As you may recall, after my friends gave up their chase of me on the lake I was faced with the question of where to go next. Going back to my car seemed dangerous. My friends could be waiting or they could have booby-trapped it with some kind of Jesus message. And even if the car itself were OK, where would I go in civilization that I wouldn’t see or hear a Jesus message?
As I told you, I spent several days mostly hiding out at Joe’s Bait Shop’s dump, reading the newspapers he’d thrown out. It was spooky. The coverage of this new Jesus as a curiosity lasted only a couple of weeks. After that, almost simultaneously, everyone in the media business wrote as if he was real and the coverage changed to passing on his message and discussing the best ways to accomplish what Jesus was calling for.
While I was at the dump, I also read my own maps. I saw that Our Lady of the Forest, a Trappist monastery, was not far away. All Trappists are cloistered: They deliberately cut themselves off from the outside world, and especially the noise of radios and TVs. These Trappists were famous in the area as taking it to extremes, not even reading newspapers or the Internet—so I decided to give them a try.
The monk who greeted me at the end of my hike was young, stern, and laconic. He questioned me briefly, and then said, “Normally, I’d treat you as a wild-eyed hermit. Every so often they come here. We give them a meal, then send them on their way … or get them a bus ticket back to their home if they’ve had enough of wandering in the wilderness.
“But I have to admit, you’re the first person who has come to our door seeking not to see Jesus.” He smiled briefly. “And we’ve heard some stories of strange things happening in the world outside. You may be a guest for a while as we sort this out.”
I was quite happy to shower and shave, have a meal that wasn’t composed of freeze-dried camping stuff and fish I’d caught, and sleep on a soft bed. The company left a lot to be desired; Trappists don’t talk for talk’s sake. But the next morning I did get an audience with the abbot.
When I explained my intentions, he nodded knowingly.
“If you’d come with that story even three weeks ago, I would have treated you like yet another wild-eyed, soft-brained hermit. We get them here regularly, you know. Our Brother Porter probably told you that.
“But most of the people we trade our farm products and manufactures to are now convinced that Jesus is real and has returned.”
“Doesn’t this worry you?” I asked him.
He smiled at me in a way that said I really didn’t understand. “Why should Christians worry that people are believing in Jesus?”
I replied quickly, “What if he’s not really Jesus? Even if he is, he’s not giving you a choice in believing in him or not, he’s taking your free will.”
The abbot frowned and was slow to reply. “If what you’ve concluded about suppressing free will is true, then it’s not really Jesus. God never forces anyone to believe. But if that’s exaggerated, and it’s just a matter of nearly everybody being swept away by his divine goodness and love … That may seem unlikely to you as an outsider, a non-believer. But we believers have long known that the end of days is coming, not necessarily with choruses of angels outshining the sun.
“In the meantime, we’ll continue our work. We’ll wait for a proper sign. This won’t be the first time a false prophet has walked the land and become popular.”
“How will you know if he’s real?” I asked.
He didn’t smile when he said, “We will know if he’s not. We have the guarantee that the Gates of Hell will not prevail against God’s Church.” I didn’t like hearing that at all. It meant he felt he could face the gaze of Jesus and then make up his mind, so he would take no special precautions. “In the meantime, you may stay for at least a week while we see how this matter resolves.”
I thanked him, but as it turned out I stayed only three days. I left hastily when a young monk came to my cell and informed me that there would be a big meeting in the refectory in an hour. When I went there to see what was up, I saw the monks jury-rigging a TV and the abbot walking around with a distinctly radiant look on his face.
“It’s true?” I asked him.
“It’s true,” he said, “and you will see for yourself shortly.”
“Thank you, but I will not. I prefer to keep my free will.”
His face saddened momentarily, and he was courteous. “Suit yourself. Your time will come.”
Before the big meeting, I packed up and left for my hiding place near Joe’s. It looked to me like the abbot’s divine guarantee had expired prematurely.