Missive #31
Spending time in one of his many rehabs, the Spectacular Failure was regularly forced to listen to addicts claiming to have religion — that is, a religion aside from the dervish that is addiction — all the while pretending to care about their rehabilitation.
The sneering Christian franchised knock-off doppelgängers, costumed as holy men who somehow could never figure out how to zip up their pants, insisted they alone possessed the “one true cure” for all the impulses of addiction — something they knew nothing about: Abstinence.
“Faith in a higher power.” They’d sit and bloviate. “Relinquish control.” After all, Judas must have been jonesing, or else he would never have needed that gold.
“Surrender!”, they’d insist — though what they were most interested in you surrendering were your insurance co-pays and government assistance. Jargon and platitudes tempered with patronizing recriminations delivered with the manicured, self-assured ignorance of an Iron Age Dr. Phil — with a Nancy Reagan snarl of: “Just say, pray, loser!”
One lonely addict — as if there are any other kind — was visibly troubled by a dream and wanted answers. Unfortunately, he asked a priest.
He described going into a seed shop, and God Himself was behind the counter — apparently having some free time, as there must not have been a football game on for Him to receive thanks and praise. The addict told the Lord he wanted seeds for corn, tomatoes, and licorice vines. God handed him two packets of seeds, kind enough not to mention that licorice vines only grow on the shelves at the mini-mart.
When he got home, the addict discovered that the packets were unlabeled, marked only with his name. Furious at God for ripping him off, he stormed back and threw the packets in the Lord’s face, demanding a full refund.
The priest, feeling the need to defend the Almighty, sobered up, jabbed a finger at him (with four pointing back at himself), and barked: “The Lord doesn’t take orders from the likes of you!”
The silence was ripe.
The Spectacular Failure, once again, found himself having to be the one to comfort his brother and bring reason to the simplistic Bazooka-Joe bullshit. Without shifting from his cross-legged stillness — he delivered a stare of focused impiety toward Father Shenanigan, who stumbled and clutched his crucifix like Simon. Turning to his fellow addict, he said plainly:
“Perhaps the way to look at this is: you asked the Lord for the seeds that you wanted, the Lord — knowing you better — gave you the seeds that you needed, even if you don’t know what that is yet. Why not just plant the seeds He gave you and wait to see what grows?”
Even though he deeply enjoyed deploying his poetic, pseudo-intellectual wisdom to shame the big book Methodist meanderings, he was also sincere in his desire to help his fellow junkies. He was simply tired of it always being the atheist who had to provide meaning — and cover — for the incompetence of faith.
Sad to say, the Spectacular Failure had a new best friend. It didn’t help that he delivered to the addict’s bedside that night a fresh pack of licorice, picked just for him.