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“But it’s a lie,” I insisted. “No, it isn’t,” he calmly retorted. This was not a vital topic for him. We were both worn down, still at the kitchen table. “Just by being there,” I continued on the offensive, “you’re lying to the guy in the pew next to you…” “No, that’s not true…” “Yes it is. You don’t share his conception of God…” “That’s not…” “Yes it is.” I was exhausted enough to not care and pushed past where usually I would have backed off. “You believe Christ is a . . . meta-shaman. You use Christianity the way you use fairy tales. It’s a symbol system . . .You draw sustenance where you find it: Christian mysticism, fairy tales, science, even atheist existentialists…” “Yeah but . . . ” “That guy sitting next to you would be outraged. . . ” I said. “They think he’s the Christ,” he said quietly,” instead of a Christ. . . “. “O.k., that’s the son, what about the father? You don’t believe in the grandfather in the sky. By their definition, you’re almost an atheist . . .” “I am not an atheist . . . “ “You don’t believe that God recognizes individuals…What kind of God do you believe in?” He stared inward a long moment and after a while whispered, “It can’t be described.” “What’s your definition of God?” I challenged. He thought a moment then snorted at the preposterousness of fitting that into words. He was always disdainful of theological hairsplitting. He shifted in his chair as if catching himself from running away. Finally he said, “It can’t…” “Try!” He stared inward again, trying to unscramble a dim message. “Just…put a word there,” I said gently. “Any word.” “Oh . . .” He raised his hand dismissively. “Call it . . .” Then he drifted off again. “What? Call it what?” He shifted in the chair and said, “Call it the… the . . . call it the ‘wisdom of the whole.’”
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