The Gospel According to Luke (8 page)

‘The only photo I have up is of me at my ordination,' Luke said.

‘Hurrah! I'm
not
the saddest almost-thirty-year-old in the world.'

Aggie served dinner on the back deck, overlooking a shimmering pool surrounded by palm trees and mounds of shiny black rocks. Luke didn't eat a thing. He told her he was not hungry which was only half an explanation. The rest of it was that he was captivated.

She told him about the time she had wrestled a knife off a strung-out junkie in a hospital waiting room, the time she had helped deliver a baby girl in the office of a homeless shelter, the time she chased a mugger through Redfern and not only reclaimed
her handbag but talked the guy into signing up to her rehab program. She told Luke about the television and radio interviews she'd done, the newspaper and magazine articles, the teaching and campaigning and lobbying. She had held training camps for social workers, cookouts for homeless people and recreation trips for troubled teenagers. She had walked over hot coals – literally – to demonstrate to a group of heroin addicts how powerful the mind could be.

‘Do you realise how incredible you are, Aggie?'

‘No, I don't. Please feel free to tell me.' She laughed, tossing her head back and gulping wine.

By eleven o'clock, when they were sitting in her living room in front of an open fire – she sprawled on a brown velvet couch gulping red wine, he sitting upright in an overstuffed chair sipping lemonade – Luke had figured out that he had long given Satan too much credit. Lust was from God and was just the cleverest thing ever. God
wanted
him to be tormented with desire, so that his work in saving Aggie's soul would be conducted with urgency. The sooner she gave herself to the Lord, the sooner Luke could give himself to her. He waited until there was a pause in her machine-gun chatter and then asked her if she'd ever actually been to a church service.

She drained her glass and placed it on the floor before answering. ‘Weddings and funerals only. I can't stand religious people. Present company excluded, though I have no idea why. I haven't made a new
friend in ten years and here I am hanging out with a fucking minister.'

‘God moves in mysterious ways.'

‘See, that's the kind of shit I can't stand.' Aggie stretched her legs out in front of her and her arms up in the air. ‘Like when people say, “God healed me” or “God got me out of that burning building” or whatever. I mean, why is God so random? Why do some people pray and die anyway and others boast about their survival, as if what, they prayed harder?'

‘You're being simplistic.'

‘Your religion is simplistic. It's do what you're told just because you were told, which is all fine and dandy, but what about those who weren't told? What about all those people in Iran or Afghanistan who are doing what
they've
been told? No matter how they have lived, no matter whether they came by their beliefs through study or soul searching or lazy acceptance, they will burn in hell for eternity. Explain that!'

‘If you're looking for easy answers –'

‘You want to know my theory?' She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘People believe that stuff because they need to feel the world is fair. It's like how kids who've been sexually assaulted end up with really bad self-esteem. It is actually less painful for them to believe that they deserved the abuse, than to believe that bad stuff just happens randomly. So when it's obvious to people that the world is unfair, that what goes around doesn't always come around,
the concept of justice being served in an afterlife is a comfort.'

‘Just because it's comforting doesn't mean it's not true. And you seem to be ignoring the flip side of that belief – the decidedly uncomfortable realisation that you will be held accountable for your own sins.'

Aggie's eyes widened. ‘See, that's another thing: this concept of sin and punishment. Sometimes people do the wrong things for the right reasons. Like a woman might prostitute herself to get money to eat, or a man steals to pay for medicine for his kid. A lot of people are just trying to survive, you know? What kind of God would condemn these struggling, weak human beings for their transgressions?'

Luke sat staring.

‘Huh! You have no answers! None!' Aggie leant forward and touched his knee, blinked at him, then sank back into her seat. She closed her eyes, opened them, narrowed them, laughed out loud. ‘Okay. Say something.'

‘You'll only ridicule me.'

‘Oh, no, sweetie. I haven't meant to ridicule you. Sorry, sorry. Please talk to me.'

Sweetie
. It was like a warm hand sliding into his own.

‘Luke?' Aggie leant forward to touch his knee again; this time she left her hand there and looked into his eyes. ‘I really want to understand. What the hell did any of us ever do to deserve the pain we go through in this life?'

‘You know Jesus was asked almost that exact question? People believed that those who suffered from disease or disability were being punished in some way, that they deserved their affliction, so one day after Jesus had restored the sight of a blind man, his disciples wanted to know why the man had been born blind in the first place, “Who sinned?” they asked. And Jesus told them that no one had sinned. He said that the man had been blinded so that the works of God might be made visible through him.'

‘That's horrible,' she said. ‘Like some awful puppet show. Aren't I wonderful to repair the puppet I deliberately broke!'

‘No, Aggie, you mis–' He grabbed at the hand she withdrew from his knee. He held it tight. ‘Think of old Joe or the girls working Koloona Street, think of the addicted, the mentally ill. Most people believe of them what the disciples believed of the blind man – that people so afflicted must have done something wrong, that they deserve their pain. But you know that isn't so and so you help them, and when you do – whether it is obvious to you or not – you are revealing God's love. You are doing Jesus' work.'

‘Oh, Luke.' Her hands pulled free of his. ‘You really don't understand how stupid you sound, do you?'

He watched her pour and drink more wine. He went to the window and focused on her overgrown garden, lit by spotlights and a nearly full moon.

‘Enough god talk, okay?' Aggie was at his side.

‘No. Look – the riot of colour that makes up our world. The yellow and crimson, the pinks, the indigo. At least ten different shades of green in this small area alone. When the sun comes up, the sky will be purple, then gold, then a clear pale blue. God could easily have made a grey universe, but He didn't. And it's not just the colours. The fragrance of flowers, the scent of freshly mowed grass, of rain, the texture of sand or silk, the warmth of the sun and the cool relief of a summer breeze. All these colours and smells and textures are not necessary for our survival; they're gifts from a God who loves us.'

Aggie pressed her forehead to the window. ‘You're scaring me.'

‘It's awesome, I know, but you don't need to be afraid.'

‘That's not what I meant.' Her face was hidden in shadow. ‘The world is not devoted to human life, Luke. The colours of nature are diverse because getting or avoiding attention helps plants survive in different areas. Same go for fragrance – it's an attractant or repellent. And the warm sun causes cancer and summer breezes turn into gales which rip houses apart. None of it is there for our convenience or pleasure. Nature has its own rules and we just have to enjoy what we can and shelter from what harms us.'

‘Ah, but we have the senses to enjoy it, don't we? Since seeing the blush of a rose isn't necessary for our
survival, God could have made us as tigers, able to see only in shades of blue. He gave us the capacity to take pleasure in our surroundings.'

‘You're killing me here!' She spun around and took hold of his arms; her grip was inescapable. ‘Our senses have evolved over time to give us the best possible chance of survival. We see colour so we can differentiate between food and poison, our sense of taste confirms whether something's edible before we swallow it, we have the ability to sniff out food and potential mates, we can hear a predator coming from a distance, and we know from touching if a surface will burn or freeze us, cause us pain or pleasure.'

Luke stepped back two paces, which was as far as the length of her arms allowed. He had to concentrate. ‘Do you really believe,' he said, ‘that who you are, what you value, your desires – everything about you – is shaped by physiology which in turn is shaped by evolution? Flowers are not truly beautiful; it's just that your brain evolved to experience pleasure when a certain pattern of light hits your retina. If you feel love for a person you are merely reacting to your programming, selfishly looking to propagate your genes. Is that your view?'

‘Hmmm,' Aggie said. She released him, returning to her earlier position on the sofa. She drained her wine and poured herself another glass.

‘Aggie?' Luke sat across from her, willing her to touch his knee so he could brush her hand away.

‘So, okay,' she said. ‘I want to think that love is more than a selfish response to biological programming, but . . . if not that, then what?'

‘G–'

‘Don't say God!' Aggie reached, touched, laughed. ‘Saying God is the same as saying biology. An overpowering, unstoppable force that makes us want what we want and feel how we feel.'

‘But not a morally neutral force like nature.' Luke touched her hand, but did not move it from his leg. ‘God designed us and knows us better than we can know ourselves. He is the source of all love.'

Aggie pulled away. She took a large gulp of wine; some escaped her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She left the spill alone, giving Luke reason to think she might want him to wipe her face for her. He was still considering this when she spoke again. ‘At the meeting the other night, when Leticia was talking to the kids about charity, she said the most important commandment given by Jesus was to “love one another”, which sounds really nice when you're talking about being kind to homeless people or the mentally ill, but what about us?'

‘Us?' he said.

‘Us,' she repeated, slugging down some more wine, adding to the red trickle on her chin. ‘A couple of independent, opinionated adults who have no real reason to be friends or even speak to each other outside of a courtroom. Yet we – well, let's say
care
for each other.
Let me ask you, Pastor Butler, why you care about me enough to spend your free time trying to save my soul? Is it because Jesus told you to?'

‘No, Aggie, it's –'

‘Because if that's the only reason, then you should go away. If you're just following orders from above, then bugger off!'

‘How can you think –'

‘Shit!' Aggie had missed her mouth and the red wine was working quickly to imitate a stab wound on her chest. ‘Shit, shit, bugger it!' She pulled at the front of her jumper. She was more than a little drunk. Now she was on her back, writhing around wrestling her jumper off. She hurled it over the back of the lounge saying ‘piss off'. The wine had soaked through to her white T-shirt – which appeared to be a size or two too small – leaving a pale pink wet patch over her left breast.

‘Ahem.' She cleared her throat, then arched her back and licked her sticky-with-wine-lips. ‘Come over here,' she said, patting the edge of the sofa. Luke did not move. She repeated the request, slower and with her eyes closed. Luke excused himself to the bathroom where he washed his face with cold water and begged God to give him strength. Within minutes he heard the unholy sound of her snores. He thanked the Lord and snuck out into the night.

When Honey was twelve, Marcus Selden, who was fifteen, told her that if she didn't swallow a guy's stuff when she sucked him off, it was like she hadn't done it at all. When she spat into a tissue, he felt nothing, Marcus said. This made her want to cry. All that spit and energy and neck pain for nothing. All those little ulcers where her teeth cut her gums, the stinging scalp, the grass-stained jeans, for nothing. So after that, Honey always swallowed. After a while, it didn't bother her. You could get used to anything.

But then one day in Year Nine when Honey was sharing a fag with a couple of seniors in the dunny, Haley Morris (who was seventeen) told her that semen
had a whole lot of male hormones in it, so if you drank too much, you would grow hair on your chest. Clara Piper (who was younger than Haley, but whose boyfriend was, like, thirty) said that Haley was full of it. There were fuck-all hormones in spunk; but there was a shit-load of sugar, so if you were watching your weight – and who wasn't – you should spit. Honey was about to ask what their boyfriends thought about them not swallowing, when she was hit with the realisation that what Marcus had told her was utter crap. Not feel a thing, he said! Well what the hell was all that hair pulling and moaning and shit? Geez, she was a twit. Thank Christ she hadn't said anything in front of Haley and Clara; they'd never speak to her again if they knew how stupid she was.

So Honey went back to spitting out and found that the boys she went out with liked it just fine. Ricky complained the first time, but she told him about the hairy chest and the putting on weight and after that he always had a tissue ready for her. But Steve was different. He said she didn't have to do anything she didn't want to, but if she loved him then why wouldn't she want to drink his stuff? And he didn't think she understood how horrible it felt to have a girl spit out part of you. How would
she
like it if
he
spit
her
stuff out because it was so gross? She almost said
what stuff
? But she got his point and she did love him and it wasn't so awful really. You could get used to anything.