Joshua Ferris - To Rise Again at a Decent Hour

So they leave Rephidim for a place called Hazor, where they bicker and cower, licking their wounds and wondering what the hell to do next. The Israelites seem really determined, and the God of the Israelites is not the least bit fickle and is always really focused and effective. You get the impression that He’s really looking after these people, which gives Agag an idea, and he gathers the people around him. Gathering the people around him is getting to be a familiar trope by now, and one can’t help but fear for the fate of those eager to do the gathering around. “Every covenant hath utterly destroyed the cities of Amalek; every voice hath wrought sore destruction. Now even one god can save ye, the one living God that hath delivered unto your enemy a land flowing with milk and honey, and hath made of them a great nation, and given them ordinances of heaven and earth, and a Sabbath day, and hath sanctified and purified them, and bound them by a covenant, that they shall possess it forever, from generation to generation. Now I tell ye, all ye children of Amalek,” Agag continues in a new verse, which appeared line for line on my bio page, “the living God is with Israel, with all the children of Ephraim. And if ye take good heed to go with the living God of Israel, ye shall be spared the sword.”

Can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Sounds like a good strategy to the desperate Amalekites, who enlist one of their own, a dead ringer for an Israelite, to steal into the Israelite camp, sniff around, and learn what he can learn. He comes back after the third day and tells them that, in order to be like the Israelites, they have to build an ark, and it should be made out of shittim wood so many cubits high and so many cubits long, and there are rules about the ark and the temple, and if anyone sins they’ll need to find a young bullock without blemish for a sin offering, and you can’t compel your brother to serve as a bond servant, and a whole bunch of other things. Oh, and everyone needs to get circumcised. And everyone’s like “Circumcised? What’s circumcised?” And the young Israelite-looking guy tells them what it means, and they’re all like “Jesus Christ, are you kidding?” And the Israelite-looking guy says he wishes. So all the men circumcise themselves, and they send messengers to the tribes of Israel to tell them what they’ve done, and they pray to the God of the Israelites that they be spared the sword.

When the Israelites hear that the Amalekites have circumcised themselves “and were sore,” they crossed the valley boldly and slew them. “And there escaped not a man of the children of Amalek save four hundred, which rode upon camels to Mount Seir, and fled.”

My bio page ended with the words, “From the Cantaveticles, cantonments 25–29.” I turned to Connie, who had been reading along with me.

“That’s not how I remember it from Hebrew school,” she said.

“Me again,” I wrote.

Don’t think I’m not wondering why I’m still writing to you, Al. Look where it’s gotten me so far. But now that I know who you are, and can begin legal proceedings against you, maybe it’s time for you to cease any and all activity of this kind. The religious shit in particular. I’d rather you come for my money. Adult circumcision? A dude named Agag? I hope you hold this shit sacred, so that in the extreme unlikelihood that there is a God, you burn in hell.

I’d say something off the cuff, like “I’d rather kill myself” or “Let me just slit my wrists” or “The only solution is to do ourselves in,” and she’d grow very somber, acquire a stillness, and with a passionate zeal in her voice, she’d say, “I hope you are not serious. Suicide is nothing to joke about.” And while I’d ponder that — she hoped I wasn’t serious but chastised me for joking — she’d say, “God alone is the arbiter of life and death. Suicide is a rejection of everything He has created, all the beauty and meaning in the world. Aren’t you capable of finding anything beautiful in the world?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “I do not want to know about those websites. Please keep those disgusting websites to yourself. What I’m talking about is the sunrise, the sunset, the moon and the stars, the flowers in the botanical garden, the babies in their strollers. Isn’t there something besides grown women defiling themselves on the Internet you find beautiful?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Freedom is a concept, but I will accept it in the place of nothing else. But not the freedom to kill yourself. That is not freedom. That is the ultimate prison. My goodness, young man,” she’d say, “do you not look at the world around you? Do you never say to yourself, Look up! look up! on the chance that you might see a bird or a cloud, something that fills your heart with joy?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Yes, I agree, it passes too quickly. But good heavens, Paul, what is the point if we don’t possess it fully while it lasts? Everything is fleeting. Even ugliness. Even pain. Don’t you know the disservice you do to yourself when you let joy pass you by and hold on to the ugliness and pain?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “I do not call that being honest. I call it failing to live a full life. Don’t you want to live the fullest life possible?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “You are not alone in feeling that way. If you want a name for it, it is called despair. I have known many people who, before they found God—” I’d cut her off right there as I’d done a thousand times before, and she’d say, “Fine. Forget God for the moment, if we must. It is the ultimate mistake, but for the sake of argument let us just forget God. But do consider, if we are here for such a brief time, and if there’s only so much opportunity, consider looking for the good. Shouldn’t we all look for the good, if only to keep our spirits up?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “I understand there is not much good to be found looking at infection and neglect all day long. But what about coming to and from the subway? What about the walking tours you take? Is there not plenty of opportunity to look around you then and see… I don’t know what, something to help you carry on?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “I know the subway is full of unhappy people, Paul. Oh,” she’d sigh, exasperated. But she’d persevere regardless, lovely, irrepressible Betsy. “I’m not talking about all the beaten-down people on the subway,” she’d say, and I’d make a few additions, and she’d say, “Or the deformed or the burned or the homeless. I’m asking about your walks to and from the subway station.” I’d answer, she’d say, “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Put the phone away once you enter the street and take a look around you. Why must you always be reading your phone?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “If you know it is merely a distraction from the many things you don’t want to think about, why let yourself be a slave to it?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “That is the most blasphemous thing I have ever heard. A little technology could never take the place of the Almighty. We are talking about the Almighty, for heaven’s sake. Mobile phones or no mobile phones, we still have the primal need to pray, do we not?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Sending and receiving email and texts are not a new form of prayer. Do you not understand that that little machine, by taking your attention away from God and the world He created, is only increasing your despair?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “I don’t give a fig for the world it’s created. It will never rival God’s.” I’d ask her what I should be looking at, then, if not my phone, offering a few preemptive suggestions, and she’d say, “Yes, at the concrete. Yes, at the buildings. Yes, at the people. You might just be surprised,” she’d say, “by all the beauty and joy you find. Don’t you want to be surprised?” I’d tell her, she’d say, she’d cock her head a little and purse her lips a little, and she’d say, reaching out her hand, “It is not too late for you, dear. Dear me, no, young man. It’s never too late.”