Dead & Godless (22 page)

“Again
with the semantics . . .”

“Your
disregard for language is why you fail to see the difference between lust and
physical attraction, tolerance and indifference, jealousy and envy, self-love
and vanity. Need I go on?”

“Jealousy
and envy,” mused Corwin. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one yet.”

Ransom
obliged, “A jealous man wants what his neighbor has. An envious man wishes that
his neighbor didn’t have it.”

“Thanks.”
Corwin rolled his eyes. “But even if you explain away every issue of biblical
morality, you’re still left with the problems of the Bible itself, namely that
it’s unoriginal, contradictory and simply untrue.”

A
black cat leapt from one of the bookshelves. It bounded off a globe and landed
lightly, the kingdoms and empires of 1,000 B.C. spinning on a squeaky axle as it
crossed the aisle to slip behind another row of books.

“You
said once before that people today view Christianity as
just another
religion, and you were right,” said Corwin. “Anyone who studies pre-Christian
faiths will find the same old stories recycled in the Bible. There are Hindu
gods like Krishna who had virgin births, Roman gods like Hercules who were part
man and part divine, and Egyptian gods like Osiris who died and rose again. Would
you call it mere coincidence that Jesus shares so much in common with his pagan
ancestors?”

“Certainly
not,” Ransom replied. “It’s actually quite astonishing. Just think of it! Even
without the Father’s revelation, the mystics of the ancient world had some
inkling of understanding, some foresight into how the Redeemer would come!”

Corwin
slapped his forehead, his palm sliding down his face like a wet rag down a
window.

“You
would
say that! It’s just like you to twist honest criticism into some far-fetched
point in your favor!”

“What
can I say? I’m a relentless optimist.”

“But
I’m not! I’m a realist!”

“Oh,
come off it!” huffed Ransom. “Were you to play angel’s advocate, you could come
up with plenty of arguments for the uniqueness of Christianity, not the least
of which stems from common sense. If the Good News of the Redeemer were simply
the Same Old News that everyone had heard before, Christianity would have
registered as no more than a blip on history’s radar.”

“I
never claimed that there was
nothing
unique about Christianity,” Corwin
clarified. “It’s just that I don’t see any vital difference so striking as to
convince me that your scriptures are true while everyone else’s are false.”

“Then
let me offer you one.”

Grabbing
a leather-bound Bible, Ransom cradled it in one hand. Like a wizard’s spell
book, it opened, the pages flipping in rapid succession.

“Forget
what the Bible says about God and consider for a moment what it says about man.
Almost every major philosophy or religion takes one of two stances: either man
is noble and destined for greatness, or man is pitiable, an absurd dreamer
whose only destiny is to return to the dust from whence he came.

“The
first stance leads to pride, but also to depression when the life you’ve been
told is so special doesn’t work out quite the way that you’d hoped. The result
of the second stance is despair.”

He
snapped shut the book and tossed it backwards, into the arms of Corwin, whose
clumsy hands juggled it before finding a grip.

“Now,
which of these two stances does Christianity take?”

Corwin
pried open the Bible and again its pages began to turn, but not at random. As verses
sprang from his memory, the pages flipped to the relevant chapters, their words
illuminated in a golden glow. “Sinners” decried the Lord, but did he not also
say that he came not for the just, but for sinners such as these? Did he not
claim that these lowly sinners were to inherit his kingdom?

“I
would have to say . . . both,” concluded Corwin.

Ransom
awarded him with a slow clap.

“You
spoke much of paradoxes, but it seems that you forgot one. Let us call it the
Paradox of Man. On the one hand, you are made in the Father’s own image and
likeness. But on the other hand, you are fallen. On the one hand, you are
wretched sinners, undeserving of love. But on the other hand, you
are
loved—loved with a passionate, infinite love! In Christianity alone you find
this wonderful paradox. And so you find both humility and hope; an answer that
denies neither the hardships nor the aspirations of life.”

Corwin
was reminded of the old saying “It’s so crazy, it must be true!” Christianity
had an uncanny propensity for unbelievable claims that yet seemed to get so
much right about human nature.

“You
sometimes have a way of saying things that makes even me want to believe,” he
told the angel. “So why does the ‘divinely inspired word of god’ do such an
inferior job? Your holy book has more contradictions than I can count! There
are contradictory teachings, contradicting accounts of Jesus’ birth, his death,
his genealogy! The Bible is anything but consistent.”

“A
contradiction means more than just a difference in accounts,” said Ransom. “To
be contradictory, it must be impossible for both accounts to be true. You will
find no meaningful points of difference in the Bible.”

“I
wouldn’t be so sure about that. And if I’m misinterpreting your scriptures, you
have only the holy spirit to blame! Why inspire the biblical authors to write a
text so absurdly cryptic?”

“You
exaggerate, but yes, the Bible can be rather mystifying. Thankfully, the
Redeemer didn’t send forth a simple collection of writings. He sent forth the apostles.
Christian thinkers throughout the centuries have left you plenty of insight into
those cryptic passages. Why ignore them?”

“Maybe
because they can’t seem to agree.”

Voices
arose from a nearby nook of the library, and Corwin peered through the
right-hand bookcase. The row of Bibles was haphazardly arranged on the shelf,
some stacked and some leaning, loose pages sticking out at odd angles. On the
other side, he spied a brightly lit table set against the wall. Wax dribbled
from a dozen candles, spilling like milky icicles over the table’s edge. Upon
it rested various scriptures and documents, and seated across from each other
were two men in priestly attire. One had sharp, hawkish eyes, his beard trimmed
close. The other fellow was clean shaven with curls of gray hair shooting out
from under his foppish black cap.

“The
text is clear, Luther,” declared the first man. “The Lord says: ‘Thou art
Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church.’”

“What
Christ meant, Ignatius, is ‘thou art a pebble, but upon
this rock
I
shall build my church.’ The rock he was speaking of was himself, not Peter. In
the Greek:
petra
, not
petros.”

“Consider
the surrounding verses,” insisted Ignatius. “You would have Jesus say: ‘Blessed
are you Simon bar-Jona . . . you are an insignificant pebble . . . here are the
keys to the kingdom of Heaven!’ Would the greatest of all teachers really have
spoken in such a disjointed manner?”

The
heated debate continued, but Corwin had already lost interest. He turned away,
leaving Luther and Ignatius to the unenvious task of working out their
differences.

“Do
you see what I mean?”

Ransom
was crouched in the aisle, petting the black cat that had crossed their path
earlier. It meowed, swished its tail and slinked away into the shelves.

“For
all their disagreements, you’ll still find more wisdom in the words of men such
as these than in the shallow interpretations of those with no faith at all.”

“But
which theologians are correct? Which translation of the Bible is the proper
one? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“That
never stopped you before. In the church of atheism, there are many
denominations. The relativists disagree with the humanists, who disagree with
the determinists, who disagree with the existentialists, who disagree with the
nihilists, who–”

“Okay,
okay!” interjected Corwin. “Atheists may not always agree, but at least they
don’t waste their time arguing over events that, in all likelihood, never even
happened. Real historians will tell you that much of the Bible is pure
fabrication. Passages were tweaked and verses added over time, not by some
spark of divine insight, but because of the very human desire to make the
stories more appealing.”

“Interesting.”
Ransom knuckled his chin. “Tell me of these ‘real’ historians. Are they the
sort of men who suppose that all records of supernatural events must have
natural explanations?”

“That’s
called being objective,” stated Corwin.

“It’s
called being an atheist.”

“What
then? Should historians blindly presume that all the old myths are true? Should
they give serious consideration to whether we once lived on the back of a giant
celestial tortoise, or to the possibility that our ancestors discovered fire
thanks to Prometheus stealing away with some embers from Mount Olympus?”

“Historians
ought to
presume
as little as possible. If supernatural events have in
fact occurred, then a view of history which denies them, denies reality.”

“But
there’s no firm evidence that they ever have!”

“Could
there have been any account, any collection of relics from 2,000 years ago that
would have convinced you that a man rose from the dead?”

“Probably
not,” conceded Corwin. “Unless perhaps there were prophesies in plain, precise
language that foretold events unfolding in the modern age.”

“No,
even that wouldn’t have swayed you,” said Ransom. “You would simply have deemed
such prophesies to be self-fulfilling.”

“Couldn’t
god have seen fit to impart some actually useful information? Why not tell his
followers about disease pathogens or electrical conduction?”

“Would
that have saved their souls? If the Father had told Moses all about magnetic
polarity, would skeptics in your age have renounced atheism, concluding that
the origin of such knowledge could only be divine?”

“That’s
doubtful, but . . .” Corwin’s voice trailed off. He had thought to say that
supernatural events demanded supernatural evidence, but what kind of evidence
would that be? Would God leave behind some speaking stone or everlasting
rainbow? And if he were to go that far, why not just reveal himself openly? No,
leaving a signpost like that would undermine the role of faith. It would reduce
belief to a simple question of practicality.

“The
truth of Bible is hidden for the same reason that God is hidden,” Ransom said,
as if reading Corwin’s mind. “The Father does not force himself on those who
don’t wish to see, nor does he force his Word on those who don’t wish to hear. With
faith and reason, the truth comes to light. Reason alone will only take you
halfway.”

The Risk of Redemption

The lights had
been turned off, the hallway deserted, but Corwin knew this place. He knew the
white walls and yellow doors and checkered tiles, the picture frames in which
newborn babies cuddled with teddy bears and doctors smiled respectably, the
sterile scent and the dull gleam of the freshly mopped floor.

But
something wasn’t right. Hospitals never slept, yet this place did. It was as quiet
as a crypt, and the only light was that which shone meekly through the wired
glass windows of the double doors that stood at the far end of the hallway—the
doors of the operating room.

“I liked
the library better,” mumbled Corwin.

He
wondered vaguely whether his real-life body was right now in a hospital like
this one, his life signs fading as surgeons frantically tried to patch him up. What
kind of shape would he be in? A frightful thought occurred to Corwin, the
thought that he might not want to go back. What if he was horribly crippled or
had severe brain damage? Did he have the strength to endure life as a
paraplegic? He wasn’t so sure.

“An
operation is underway, and the patient is in critical condition,” said Ransom.

“Who’s
dying?”

“Mankind.”

A
hazy shadow stirred within the lighted room.

“You
have a hole in your heart—a God-shaped hole—and you will never be happy so long
as you try to fill it with anything less. Atheism’s solution is to unmake man
by reducing him to just another beast, to kill the disease by killing the
patient.”

“Then
the patient is going to die either way,” said Corwin. “Anyone who looks at the
world today will see that it’s religion that’s liable to bring civilization to
a bloody end. You even admitted as much!”

“I
admitted that religion wasn’t safe,” replied Ransom. “Love always carries a
risk.”

“Let’s
say that you’re right and that atheism is contrary to human nature. That
doesn’t make it untrue. And happiness has nothing to do with it! We’ve come all
this way on a simple maxim: that the only good reason to believe something is
if it’s true. You can’t have it both ways! You can’t stand there and tell me
that ‘because it makes me happy’ is a valid reason for belief! That’s never a
valid reason! Truth can be hard. Truth can hurt. But I’d rather believe in the
truth than in a kind lie!”

Ransom
spontaneously punched his client in the shoulder.

“Ouch!”
yelped Corwin, rubbing the sore spot.

“That’s
what I like about you, Corwin! You’re uncompromising about the right things!
Yet I wonder . . . truth, love, beauty . . . have you never thought that these
virtues belonged together?”

“So
say the poets, but I’ve always preferred the prose of scientists.”

“You’re
right that truth is the only valid reason for belief, but how do you know when
you’ve found the truth?”

“Through
observation and testing and–”

“Empirical
knowledge isn’t the only knowledge,” interjected Ransom. “How do you know when
you’ve found the other kind? How do you know whether to kill yourself or have a
cup of coffee?”

Corwin’s
heart knew the answer, yet his mind drew a blank. He didn’t doubt that truth
was bigger than science, not anymore. Ransom had been right when he’d said that
Corwin didn’t have it in him to choose the razor blade apple. Some decisions
were
better than others. But what was the measure? Did goodness truly point to something
real, to a meaning woven into the fabric of the universe?

“Happiness
is no reason to believe a lie,” said Ransom. “But when you find life’s highest
truths, you’ll know it, because truth isn’t just true. It’s beautiful. To
discover it is to know happiness, and I mean not some ‘fuzzy feeling.’ I mean a
deep and abiding joy. Your chest will tighten, your heart will sing, and your
soul will finally be at ease, for no longer will you be a man divided. Your
mind will grasp what your heart knew all along: that you were made to be loved
by your Father.”

“And if
your Christ doesn’t bring me happiness?” Corwin asked fearfully. “What then, if
all he brings is guilt and false hopes? My heart has scars enough already, and
it’s too late for me to take that wager.”

“You
hedged your bets. That’s why you’re here. But you still don’t understand the
nature of the gamble.”

Ransom
pushed open the swinging doors at the hallway’s end and stepped inside. A medical
lamp cast a tent of white light over the operating table. Upon it, a patient
lay sedated, bare feet sticking out from beneath the bottom of his gown. Bent
over him was a bald doctor in a surgical mask and lab coat. His back blocked
their view of the operation, but the bloody instruments on the tray beside him
were already more than Corwin wanted to see.

“Christianity
is like open heart surgery,” spoke the angel over the steady
beep, beep,
beep
of the heart rate monitor. “It’s a risky undertaking, one that you might
not survive. There’s a chance that your doctor will make a mistake. Maybe he’s
a hypocrite who doesn’t take his own advice. Maybe he failed to interpret his
texts properly while in medical school.
But you need the surgery.
You’re
dying inside, and to live without taking that risk wouldn’t really be living at
all.”

The
patient shook with a violent convulsion and his heart rate spiked. Dropping a
scalpel in the tray, the doctor clasped a pair of forceps, working feverishly
at the unseen cavity in the man’s chest. Another gyration rattled his body, and
then his heart flatlined. A bleak, high-pitched tone blared through the
monitor. The doctor rose to his full height and switched it off with a somber
shake of his head.

“What
a shame!” he declared, his voice dry and callous. “It seems that the operation
was a failure!”

Turning,
he pulled off his mask, the front of his lab coat spattered crimson.

Ransom
thrust an arm out in front of Corwin.

“Get
behind me!”

“You
won’t be slipping away this time,” said Isley as all warmth and color drained
from the world, enfolding the hospital in a field of closed space. “And I hope
you don’t mind, Ransom, but I’ve brought along a friend. Maybe you remember
him? I’m told the two of you are old acquaintances.”

A
hulking figure darkened the side doorway. He wore a black suit and tie, his
broad chest threatening to burst his shirt at the seams, but while the cut of
his clothes was modern, the thick braids that fell from his beard hadn’t
changed.

“Strega,”
Ransom hissed. “I see you’ve moved down in the world.”

The
arch demon flexed his hands eagerly at his sides. Seeing the angel, a tingling
burn awoke in his old wound—the scar where Ransom’s soulrender had blinded him
eight hundred years ago.

“Centuries
have I waited, longing for this day!”

As he
took a stride towards them, Ransom moved instantly, kicking a rolling tray
table into the demon’s knees.

“Corwin,
run!”

It
took a moment for the words to register in Corwin’s head. Strega buckled
forward and snarled, smashing the tray table to pieces with a swipe of his hand.

“I
said
run!”

Ransom’s
shove nearly knocked Corwin off his feet. He caught himself and crashed through
the swinging doors, and his legs didn’t stop. The portraits in the shady
hallway flew by. No time to look back. No time to worry. His boots pounded the
checkered tiles and Isley’s bitter laughter rang in his ears.

“Too
easy,” gloated Strega. His fingers stroked the groove of his scar. “I could end
you here and now, stop this wound from burning.”

On
his hands and knees, Ransom coughed fiery blood, yet he gazed back at Strega
with the same invincible grin.

“I
really think two glass eyes is a good look for you. You’re like the poster
child for grizzled warriors . . . or for running with scissors. I haven’t
decided which.”

His
ribs cracked and the halogen lights shattered as Strega’s kick launched him
into the ceiling. He landed with a thud, flakes of plaster raining from the
crater overhead.

“Patience,
Strega,” urged Isley. “His client will be joining us soon.”

Surely,
Ransom would be alright. Any moment now, he would reappear by his side and
whisk them off to some safe, secluded corner of an alternate universe, far from
the clutches of any demonic legal teams. Or so Corwin told himself, but the hallway
was only growing darker, the shadows shifting with a will of their own.

“Corwin,”
they whispered, first from one side, then the other. “Corwin . . . Corwin . . .
Corwin . . .”

Silhouettes
barred the passage ahead and he didn’t have to check his back to know that the
view would be equally grim. But Corwin wasn’t defenseless.

I
still have that.

Summoning
his courage, he stopped and spun.

“Come
on, you bastards!” he hollered into the gloom. “No more games!”

A
blaze lit the hallway as his hand closed around the golden cross, and in that
brief flash, he saw them—dozens of hollow-eyed demons surrounding him on every
side. Again the shadows fell, but the sword knew. He sprang and slashed. The
direction didn’t matter. Any would do. The blade just wanted to cut. He felt
the sweet pressure of it cleaving flesh, heard their cries as he swung and
swung again. Then he felt something hard strike the back of his head.