#191 PROBLEM CHILD
I was in the seminary library
one afternoon, early on maybe
'63, and I'd, I guess, walked
out with mussed hair and no
care either, from an earlier
shower or something. One
of the big, fancy guys, Joe
Vouglas, in fact, who was
from, I knew, Plainfield,
NJ, the old Plainfield of
class and money, not the
dump there today, he
motioned me over (a few
of then were sitting around
the newspaper and magazine
carousels), and he said to
me, 'Hey. you look like one
of those 'Beatles'. I had no
clue what he was talking
about. It took a little while,
maybe even a day or two,
to find out what he meant.
It's funny how that sticks
in my mind - showing both
really how cloistered we were
(as cloistered as we allowed
ourselves to be, I guess. He,
obviously, wasn't - so I just
disproved my case) and,
more, how distinct and
precise are the recognition
factors we live by. In a
year or so the whole
world would know
what they were. Even
me. It was unavoidable,
and that's like the
culture-wash that soon
was to swipe over
everything. It would be
more and more difficult,
I saw, to remain aloof
and insulated from things
you'd not wish to be
mingled with. It was
just soon to be the way
things were. Cultural
imperialism, the banalities
of pop-culture and the
advertising that went
with it. It was all
un-Christian; I knew.
I knew that already,
and could see its effects.
Where did that leave me,
I wondered? What chance
did 'Christianity' or the
proclaiming of any set
ethos of practice and
belief have against this
vulgar and rude onslaught?
Why would I even bother.
It baffled me how the
oldest religion in effect
that we know of, the
grand Judaic 'promised
land and chosen people',
with all their mumbling
and scriptural dissertation
and high-minded seeking
and dedication, their cadres
of yeshivas and Talmudic
dissertation, would be the
ones to so actively and
with little compunction
towards right and
goodness, 'always' be
the ones to propagate
the shuddering sleaze
that was ruining everything.
The crude and the gross
and the vulgar, it was
always and everywhere
under their name. I got
no sense from any of
this. Had I been on
a cold, high mountain
somewhere, their fine,
disgusting exceptionalism
would reach me. And
they took pride in their
destructive ways, as if
their 'business' acumen
and achievement was a
high honor; as if the more
cheesy grandeur and wealth
they could amass from all
this destructive work better
accredited them in God's
eyes. Their God's eyes
anyway. The one they
now could not approach
directly. As a 12-year old
and up, I also could not
understand the Christian
premise, as presented -
based as it was on the
jocular aside, always,
that 'Jesus was a Jew.'
What did that mean? I
thought he both fulfilled
and then destroyed all
those silly old covenants,
those acres and layers of
covenant and command.
To me, it was undecipherable
how all of this was just
thrown onto me, without
any expectation of my
inspection or even objection.
I was just being told instead
that 'Faith' had to do it for
me, 'Faith' had to suffice.
I didn't need to understand;
God's ways and God's
doings were supposed
to be obscure. Maybe
so; but no thanks. To
me that was the height
of indignation and affront;
treating me like chattel.
-
Some 20 years later, I
worked closely with a
printing client who ran
an art studio dedicated
to Judaic sculpture,
fund-raising wall
memorials, in schools
and hospitals, where
5000 dollars buys you
an inscribed leaf on a
fund-raising wall tree.
All very business like
and formal, with the
'Art' factor of it being
far secondary. What the
clients wanted, sorry to
say, was vanity - the
glitz and name-recognition
that would get their name
shown. The Hollywood star
in the sidewalk treatment, as
it were. Whether 500 dollars
or 50,000, they wanted that
back for their money, the
rest be damned. Like gold
rings and gold necklaces,
like the vulgarity of their
big cars and fancy homes,
they became caricatures of
themselves, all around. To
my eyes, long ago, that's
what religion had debased
itself to. To his eyes, the
grand compromise was much
worse - he'd sacrificed a
lower east-side, NYC biblical
'scholar' career for that. We'd
talk endlessly over the minutia
of Chasidic and Talmudic
scholarship, the differences
between the sects, the various
Jewish cults the ancient
infusions of this or that
doctrine which had influenced
and infiltrated the Pentateuch
and the rest. It became the
wall of factors by which I
reflected back on my
almost-done deal. We
went over the destruction
of ALL the temples we'd
once wished to live by.
-
Memory is an awfully
funny and unique thing.
It's sourced by the oddest
items : for Proust it was a
cake, for others the tolling
of a river bell, a train, boat,
or ship. Still others, the
moan of a cow, the sound
of a tractor. Any of a
hundred different things
ringing memory - a small,
a taste, the way something
felt in the hands. Memory
therefore is always old,
brought in from behind
us, while we ourselves
are always concerned
with going forward,
moving somehow to
all of that which is
'before' us, ahead, in
front. These things
differ, and they
constantly clash. Until
we find our own ways
to mesh them with the
world around us.
-
Somehow the very serious
play-game of organized ans
preached religion just stopped
speaking to me. I felt I needed
to be more than a 'functionary',
one following order from
somewhere else about matters
of faith and spirit and heart
and soul. That big, vast part
of me was gone, had lost its
mooring, was already running
off. And I was just barely 14.
In the seminary, each of use
was given a 'Spiritual Advisor.'
He was supposed to be the one
we turned to with doctrinal or
personal questions about where
we were headed, what we were
doing, hoped to do and the rest.
Mine was a pip-smoking creep
named Fr. Carlton Brick. Yes,
you got it, Carlton Brick.
A propagandist, and one no
different from any of what you
find today in any local government
or board of education seating.
Not an original thought, not
even a blanche of creativity or
reflection. Just doctrine, just
rote, just the today. A command.
- streamline the means, get
the 'doing' done, but never
question it. Pave the roadway,
but never talk about the path
that once was there.
Boy, was I a problem child.
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