The Speed of Dark

“I chose that Scripture for this particular day because — Lou, how involved are you in parish business?”

When someone starts an answer and then turns it into something else it is hard to understand, but I try. “I go to church,” I say. “Almost every Sunday—”

“Do you have other friends in the congregation?” he asks. “I mean, people you spend time with outside of church and maybe talk with about how the church is getting along?”

“No,” I say. Ever since that one church, I have not wanted to get too close to the people in church.

“Well, then, you may not be aware that there’s been a lot of argument about some things. We’ve had a lot of new people join — most of them have come from another church where there was a big fight, and they left.”

“A fight in church?” I can feel my stomach tighten; it would be very wrong to fight in church.

“These people were angry and upset when they came,” the priest says. “I knew it would take time for them to settle down and heal from that injury. I gave them time. But they are still angry and still arguing — with the people at their old church, and here they’ve started arguments with people who have always gotten along.” He is looking at me over the top of his glasses. Most people have surgery when their eyes start to go bad, but he wears old-fashioned glasses.

I puzzle through what he has said. “So… you talked about wanting to be healed because they are still angry?”

“Yes. They needed the challenge, I thought. I want them to realize that sticking in the same rut, having the same old arguments, staying angry with the people they left behind, is not the way to let God work in their lives for healing.” He shakes his head, looks down for a moment and then back at me. “Lou, you look a little upset still. Are you sure that you can’t tell me what it is?”

I do not want to talk to him about the treatment right now, but it is worse not to tell the truth here in church than anywhere else.

“Yes,” I say. “You said God loved us, accepted us, as we are. But then you said people should change, should accept healing. Only, if we are accepted as we are, then maybe that is what we should be. And if we should change, then it would be wrong to be accepted as we are.”

He nods. I do not know if that means he agrees that I said it correctly or that we should change. “I truly did not aim that arrow at you, Lou, and I’m sorry it hit you. I always thought of you as someone who had adapted very well — who was content within the limits God had put on his life.”

“I don’t think it was God,” I say. “My parents said it was an accident, that some people are just born that way. But if it was God, it would be wrong to change, wouldn’t it?”

He looks surprised.

“But everyone has always wanted me to change as much as I could, be as normal as I could, and if that is a correct demand, then they cannot believe that the limits — the autism — come from God. That is what I cannot figure out. I need to know which it is.”

“Hmmm…” He rocks back and forth, heel to toe, looking past me for a long moment. “I never thought of it that way, Lou. Indeed, if people think of disabilities as literally God-given, then waiting by the pool is the only reasonable response. You don’t throw away something God gives you. But actually — I agree with you. I can’t really see God wanting people born with disabilities.”

“So I should want to be cured of it, even if there is no cure?”

“I think what we are supposed to want is what God wants, and the tricky thing is that much of the time we don’t know what that is,” he says.

“You know,” I say.

“I know part of it. God wants us to be honest, kind, helpful to one another. But whether God wants us to pursue every hint of a cure of conditions we have or acquire… I don’t know that. Only if it doesn’t interfere with who we are as God’s children, I suppose. And some things are beyond human power to cure, so we must do the best we can to cope with them. Good heavens, Lou, you come up with difficult ideas!” He is smiling at me, and it looks like a real smile, eyes and mouth and whole face. “You’d have made a very interesting seminary student.”

“I could not go to seminary,” I say. “I could not ever learn the languages.”

“I’m not so sure,” he says. “I’ll be thinking more about what you said, Lou. If you ever want to talk…”

It is a signal that he does not want to talk more now. I do not know why normal people cannot just say, “I do not want to talk more now,” and go. I say, “Good-bye,” quickly and turn away. I know some of the signals, but I wish they were more reasonable.

The after-church bus is late, so I have not missed it. I stand on the corner waiting, thinking about the sermon. Few people ride the bus on Sunday, so I find a seat by myself, and look out at the trees, all bronze and coppery in the autumn light. When I was little, the trees still turned red and gold, but those trees all died from the heat, and now the trees that turn color at all are duller.