Chapter 10
Hanging out with an Atheist
I couldn't believe I was going to an Amy Grant gospel music concert with an atheist.
Susan's friend Ed, had invited me. In addition to being a Billboard magazine reporter, he was also that publication's gospel music editor. It was a position he said he enjoyed because "it gives me a launching pad to express my own ideas and because it also presents me with a job that I have to do well no matter how revolting I find the subject matter."
I don't know why I accepted his offer anyway. It made me uncomfortable to hear him openly slam Christians and proclaim that God doesn't exist.
"How can you say there is no God?" I asked him on the way to the show. "Where is your proof?"
His answer was that it wasn't up to him to prove there is no God. It was up to Christians to prove there is a God. After all, it is they who originally made claims, not him. As a Christian, I thought his response was rather arrogant until I looked at it objectively. I suppose that if tomorrow I stood on some street corner and proclaimed that the Tooth Fairy was our Savior, it wouldn't be up to those who disagreed with me to prove I was wrong. It would be up to me to prove I was right. Especially if I was delivering such a message all around the world.
What made sense to me, may be senseless to the unbeliever. There are a lot of hefty claims for them to accept. Like God answers prayer. Or if you accept Jesus, you'll live forever. Or that Jesus brought sight to the blind. Or that God—as Christians portray him--always was and always will be.
Proof that a man named Jesus lived 2,000 years ago may be easy to fathom. Also that he died on the cross. But that he rose from the dead? Or walked on water? Or turned water into wine? Simply responding with "It's true because the Bible says it is," or "You've got to have faith," doesn't always cut it with the unbeliever. There are other religions who make similar claims that go way beyond the bounds of what humans can normally do or have done to them. How does one know Christianity is the right one and the others aren't?
So Ed's atheistic views made me uncomfortable. But they also got me to thinking about things I used to be afraid to think too much about it, for fear of appearing blasphemous in the eyes of the Lord. If God knows my every thought, I dare not question my faith or…or what, I wondered. Surely it wouldn't hurt to listen to this man. If his logic didn't hold up, then my faith would be all the stronger for it. And if he was able to convince me I had been wrong all these years, then perhaps that was what seeking the truth was all about.
The concert theater was packed. Ed and I had seats near the front. Before the show began, an official came on stage and asked everyone to please stand for a prayer. Everybody stood up but Ed. I noticed people eyeing him quizzically, but nobody said anything. Maybe they assumed he was an invalid.
When Ms. Grant came on, she first gave a testimonial. I expected it to be about how she overcame drugs, alcohol or some other grave problem. But she talked about her "widow's peak," a curly lock of hair that dangled in front of her face as a kid. It had caused other children to tease her, but her faith got her through it. She got a loud round of applause, but somehow I wasn't moved.
Several years later, acting not as Billboard's gospel music editor, but a regular Joe, Ed would write the following Tennessean letter to the editor:
Tipper Gore has won me over. I'm convinced that we ought to label records that endanger the minds of human beings. But I think Tipper's overlooked an entire class of discs for branding. Parents may not realize it, but there are records openly on sale that:
… Say superstition is superior to science.
… Promote an attitude of suspicion and distrust toward others not like one's self.
… Maintain that people are morally defective at birth.
… Argue that human happiness is not a primary reason for human existence.
… Make people feel guilty for having normal feelings.
I refer, of course, to gospel records. They're not something I'd want my kids to hear. When I think of "Twisted Sister," it's not Dee Snider that comes to mind but Amy Grant.
Being around Ed that evening also made me feel like an imposter. Here was a man who openly lived and acted on his beliefs. He didn't care if 2500 people stood all around him, their eyes closed in prayer. He was going to keep his wide open and stay seated. He didn't care if the very industry he covered as an editor—gospel—knew that personally he was an atheist. I had to admire that in him.
In the meantime, I wasn't talking the Christian talk or walking the Christian walk. I rarely attended church, prayed or looked for ways to make it a better world. Since I had arrived in Nashville, all I thought about was my own pleasure – sacrificing for me, not for a greater good.
Walking Music Row alone after the concert, I was moved to write the following lyrics:
What's Got Into Me?
I've come to You again
kneeling here in sin
Pride has brought me nothing
but respect from other men
I've spent most every day
laboring for gain
When Grace was just a matter
of calling on Your name
Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus
What's got into me?
I'm so glad it's You
Welcome to my heart
Won't you make it Your new home?
Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus
What's got into me?
I'm so glad it's You
It's comforting to know
I won't have to walk that narrow road alone
So I've come to you again
to strengthen me from sin
Bring pride to its knees
Invite your spirit in
Let me spend my days
singing out in praise
and when temptation finds me
let me call upon Your name
Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus
What's got into me?
I'm so glad it's You
Welcome to my heart
Won't you make it Your new home?
Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus
What's got into me?
I'm so glad it's You
It's comforting to know
I won't have to walk that narrow road alone
I didn't feel bad about not going to church and even thought God would understand that it can be a pretty boring place where a lot of people come more to be seen than to see. I wasn't much for prayers either, preferring to have occasional one-sided conversations with God. I say one-sided because he never spoke back to me like he apparently has with some people. I never heard voices in my head. I felt better after talking with him, but I often wondered if I wasn't just feeling better because I got some problem off my chest. And I never knew if those prayers were truly answered because religious leaders would tell me that God works in mysterious ways. So you may not get the answer you want, but it's the answer the Lord thinks is best for you. I found that confusing because no matter what happened, I was told my prayer was answered.
Where I really felt like a phony in professing (mostly to myself) that I was a Christian, was when it came to taking direct action towards making it a better world. Not improving world conditions for the purpose of trying to earn my way into heaven, but because it was the right thing to do. I determined then and there that I would start looking for a way to act more Christ-like.
It wasn't long before I got my first opportunity. I saw an ad in the Tennessean for a WalkAmerica coordinator for the local March of Dimes office. It was a temporary position lasting only six months, but it might allow me to continue with my song writing while I helped others.
I landed the job. Soon I was calling on local businesses to organize walking teams within their company. If they had 300 employees, the idea was to get them to pledge X amount of money per mile for the big walk. The local March of Dimes goal for that year was $80,000. It might have been simpler and more profitable to just ask for X amount of money from each person and save on the expenses that add up when putting on such an event. But the majority of us respond better to having fun while helping than to direct requests for money. That may be shallow of us, but it's the way it works.
Within a month, my enthusiasm began to wane. This form of doing good wasn't for me. For every yes I got, I must have heard "no" ten times. Or, my call wasn't accepted or returned. And the local director was a nervous and bossy old bitty who wore so much lipstick much of it ended up on her teeth and half-finished cups of coffee she left lying around.
During meetings, she would say, "Okay, here's what we're gonna do," rather than ask for input or ideas. It was her way or no way. And it seemed as if she wasn't in touch with the human side of fundraising. I wondered if to her this was all an opportunity to hobnob with the city's business elite and to look good in a high profile job. I didn't complain though, because it was a decent paying job for a wonderful cause and would help get me on my feet.
Things were going well for me, but not for some around me. I got a letter from Mom, who in spite of her troubles, was her usual upbeat self.
Dear Mark,
Guess by now you are well into your job with the M.O.D. Dad and I really wish the best for you – seems like a tough job, but one that uses the talents you have. Be strong – I'm sure there will be times when the pressures seem too much.
Bigdaddy is still living with us. Danny is not good. She can still recognize us and can sing almost any song you sing with her. But at all other times, she is just talking, not making any sense. It really breaks my heart.
I'm so glad 1984 is here. '83 was not one of my better years. I have confidence that this will be the year. Don't know just how this is going to happen. I only know it will and I get very excited thinking about it.
Love, Momma.
She also told me that my brother Davey—at 33--had finally gotten married. Good news to offset the bad. That left only me as the single one. Lenny played his fiddle at the wedding and brought Elmer Glue, Fuzzy Balls and Blue Nose. For once, Elmer behaved himself.
Two weeks later, Danny was gone. It snowed in Nashville the same day. I wanted to go to the funeral, but didn't have the money or the freedom to leave work. The evening she died, I went for a long walk to think about her.
I remember as a child Danny's black piano and squeezing up next to her on the polished wooden bench. "Sweet Hour of Prayer" and "How Great Thou Art" were my favorite requests and I would sing along with her. I remember the loose layers of skin hanging down from under her arms as she reached out for the keys. And the small photo tree on the piano top, with individual portraits of the five of us boys and my sister Cheryl.
I remember running through her front yard, my flimsy net swishing over her ixoras, sending crimson pedals flying as I missed a giant swallowtail or large yellow sulfur butterfly. And the ripe avocados she would send home with us if the squirrels hadn't gotten to them first. Crotons, everywhere in her yard there were crotons, exploding in brilliant greens, yellows and reds. Resurrection ferns draped the lower branches of a large oak in the back yard and healthy cardinal bromeliads clung to the upper branches. She also grew roses, hibiscus and Confederate jasmine.
When I would go for a drive with Danny, she was always telling stories and pointing out who used to live on the corner of Jeffcott or Katherine or some other street, or where they worked and who they were related to. Once, she pointed out a wrought iron post in downtown Fort Myers, where the horses were tied while their owners went shopping. Not everybody had cars when she was growing up. I so wish I had taken notes on those trips.
She had even taken me with her to visit her own grave ahead of time and to show me the tombstone for her and Bigdaddy. Their names were already etched in stone, with the day they were born and a blank space for the day they would die. It was in the old cemetery off Michigan Avenue, in Fort Myers.
I could count on her to make old fashioned fried cornbread and buttermilk when we kids visited her home, or to serve toast with guava jelly and sharp cheddar cheese melted over it. The freezer was never without ice cream or the frig without Cokes or ginger ale, which Bigdaddy loved to drink.
The only time I ever ran away from home, my parents knew right where to find me.