Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  Winer, holding himself under tight control, gave a brief synopsis of some of the major accomplishments of Jews through history, as well as a short review of Jews being driven by Gentiles into ghettos rather than choosing to isolate themselves. But Winer’s presentation was strictly academic, almost devoid of passion or argumentation. The rabbi seemed convinced that there was no way he could enter this woman’s closed mind, let alone change it.

  Winer, Marie, Benbow, and Augustine were asked a representative number of questions mainly because the Q and A lasted so long. From the beginning, the most popular figure on the dais was Klaus Krieg. It was as if the students could not believe that they now had access to a genuine television personality. And it was obvious that many in the audience were very familiar with his telecasts.

  To Koesler’s observation, questions addressed to Krieg ranged from what seemed honest attempts to learn something about the publishing field, to the more celebrity-conscious queries regarding what life is really like in front of the lights and cameras and, most importantly, what Krieg’s celebrity guests were really like off-camera.

  It was toward what turned out to be the windup of the question-and-answer session that the blockbuster query came.

  The question came from a mousy woman who seemed almost reluctant to ask it.

  “Reverend Krieg,” she began, “I’ve read a few of the books you’ve published, and there’s one thing I’ve been wondering about: They always contain something extraneous to the religious storyline. What I mean is, there always seems to be an awful lot of . . . uh . . . oh . . . violence and . . . uh ... sex in your books.” She had not actually articulated a question. Yet the implication was clear.

  Krieg did not immediately respond. Koesler had the impression he had fielded this or a similar question many times and was weighing his choice of approach.

  Having decided, Krieg, adopting a more orotund tone, almost shouted, “We are sinners, sister, each and every one! Violence prowls our streets. You good people from this area should be well acquainted with that!

  “And sex!” He passed the shadow of a glance toward his fellow panelists, but did not break cadence. “Sex is everywhere. And we have fallen. We are fallen! Violence, sex, both are part of our lives, part of our fallen lives. I say again, we are sinners, sister! We are sinners. Violence and sex are part of our sinful selves. If it’s part of our lives, it ought to be part of our reading. But, praise God, sisters and brothers! We have been saved. Washed in the blood of the Lamb! Praise God!”

  Several in the audience repeated the doxology, “Praise God,” but somewhat self-consciously, as if unfamiliar with the participatory prayer of tent-preaching or the Black liturgy.

  The dark-haired woman who had tried to pin Rabbi Winer spoke up, again without bothering to raise her hand. “Wait a minute, Reverend. I haven’t read everything all of the other panelists have written, but I’ve sampled something from each of them. You don’t find that sort of thing in the books they write ... at least not in the prurient way your books treat sex and violence.

  “What about it, Reverend?”

  Krieg’s smile disappeared. This definitely was not the way he’d anticipated the program would flow. When he replied, it was in a more subdued manner. “Well, sister, I don’t know that I want to comment on the work of my distinguished colleagues. Comparisons are odious, as the poet says.”

  The dark-haired woman smiled a victor’s smile. “Go ahead,” she urged.

  “Really,” Sister Janet interrupted, “if Reverend Krieg does not wish to comment—”

  “That’s all right, Sister,” Krieg broke in. “Praise God! If our sister out there wants to pursue the question, we’ll do just that!” His tone changed subtly from that of the preacher to that of the lecturer, but nonetheless confident.

  “The answer, sister,” Krieg explained, “has something to do with the television ministry. Anyone here know how many people watch the Gospel of the Good News bein’ preached over the Praise God Network?”

  The heads that shook in negative response belonged to Marygrove students; actually none in the audience knew.

  “On an average program,” Krieg declared, “approximately sixty million souls!”

  There was a shared gasp.

  “Now, sisters and brothers,” Krieg said, “all these millions of souls starvin’ for the message of hope and salvation don’t even know they’re hungry! Praise God! Hungry for the Lord! Praise God!

  “But they’re not findin’ Him in church. You take your average parish church—or synagogue, for that matter—of a Sunday or a Saturday. Attendance goin’ down all the time. Then you take the Praise God Tabernacle. Climbin’, everything’s climbin’. I’m not just talkin’ the souls occupyin’ the pews of the Tabernacle. I’m talkin’ viewers. Besides the sixty million or so. Our message is broadcast in 143 countries.”

  There was a quiet but definite audience reaction.

  “Now I ask you, brothers and sisters, what’s the difference? Why are we gainin’ while they’re losin’?” He paused to let the implications of the question sink in. Then he answered it himself. “Pizzazz!” Another pause. “That’s right, brothers and sisters: pizzazz!”

  His audience clearly was at sea.

  “Lemmee give you an example. ’Member Fulton Sheen?” Krieg looked around, smiling benevolently. “Nah, you’re too young to remember him . . .”

  The majority, who did recall the popular radio and television prelate, appreciated the gift of years.

  Krieg proceeded. “Fulton Sheen—monsignor, bishop—drew a good crowd. But I think it’s clear he started with a premise, a hypothesis, an assumption. I think it’s clear he started with the assumption that people weren’t gonna watch him on TV, weren’t gonna turn to his channel instead of watchin’ Uncle Miltie just because he was a bishop. He had to give ’em somethin’ extra.

  “That voice! Could mesmerize you. But there was more. That getup! Full cassock, piping and all those buttons, cummerbund; shoulder cape; big cross on a gold chain. All that went with that magical voice. And extra added attraction: an ‘angel’ to erase his blackboard . . . ’member?” Krieg laughed and the audience laughed with him.

  “Well, now,” Krieg continued, “that’s just about the same thinkin’ we did in the Praise God Tabernacle. We started out by askin’ some questions. Like: Are people gonna turn us on instead of dialin’ in Bill Cosby, ‘60 Minutes,’ or NFL Football because they’d rather see a religion show?” He continued without pausing for any sort of response. “’Course not. So we built us a temple the likes of which you ain’t gonna find anywhere else. People see the Praise God Tabernacle, takes their breath away.

  “Or, suppose we’re gonna have a Crusade for Jesus—on the road, in a manner of speaking. Biggest stadium we can find. Beat the drums for weeks in advance. Make sure the house is full. That catch the eye of the viewer? Well, I should say!

  “Then, how ’bout if we give ’em the best in country-western music? How ’bout we give ’em the biggest stars in Hollywood to entertain and give witness as well? How ’bout if we have experts to stage and pace all this? We’re givin’ ’em a show they want to see. And tucked in there kind of subtle-like is . . . religion. The Good News Gospel of the Lord, Praise God!”

  “Praise God!” This time enthusiastically from the audience.

  Koesler marveled at the ease with which Krieg could segue from preacher to teacher to apologist. There was no arguing the guy had a talent.

  When dispassion returned, the dark-haired woman who had started all this said forcefully, “Reverend, the books . . . ?” She was smiling, seemingly amused at his performance.

  “The books; yes, indeed, the books.” Krieg, perceiving he’d won over the crowd, could afford to be amiable. “See, we at P.G. Press operate with an assumption. Just like Ol’ Fulton Sheen assumed people weren’t gonna tune him in just ’cause he was a bishop; just like our broadcast ministry assumes people aren’t gonna tune us in ’cause they’re in love with r
eligious programming. Well, sister, this is it: We at P.G Press start with the assumption that religion is dull.”

  He paused for evident dramatic effect. Then, slowly, as if carving the words in stone, “R-E-L-I-G-I-O-N I-S D-U-L-L.”

  That was it, indeed, thought Koesler. He’d been very carefully following the structured logic of Klaus Krieg. This is what the preacher had been building toward from the beginning. As far as Krieg was concerned, religion was dull. That explained Krieg’s approach to evangelization—and everything flowed from that approach.

  “You got a hard time with that,” Krieg continued, “you just go in one of those religious bookstores. The kind that sells devotional stuff, books about the saints and the like. You’re gonna see a store that don’t sell many books. And you’re gonna be lookin’ at writers who don’t make much money.

  “P.G. books are religious enough with priests and nuns and monks and rabbis and bishops and here and there a pope. We simply ask people who write for us to . . . add a little somethin’. Somethin’ that’ll spice it up, attract readers. If that turns out to be a certain measure of sex or violence, well, so be it. Holy pizzazz! It’s for the Lord. Praise God!”

  This time, it was an unanswered doxology. Koesler wondered if Krieg had lost the crowd.

  The evangelist may have harbored the same doubt, for he quickly added, “But I sense I have not been as clear as I might have been. When I say religion is dull and that it needs punchin’ up, I’m talkin’ ’bout the public at large. The souls we want to touch. Dear Lord, I’m not talkin’ ’bout us. Why, I would not for a moment insult you by sayin’ religion is dull for you or me. We don’t have that problem. They do.

  “Now, there’s a place for the pious, devotional book—religion without a single frill. But that place is on a dusty shelf, where it’s gonna sit from now until the comin’ of the Kingdom.

  “You can write a book that’s gonna sell and reach all those souls who don’t even know they’re hungry. You can do that if you’re willin’ to follow the steps I’m gonna give you during this week. Steps that will help you sow the good word in an attractive package. Your book will feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, accomplish all this good whilst you earn yourself a pretty penny. And all for the Lord. Praise God!”

  “Praise God!” the audience responded more confidently.

  I’ll be darned, thought Koesler, he got them back.

  The dark-haired woman stood.

  Troublemaking broad, thought Krieg.

  “How about the other panelists?” she asked. “Their books are not gathering dust on a shelf.” Her gaze turned to the others. “Maybe one of you would speak to this question. What about it? Is religion dull? Do you have to drag in sex and violence to sell books with a religious setting?”

  Krieg shrugged, and with an alert and defiant look, took his seat.

  Koesler studied the others on the panel. Benbow and Marie stared at the tabletop as if they were children hoping the teacher would not call on them. Augustine studied the ceiling as if seriously weighing Krieg’s hypothesis. Winer seemed to be trying to restrain anger. Finally it was the rabbi who literally rose to the challenge.

  “If my colleagues have no objection,” Winer opened, glancing at the other writers on the dais, “I should like to comment on a couple of issues raised by Mr. Krieg.”

  Winer’s dismissal of Krieg’s title “Reverend” was noted by everyone. The other writers smiled at Winer. Did their smiles indicate permission for Winer to speak for them, or did they constitute silent agreement that Krieg warranted no religious title? Koesler didn’t know, but it was interesting to speculate.

  “My first comment,” Winer proceeded, “is addressed to the presence of sex and violence in literature, specifically in books of a religious nature. Unfortunately, I have not yet read all the books written by all of my colleagues. Yet, having met them and in a short span of time gotten to know them surprisingly well, I feel it may be safe to speak in their behalf.

  “All of us—Sister Marie, Father Augustine, Father Benbow, and myself—are writing in the mystery or detective fiction genre. To begin with, the fiction is also popularly known as ‘murder’ mystery stories. It may or may not come as a surprise to you that there exist rules and regulations for murder mysteries. One of these rules is that there must be at least one murder in each murder mystery. That having been said, I feel it safe to suggest that I cannot think of any murder that does not have an element of violence to it.”

  There were a few chuckles from the audience and smiles everywhere, save on Krieg’s face.

  “Thus,” Winer continued, “it is not a question, I think, whether or not violence is compatible with religion. Good God, look at the Bible! It gets under way with fratricide—Cain killing Abel. And, in your so-called “New” Testament, it culminates with a most brutal death—the crucifixion of Jesus.

  “What I propose is the consideration not of the presence or absence of violence as such, but rather whether the subject of violence is called for in the plot, and secondarily—and just as important—how it is treated.

  “For instance, in one of my books there is a death of the daughter of the president of the synagogue. It is pivotal to the essence of the story. I intended the book to be a murder mystery. Thus, there had to be a murder. And there was. The book was peopled with characters I hoped the reader would find interesting. The interaction of these characters hinged on their relationship to the dead girl. Who had the motive, the means, and the opportunity to do the poor girl in? There were quite a few suspects. As it turned out, only the rabbi was clever enough to figure it all out.”

  Winer smiled self-consciously. The audience was appreciative of his humor.

  “So we have an act of violence in a book with a very religious setting. Was it necessary? Did it fit? Oh, yes, I think so.

  “The next question: How was the description of violence handled?”

  “Rabbi,” a student interrupted, “aren’t you just quibbling about taste? Good taste? Bad taste? Who’s to tell?”

  Winer considered the question for a moment. “Ah, yes, my young man: taste. But good taste, bad taste, like morality and art, all depend on where one draws the line.

  “For instance, in the case of violence—given in a murder mystery there is violence, given in life there is violence—one can write that so-and-so is shot or stabbed to death. Or, one can describe in lurid detail exactly how a person is tortured to death. All the agonies and terrors the torture victim suffers can be graphically depicted. More, one can dwell on the almost erotic pleasure the killer derives from the inflicting of torture.

  “I would suggest that the first is an example of good taste, while the latter is in very poor taste.

  “Sex. Sex is much like violence, a part of life. I think it almost impossible to write a book that has no reference to sex. If only to the stereotypical role of the sexes. There are traits considered feminine and those considered masculine; mannerisms, relationships that are inescapable in real life.

  “When we come to intimate sexual behavior between people, once again we arrive at that line between good and bad taste. And here perhaps more than in any other situation it is difficult to know where to draw that line.

  “People love each other sexually. They also manipulate and abuse one another sexually. And here it is not so much a question of description as it is minute detail. The word I’m searching for is ‘pandering’: what the Supreme Court likes to call ‘appealing to a prurient interest.’

  “We could go very far afield with examples. Suffice to say that I believe you will find in the books of the writers on this panel a very decided effort to express violence and sex in reasonable taste. And I also submit that in the books of P.G. Press you will find not just bad taste but execrable taste.”

  “Just a minute, Rabbi . . .” Krieg’s seemingly perpetual beatific smile had almost completely disappeared. “. . . It is grossly unfair of you—”

  “Please,” Winer cut in, “allow
me to finish. After that, the floor can be yours if you wish. We have many more days during which to thrash this out.”

  Krieg, who had half risen from his seat, fell back into the chair. Sister Janet leaned toward him and whispered something. He nodded, and tried with little success to reawaken the plastic smile.

  “We will have ample time to discuss these issues,” Winer said, “and I believe they are well worth an examination in depth. However, there is one more point I wish to speak to now. That is the statement Mr. Krieg made alleging that religion is, of its very nature, dull.”

  Once again Winer’s denial of Krieg’s religious title was noted by all.

  “For us, Jews and Christians,” Winer continued, “the notion and subject of religion quite naturally takes us back to the Bible.

  “Now, how can anyone in his right mind think that the Bible is dull? The stories of Abraham, Moses, David; the prophets; the remarkable women, Ruth, Esther. Fulton Oursler wrote a book about the Bible and called it The Greatest Story Ever Told. And that is what it is: the greatest story ever told. It needs no ‘pizzazz.’ It needs no hype. It needs nothing but understanding and communicating.

  “And I will leave you with a question: If the Bible, the primary source of our religion, is the greatest story ever told, why would anyone suggest that it needed, desperately needed, ‘pizzazz’? And I will suggest an answer to that question. The ‘pizzazz’ that allegedly is needed is brought out through gratuitous sex and violence in the most execrable taste imaginable.”

  Krieg was on his feet, his complexion a preamble to a seizure. But before he could speak, a student broke in.

  “Excuse me, Rabbi”—the student spoke loudly enough to override Krieg’s first syllables—“this is a sort of delicate point, but ‘the greatest story ever told’ and ‘execrable taste’ are apples and oranges.”

  “The ‘delicate point’?” Winer inquired.

  “P.G. Press books generally sell better than yours.”

  The smile almost returned to Krieg’s face.