Once upon a time, thanks to the ineptitude of my local cable company, there were two of me. There was Me, and a guy who lived down the highway who happened to share the same name, but who was Not-Me. Now, the thought of someone out there who shares my name (and it's a goofy name at that) has always kind of fascinated me, and I've even entertained notions of creating a writing project where I would track down all of these people and see how their lives were the same or different. But then I had this run-in with the other me, and I dropped the whole idea.
As I said, Me and Not-Me, we don't live in the same town, we're miles apart. But, because there's only one, giant cable TV conglomerate that serves the entire region, we both ended up as their customers at roughly the same time, although they signed Me up first. How do I know? Because a few months later, they signed up "Not-Me," and gave him an email address that was staggeringly close to mine. How close? Well, MY inbox filled up very quickly with emails from HIS friends and family. I'm not sure, but I think Not-Me even gave out the wrong address.
In any case, it quickly went from amusing in a voyeuristic sort of way to tiresome, having to wade through stacks of letters. But, trying to be a nice guy, I replied politely and let them know that I was Me, and that they needed to phone up Not-Me, and get things straightened out. I was starting to make some headway, too, when I began receiving emails from his prayer-group. And one letter in particular...it made me stop dead and stare at the screen. I could not believe what I was reading.
Now, I've always fancied myself to be kind of a spiritual person. As a kid, raised Catholic (read into that what you will.) In my college years I looked into some Eastern philosophies (but I also joined a Christian singing group, just to impress a girl. But, that's a whole 'nother story...) I was raised with 70's hippie Jesus, a cool guy who wanted us to be nice to one another. He was all about healing the sick and feeding the hungry, and not being judgmental. Seemed like a pretty decent guy, all "love" and "forgiveness" and so forth. If you slapped him in the face, he'd offer you the other side, saying, "There! Smack that one, too while you're at it!" That was James Dean and Humprey Bogart and a whole six-pack of Arthur Fonzarellis worth of cool. (Kids, that's like Robert Downey Jr's "Tony Stark.")
Like I said, I got a letter from someone in his prayer-group (after I had been alerting them to their mistake.) This letter--a very excited letter-- told the following story: the author's sister lived in another state where her husband, a construction worker, had suffered a fall from a great height, the kind of drop that should have killed him instantly, but instead left his body shattered. He was in a coma. If he ever regained consciousness, he would find that his body was paralyzed, having severed his spinal cord. Yes, this was a tragic and compelling story, and moved me to feel sorry for this guy I didn't know, half a continent away. He was a father, too, and probably used to enjoying all the perks that come from having a strong body, now taken away by this horrible accident. But, despite this awful, tragic tale, there was something else in the letter made me even sadder. And that was the letter's tone.
It wasn't sad, or pleading or asking for prayers. It was gleeful. Giddy. Filled with barely-bridled joy. She was happy, happy beyond belief! Yes!!! The exclamation points proclaimed! Why was she happy? How could she be happy? Was this sister an evil person? Had she wronged her sibling? Stolen a boyfriend or been addicted to crack or kicked her dog? No, no and no. But...she had always "been on the fence with her faith," a lukewarm believer. And this terrible tragedy was a miracle! Now, the sister would return to the fold and be closer to God. Glory be!
I couldn't believe what I was reading. It was pathological, monstrous. This woman's faith had engendered in her a callous disregard for the well-being of others so powerful that it even blinded her to one of the worst situations that her own family, her own sister, might ever have to endure.
Now, I've got a bunch of siblings. Growing up, we didn't always treat each other right. And I know that even as an adult, I am myself far from perfect, and capable of self-centered and petty behavior. HOWEVER, I could not ever conceive of being so happy, so maniacally gleeful and joyous in the face of such sadness and misery, were it to fall on MY sister.
Like I said, I'm kind of wishy-washy spiritual, "on the fence" so to speak. I try to be a good person, and do the right thing, although I sometimes I fail. I don't know all the answers to life's questions, and don't entirely trust those who say they do.
But I do know this: if there is a hell, I hope there's a spot reserved for this woman, and folks like her, who become blinded to misery and suffering--even when it happens to family. The kind of glassy-eyed belief that causes people to protest soldier's funerals, shoot doctors, and strap bombs to their chest. I hope those people burn in--
What?
What's that, hippie Jesus?
Really?
You gotta be kidding.
Sigh.
Ok, HJ...
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