Yesterday I had the privilege of being a guest speaker at the Unitarian Univeralist Congregation of Hillsborough (North Carolina). I was asked to talk about the philosophy captured in my new novel, Jesus Swept.
I thought you might enjoy reading what I said.
Good morning. Thanks to AJ and Jean Michele for inviting me to be with you today. This is a privilege.
Over the years I’ve learned that novels can follow many different paths. Some take shape because they have strong willed characters. Others are plot driven. In the case of Jesus Swept, it all got started with a bumper sticker.
It was eight years ago. I was sitting in one of the back pews at the Eno River Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, ERUUF, not quite sure what I was doing there.
You see, I was raised as a southern Baptist. Born again at the age of 10. Our family was one of those that attended church four or five times a week. Sunday School. Regular service. Training union. Prayer meetings. Circle meetings. It took me some time to work through all that.
In any case, my wife Jane was raised as a Unitarian, and she can be very persuasive when she wants to. So I went. Truth be told, I was confused. I kept wondering when they were going to talk about Jesus. So I tuned out and started doodling. Six words found their way onto my note pad. Those words became my novel.
This morning I’m going to share some snippets from my book and talk a little about why those words might be worth remembering.
This first excerpt is from the end of chapter one.
Gary was five when his mother got swept up in the gentle art
of broom-making on a visit to the South Carolina state fair. Over
the next ten years, her own rare talent emerged as she married
gnarled wisteria branches to handsome cornstraw heads. Twisted
Kays, she called them. Collectible country chic.
Business was good for awhile. But then Kay got greedy and
things went to hell. She’d been watching a preacher on TV as he
read from the Gospel of John, chapter eleven, verse thirty-five.
The preacher said "Jesus wept" but Kay heard "Jesus swept," and a
marketing plan was born. She soon created a dozen magnificent
brooms with polished dogwood handles and fancy hang tags,
each inspired sweeper named after one of the twelve apostles.
This excerpt is from the beginning of chapter two.
When a back-sliding Baptist sees a sign from god wash up
on the beach in front of her, she should know enough to worry.
But with her passport to paradise having long since expired, this
Sunday stroller wouldn’t know a sign from god if it bit her on the
butt. Which explains why she doesn’t so much as flinch when the
cold Atlantic brine crashes hard around her ankles. Doesn’t see
the troubled twins who watch her from the dunes. Doesn’t stop
to think. Doesn’t think to pray. Moving fast to break a sweat,
moving slow to comb for shells, she tracks the scalloped driftline
with abandon. She angles past a willet standing one-legged in
the sand, its head tucked onto its back like a spoon. The whisk
of her walking springs the bird to life. It skitters away with her
thoughts.
She spies a gleaming glimmer in a swirling tidal pool. She
stops and stoops and reaches. She falls face first in the foam.
In the time they can say, "Holy shit, that lady’s in trouble," the
twins rush down to save her from the surf. Smelling of shrimp
and pot and booze and beer after a rough night on the beach,
they collect the fallen woman, her bag and her baseball hat, and
the heavy silver bracelet lying by her side. They drag her over the
storm-carved scarp and dump her on a prickly bed of broken
shells and seaweed.
The bracelet shows up again later, about halfway through the book. First during "joys and sorrows" at a UU fellowship:
"Good morning. My name is Liz Forsythe." Her chest lifts
with deep breathing. "I was walking on the beach last month,
when I found this in the sand." She holds the bracelet high,
like Unitarian show-and-tell. The heads in the pews bobble and
wobble, the brains inside them wondering whether they’re about
to hear a joy, a concern, or a sales pitch.
"It has inscriptions in Aramaic. A professor tells me they
may have been written almost a thousand years ago. It says Do
good. Be nice. Have fun. These are the threads of life fully filled." She
surveys the sanctuary. "Do good. Be nice. Have fun," she says, her
smile brightening the space around her. "These are the threads
of life fully filled."
And while an old truck smolders on the soggy shores of
Sunrise Beach, silence explodes in a Chapel Hill church. It’s just
what the shadow puppet wanted.
And then on a call-in radio show called Midnight Pagan:
NK: Hello, Rhonda in Roanoke. Welcome to Midnight
Pagan. What’s on your mind?
Rhonda: Hi, Nancy. Love the show. And your guest tonight?
Fantastic. I just wish I could talk to her. Those threads? They’re
amazing. I mean, what could be simpler? Do good. Be nice. Have
fun. Kind of says it all, doesn’t it?
NK: Think so?
Rhonda: Well, not absolutely everything. I mean, how could
they? But they’re close enough for me. A philosophy of life you
can put on your bumper.
NK: Thanks, Rhonda. (beat) Gary. From Jacksonville. Right
here in North Carolina.
Gary: Actually, my name’s not Gary. I just didn’t think you’d
let me on . . .
NK: Okay, Gary. What should we call you?
Gary: Jesus?
NK: As in Christ?
Gary: Like I said, I didn’t think . . .
NK: Jesus in Jacksonville. Sorry, friend. It looks like you
called the wrong show. Sharon in Chicago. You’re on Midnight
Pagan.
Sharon: I don’t understand where this woman is coming
from.
NK: What do you mean, Sharon?
Sharon: If these threads are supposed to be so great, how
come they don’t work? I’m good and nice, but I’m not having fun.
I don’t get it. She says have fun. Sure. Anyone can say that.
NK: I’m not sure the threads work that way.
Sharon: And what do you mean by good? Some people would
say killing murderers is good. Or not paying taxes. Or snorting
cocaine. Or anything. It’s just not that simple. Nothing’s that
simple.
NK: You see a problem with knowing what good means?
Sharon: What does anything mean? Nice? Is it nice to tell a
mother her baby is cute when he’s really ugly?
NK: I’m just guessing you have the same thoughts about
fun.
Sharon: Fun’s the worst.
Finally, Oscar Ornstein, a divinity school student at Duke University, has this to say:
"Ah ha," says Oscar. "Venn diagram." He grabs a pen and
draws three interlocking circles on a paper towel. "That little
space where the circles overlap? That’s the sweet spot. Good.
Nice. And fun. All at once."
As an ex-engineer from the Naval Academy, I love Venn diagrams. And this particular one is serving me well. Many times every day, I stop for a moment and ask myself where I would place myself in relation to the sweet spot.
I think I do pretty well in the do good department. And over the course of writing this book, some say I’ve actually evolved into a pretty nice guy.
And then there’s fun. It has never been my strong suit. When I was growing up in the Baptist church, it felt like fun was frowned upon. And now, here I am married to a woman who has fun almost every second of every day, even when she’s brushing her teeth.
I don’t offer any of this like a litmus test. And I’m quite sure there are many other important things in life. But for me, the sweet spot where good, nice and fun come together seems worth working toward.
Thank you.