Happenstance, or Evolution?

    You know how it is when you feel yourself growing out of something; like when you were a kid and your pants seemed to have shrunk when you weren’t looking. That’s how I been feeling of late. Can’t figure out if it’s because I’m growing out of something, or into it.

    It’s not the first time I’ve had to wrestle with myself over this issue. The problem is, In my dreams, I always wake up or change the subject before I find an answer. It is not like what’s right or wrong, good or bad, is debatable. Because of everything I’ve been told over the years, there is really no debate, it either is, or isn’t. But that seems to simple, there has to be more to it than that, otherwise what’s the use of all this life we keep sloshing through. Are we hoping to someday to find the beach?       

    Father O’linsky, he’s a retired priest I got to know. We both find ourselves in the park it seems just before it rains. He’s not a practicing priest any longer. He told me he’s got something wrong with his dementia. I almost laughed, he did. He’s quite the comedian, although I don’t think he realizes it. We do have a good time though watching it rain and debating the idea of finding shelter before it’s too late to make a difference. I guess that question is what got us to talking about the “Immaculate Delusion,” as he calls it.

    At first I didn’t know what he was talkin about exactly, but then after getting wet and feeling I should know better, it began to make sense. There is more to being smart than being educated. There is something we can’t see, even put our finger on, but know is there contributing to the decisions we make. Not something we learn, but something we are born with, like a new car smell. 

    I asked O’linsky, as he asked me to call him, what he thought. “Drop the father,” he said, “not very becoming at my age.” And then he began a rather rambling but informative diatribe, on the seven different levels of hell, “or was it Macy’s?” he asked, and then in the middle of everything he falls asleep. 

    That of course causes no end of problems, only more questions; should I wake him, will the rain get worse, does lightning strike twice in the same place you’ve been struck previously; stuff like that. 

    I found by accident that if I woke him within a minute of him visiting his spirit world, he will awake while remaining in his dream. It gave me a clearer insight into how his scrambled history had manifested itself in this new time of confusion, not unlike the dark ages, or Aba’s success. 

    He would appear to be awake, or minimally alive, but would talk as if his words were coming to me from the bottom of a pond devoid of scum. I assumed it was because of the frequent application of chemicals dedicated to clear blue poison infused water. It was the infusion of clarity, that caused me to recognize the depth of his prognostications.

    O’linsky stated, “God is not dead, only sleeping.” I had to ruminate on his declaration, and then ask as respectfully as I could manage, “Are you sure?”

    “Yes, I’m sure, I asked Him. Not because of the recent suppositions being bantered about, but because I myself was curious, as I had not heard from any of the Trio in quite some time.” 

    “The Trio?”

    “Sorry, I forget sometimes that you normals don’t get the downloads those in the business do, or those of us who have been in the business.”

    “Business?”

    “Yes! What, you think we do this for a mere pat on the head and the occasional kissing of the ring? You need to get out more.”

    And then he would bolt upright, his eyes would fix on a distant object, and he'd ask, “Do you think I’m going to be alright?”

     I never answered him for fear of pushing him farther into the darkness he’d spent so much of his life investigating, and possibly would never return from. I usually just changed the subject before he realized who I was, or why we were sitting on a bench in the rain. His memory was short, but when I suggested we go to the Alfred E Newman House, a beat coffee house that resembled an opium den in the old Village, he stood and began walking in the wrong direction. I took it as a sign it was a favorable idea. 

    He seemed to enjoy the ambiance of Alfred’s, often commenting on how when young, he used to frequent a similar place. “Before I entered the novitiate, excuse me, seminary,” he would add with a wink. It was during these times of thick blue smoke, clinking glasses, the aroma of Turkish coffee, that he began as though in a trance, to reveal what he believed he knew of the Spiritual Realm on Bleeker Street, his way of relating insightful revelations of a world only he was privy to, while remaining off the Homeland Security’s list of Religious Deviants.

    I asked him once what a Religious Deviant was, and he flew into a rage, commenting on everything from the first and second amendments, to the dictatorial decrees of the cities meter maids. There is something about Turkish coffee that brings out the fascist in him.

    Being that he’d devoted his life to God, I felt it only appropriate to ask him if he actually believed. I thought he might resent the question, but to my surprise, he smiled and began to lecture me on, “Devil’s Doubt,” which I had not heard of before, or since. Apparently God, who was content to remain anonymous for billions of years, appeared only after the shameless pillow fight he claimed took place between the two angel factions vying for recognition, and no doubt the rewards that were attached to the designation, winner. 

    The Devil syndrome, as it became known in the philosophical circles of the upper ring, became so pervasive, God felt he had no option but to make an appearance, although the other two amigos weren’t so sure it was prudent, given the tension of the times.

    Apparently arrogance had begun to infect members of the celestial body like a virus, which turned their inability to question authority into what was considered indecisive manipulation of righteous intent. A failed attempt, according to O’linsky, to keep a lid on what had surfaced, as the debate on the future of deities, based on the contradictions inherent in free will of course.

    O’linsky crossed over one afternoon while sitting on our bench in the park in the rain. A postage due letter arrived for me shortly after that. In it he thanked me for humoring an old man. I assumed he was referring to himself. He promised to visit, soon. I, he said, referring to me I assume, "need keep my free will dry.” I’m not sure what he meant exactly, but I quit going to the park when it rained, or was promised to. 

To be honest, I've always been afraid of free will, it causes me to feel claustrophobic.