January 24: Jesus, the Disciples, and Hope

Finally, though, I got undressed and got in bed.  I felt like praying or something, when I was in bed, but I couldn't do it.  I can't always pray when I feel like it.  In the first place, I'm sort of an atheist.  I like Jesus and all, but I don't care too much for most of the other stuff in the Bible.  Take the Disciples, for instance.  They annoy the hell out of me, if you want to know the truth.  They were all right after Jesus was dead and all, but while He was alive, they were about as much use to Him as a hole in the head.  All they did was keep letting Him down.  I like almost anybody in the Bible better than the Disciples...

I love the fact that Holden, this scrawny teenager, is "sort of an atheist."  Yet, he seems to know a lot about Jesus and the Disciples.  As Holden keeps talking, he discusses how Jesus hand-picked the Disciples, and then he gets into a philosophical debate about whether Jesus would sent Judas to Hell.  For an atheist, Holden seems to do an awful lot of thinking about Jesus Christ.

But Holden says he can't pray, even though he wants to.  Holden is depressed.  He says so about every other page of the book.  Depression doesn't allow a person the comfort of prayer.  It doesn't allow a person the comfort of hope.  Holden can't think about Jesus or the Disciples because he's spiraling downward.  He's on his way to rock bottom.

Perhaps if Holden wasn't an atheist, if he had some kind of belief in salvation or redemption, he wouldn't be in quite so black a place.  In Biblical terms, I suppose he's like Saul, blind and bereft, on his way to becoming Paul the Apostle.  Yes, Holden wants to believe in something, wants to have some kind of faith in humankind.  What he believes in at the moment are his dead brother, Allie; his kid sister, Phoebe; and the girl from his summer in Maine, Jane.  Holden can't imagine the future because he's stuck in the past.  He wants to play checkers with Jane.  He wants watch Allie play baseball again.  He wants to take Phoebe to the movies.  He's tired of phony Disciples.  He wants Hope.

In some ways, I'm a lot like Holden.  I see phony bastards everywhere I look.  The difference between Holden and me is that I, for the most part, think the phony bastards aren't going to win.  I believe that goodness and innocence will trump the darkness of the world.  I see evidence of it every day of my life.  In my son's laugh.  In my daughter's red hair.  In the flash of sun on snow.  In a good book.  In a bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup.  In the warmth of my wife when I go to bed at night.

Saint Marty is surrounded by Hope.

It's always there

December 31: Balloons, Cheetos, and Hope

Well, I finished decorating for the New Year's Eve party.  The balloons are inflated and dangling from the ceiling.  Pretty much, it's all over but the eating and drinking.  And blogging.

I've been trying to come up with some scrap of wisdom I've gained from the year 2012.  It hasn't been easy.  I mean, nothing has really changed for me.  I'm still part-time at the university (although, I'm unionized now, so I'm officially underpaid).  I'm still working for the outpatient surgery center (although, the surgery center is owned by a national health care organization now, so I'm being undervalued locally and from a distance).  I'm still looking for a publisher for my new book of poems, and I'm still living in the same house.  Money is still an issue for us, and exhaustion is still pretty much my constant companion.

President Obama was reelected, and Mitt Romney was sent back to his multi-million dollar estates and life.  (I'm still not sure who got the better deal there.)  The Middle East is still in upheaval, and school shootings in the United States are still a constant reality.  America is still a long way away from universal healthcare, and I still haven't won the Nobel Prize in Literature (or the Pulitzer Prize or the National Book Award) or been named Adjunct of the Year.

My daughter is gorgeous and twelve.  My son is destructive and four.  The oil companies are still bleeding us dry at the gas pumps, and Cheetos are still one of my favorite snacks.

Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, I will raise my cup of sparkling fruit juice and toast the new year with my family and friends.  It will be a moment of happiness and hope.  A time when anything seems possible.  A tenured professorship at the university.  A new home.  A Best Actress Oscar for Miss Piggy.  (Hey, I said anything.)  Hope is the flavor of the day.

Saint Marty is ready to sing "Auld Lang Syne."

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