Fiacre has been amused by the conversation between the Warrior Queen Sloan and the retired bookseller Heartbreak. He appreciated Dr. Sloan’s amusingly quixotic ambition to possess or repossess Taxpayer assets from the Cooker Person, and he was gratified by John’s passionate embrace of the challenge to Save Normal Christianity.
The truth of the matter is that Fiacre judges both endeavors as approximately silly, about as consequential as his own hopeful desire that God might rethink the diet of squash bugs and direct the little bug(ger)s toward the common dandelion and away from zucchinis. Wouldn’t that be cool?
There would of course be an unintended consequence of such Godly rethinking. From time to time, like now in the case of squash bugs, Fiacre indulges in a bit of intelligent design argumentation and deludes himself into imagining that the Universe is a watch, and that God is the watchmaker. Obviously, he thinks, the intricate workings of a watch requires the skills and intentions of an intelligent designer to make it tick and tock, and as with a watch the complexity of X or Y or Z—an organ or organism, or the solar system and the Entire Universe Itself—necessitates an Intelligent Designer. Surely, God could tweak The Watch a bit and redirect the pest in question without causing another Ice Age?
But Fiacre knows that Darwin put the Watchmaker idea to bed to nearly everyone’s satisfaction. And of course and as you certainly know and probably think about often, perhaps even ceaselessly, there is the whole Infinite Monkey Theorem to deal with, to say nothing of Hume and that tiresome busybody Richard Dawkins.
But it feels good to revisit an elegant old argument, even if it is flawed, and that’s mostly why he had foisted the Save Normal Christianity strategy on John; Human beings almost always require a lighted path to follow if you want them to get anything done, and this one had predictably—but elegantly too—done the trick (Ha Ha).
The beauty of it all though, Fiacre thought, was Sharon Sloan’s consternation and confusion about Heartbreak’s sudden and unexpected descent into delusion. She had imagined a mostly fun filled adventure focused on polishing Little Jimmy’s bald head with an emery cloth, and perhaps delivering a Fake $6,000,000 Demand Note in front of his television audience.
But no.
Heartbreak had begun hearing voices, had accepted a Mission from God, and believed he was under the protection of the Patron Saint of Gardeners—who was not only a duly appointed representative of that Great Whore of Babylon—the Roman Catholic Church—but who John also believed was a sentient Time Traveler presently and physically located in the Community Garden behind that little white church he went to. Mon Dieu!
Fiacre laughed. He had punked the Grand Mistress of Punk and, Coming to a Chapter Near You Soon! would reveal himself to her in all his 7th Century glory. Sometimes it is just so neat to be me, he thought.
He walked over to the short row of apples trees that John had planted last Spring. They had looked just awful for most of the summer—covered with rust and nearly leafless—but had recently perked up a bit with the rain and cooler weather. Fiacre took a leaf between his thumb and forefinger and carefully rubbed it back and forth. The little tree snapped straight toward the sky and apples appeared on several of its spindly branches. Yup, he thought, it is definitely neat to be me.
During the Enlightenment there had been about 7,000 varieties of apples in Europe and North America. Today there are fewer than 90. Fiacre was not sure of what the number of Chinese and Middle Eastern varieties had been then, or now, for that matter. But he thought they must be fewer too.
Conversely, there are 38,000 Christian denominations active today in the 21st Century. Every century since Fiacre lived in the 7th Century, people added about two thousand seven hundred and fourteen new Christian denominations. Among Berryville’s seven Baptist churches is a Primitive Baptist church which, by itself is divided into the Predestination Baptists, Old-School Baptists, Regular Baptists, Particular Baptists, and the Hardshell Baptists. Fiacre couldn’t help thinking that it would be a better world with fewer denominations and more varieties of apples
Fiacre was impressed by the First Christian Church’s little garden. It was nearly weed-free and the soil looked rich and productive. He noticed with approval that the tomatoes and peppers looked particularly robust, and the okra, a slimy modern invention in his view, at least produced spectacular stocks and beautiful blooms. The First Christians, at least some of them, knew how to grow food.
Mrs. Hudspeth, perhaps the most knowledgeable of the gardeners, had focused on flower production and the garden was riotous with color, bees, and butterflies. Fiacre knew that John did most of his praying while he worked in the garden, and it was easy to see why that was so. God’s presence was there for everyone to observe (except of course, for the annoying metaphysicians and pantheists among you; roughly 13% of Americans), especially as manifested by color and smell and the soil’s fecundity. John was thusly and particularly susceptible to conversational interludes with dead writers and angels because of these smells and blushes and farragoes of insects and birds.
If there was, for John, a thorn among the roses it was the Garden Manager, young Kari Keever. This person, who attended Berryville High School (BHS) but who also habitually and simply referred to it as BS, was a stern task master and a meddlesome stickler about adhering to and maintaining organic production standards. As a veteran of a foreign war that took place mostly in a jungle, John was an admirer of napalm, both for its efficiency and for the dazzling light show it produced upon impact, and so he was inclined to live better through chemistry. Young Keever, however, had different ideas and because John was afraid of her—as he was of most women—John carefully toed the organic line. Fiacre was himself an organic gardener and thus and consequently was in her court.
Kari was that most annoying of adolescents, a studious over-achiever who got your obscure but incorrect references to Tolkien or T.S. Eliot (and corrected them), was well-groomed and respectful toward adults (except to John), and who also worked hard and did what she said she would do. These ordinarily admirable traits, especially in one so young, were annoying because you knew she knew that most adults are full of it—but is too polite to say so. One also hopes to be admired in return by such a fine person—and it was extremely annoying when you were uncertain of what her opinion might be.
John’s role in the garden—a role which Fiacre knew that John hoped to pass on to him—Ha Ha—was to be Kari’s Yard Boy. If something needed watering or weeding or winnowing—any W serves here—Kari would inform John of the need and expect him to respond appropriately and cheerfully. John thought that Fiacre could—would—seamlessly assist him in the same way.
John excelled in his Yard Boy role. After all, he had had decades of training by an expert—Mrs. Heartbreak—and now that he is retired his occupation is listed as Factotum. ‘Lift that Bale, Tote that Barge’ was a tune that John was most familiar with. But John is getting older and he would like a little help taking up the slack.
Fiacre eavesdropped in on Sharon and John’s conversation at the State Line Café in Blue Eye while he inspected the garden in Berryville. Dr. Sloan continued to focus on the money—‘show me the money!’—she was shouting at John while John nodded placidly and hummed.
“Perhaps you’re familiar with Watchman Nee,” he was saying to Sharon.
Fiacre was familiar with Nee and fundamentally agreed with him—that there should be only one church per town. After all, there was only one God, right?
The disputatiousness of modern Christians was a continuing surprise to Fiacre despite his nearly 14 centuries of human observation. He understood that people would have disagreements about what was and wasn’t a sin, but when you got down to it, there really weren’t all that many sins to fret and argue about. What, about 10, right?
What was all the Hub Bub about?
Much of the problem, as Fiacre saw it at least, was the American tendency to achieve perfection—and then try and improve on it. Jake Cooker was a good example—which we’ll get to by and by—and guys like Joel Osteen, who assures his flock that God wants them to have money, fame, power, and multiple orgasms. Not only does belief in Christ mean eternal salvation and everlasting life at the Right Hand of God but, according to Joel, double coupons and that cute blond on the cheerleading squad. Talk about prosperity!
Fiacre had holed up at the Motel 6 in Eureka springs before coming to Berryville. He watched the Trinity Broadcasting Network the whole time and logged in about 30 hours with Joel in between times dodging the maid. She kept coming into the room to turn the TV off and, since she couldn’t see Fiacre concluded that the room was haunted after eight failed attempts. After that, Fiacre was not disturbed.
What Fiacre learned from Joel was that an awful lot of blonds live in Houston and about 17,000 of them go to Joel’s church every Sunday morning. Imagine: preaching a sermon to that many people—and never mentioning Jesus Christ. Fiacre came away from each sermon wishing he had the names of Joel’s broker and barber.
What was it that Joel said to all those people? It might as well have been ‘God is dead and my hair looks great’ for all that it mattered. It reminded Fiacre of a sermon he heard Father Devine give back in the 1940s: ‘God is not only personified and materialized. He is repersonified and rematerialized. He rematerialized and He rematerialates. He rematerialates and He is rematerializatable. He repersonificates and He repersonifitizes.’ Wow, huh?
Fiacre looked over Kari’s squash plants. They looked pretty miserable, and were covered with borers. Fiacre knew that even he wouldn’t be able to do much with them. God can be so unreasonable sometimes.
