I was slowly walking down the main street of the Vermont town where I taught when a man aggressively came up to me and asked me point-blank: “Are you a Christian?â€
“No,†I said, unwilling to be pigeonholed, “I am a heathen.â€
“Who made that tree?†he asked me sternly, pointing to a maple near where we stood. “It made itself.â€
“Oh, itself, did it? Well, let me tell you, God made it.’’
I looked at the red, flame-like, burgeoning buds that would soon turn into tiny leaf, rosy at first, then broaden into lustrous green, and finally in the fall turn to fiery red, and lines from a poem of D.H. Lawrence that I had read to my class came to my mind, and I quoted them to him:
“Even the mind of God can only imagine
Those things that have become themselves.â€
“Do you pray?†he said.
“No, but I do a lot of hoping.â€
He looked at me as at a hopeless case. “Take this and pray,†he said, handing me a pink flier. “Read it every day.â€
I looked at the words that perhaps someone of his sect had written. “When I hope,†I said, “at least I use my own words, and no one else’s. I don’t follow any dotted line.â€
‘’What’s wrong with these words?â€
“They are impersonal, dated. Said over and over, they become almost meaningless, while hope is new and fresh each time, and isn’t attached to any sect.â€