I meant to write a long, reflective post about my fellow libertarians and paleo-conservatives and their (often disappointing) reaction to the Ron Paul newsletters. But that horrow show hasn't played itself out long enough to form valuable thoughts on it. Instead, I thought I’d mention a phone call I got a few hours ago - one that will haunt me for a week. But first, a little theological background

Evangelicals have an incredible confidence in their ability to understand Scripture. One of the central (and most radical) doctrines of the Protestant Reformation was that man could understand Holy Writ without any mediators (i.e. The Church, Tradition -etc…). Less then a decade ago, this confidence led me to take charge of my public high school’s Bible Club. We sought no official recognition from the school, and in turn the school was delighted not to recognize us. The people that came would have been horrified to know that I was on my way back into the Catholic Church but no one else would take care of it. I often prepared the week’s lessons while in my AP English class - taking occasional five-minute breaks to stare at my friend Andrea’s mini-skirts and the long pink legs that ran out of them.* That may not be what Luther imagined the consequence of Sola Scriptura.

One of the attendees was mentally handicapped but possessed of strong faith. Let’s call him John. I never had a class with John. I only saw him during Bible Club and once at the mall. He smiled almost always but had sad eyes. Walking with him on the second floor of the mall, I saw him lean over to take a peak at everyone walking around and shopping. I imagined that, in his childlike way, he was entertained by the strange view he had of the crowd. He awkwardly craned his head back over the rail,. “It’s so sad,” he said, “…all those people are unsaved.” I smiled and later spent the afternoon pondering Karl Rahner’s theology of “Anonymous Christians.”

After high school I went to college and re-joined the Catholic Church and John took a job collecting grocery carts from the A&P parking lot. I often ran into him when I came home. He smiled less. He would sigh and give me a disjointed preview of what sounded like a complicated story-- “Well, I’m trying to move out of my house, you know, but things with my mom….” --then give up the telling, “Well, I’m just hanging onto the Lord.” The only thing that I could say to him that seemed to relieve him was, “I was praying for you. And I need your prayers too.” Sometimes we would surreptitiously bow our heads while he was on the clock - even though I, as a budding respectable person, didn’t think of parking-lots as a place to pray.

Over the course of a year of such encounters I gathered that almost no one from school talked to him anymore. In the dead of winter he’d catch me in the slushy, salty, parking lot and we’d talk for an hour or longer. I ignored the vibrating phone in my pocket, knowing I’d have voicemails of my friends asking me, “Where are you? You were supposed to bring the chips, dude!” People might think I was generous with my time - but I wasn’t really.

As I prepared to move to D.C. his stories started having more alarming details: a sister in jail, money problems, a totally unresponsive-system of social workers and allusions to abuse in his own workplace. The public school that had given him teachers who cared about him, and exposure students who treated him benignly every day was now far away. I felt that I had no power to help him or even fully understand what was happening in his life. And with a guilty conscience I tried to push out of my mind the thought that he was looking out for me in the lots of the A&P each Saturday. I tried to believe that his luck would turn around without me.

When he did catch me, I told him that he should try to find a church and get settled — that he could find a social network there which would be useful to him. Well actually, I didn’t say “social network.” To him, I said “fellowship.” Furthermore, I told him that “the Lord put this on my heart for him.” He seemed to take that to heart, even though I was trying to relieve my conscience of him.

I was about to move to D.C. and take up a career in writing. I barely had enough money to feed myself. How could I protect him from abuse at work or home? I wished him well the last time I saw him and told myself that I would keep him in my prayers. He called me a few times but soon we lost touch.

Tonight, I got a call from a Westchester-number. It was John. He insisted that he was just calling to check in on me. “I’m fine,” I said. I hadn’t spoken to him for over a year.

“Well, you know, things are hard, “ he told me immediately. “But, I’m just hanging on to the Lord. It’s all there is to do.” Again, he mentioned his problems with social workers at VESCID. He told me he was now working as a street-sweeper.

“Have you found a church?” I asked.

“Uh, I’m thinking of changing. I don’t mean to be a church-hopper, but I’m, you know… (sigh) trying to find one that has, uh, a single’s group. My last church, I liked the people. They were nice. But all the singles we’re already with someone. Story of my life.”

It was the first non-Evangelical cliche, I’d ever heard him use.

“So, you’re a politician?” he asked guilelessly.

“No, I write about them. I don’t care for them much, though.”

“I don’t mean to overwhelm you with my problems, Michael.”

“I know, John.”

“I’m still trying to read,” he said, changing the subject. “I’m at grade fourth grade and a half level now.”

Frequently he sounded like he was about to cry. But he fought hard against his sobs and kept asking me how I was doing. “I just wanted to see how you were,” he said. I could hardly breathe. How much worse has it gotten for him?
To re-assure him (myself too?) I slipped right back into the Evangelical-ese I had left behind when I came back to the Church and decided to become a writer. “I’m glad you called tonight John, the Lord is blessing me through you.” Within five minutes, we had nothing to say to each other.

“What are you up to?” he asked after a long pause.

I thought bitterly: oh, you know, trying to figure out how to pitch Slate and get some more mainstream-media cred before I get stuck on the conservative track forever. You know, like every other right-winger I’ve met in D.C.
I lied and said, “Getting dinner ready.”

“Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he said.

“How about this: why don’t you call me a week from now, and let me know how you’re doing?”

“When?” he asked, delighted. It took some time to sort out that I meant between six and nine in the evening, not morning. “P.M.,” we repeated to each other.

I didn’t want to asking questions tonight like: How often do the mentally handicapped get married? How often do they get in accidents? Or are the victims of crimes? I won’t even look them up. I’ll just wait for his next phone call and then the next and hope that things work out.

I puttered around the townhouse for a while and examined my collection of DVDs. Maybe I could sell them and give the money away, I thought. I could be rid of this clutter. Then the thought passed. I picked up a white-paper on health-care policy and tried to remember that tomorrow no one I meet will cause me to slip into that almost-cloying language of faith, no one I meet will want me to say, “I’m praying for you.” In fact, they’d start avoiding me if I did say that.

I imagined John looking over the Beltway at me, and everyone I know- smiling innocently and saying, “It’s so sad. All those people are unsaved,” like some prophetic figure from a Flannery O’Connor story. I might think of Rahner’s theology of anonymous Christians again. How clever! How subtle! That German Jesuit. John will never know the arguments of Rahner, he doesn't recognize anonymous Christians. But he would recognize these words: “The last shall come first and the first shall come last.” Those words have had me up all night.
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* A quick story. Andrea and I had some kind of joke where we wold aggressively flirt with each other in public. She had no clue that I wasn’t always her fun-loving, slightly inappropriate boy-toy and was in fact the brooding leader of her school’s Bible Club.

One afternoon she spied me from the hallway while I was giving a lesson on repentance to “the BC”. Knowing that only I could see her through the window from the teacher’s desk, she began to pant on the glass and pull at her top- as if sent into uncontrollable lust at the mere sight of me.

I remained cool and slowly lifted up my gigantic leather-bound, gilt-edged-New International Version of God’s Word - so that she could see it and I smiled wickedly. (Not one of my fellow-Bible-thumpers knew what was happening) Andrea covered her mouth in shock and ran away. This is the sort of dual-life many teenage Christians seem to live. She and I laugh about it to this day when she tells this story to her fiance. He probably dreads the sight of me now.