefulness to society?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t think of anything.”
“So why not just pack up and move? Why make a fuss?”
I didn’t know how to deal with such questions. “If you’re asking me,” I said, “to justify my existence on the basis of my usefulness, then I guess I don’t have any justification at all.”
“What other basis is there?”
“Oh, you can’t mean that,” I said. “Do you really mean that usefulness is the only thing that matters?”
She glanced at me, with a quick ironic smile, and faced the traffic again. “And do you really intend to talk about beauty and truth?”
“I don’t know what I intend to talk about,” I said. Then I said, “This is a nice car.”