Connected (8 page)

Quite out of the blue, Roger asked, “So Peter,
what made you lose your faith?”
The directness unnerved him. “Is it that obvious?”
Roger nodded with a grin.
“To be perfectly honest, what I had before was not so much faith I think, but
acceptance. From as early as I can remember, we had always been taught that God
existed and for the most part, I never much bothered to question it. But as I
learned more about science and natural history, the role of God as creator had
to be constantly adjusted. I suppose the crux came around the time I was doing
my A-levels, and I happened to read Richard Dawkins’ ‘Blind Watchmaker’. I
already thought I understood evolution by natural selection, but somehow the
world around me had seemed just too remarkable not to have required occasional moments
of divine intervention. Dawkins’s book dispelled these doubts completely.”
“I’ve read some of his other stuff,” said Roger. “They’re very persuasive. For
the most part I actually agree with what he says.”
“So you’re happy to consign God to the sidelines and let natural selection
account for all life on Earth?”
“Not the sidelines exactly. I believe He plays an active role, but not
necessarily one of creator. Don’t quote me on that though. It’s not exactly the
official line of the Church.”
“No, I can appreciate that, but if He’s not on the sidelines, then He must be
intervening, but why would He need to intervene if the laws of science can
already explain things?”
“Well I’m not sure they explain everything.”
“Not yet, but we’re getting there.”
Roger shrugged.
“What about the Universe then?” Peter continued. “Are you comfortable with the
Big Bang theory of origin?”
“Well, yes. The evidence seems irrefutable. I’d like to think that He had some
part in the selection of initial conditions, but I’m painfully aware that that just
throws up all sorts of other problems.”
“But if God isn’t needed to explain any of creation, why invoke the concept of
a Deity at all? This is exactly why I ceased to believe. At first, there seemed
to be gaps in our knowledge that required an explanation beyond science…”
“A God of the gaps!” interrupted Roger, smiling again with an air of smugness.
“Exactly, except that as new discoveries are made, the number of gaps is
getting smaller all the time.”
“I agree that science is far better at answering the ‘how’ questions, but it
doesn’t do so well with the ‘whys’. For example, why are we here? Why is there
something rather than nothing?”
“But to ask why we are here presupposes a purpose, which only makes sense if
our existence is the result of a deliberate act of creation by some conscious
being. You might as well ask why this beer is wet. It just is. Just because
something can be phrased as a question doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily a
sensible question to ask.”
“I suppose I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be looking for God in the gaps.”
“I don’t feel as though I need to look for God at all. With so much of the
Bible clearly false or contradictory, what reason is there to believe in Him in
the first place?”

Peter had been watching Roger’s face intently as
he said this, looking for signs of anger or at least disapproval, but there
were none, his features remaining composed and compassionate.
“It’s probably true that parts of the Bible simply reflect the views of old men
thousands of years ago, and therefore should not be interpreted literally.”
“But either it is the word of God or it isn’t. To base your faith on something
and then admit that parts of it are probably wrong is just illogical.”
Roger took a long thoughtful sip of beer. “Actually, I didn’t base my faith in
God on the Bible, but that’s not to say I don’t believe the vast majority of
it, or at least the vast majority of the New Testament.”
Peter thought for a moment, draining his pint, while Roger looked on, waiting
for the words to sink in. Peter raised his glass. “Fancy another?”
Peter ordered another two pints and stood thoughtfully at the bar as the smooth
dark ale filled the glasses. He usually found conversations like this
frustrating, but he was intrigued by the curate’s apparent rationality. He took
the drinks back over to where Roger was sitting in eager anticipation.
“But if God had nothing to do with the creation, what is His role and why?”
“That, I don’t know. But for me, knowing His role is not a necessary condition
for knowing He exists, and I know with absolute certainty that He does exist.”
Roger went on to describe in some detail how, following the death of his
mother, his father had succumbed to Alzheimer’s. The burden of caring for his
father alone, while holding down his research job at a large pharmaceutical
company, had forced him to consider a nursing home. There, his father’s
condition, both mental and physical, deteriorated rapidly. One cold winter’s
night during a nasty bout of pneumonia with various complications, Roger had
received a telephone call urging him to come at once.

***

The evening had begun much like any other Friday
evening. Roger Shepherd, twenty-eight year old research chemist from Leicester
removed his shoes, and took the brown paper bag containing his Chinese
take-away into the kitchen. Setting the meal out neatly on a tray together with
a pint glass and two cans of beer, he carefully carried his dinner into the
living room. It was a small apartment, but tastefully furnished and more than
adequate he thought, for a young single professional such as he. Tonight he had
rented the film “Moulin Rouge” and was looking forward to it enormously. He
loved musicals and had heard some of his female colleagues at work raving about
this one. Roger was well enough liked, but at the time had few close friends.
He generally tended to get on better with women than men, but had never been
tempted to ask any of them out.

Just as he was settling into his favourite
armchair with the tray on his lap and remote control at the ready, the phone
rang. The now familiar voice of the female carer at his father’s nursing home
suggested he come at once. It had been six months since his father had moved
into the home and he knew his health was declining rapidly. Just recently he
had begun wondering whether it had been the right decision. Should he perhaps
have taken his father into his own home to look after him full time? Being an
only child and with his mother now gone, he was all the old man had left, and
yet he had turned him away - put him into a home so he could enjoy
uninterrupted evenings in front of the television with a take-away. Although he
could easily enough rationalise this decision, he was aware of a desperate
feeling of shame rising within him, clawing away at his insides like the cancer
that had taken his mother only two years before.

On arriving at his father’s bedside, he realised
immediately that he was looking at a dying man. The face was pale and contorted
with pain. The breathing, shallow and erratic, rattled with each laboured
breath. The smell of illness and incontinence filled the small room. Roger sat
down and held his father’s hand wondering if the old man was even aware of his
presence. He tried to see the man he remembered from childhood; strong, tall
and confident, always smiling and laughing, a man loved by everyone. But the
thing stretched out before him was not that man. It was like a wizened old tree
trunk rotting on the ground, a mere shadow of the mighty oak that had once
towered above the forest floor. Roger lowered his head and wept. “Oh Lord God!
Please help!” he prayed to himself and then, without even thinking, heard
himself utter the words, “It’s okay Dad, I’m here now. You can let go.”
At once, all the pain and torment washed from his father’s face, and the
corners of his mouth rose to reveal a distant smile. Gradually his breathing
slowed and then with a final sigh, stopped altogether.

***

Peter listened to the story in polite silence.
Roger paused for a moment, took a large white handkerchief from his pocket, and
blew his nose loudly. His eyes had gone misty, and he had to clear his throat
several times before continuing. “The whole thing probably only lasted a few
seconds, but from the moment I spoke those words, there was a presence in that
room which somehow I just knew to be God. It was as if He had spoken through
me, easing my father’s journey to the next world and at the same time, setting
me off on a journey of my own. That’s when I knew I would devote the rest of my
life to His service.”

Peter didn’t know what to say. It was certainly a
moving story. In other circumstances he might have reacted more cynically,
arguing that it didn’t prove anything. The curate’s father had merely been
clinging to life in anticipation of his son’s arrival, and on hearing his voice
had simply let go. But as he thought it over, he could almost sense the
presence to which Roger had referred, and it reminded him of something he had
felt once before.
As though reading Peter’s mind, Roger added, “Searching for God is rather like
walking around in a darkened room. You have to feel your way around. Nobody can
show Him to you and although the experience I’ve just recounted gave me all the
evidence I needed, I wouldn’t expect it to be enough for you. Just be open to
the possibility and sooner or later you’ll experience Him as I did.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your parents, Roger, I really am, and I can almost
understand how such an experience could leave you wanting to believe in some
kind of higher power, but I still don’t understand what would make you ascribe
that feeling to the Christian God of the Bible and not something else – even a
construction of your own mind?”
Roger leant forward and whispered quietly. “To be perfectly honest with you
Peter, I don’t… but the feeling I had - that sense of presence - was exactly
the same as the feeling I have reading parts of the Bible. Arguments about its
historical accuracy aside, the Bible contains some of the most beautiful and
insightful passages I have ever read, and for me, that’s good enough. I’ve also
found that parts of the Qur’an and other religious texts have similar effects,
and I believe this is because they’re all inspired by the same God. I’m not
arrogant enough to think that the religion, into which I happen to have been
born, is the only true one. I believe that all the monotheistic religions tap
into core truths about the universe in which we live. For me, Christianity
contains enough of what I hold to be true to allow me to serve God within that
framework.”
“Hmm, I wasn’t expecting that.” Peter said, finally. “I certainly admire your
honesty.”
“Well, while you’re sitting there in admiration, why don’t I get you another
pint? Same again?”
Peter normally restricted his drinking to two pints in an evening, but he had
barely noticed the second one slip down. It was a local ale he’d not tried
before and it was as smooth as silk. “Yes I think I will. It’s not like I have
to drive home is it? Thanks.”

When Roger returned with the drinks, his face was
tired and sad. “I’m truly sorry about Martin, Peter. I can’t help wondering if
I could have done more to help him. He came to me a few weeks ago, after one of
my services, wanting to talk. I was in a bit of a rush, but tried to
accommodate him as best I could. He asked me what I knew about heaven. He
seemed to think that when we stood on a mountain to admire a view or listened
to a beautiful passage of music, that we were somehow experiencing heaven. I
told him that the feeling of awe one might experience in such circumstances was
undoubtedly of a spiritual origin, but that heaven was almost certainly
something different - something we couldn’t know until we passed on. He then
seemed to become very frustrated and started to ramble a bit. I’m afraid I
wasn’t really listening and had to cut him short, so as not to be late for a
meeting with the youth group. Unfortunately, that was the last time we spoke.”
They sat silently for several minutes. Finally Peter said, “I don’t think you
could have helped him, you know.”
“Perhaps not, but I’ll never know for sure. At least not until my own time
comes. At that point, everything will become known.”

After four pints of the local ale, which he’d
subsequently discovered was almost twice as strong as the average bitter, Peter
had bidden Roger good night and staggered home, surprisingly inebriated. Back
at The Fields, he took off his shoes and tiptoed up the stairs to avoid waking
Isabelle. He then collapsed fully clothed onto his bed and fell immediately into
a deep sleep. At around two thirty in the morning he awoke, bursting for the
toilet and feeling decidedly worse for wear. After slipping into his pyjamas
and performing a perfunctory brush of the teeth, he got back into bed and tried
to sleep. Lying there in the darkness of the spare room, images of Martin and
echoes of his conversation with Roger crept tirelessly into his thoughts. He
imagined Martin sitting at his desk composing the weird audio files and getting
carried away with the curious hypnosis they seemed to induce. Could this have
been what had led Martin to end his life? It seemed far-fetched. Admittedly the
files were interesting, but they hardly seemed life threatening. Perhaps there
were others, of which the effects were stronger. He’d have a look in the
morning. But the harder he sought sleep, the further it retreated. Eventually
after a good three quarters of an hour tossing and turning, he got up, put on a
sweater and descended to the kitchen. There, he made a weak cup of Earl Grey
and made his way into the den.

As the computer was booting, the hoot of an owl
broke the silence of the night. Peter switched off the light to see better and
gazed wistfully through the window. A few clouds floated dreamily in front of
the moon, causing its light to fade on and off like some celestial beacon. In
the absence of urban light pollution, this threw the countryside into alternate
illumination and total darkness. A bat flew from behind the pergola, darting
erratically in pursuit of some flying insect.

Peter logged onto the computer and searched the disk
for audio files, wondering if there were perhaps some he may have missed. No,
all the audio files appeared to be in the same directory he had discovered
earlier. There were thirteen in total which he sorted by date. He withdrew a
paper and pencil from the top drawer, donned the headphones and played the
first. Once again, he felt the weightless rising sensation. It was like being
pulled upwards from a point deep within his chest. He opened his eyes to
confirm he was, in fact, still in his chair, and the feeling vanished. He
played it again, this time keeping his eyes shut. He tried to empty his mind and
submit to the experience. Feelings of warmth, safety and general well-being
washed over him, while goose bumps broke out across his whole body. The file
came to an end, but he remained still, with his eyes closed, savouring the
moment. Taking the pencil and paper, he started to record everything he could
remember from the experience. Methodically, he then listened to each file in
turn, noting down its length and scoring it by intensity of effect. It soon
became clear that Martin had, with each iteration of the file, been trying to
strengthen the experience. When he got to the thirteenth, Peter realised it was,
in fact, one he had not tried before. It was almost twice the size of the
others and therefore presumably twice the duration. He took a deep breath,
exhaled slowly and clicked play. As before, he felt himself rising into that
blissful state of euphoria, when a small point of light appeared. It was the
colour of daylight and as he focused, it started to grow larger. At first it
grew slowly, but then seemed to be rushing towards him – no - it was more like
he was rushing towards it. The same levitating force  was now accelerating
him towards the light, and as he approached, random thoughts began to race
through his head. He tried to make sense of them, but they were too many and
they came too fast. Then silence.
“Wow!” he exclaimed out loud, removing the headphones.
“Wow!” he said again. He felt at once relaxed and yet intellectually aroused.
He replaced the headphones and ran it again and again. The effect was more or
less the same each time; first the rising sensation, then euphoria, then the
rush towards the light, with the accompanying clutter of seemingly random
thoughts and images. But there was something else – something he couldn’t
identify - both familiar and comforting, almost like coming home. He took off
the headphones and picked up the pencil and paper trying to think of words to
convey some of the complex mix of thought and emotion assailing him. It was
impossible. Peter felt incredibly relaxed. He measured his pulse at thirty-six
beats a minute and shut his eyes, trying to run through the experience again in
his mind. It somehow seemed unfinished, as though, if it had lasted just a
moment longer, there might be some kind of resolution. He opened up the audio
file on the computer screen, selected the entire waveform and copied it to the
end of the file, so the whole sequence would repeat once. Again, he was
hurtling towards the light as his mind seemed to go into overdrive. The
sensation continued a little longer, but then started to weaken
as conscious awareness broke through. He tried again and again, each time
attempting to empty his mind and focus on the experience, but the more he struggled
to focus, the less effect it seemed to have. After a while, even the original
file seemed somehow lessened in intensity. Suddenly, he began to feel very
tired. Shutting down the computer, he gazed once more at the moonlit sky, and
then headed back upstairs with an air of frustration.