Malcolm was so overwhelmed that for once he could not speak.
The book brought both men a great deal of acclaim. But it also made Malcolm, now an acknowledged scholar on the origins of all religions, question aspects of the single religion to which he planned to dedicate his life.
He recalled one occasion—a conversation with Russell near the end of their seminary years. Looking up from some lecture notes, Malcolm asked, “Who was it that wrote, ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing’?”
“Alexander Pope.”
“He might also have written, ‘A lot of learning is a dangerous thing, especially for priests-in-training.’”
No need to ask what Malcolm meant. Portions of their theology studies had involved the history of the Bible, both Old and New Testaments. In recent years—mainly since the 1930s—historians and theologians had uncovered facts about the Bible previously unknown.
The Old Testament, for example, still considered by many—especially lay people—as a single, unified text, was perceived nowadays by scholars as a dubious miscellany of independent documents from many sources, much of it “borrowed” by Israel—at the time a small, backward power—from the religious creeds of ancient neighbors. The Old Testament, it was generally agreed, covered a thousand years, from about 1100 B.C.E.—the beginning of the Iron Age—to after 200 C.E.
Historians preferred the terms “Before the Common Era” and “Common Era” to B.C. and A.D., though in numbers of years the meaning was the same. As Malcolm once joked, “You don’t have to work it out like Fahrenheit and Celsius.”
Malcolm said to Russell, “The Bible isn’t holy, or ‘God’s word,’ as zealots claim. Those who believe that just don’t understand—or maybe don’t want to know—how the Bible was put together.”
“Does any of that lessen your faith?”
“No, because real faith isn’t built on the Bible. It stems from our instinct that everything around us didn’t happen accidentally, but was an act of God, though probably not God as portrayed by any Bible.”
They discussed another scholarly acceptance—that no record or writing about Jesus is known to have existed until fifty years after his death, and then by Paul in First Thessalonians, the New Testament’s oldest writing. Even the four gospels—Mark’s was first—were all written later, between 70 and 110 C.E.
On another level, until 1933, Catholics were forbidden by papal decree to engage in what was labeled “Bible probing.” But in that year the enlightened Pope Pius XI lifted the ban, and Catholic scholars were now as well informed as any in the world, generally agreeing with Protestant researchers in Britain, America, and Germany about Bible authorships and dates.
“They took off the blindfolds,” was how Malcolm put it to Russell, “though churches are still concealing those facts about the Bible from the laity. Look, there isn’t any question Jesus existed and was crucified; that’s in Roman history. But all those stories about him—the virgin birth, the star in the east, shepherds and a neon angel, wise men, the miracles, the Last Supper, even the Resurrection—they’re simply legends, passed down by word of mouth for fifty years. As to accuracy …”
Malcolm stopped. “Consider this: How many years is it since President Kennedy was killed at Dallas?”
“Nearly twenty.”
“And the whole world saw it—television, radio, news reporters, the Zapruder tape, playbacks of everything, then the Warren Commission.”
Russell nodded. “And there still isn’t agreement about how it happened and who did what.”
“Exactly! So go back to New Testament times—without communication systems, no surviving records—if any existed—during fifty years, and imagine the invention and distortion in all that intervening time.”
“Don’t you believe those stories about Jesus?”
“I’m doubtful, but it doesn’t matter. Whether by legend or fact, Jesus had more effect on the world than anyone else in history, and left behind the purest, wisest teaching there has ever been.”
Russell asked, “But was he the Son of God? Was he divine?”
“I’m willing to believe so. Yeah, I still believe it.”
“Me too.”
But did they really? Even then—at least for Malcolm—faint glimmerings of doubt arose.
Later, during a discourse on Church doctrine by a visiting archbishop, Malcolm stood and asked, “Why is it, Your Excellency, that our Church never shares with parishioners the expanded knowledge we now have about the Bible’s origins, and the fresh light it sheds on the life and times of Jesus?”
“Because doing so could undermine the faith of many Catholics,” the archbishop responded quickly. “Theological debates are best left to those with the intellect and wisdom to handle them.”
“Do you not believe, then, in John 8:32?” Malcolm shot back. “‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’?”
The archbishop replied tartly, “I would prefer young priests to concentrate on Romans 5:19—‘By the obedience of one shall many be made righteous.’”
“Or perhaps Ephesians 6:5, Your Excellency,” Malcolm returned, “‘Be obedient to them that are your masters.’”
The lecture hall exploded with laughter. Even the archbishop smiled.
After their seminary graduations, Russell and Malcolm went their separate ways as associate priests, their views about religion and the contemporary scene growing and changing as time moved on.
At St. Augustus Church in Pottstown, Malcolm was second-in-command to Father Andre Quale, who, at sixty-seven and suffering from emphysema, almost never left the rectory and often ate alone in his room.
“So you basically run the show,” Russell commented one day over a shared rectory dinner.
“I don’t have as much freedom as you think,” Malcolm said. “I’ve already had two reprimands from Old Iron-ass.”
“Our lord and master, Bishop Sanford?”
Malcolm nodded. “Some of the old brigade here told him about two of my homilies. He wasn’t happy.”
“What were they about?”
“One was on overpopulation and family planning; the other on homosexuals, condoms, and AIDS.”
Russell burst out laughing. “You sure went for the jugular.”
“I guess so. But some obvious things the Church won’t recognize exasperate me. Okay, so the physical idea of homosexuality makes my skin crawl, but there are well-known professionals in science and medicine who insist homosexuality is mainly a matter of genes, and that those people can’t change, even if they want to.”
Russell filled in. “So you ask, ‘Who made those people that way?’ And if God made us all, didn’t he make homosexuals, too?—maybe even for a purpose we don’t understand?”
“Our stand on condoms infuriates me even more,” Malcolm added. “How can I look my parishioners in the eye and forbid them to use something that helps prevent the spread of AIDS? But the Church doesn’t want to hear what I think. They only want me to shut up.”
“Are you going to?”
Malcolm shook his head slowly. “Wait till you hear what I’m planning for next Sunday.”
The 10:30 A.M. mass began with a surprise. Bishop Sanford arrived, without warning, only minutes before the mass was due to begin. The elderly, wizened prelate was accompanied by an aide, and today was walking with a cane. He had a reputation as a disciplinarian who followed rigidly the Vatican line.
After the opening procession Malcolm publicly welcomed the bishop. Internally he felt his anxiety mounting. The sudden arrival had startled him, since he knew that the remarks he planned to deliver would inevitably meet with Sanford’s disapproval. Malcolm had expected word to filter through to the bishop after his homily, and was prepared for that, but having him listen directly was another matter. But it was too late to change, even if he wanted to.
When the time came he leaned forward in the pulpit and spoke forthrightly. “Absolute faith in the reality of God and Jesus Christ is essential to
us all. But, equally, we must have strength to retain our faith when it is tested, as occurs so often in our lifetimes. I intend to test your faith right now.”
Surveying the crowded pews facing him, he continued, “True faith needs nothing whatever to support it, nothing materialistic, no proof of any kind, because if there were proof we would have no need of faith. And yet at times we do prop up our faith, we support it with a material object, usually the Bible.”
Malcolm paused, then asked, “But what if you found out that parts of the Bible, supposedly important parts, and particularly concerning Jesus, were untrue, or distorted, or exaggerated? Could you still hold on to your faith, with the same conviction?”
Half smiling, he asked, “Do I see puzzled faces? Well, I assure you my question is very real. Real because modern scholarship has shown that parts of the Bible are almost certainly inaccurate for one simple reason: They were passed down through generations, not by written words, but by word of mouth—a notoriously unreliable means of communication, as we all know.
“This is not news. Historians and Bible scholars have known it for a long time, as have the upper echelons of our Church.”
By now there was some stirring among the congregation, a few questioning glances exchanged, and the bishop was frowning and shaking his head.
But Malcolm continued, “Let’s take specifics. Did you know that after the crucifixion of Jesus, a gap of fifty years passed before there was any written record about Jesus’ birth, his life, his teachings, his disciples, and the Resurrection? Half a century, and if anything was written during that time, not a trace remains.”
Despite the restiveness of a few in the church, the majority stayed focused on Malcolm as he summarized what was known but so seldom talked about: The gospels were written separately, for varying purposes … Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels were almost certainly copied from Mark’s … All four are by unknown authors, despite the names on them … The New Testament was not assembled until the fourth century C.E.… And none of the original text—in Greek, on papyrus scrolls—still exists.
“Papyrus,” Malcolm explained, “was made from a reed growing by the Nile and was the only form of paper at that time. But papyrus disintegrated quickly, so all of the original writing was lost. Of course, copies were written, but the Canon copier, if you’ll pardon the pun.…” He paused, smiling. “Copying machines were still three thousand years away, so changes inevitably occurred. There were other changes in the New and Old Testaments—during translations from Greek and Hebrew to Latin, then to other languages, including English … So all we can be sure of is that the Bible as it exists today is neither accurate nor a true copy of what was first set down.”
He added thoughtfully, “I tell you all this not to influence your thinking or alter your faith, but simply to relay the facts. I don’t believe in withholding the truth—not for any reason.”
After the mass, as the clergy moved outside to shake hands with departing parishioners, positive words could be heard from those around Malcolm. “Most interesting, Father” … “Never heard all that before” … “You’re right, it should be known more widely.”
Bishop Sanford was gracious and smiling as parishioners shook his hand. When everyone had gone he waved his cane peremptorily, motioning Malcolm aside.
His warmth replaced with glacial coldness, the bishop ordered, “Father Ainslie, you will preach no further homilies here. I am once more reprimanding you, and you will shortly receive orders about your future. Meanwhile I urge you to pray for humility, wisdom, and obedience, qualities you clearly lack and sorely need.” Unsmiling, he raised a hand in formal benediction. “May God guide your penance and move you in more virtuous ways.”
That night on the phone Malcolm repeated the conversation to Russell, adding, “We’re ruled by too many sour old men.”
“Who are completely sex-starved. What do you expect?”
Malcolm sighed. “We’re all sex-starved. This life is perverse.”
“Sounds like another homily in the making.”
“No way. Sanford’s put a muzzle on me. He thinks I’m a rebel, Russell.”
“Has he forgotten Jesus was a rebel? He asked questions just like yours.”
“Tell that to Iron-ass.”
“What sort of penance do you think he’ll give you?”
“Who knows?” Malcolm said. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure I care.”
But the answer came quickly.
Bishop Sanford’s decision was relayed to Malcolm two days later by Father Andre Quale, who received the news in an archdiocesan letter. Malcolm was to be transferred immediately to a Trappist monastery in the Pocono Mountains of northern Pennsylvania, a lonely place where he would remain indefinitely.
“I’ve been sentenced to silence in Outer Mongolia,” Malcolm reported to Russell. “You know about the Trappists?”
“A little. They live hard and never speak.” Russell recalled an article he had read. The Catholic Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, the Trappists’ official name, had a doctrine and way of life that were penitential—little food, no meat, arduous manual labor, and strict silence. Founded in France in 1664, the Trappists had seventy monasteries worldwide.
“Penance is what old Sanford promised,” Malcolm said, “and he kept his word. I’m to stay there and keep praying—silently, of course—until I’m ready to toe the Vatican line.”
“Will you go?”
“I have to. If I don’t, they’ll unfrock me.”
“Which might not be the worst thing for either of us.” The impulsive words tumbled out, surprising Russell himself.
“Maybe not,” said Malcolm.
He went to the monastery and, to his surprise, found himself at peace. The hardships he simply shrugged off. The silence, which he had expected to be a burden, wasn’t, and later, when he returned to the outside world, he found it full of senseless chatter. People, Malcolm realized, were compulsive about filling a silence with their voices. But silence, accompanied by quickly learned hand signals, he discovered in the Poconos, was in many situations more desirable.
Malcolm disobeyed only one condition of his banishment. He did not pray. While the monks around him presumably did so in their silence, he used the time to think, imagine, dip into accumulated knowledge, and assess his past and future.
At the end of a month of introspection he reached three conclusions. He no longer believed in any god, the divinity of Jesus, or the mission of the Catholic Church. While the reasons were multiple, most important was that all religions had a background of, at maximum, a mere five thousand years. Compared with the vast unknown aeons of geological time through which the universe had existed—Earth being a relative pinhead—the duration of religion’s presence equaled, perhaps, a single sand grain from the whole Sahara Desert.
It was also increasingly conclusive that mankind, Homo sapiens, evolved from hominids—apelike creatures—millions of years ago. The scientific evidence had become increasingly irrefutable, evidence that most religions chose to ignore because accepting it would put them out of business.
Therefore all the many gods and religions were simply recent, made-up fantasies.
Then why did so many people choose to believe, Ainslie often asked himself. One answer: It was mainly their subconscious urge to escape oblivion—the dust-to-dust concept, which, ironically, Ecclesiastes spelled out so well.
That which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts … a man hath no preeminence above a beast; for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
Should the practice of religion be discouraged? Absolutely not! Those who found solace in it should be left alone and, if need be, protected. Malcolm vowed that he would never, of his own accord, disturb the genuine beliefs of others.
As for himself, what came next? Clearly he would quit the priesthood. In retrospect he saw his choice of vocation as a mistake from the beginning—a reality easier to confront b
ecause of his mother’s death, a year earlier. At their final meeting, and knowing the end was near, Victoria Ainslie had held his hand and whispered, “You became a priest because I wanted it. I’m not sure you really did, but I was full of pride and had my way. I wonder if God will hold that against me as a sin.” Malcolm had assured her that God would not, nor did he regret his choice. Victoria died peacefully. But, without her, he felt free to change his mind.
A flight attendant’s voice on the PA system broke into Malcolm’s thoughts. “The captain advises we will shortly begin our approach into Atlanta. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened, tray tables stowed, and seat backs restored …”
Tuning out those familiar words, Malcolm drifted back into the past.
He stayed at the monastery for another month, allowing time for his mind to change. But his convictions only deepened, and at the end of the second month, he wrote a letter of resignation as a priest and simply left.
After walking several miles, carrying all that he wanted from his past in a single suitcase, he was given a ride by a truck driver into Philadelphia. Taking a bus to the city’s airport and undecided where to go, he impulsively bought a ticket on the next flight out—a nonstop to Miami. There his new life began.
Soon after Malcolm’s arrival he met Karen, a Canadian on vacation.
They were in line at Stan’s Dry Cleaners. Malcolm, leaving some shirts for laundering, had been asked by a clerk if he wanted them folded or on hangers. He was hesitating when a voice behind him prompted, “If you travel a lot—folded. If you don’t, have hangers.”
“I’m all through with traveling,” he said, turning to face the attractive young woman who had spoken. Then to the clerk, “So make it hangers.”