James is by far the most interesting person I’ve gotten to know so far in Arizona. I met him at one of the National Forest sites where he’s serving a six-month stint as a volunteer docent. And what a docent. As I listen to him explain the features of his site (a subject for a future article), I’m immediately absorbed in his unfolding of its mysteries. More than once my jaw quite literally drops open.
Then there’s the man himself: a soft-spoken man in his mid-fifties with a long silver pony- tail, he grew up working his family’s equipment rental business, spent some time playing music, then serving drinks at jazz clubs in New Orleans, then at biker bars in South Dakota, and later working as a general contractor. And now he’s using however many years of mobility his MS might leave him to travel the country in his RV and do volunteer service with this partner Julie. And when it’s time for the wheelchair, he’ll begin putting to use his former training as a luthier.
This is a man of many stories, good engaging stories. And my interview with him extends through three two-hour sessions, partly because I can’t stop asking him questions about his life, and partly because of the thoroughly-pleasant conversation we’re enjoying about a number of interests we share in common.
But when, at the beginning of our second meeting, we finally turn specifically to my interview questions, he wants to get one thing perfectly clear: “Why are you doing this? What do you hope to accomplish with it?”
I explain that I have a number of motives, first a hope that he could be persuaded to embrace the Christian faith—he laughs and assures me that will never happen. I tell him that stronger men have said the same. He laughs again. I explain, second, that I’m hoping to get a better understanding of where local folks are coming from in their opposition to or disinterest in Christianity; and third, and least loftily, I tell him that I’m thoroughly enjoying the project and the people I’m getting to know through it, especially him. This seems to be good enough.
James’s responses to the issues I raise in my interview present two different aspects: there are the straightforward logical answers he gives to my specific questions, and there are the more visceral expressions of opinion he presents as the same topics are discussed in more natural conversation. And these two dimensions do not always seem to be in harmony.
When, for example, I ask him my basic cosmological, biological, and anthropological questions, his answers are the kind you’d hear from someone who is not all that impressed with the universe. Yes, the cosmos arose out of a singularity without material cause, maybe it was an eternal singularity, maybe the singularity was itself the collapsed remnant of an eternal procession of previous universes, but no, it really doesn’t seem to have been that big of a deal. And no, the origin of the first biological life wasn’t all that improbable either; in fact, it was inevitable, nothing more than the product of the known laws of physics and chemistry. And humans? Just one more instance of speciation brought about by a couple hundred millions years of miscopied DNA, and really not all that different from artistic fish. Perhaps ongoing human evolution will enable us to survive into the distant future; perhaps it won’t. If it doesn’t, it won’t be a huge loss to the cosmos.
But, I’ve already been given reason to believe that these answers represent less than his full scope of his perspective. In the previous hours we’ve spent leading up to this interview over the past couple of weeks, we’ve both been repeatedly geeking out together about this plant or that animal or this or that geological or archeological feature in the land in which we’re both sojourning. And I know that he feels a great deal more wonder and awe about these things than his answers to my questions would seem to indicate. In fact, as I’ve said more than once in our conversations, and he seems to have agreed, some of the things we’re talking about are nothing short of magic.
I pick up a similar duality in his answers to my questions about morality. While there are things that James wouldn’t do, and things that he would rather other people not do, he can’t really say that there is any absolute right or wrong. Morality, he tells me in response to my questions, is no more than a social construct.
But I’ve already heard, and as the interview progresses, I hear a good deal more to indicate that he is very bothered, indeed, even outraged about a number of things going on in the world. More than that, he expresses genuine grief and sorrow about some of the ways that he believes he himself hasn’t lived up to his own moral standards. It is apparent that James feels much more deeply about these things than is manifest in his merely cerebral answers about social constructs. These are not to him trivial matters.
At our third meeting, I give him my summary of the Christian faith and ask him to respond. Prior to this I’ve heard quite a bit about his past experiences with different churches, some of which he’s attended to hear talented B3 players, others that he’s visited just to see what they were about. I’ve also already learned about some interaction with Christians in his own extended family. I know that these have not all been great experiences, and so I’m not all that surprised when he prefaces his response by very gently, and even a bit apologetically, telling me that he has some less than positive things to say. I tell him to fire with both barrels. He does.
As far as intellectual objections to the content of the Christian faith, he only expresses only a few: it’s not possible for there to be a Creator, especially one in whose image humans were created, the New Testament documents were written too long after the events they report to be of sufficient evidential value, Christianity is hard to square with the problem of suffering, etc.
When he sees that he can freely express criticisms without me freaking out, James begins to warm up. But not so much about the content of Christianity, rather, about the conduct of certain Christians. He has, in fact, a lot to say about this. He begins by talking about fraudulent preaches of prosperity. I tell him that I agree that this is an issue. But he doesn’t want to hear me vaguely acknowledge a problem: “Name names!” he says, with as sharp a tone as I’ve yet heard from him. I name names. “Yes. OK.” He says, sensing that we might actually be on something like the same page here. “So my question is,” he continues, “with guys like that out there preaching this garbage, why are you here talking to me? Why aren’t you out there instead warning your fellow Christians about this nonsense?” I explain that I don’t see it as an either/or proposition, and that I’ve done a bit of both.
Fine, perhaps, but why proselytize at all? He tells me, still with an evident effort at politeness, that he just thinks of proselytization is weird. It seems to him little more than the expression of the general Christian tendency to try to make sure everyone know that they’re right and that everyone else is wrong. I tell him I’m sure there’s some of that, but that he needs to understand that Christians really do believe that the Gospel is the answer to humans’ most fundamental problem: its only hope of eternal life. Just as I’m sure he wouldn’t keep quiet around cancer patients if he knew of a sure cure, so Christians, if they really love people, can’t keep quiet about what they believe to be the ultimate solution to death. He considers this a bit, but doesn’t seem to think the parallel holds. Nor does he seem particularly interested in the idea of eternal life, even in a perfected cosmos.
But then we come to his most salient set of criticisms. He can’t understand why American evangelical Christians are so bent on supporting political policies, both domestic and foreign, that are so contrary to what he understands the Scriptures to teach. It’s in this discussion that he becomes particularly animated and where he really begins to demonstrate how seriously he takes certain moral issues.
I fully acknowledge some of the particular points of his complaint, and indicate where I disagree with others. But I feel that I have to ask if the emotions he’s expressing about recent turns of events, some of which were decided by a majority of our particular society, are really consonant with the idea that morality is no more than a social construct. “Some things are just wrong,” he responds, “just obviously wrong.”
“To you, maybe,” I suggest, “but evidently not to a majority of American voters?” He thinks about it. “We’re supposed to have evolved further than this.”
“My highest goal, James,” I say, “would be to make you a Christian, but short of that, I’d at least like to persuade you to believe in objective morality.”
“I believe in objective morality,” he says.
“Well,” I say, “I’ll take that as a good start.”
He smiles. A kindly smile that lets me know a good start is all he thinks I ought to expect, but also one that communicates a willingness to keep engaging.
I walk away grateful for what I’ve learned from him, and reasonably hopeful that our conversations will continue.