The Nursing Home Prophet

My mother-in-law was at it again. She had attacked another resident at the nursing home, a 90-yeard old Alzheimer’s patient, the third attack that week, with a baby bottle someone had left in the visitor’s lounge, opening a 5-stich gash in the bridge of the old guy’s nose. In her younger years Mum, as the family affectionately called her, had been a difficult woman if loving woman, but now at age 82 and quite demented, she had developed an irrepressibly violent streak. The director of the nursing home might have tolerated Mum’s dementia were it not for the fact that she had retained much of her youthful strength. She could easily kill one of the feeble co-residents. In this last attack it had taken two burly attendants to subdue her.

While my wife was in the dementia ward being politely informed by the director that Mum would be better off—-happier, was the way he diplomatically put it—-in a guarded facility 50 miles out of town, I repaired to the lobby snack bar to read the morning newspaper.

Seated at the table across from me was neatly dressed man, not that old, maybe in his early 70’s, an aluminum cane hooked to the back of his chair and a briefcase at his feet. We nodded each other a greeting, and the man, seeing that he had got my attention, reached into his briefcase, pulled out a book, and laid it on the table. It was a New King James Bible .

Ordinarily I would have humored the man, listened politely to his religious spiel, whatever it may have been, out of curiosity, if nothing else. But that morning, what with the prospect of having to move Mum to a more costly nursing home, our mounting stack of unpaid bills, the shot transmission of our old Ford Pinto, and the form letter I had just received from the dean informing me that my two-year contract as adjunct professor at Dawson college would not be renewed, I was not in my best mood.

“Look, Sir,” I said rudely without meaning to be rude. “I appreciate your wanting to share your religious views with me, but you’d be wasting your time. I already know exactly what you intend to tell me, I’ve hear it umpteen times before and, to be frank, I don’t want to hear it again.” Then turning my shoulder to him: “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to read my newspaper.

The old man chuckled. “You say that you already know what I’m about to say? And what might that be?"

I didn’t respond.

”That I’m going to preach to you? That I’m going to remind you that you are a sinner, that if you don’t repent and start praying and going to church regularly your soul will forever roast in hell? Is that what you thought I was going to say? Well, If you did, you are much mistaken.”

I laid my newspaper aside and studied the man’s face. Suddenly he looked ten, twenty years younger than when I first noticed him. He nudged the Bible toward me, saying.

“Have you ever read this book?

“Yes. Parts of it.”

“Recently?”

“Well, no, a long while back, when I was in the Army.”

“And the parts that you read, did you fully understand them?”

“Some, I guess, but not all of them.”

“And why was that?”

“Because the language was too mystical. Even modern-day versions like the Good News Bible are hard to follow.”

The man shook his head, smiled. “Actually, the book is every easy to read, even the old King James Version. Those editorials I saw you reading in the newspaper are lot more difficult to comprehend.”

“You’re losing me,” I said. “These editorials were crystal clear to me at first reading, but the parts of the Bible I’ve read, I had to go over several times, and I still didn’t understand them.”

Leaning forward on the table and locking eyes with me, he said: “That’s because you were reading the Bible wrong. The key to understanding the Bible is to translate its symbolic vocabulary into modern-day language.”

“How so?” I asked. “Most people, myself included, are not trained linguists.”

“It’s all very easy,” he explained. “Just change the words idolatry to organized religion; false prophets and Satan to tele-evangelists and religious leaders, and the Word in the Good Book will make perfect sense to you.”

The man waited a moment for me to register what he had said, then continued.

“I assume that you’re familiar with the Ten Commandments.”

“Yes, of course. That was one part of the Bible I didn’t have trouble understanding.”

“And do you remember what the First Commandment is about?"

“Yes, in some many words, the Commandment states that there is only one God and, therefore, bans the worship of idols, icons, images, effigies, and such, if I recall.”

“True. But that’s easier said than done. If you look around, you’ll see that that kind of idolatry is still very much with us. We may not worship golden calves as they did in the days of Moses, but we do worship all sort ofidols—-flags, statues, monuments, buildings--in the pretty much the same way. Don’t we?

“Yes, I suppose all that are forms of idolatry.”

“Yet, according to the Bible, that kind of idolatry is mild stuff, child’s play.”

”Child’s play?”

Yes, the most offensive form of idolatry in the eyes of God—-the basic one, really-- is the idolatry of other mortals.”

The man again paused to allow me time to take in what he was saying.

“When was the last time you attended a church service?”

“Not long ago, actually, My wife and I attended a Sunday just last week, invited by a neighbor.”

“What kind of church was it?

“Assembly of God.”

“And did you happen to notice the body language and look in the eyes of the congregation, their reactions to the choir music, the gesturing and voice modulations of the preacher?

“Yes, it was all very moving, animated. Some people were ecstatic, as was the preacher.”

“And did the effect last long after the service?”

“No, actually it lasted only while the service was in progress. Once the service was over and the people heading for the parking lot, most were back to normal.”

“So, in light of what I’ve been telling you, do you think that the congregation in that church was really worshipping God? When they pray and read their Bible, do you suppose they have an inkling of who the true God is, or care?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, not wanting to know, yet curious to hear the rest of the man’s sermon.”

“No, those people were not worshipping God. They were worshipping the preacher, and the preacher was encouraging it, basking in it, profiting from it, playing the role of surrogate God. Small wonder that Jesus referred to the clergy of his day as a 'generation of vipers.'”

“So, those people at the church had gone there to worship God, but due to their idolatrous nature, the more fervently they worshipped, the more they turned to Satan, or to the Anti-Christ. Is that what you’re trying to telling me?”

“Yes, precisely. By violating the First Commandment, they automatically violated the other nine. All sins, in fact, spring from that one on idolatry, and sooner or later the idolaters incur the wrath of God; or, putting it another way, they self-destruct. It’s that simple. That’s the sole theme of the Bible. So, you see, I wasn’t going to annoy you, insult your intelligence with the usual trite sermonizing about saying your prayers and attending church regularly. On the contrary. I’m suggesting you do the exact opposite.”

“But why me? What prompted you to approach me with this message?

"Because I could tell by look on your face that you needed to hear it. Does that offend you?"

“No, I guess not,” I said, in fact offended by but pretending not to be. Obviously, the man had discerned the stress I was under and suspected that I might turn for solace to religion.

“O.K. then,” I asked “If attending church and looking up to pastors and priests as intermediaries between humankind and God is a violation of the First Commandment, how does one find God? Or are you suggesting that there’s no such thing as God?

“Oh, no! I’m not suggesting that at all. There is, there had to be, a Supreme Being, a Creator, a First Cause of some sort, call it what you will, to have jumped start the universe and to keep it moving.”

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“How can one find God, if there is such a thing? Well, it would be presumptuous of me to say exactly what God this is like. The workings of his perfect, infallible mind are necessarily a mystery beyond human comprehension. Otherwise he wouldn’t be God. His works, though, are perfectly evident in the laws of nature and in our inner angels, if I may speak metaphorically. Search there and you’ll get glimpses of God’s mind, however fleeting. Let that alone be your form of worship and prayer.”

At first I had suspected that the man might be one of Mum's fellow residents in the dementia ward, but, then, the more he expatiated on the subject, the more sense he made. Didn’t Jesus say that the kingdom of heaven was inside you?

“Thanks for sharing your views with me,” I said. “I found them most enlightening. Today I’ll go buy me a Bible and read it the way you suggested.”

“No need to buy one,” he said, tendering me the one on the table. “Here, take mine. It’s chock full of annotations. You may find some interesting.” Then chuckling softly. “But be careful that you don’t take my annotations too seriously, You might end up idolatrizing me and miss out on the message in the book.”

I thanked him, put the King James Version in my briefcase, and was about to ask him: "How can be sure that the Bible is the word of God to begin with? God himself didn’t write it. It was written by men, prophets, intermediaries. So wouldn’t your faith on what the book says constitute a form of idolatry as well?" But I refrained from asking. I had heard enough for one day.

The man, though, had sensed what I was thinking. “There’s a lot more to this subject, of course, but we can take that up on another occasion, should we meet again.”

Not wanting to offend him by connecting him to the nursing home, I asked: “Are you visiting some one here?

Seeing through my attempt at discretion, he smiled. “Actually, I’m a resident, in the assisted living ward. But only temporarily, until I get my hip replacement. Then I'll be off with my wife on a tour of Italy.

“Well, Sir,” I said, “I do hope we meet again so we can continue our discussion. And extending my hand to him: “By the way, I’m James Weaver, a lit professor here at Dawson College.” I didn’t mention that I had been terminated, nor did I include the meaningless “Dr.” before my name.

The old man smiled a wide-toothed smile. “Pleased to have made your acquaintance, James. I’m Fred. Fred Mills. “Then reaching across the table, he grasped my hand and shook it, and my whole arm and shoulder with it. His grip was incredibly powerful.