Jonathan Franzen - Strong Motion - A Novel

“Now listen. The reason it took the shape it did was because of the pain in God’s heart.”

Stites looked aside with an odd grin, as though God were this guy he’d known back in Carolina who did the damdest old things.

“You see,” he said, “even before He created the universe, He loved and He was wise. And because He was wise He knew that whatever He loved would know less than He knew. He is supreme, and it hurts Him very much to be supreme. He is an angry and hurt God. He knows more than anyone, and He loves everyone more than anyone loves anything, and so when we sin or we have thoughts — even when the smartest philosophers in the world have thoughts — He knows more. He knows we have to become dust again, and He never forgets. And He’s sad because He loves us even in our squalid earthly existence. In fact He loves us all the more.

“And so everything you see here — the walls, this table, this VCR, this coffee mug”—he held up a mug for all to see—“everything hangs together because of that pain. That’s why I can squeeze this here coffee mug and feel that it’s hard. It’s hard because God is sad. If God were happy, then there wouldn’t be any resistance in the world, your hand would go through everything. There wouldn’t be pain and suffering and death. You see what I’m saying? If things were all right with God, then there wouldn’t be any universe. There’s only a universe because He knows. Because He hurts because He knows.

“You’ve all heard the expression it’s lonely at the top? Well, that’s how it is with God. And isn’t that kind of comforting? To know that no matter how bad you feel, you can’t feel as bad as He does, because you don’t know how bad things really are. That’s how come He let them crucify His only son. Because He wanted us to know how much it hurt . And you know, when I think about how maybe the world’s going to end and I start feeling depressed because there are all these things I love so much. Well, I don’t despair, and you know why? It’s because I know that feeling of depression is holy. And if there is an Armageddon, then there’s going to be God to mourn us all when we’re gone, and all the things I love that don’t exist anymore, He didn’t forget any of those things, He loved them all along — loved them like you and I never can — and He won’t ever forget them for all eternity, and that’s what heaven is: heaven is living on in God’s love forever.”

The word “forever” hung in the air like a badminton birdie at the top of its arc.

“That’s the sermon for tonight, I thank you all.”

A final “Mighty Fortress” was sung, and then Stites walked back through the congregation, kneeling twice to take women’s hands in his own and have words with them. He ended up in front of Renée. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well I’m frankly famished.”

A ground-floor apartment behind the hall had had some walls knocked out, extending the existing kitchen. Three additional old stoves had been installed, and there was table seating for maybe fifty. Stites was given a big plate of beans from an institutional pot. He took four slices of white bread and an orange from the buffet, explaining to Renée that unless he got fed lunch by a rich patron he only ate two meals a day, the breakfast and the dinner here.

He led her up a dimly lit stairwell and down a plaster-strewn hall, one wall of which was lined with identical pieces of some kind of homemade exercise equipment, built of two-by-fours and galvanized pipe, resembling pillories. “What are these?” Renée said.

“These? These are pillories.”

“Oh my God.”

“Here, let me show you.” Stites set his plate on the floor. “All this plaster come loose in the earthquake. We sweep it up, but it seems like all you have to do is look at it, and down comes some more.” He put his head and wrists in slots in the crosspiece of a pillory. “See, you can lower the top piece with your foot, like this.” Foot in a ring, he unhooked a chain that let the upper beam lower onto the back of his neck, closing him in. “Or you can have a friend do it for you.”

He stood bent but relaxed in his khaki pants and brown loafers, facing the wall, a wallet bulging in his back pocket.

“Then what?” Renée said.

“Then you stand here. I think everybody ought to. I do it probably as much as anybody, mind you I’m not proud of it. It’s I have a special need for it, if I’ve been out in Weston all day at rich people’s houses. You stand here and look at the wall. You pray, or you can just relax. It humbles you. It feels really good. Physically, it hurts a little after a while. But that feels good too.”

With a practiced step, he raised the upper beam and freed himself. He looked at Renée, grinning intently. “You want to try it?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure? You kind of look like you do.”

“No!”

“You’d like it if you tried it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“OK, whatever. People feel vulnerable when they can’t see what’s going on behind their back and they can’t move. I believe real strongly that vulnerability’s something we oughtta nurture.”

He marched up the hall, taking big galumphing steps, as though crossing a marsh. His office had no door. Books stood in rough stacks on the red shag rug, which was stained with white paint and strewn with fallen plaster. A printed message on one wall said: And in the last days it shall be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh . The window gave onto the courtyard of the complex, where members were picnicking and the gym teacher was organizing a volleyball game.

“The rest is bedroom and a kitchen,” Stites said. “I share it with two of the men. I took this whole outer room for myself because I’ve got all these books and papers. You can have the desk, I’ll sit on the floor.”

“No, you’re the one who’s eating.”

“Well, let’s both sit on the floor. Sorry about the plaster. It’s everywhere.”

He immediately began to shovel beans into himself. Renée was used to sitting Indian style, but shortness of skirt forced her to use a double-Z leg position. “You’re lucky the whole building hasn’t come down on you.”

He nodded, chewing.

“Do you really believe God can save a bad building from an earthquake?”

He broke bread. “Nope, and I never said I did. I bought this building because it was cheap. We’re here because it’s a place.”

“And you don’t worry that if it falls down you’ll be responsible for all the people hurt or killed?”

“They know the risks, same as me.”

“But you lead by example.”

“That’s right.” He held his fork genteelly, far up the handle. He seemed practiced at speaking with his mouth full. “I eat and sleep and work in this building by the grace of God. I’m aware that if God wills it, my life will end. That’s how it is for every living person, except the majority spend their time trying to ignore it. But if you live in what the authorities call a death trap, you’re in constant knowledge that your life is cradled in the hands of God. That’s a positive thing. It sure seems more positive to me than living out wherever, in Weston, and feeling immortal in your million-dollar house. Here I value every day. I used to despair because I never had time to do the things I wanted. I thought life was going to be too short. That’s how little I loved God. Now I’m even busier, but since I been in this building, suddenly I’m getting to everything I want to get to, including people like you. This is about as close to happiness as I think a person can be. I can live without fear because I can feel how I’m hanging right over death, in the hands of God. If you get your life in balance with your death, you stop panicking. Life stops being just the status quo that you hope won’t end for a long time.”