dropping, dropping, / Hear the pennies fall, / Every one for Jesus, / He will get them all.” We used to sing this song in the Sunday school of the church in Meriden, Connecticut, where my father was minister for seventeen years in the ‘forties and early ‘fifties of the twentieth century. I got to thinking of it when, in late July of 2010 I received a book in the mail that I hadn’t ordered. I opened the package while I was at the post office in Dresden, Maine, where I have a mailbox. I stared at the cover, opened it to see if it were inscribed because I do often receive books from friends and other writers as gifts, but I didn’t know the author of this one, Dave Hunt, and the book wasn’t signed, nor was there a review slip enclosed. I couldn’t imagine why Mr. Hunt had sent it to me because it was a religious book and I haven’t had anything to do with religion in decades, nor had I written on the subject, except that in 2009 I had published a book of history — written almost forty years before it appeared in print — titled Satan’s Scourge: A Narrative of the Age of Witchcraft in England and New England 1580-1697. Perhaps, I thought, that was it, but I hadn’t really dealt with the subject of religion per se in that book.
I thought that must be it, though. I recalled that when my book came out I had been interviewed by Deirdre Fleming in the Portland Sunday Telegram and I had made a few remarks there — one passage in particular — that might have caused someone to send me this book. I had said, “That was the age when the system in America and in the world, really, was shifting from what we consider sympathetic magic to science, as for instance the shift from astrology to astronomy. It's a fascinating period. This changeover from magic to science is what the Salem witch-hunt was all about. It was the last big clash between science and sympathetic magic.”
Ms. Fleming had asked me then, “What can we learn from that period?” I had replied, “There are lots of things we can learn — for instance, the way that witches could be saved in New England in the 17th century was if they confessed to being witches. If you read the whole book, all the accused witches who weren’t hanged in Salem confessed to being witches, and of course, they weren't witches. But some refused to confess, and they weren't witches either. They were hanged. That should tell us something about the ethics of torture. You also learn something about belief and the difference between belief and reality.”
“Are those things relevant today?” Ms. Fleming had asked. I replied, “We had a big witch hunt while I was in the Navy in the 1950s — it was called McCarthyism. That was a witch hunt. It is the same thing, exactly. You can learn a lot about human nature. We do repeat history. We're doomed to repeat. We never seem to learn. And there are so many mysterious things that no human being is ever probably going to get to the bottom of, such as “black holes” and “the big bang.” Well, if people have open minds, perhaps they can get their minds around such things, and then believe them.
“But believing them is just taking them on faith,” I continued. “Some people take it on faith that there was an initial explosion that created the universe. Other people say God created it, but how do they know that? They take it on faith. The big question is, if God created the universe, who created God? And if there was an initial “big bang,” what came before the big bang? One of these two things is based on science, and the other is based on religion, but both of them are totally mysterious, and people believe in both.”
When I got home from the post office I opened the book and read the preface, which was as much of the book as I intended to read. Then I sat down and wrote the author this letter. “Dear Mr. Hunt,” I said,
“Thank you for sending me a copy of your book titled Cosmos, Creator, and Human Destiny. In your ‘Preface’ you say, ‘Anyone who sets out with an honest heart, an inquiring mind, and a sincere desire to find answers to the most important questions one can face in life will recognize a significant few that must be given priority. Does God exist? What is the origin of the universe and of the life found in such abundance on our tiny planet? What is life and what is its purpose?’
“As the son of a Baptist minister I could hardly have failed to run full tilt into these questions as soon as I was taught to speak. But by the time I was twelve years of age I realized that there are some questions that are incapable of being answered by other human beings, no matter how smart they may be. Today I read this in the newspaper, which is the only reasonable response to such books as yours,” and I pasted into the letter a “Peanuts” cartoon I had recently run across. In the first panel Snoopy is sitting beside his full dish and looking at its contents. He says, “Suppertime…is this all there is to my life?” In the second panel he looks away and says, “Is this the sum-total of my existence? Do I really just live to eat? Is that all I’m really good for?” In the third panel he looks back at his dish and says nothing. In the fourth panel he gets up, bends his head to eat and says, “I must think about that some day.”
And then I began to think about the remark I had made in my letter about having lost my father’s faith by the time I was twelve years old and I asked myself, “ Is that true? And when did that process begin?” That’s when I remembered the Sunday school song.
In Meriden in those days there was a big department store down on Colony Street called Upham’s. (Parenthetically, now that I think of it, Charles W. Upham wrote a famous book titled Salem Witchcraft.) I loved to go to Upham’s with my mother because when she paid the clerk her money for a purchased item the clerk took a little iron box and stuck the money in it. Then she put the box into a compartment on a sort of trolley and pushed a button. The trolley took off on a railway of sorts — not a vacuum system of the type to be found at drive-in windows of banks these days. It clattered up and away, along the track that led from the counter up to an office that overlooked the store where a cashier sat behind a glass window where she could see everything that went on below her. She took out the money and the invoice, made change, and sent the trolley on its way back to the clerk and my mother.
That little railway system made a big impression on me. When we sang about the pennies dropping into the collection basket I imagined, when I was five or six years old, that some such system must be in play so that my Sunday school teacher could get the money to Jesus where he sat up in Heaven carefully watching what we did down here, for the song assured us that Jesus would get all the pennies. I took it on faith that it must be true.
But of course it wasn’t, which I finally figured out, doubtless by the time the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus had also gone by the boards. It was disillusioning to realize that my beloved father and my missionary mother could continue to believe such stories into adulthood and even into old age. I devoutly wished that such stories could be true. Perhaps that’s why I became a writer, for I understood, finally, that although those fantasies might not be true in the real world, they could be possible, if but briefly, in the magic world of the imagination, although ultimately that world must not be confused with the real world where sane people live.
Satan’s Scourge: A Narrative of the Age of Witchcraft in England and New England 1580-1694 by Lewis Turco, www.StarCloudPress.com, 2009, ISBN 978-1-932827, jacketed cloth, $54.95; ISBN 978-1-932842-26-5; trade paperback, $39.95, 808 pages. ORDER FROM BARNES & NOBLE / ORDER FROM AMAZON.
Sad to think of the
infinite self-deception religion involves. Freud: "[Religion] is so
patently infantile, so foreign to reality, that to anyone with a friendly
attitude to humanity it is painful to think that the great majority of mortals
will never be able to rise above this view of life." Jack As Wesli wrote in
"The Universal Leaf,” "Our hopes and
dreams must come at last to grief If they're not wrecked
already, partway through This span of years.
We're well aware that worse Must come to worst. We
cower beneath this leaf Which we turn over to
find what we always knew: No one cares. Not even
the universe." Cheers, anyway! Mir



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