the Rev. Mr. Scammon never was fully conscious. For weeks after his demise, his vestments and his cane hung from the coat tree in the vestry office-as if old Mr. Scammon had journeyed no farther from this world than to the adjacent toilet. The Rev. Lewis Merrill was hired as his temporary replacement in our Religion and Scripture classes, and a Search Committee was formed to find a new school minister. Owen and I had suffered through Religion One together in our ninth-grade year: old Mr. Scammon's sweeping, Caesar-to-Eisenhower approach to the major religions of the world. We had been suffering Scammon's Scripture course-and his Religion Two-when the icy steps of Kurd's Church rose to meet him. The Rev. Mr. Merrill brought his familiar stutter and his almost-as-familiar doubts to both courses. In Scripture, he set us to work in our Bibles-to find plentiful examples of Isaiah :: 'Woe unto them that call evil good and good evil.' In Religion Two-a heavy-reading course in 'religion and literature'-we were instructed to divine Tolstoy's meaning: 'There was no solution,' Tolstoy writes in Anna Karenina, 'but the universal solution that life gives to all questions, even the most complex and insoluble. That answer is: one must live in the needs of the day-that is forget oneself.'
In both classes, Pastor Merrill preached his doubt-is-the-essence-of-and-not-the-opposite-of-faith philosophy; it was a point of view that interested Owen more than it had once interested him. The apparent secret was 'belief without miracles'; a faith that needed a miracle was not a faith at all. Don't ask for proof-that was Mr. Merrill's routine message.
'BUT EVERYONE NEEDS A LITTLE PROOF,' said Owen Meany.
'Faith itself is a miracle, Owen,' said Pastor Merrill. 'The first miracle that I believe in is my own faith itself.'
Owen looked doubtful, but he didn't speak. Our Religion Two class-and our Scripture class, too-was an atheistic mob; except for Owen Meany, we were such a negative, anti-everything bunch of morons that we thought Jack Kerouac and Alien Ginsberg were more interesting writers than Tolstoy. And so the Rev. Lewis Merrill, with his stutter and his well-worn case of doubt, had his hands full with us. He made us read Greene's The Power and the Glory-Owen wrote his term paper on 'THE WHISKEY PRIEST: A SEEDY SAINT.' We also read Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Lagerkvist's Barabbas and Dostoevski's The Brothers Karamazov-Owen wrote my term paper on 'SIN AND SMERDYAKOV: A LETHAL COMBINATION.' Poor Pastor Merrill! My old Congregationalist minister was suddenly cast in the role of Christianity's defender-and even Owen argued with the terms of Mr. Merrill's defense. The class loved Sartre and Camus-the concept of 'the unyielding evidence of a life without consolation' was thrilling to us teenagers. The Rev. Mr. Merrill countered humbly with Kierkegaard:' 'What no person has a right to is to delude others into the belief that faith is something of no great significance, or that it is an easy matter, whereas it is the greatest and most difficult of all things.'
Owen, who'd had his doubts about Pastor Merrill, found himself in the role of the minister's defender. 'JUST BECAUSE A BUNCH OF ATHEISTS ARE BETTER WRITERS THAN THE GUYS WHO WROTE THE BIBLE DOESN'T NECESSARILY MAKE THEM RIGHT!' he said crossly. 'LOOK AT THOSE WEIRDO TV MIRACLE-WORKERS- THEY'RE TRYING TO GET PEOPLE TO BELIEVE IN MAGIC! BUT THE REAL MIRACLES AREN'T ANYTHING YOU CAN SEE-THEY'RE THINGS YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE WITHOUT SEEING. IF SOME PREACHER'S AN
ASSHOLE, THAT'S NOT PROOF THAT GOD DOESN'T EXIST!'
'Yes, but let's not say 'asshole' in class, Owen,' Pastor Merrill said. And in our Scripture class, Owen said, 'IT'S TRUE THAT THE DISCIPLES ARE STUPID-THEY NEVER UNDERSTAND WHAT JESUS MEANS, THEY'RE A BUNCH OF BUNGLERS, THEY DON'T BELIEVE IN GOD AS MUCH AS THEY WANT TO BELIEVE, AND THEY EVEN BETRAY JESUS. THE POINT IS, GOD DOESN'T LOVE US BECAUSE WE'RE SMART OR BECAUSE WE'RE GOOD. WE'RE STUPID AND WE'RE BAD AND GOD LOVES US ANYWAY-JESUS ALREADY TOLD THE DUMB-SHIT DISCIPLES WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. 'THE SON OF MAN WILL BE DELIVERED INTO THE HANDS OF MEN, AND THEY WILL KILL HIM . . .' REMEMBER? THAT WAS IN MARK-RIGHT?'
'Yes, but let's not say 'dumb-shit disciples' in class, Owen,' Mr. Merrill said; but although he struggled to defend God's Holy Word, Lewis Merrill-for the first time, in my memory-appeared to be enjoying himself. To have his faith assailed perked him up; he was livelier and less meek.
'I DON'T THINK THE CQNGREGATIONALISTS EVER TALK TO HIM,' Owen suggested. 'I THINK HE'S LONELY FOR CONVERSATION; EVEN IF ALL HE GETS IS AN ARGUMENT, AT LEAST WE'RE TALKING TO HIM.'
'I see no evidence that his wife ever talks to him,' Dan Needham observed. And the monosyllabic utterances of Pastor MerriU's surly children were not of the engaging tones that invited conversation.
'WHY DOES THE SCHOOL WASTE ITS TIME WITH TWO SEARCH COMMITTEES?' asked The Voice in The Grave. 'FIND A HEADMASTER-WE NEED A HEADMASTER-BUT WE DON'T NEED A SCHOOL MINISTER. WITH NO DISRESPECT FOR THE DEAD, THE REV. LEWIS MERRILL IS A MORE-THAN-ADEQUATE REPLACEMENT FOR THE LATE MR. SCAMMON: FRANKLY, MR. MERRILL IS AN IMPROVEMENT IN THE CLASSROOM. AND THE SCHOOL THINKS WELL ENOUGH OF HIS POWERS IN THE PULPIT TO HAVE ALREADY INVITED HIM TO BE THE GUEST PREACHER AT KURD'S CHURCH-ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. THE REV. MR. MERRILL WOULD BE A GOOD SCHOOL MINISTER. WE SHOULD FIND OUT WHAT THE CON-GREGATIONALISTS ARE PAYING HIM AND OFFER HIM MORE.'
And so they hired him away from the Congregationalists; once more, The Voice did not go unheard. Toronto: May , -a sunny, cool day, a good day to mow a lawn. The smell of freshly cut grass all along Russell Hill Road reflects
