were not improved by the flight nor the rain, and actually did smell a little like a rotten fish.
He sat on the floor while I occupied the sole chair, and we talked for some time, catching up on life events and common acquaintances. The coffee maker and teapot were on the truck, so we just sipped water from paper cups. But after a while it was clear that both of us were wearying of the superficial conversation, and I finally broke the ice.
“Alan, it’s great to see you again, but . . . well, why am I here?”
“To drive with me to Denver, you knucklehead.”
“Yeah, I got that. But why didn’t you just fly out? Would have been a lot quicker and easier.”
His face became serious. “Look, I just wanted to have some time with you, OK? Probably our last time together as you fade away into the numinous realm.” He paused to gather his thoughts, then continued, “I used to think you were just like me, that we’d be buddies together and retire together, sit on the porch at the old folk’s home and be flatulent together. But something changed and you moved away from Oregon, and a good job with benefits and all. And I sense that you didn’t just move away physically; it’s like you hopped off the train we were on and jumped on another whose destination is unclear to me. So I need to know: am I a fool for staying on my train, or are you a fool for jumping on to another?”
“Well, that’s clear enough! But you know, neither one of us has to be a fool. There are lots of trains and lots of people. And change is inevitable. We can choose it or we can be victims of it, but it’s coming all the same. And it’s not as if I don’t wonder about the train I’ve boarded sometimes too. But it’s the fear of being a fool, rather than the actuality of doing the right thing even if it’s foolish, that produces doubt. The trick is learning to ride the train without fear.”
“Bravo! Well said. And I concede to you the intellectual argument. Life isn’t a zero-sum game, and being foolish isn’t our only choice. But . . . I am still wobbly on the emotional argument. Something feels wrong here and I can’t put my finger on it. There’s something . . . something that’s not about fools or choices, or even our control of it . . . whatever it is.”
We sat for a few moments in a mildly sad silence. I felt what he felt: that even if the intellectual equation added up, the math seemed a little off in the emotional equation. Alan asked the questions that I knew were going to be reiterated over and over again on our long drive. “Why organized religion? Why the Methodist church? I guess I don’t really know your life story that well—maybe there’s some family connection I don’t know about?”
My family history was actually pretty slim when it came to organized religion, but I gamely tried to play the two very weak cards I did have. “Well, I have a very distant uncle, Samuel Hiestand, who was a Bishop in the United Brethren Church back in the 1820s.”
“Wow!” Alan exclaimed sarcastically. “He must have been a huge influence on you! Did your mom tell you bedtime stories about ole Uncle Sam the Bishop? And what the heck is the United Brethren Church?”
“Ha-ha. No, I actually only found out about Uncle Sam the Bishop a few months ago, so no actual influence there. And the United Brethren were German speaking Methodists. Like ole Uncle Sam, many started out as Mennonites and for some reason joined with the United Brethren. They merged with the English speaking Methodist Church in 1968; that’s how we became the United Methodists.”
“Ah! I’ve always wondered . . . not!” He shook his head. “So that’s it?”
I pulled out my second, losing, card. “My mother’s paternal grandfather was named Arminius Clay Johnston.”
“My paternal grandfather was named Payne, and he was, but it didn’t make me a sadist.”
“Jeez, Alan! The Methodists were, and are, considered Arminians, followers of a sixteenth century Dutch reformer named Jacobus Arminius. He started out as a Calvinist—you’ve heard of John Calvin, right?—but he had a very hard time with some of Calvin’s doctrines, particularly those that limited Christ’s atonement. He also had a high theology of grace, considering it unlimited and universal because it springs from God’s redemption in Christ, not from human effort. This grace belongs to everyone, even you, Alan, whether they ask for it or deserve it or not.”
Alan looked a little stunned. “Well, I guess they did teach you a factoid or two in seminary. But even so, did your mom tell you bedtime stories of Grandpa Arminius and his beautiful wife, Grace?”
I was getting a little tired of this. Alan’s flippancy was annoying at the best of times, and it had already been a very long day. Nevertheless, Mom had never talked about Grandpa Arminius. I had only found out about him through Ancestry.com at about the same time I found out about ole Uncle Sam the Bishop. Neither had any influence on my life at all, and I don’t know why I had even brought them up.
“These factoids about the roots of Methodism are actually extremely relevant—in fact, they’re crucial to answer your questions—but for me they are much closer to the end of the story than the beginning. There’s a lot more you have to know before Jacobus Arminius is going to make any sense, and I really don’t want to get launched into all of that tonight. We have three whole days ahead of us for me to tell you about the things that actually did influence me long before I ever heard of Calvin, Dutch reformers and ole Uncle Sam the Bishop.”
“OK. I guess I’m asking too many questions anyway. But I have to say, I’m not sure what I’m more frightened of—finding the answers or not finding the answers.”
“Well,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “Let’s stop looking for them tonight. Nobody can think straight in the dark and in the rain.”
“OK,” Alan said abruptly, and he immediately rose and walked back to the bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “There’s a sleeping bag next to the window. Set your alarm for six o’clock, and we’ll be out by seven.”
The door to the bedroom closed behind him, and I assumed he would just be sleeping on the floor. I found the sleeping bag and spread it out on the cot, then removed my stinky clothes and put on a dry t-shirt and boxers from my overnight bag. I felt wistful and apprehensive, wondering if I was looking forward to being grilled for three days in Alan’s sarcastic fashion. But once I got situated onto the cot and closed my eyes, the long trip from Denver began seeping out of me, and the familiar Portland rain gently sang me into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Part I: Themes
In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities,
but in the expert’s there are few.
—Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind
Chapter 1: Zen
When I awoke the next morning, the rain had stopped and it appeared I would be treated to one of Portland’s rare but beautiful condensation-free days. As I sleepily gazed out of the apartment window the sun, not yet visible as it rose to the east beyond the hills, nevertheless caused long streaks of indirect light to appear across the abundant foliage and colorful roses that grew everywhere and gave the city its nickname. When the sun is shining Portland can be one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but it averages only sixty-eight clear days a year, whereas Denver averages a hundred fifteen, a significant difference to someone raised in the California sunshine. And there are roses in Denver, too.
Alan, without benefit of
