223. SUPPORT
Psychological religion.
Well, not just religion.
I used to think the entire
swath of living was made
of people each on their
own private 'psychological'
quests. I probably do still
think that away. It wasn't
just me, or Leo Benjamin,
and me, or my situation, or
the seminary, and me. It
was everything all bundled
and jumbled together: a
massive, crying, scream
to be heard, by a million
different voices of
humanity all at one
time. Using symbols
and objects instead of
just saying what's on their
mind. It was part of my
freeze-frame, check-mate
layout of time. How could
I go anywhere or do
anything when frozen
solid in that outlook? But,
that's where I ended up,
and I believed nothing else.
There was one activity I
took on, in the seminary,
one year, which was great.
I don't know how I was
selected for this, or I
forget it all anyway - it
may just have all been
coincidence; can't recall -
but this activity, in its way,
really helped me gets this
envisioned idea of what
I later called 'psychological
religion' formalized and
made concrete. As this
task went, whenever one
of the students, kids, friends,
pals, whatever I should call
them, in the school took sick,
or got a bad toothache or an
attack of this or that or broke
a finger or something on
an athletic field - whatever -
when they needed medical
transporting to nearby-enough
Camden, for a medical visit,
hospital, check-up, dental
emergency, any of that, I'd
get to go along. It was usually
that new black-guy priest,in
his 64 Ford, new then, who
would be the driver, and,
along with me, came the
patient. I was, perhaps,
'peer guide' or 'comfort kid'
or something. No big deal.
I got a free ride, often at
night, an adventure, a real
problem ('how much more is
that going to bleed, or swell
up?' Stuff like that). It was
usually an hour or two later,
after the 'wound' when we
got there. (Nothing happened
in the seminary, 'fast'; and
perhaps the idea of slow
'seminary time' is to be
something I can go into
in a future chapter). We'd
arrive, Camden being, back
then, by the terms of the
seminary farmland, a big
city. There'd be brick
buildings, busy corners,
roadways, etc. I can well
remember, for instance,
one dental-visit night, going
up to the glass-brick and
illumined corner office of
some dental clinic and
stepping out to wait by
the car. (I never much
went inside, it being more
the job of Father Alexander,
or whatever his name was,
and the patient, of course.
I'd just stay there, taking in
whatever sights and sounds
there were - it was all like
a secret, shrouded poetry
to me already at age 13;
everything I saw had
wonderment and
excitation). A year or
so later, whenever that was,
there was a big hit song,
by Petula Clark, called
'Downtown'. Whatever that
song was about, I'd didn't
really care; she seemed
perfectly apt speaking to
me, and what I saw on
the fierce and busy 'city
trips.' Man, if being in
Blackwood had a fringe
benefit, that was surely
it. Or one. When I stood
out there, on a darkened
and unfamiliar 1964 city
street, I was in Heaven.
'Religion' could have the
rest. I never realized how
downtrodden a really bad
city could be. It was already,
economically, dead. The
housing stock looked beat,
the old buildings of the areas
where business and factory
work was done seemed
smashed, really hurting,
or already abandoned.
Factory gates, I could see,
just listlessly swung open,
a hinged entry to nothing.
There hadn't been a shift-bell
in five or ten years, for sure.
Nothing at all. If there were
guards, they'd long ago left
on the last train out. or so
it seemed. This was poor
and destitute stuff. I always
figured at least it gave us
something to pray for, the
vision of helping the poor
suckers, bringing back some
blood to a long blood-dead
place. Mostly scary was
the image I'd get - on all
these big old, wood-frame
leftover homes, with their
big old porches and chairs
and porch-swings and
mattresses on them, yes,
there'd be black people -
seemingly dead, vacant,
comatose, never moving,
Just staring out. In the
same silence that we
drove through to get to
these places, they sat.
Any five of them could
have been the pepper-pickers
I'd seen, but these people
had no life, no energy at
all. It sure looked to me
as if America had long ago
left them behind. I'd wonder
why. And who or what had
done it? Eisenhower?
Kennedy? The lost
'promise' of Kennedy's
Camelot? Johnson? Was
all this the planned result
of some killer's random
Dallas bullet? How could
it be? That was only a year
ago, then. Ruination like this,
I said to myself, takes a
generation or more. Eight,
ten or more people per
household, Five households
per house, maybe, I was
just guessing, but none of
it was pretty. America wasn't
'great,' as I saw it; it was a
black revolution waiting
to happen. All that strange,
dark, ghost had to do was
stir. Little did I know.
-
The idea of psychological
religion, I think, began right
here, It' a sort of combined form
of sentimentality, good-wishing,
positive-thinking, idealistic ideas,
charity and feelings of good-will,
all combined. All those poor people,
arrayed like death-masks on their
porches. So bad; oh, they deserve
redemption. That poor child, the
boy in pain and tears, crying
into the dentist's chair, he needs
a calming and comforting hand.
Come to think of it, they both
need the Savior, the
comfort of Mother Church, the
hope and uplift of deliverance.
All the sick, and the hurting,
and the downtrodden, I want
them helped...Yes! That's how
religion speaks. That's how the
psychology of religion rings
forth its personages and stories
and endings. Faith, faith, faith
is in the choir! I suddenly
realized - there was nothing
behind anything. Nothing
but the spatial filling up a
void with the only the very
best psychology of positive
attitude and good force.
In fact, Naivete! And
that's what any of this
support-group religion
came down to. That's why
it always ended up
depending on the childish,
sweet, the lamb, the innocent,
the slaughter, and the
redemption! It was nothing
more than support. A support-
network of like-minded people
intent, together, on a task of
upholding each other.
-
And, just as swiftly and vividly,
I'd realize I had no part of it,
in it, with it, nor any desire
to partake 'of'' it. My host was
all inside, within me, and I
was hosting my own sort
of show.
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