by Avery Corman
By the fourth day, reports indicated that the conference was dividing into seven major factions. The bona fide miracle group: a miracle has taken place. Let us rejoice. The modified miracle group: a miracle should have taken place. Let us rejoice. The qualified miracle group: a miracle may have taken place. Let us embrace. The verified miracle group: has a miracle taken place? Let us discuss. The irrelevant miracle group: a miracle is irrelevant. Let us go beyond. The potential miracle group: a miracle is soon to take place. Let us plan. And finally, the anti-miracle group: a miracle has not taken place—with several subfactions within the faction. Let us forget. Let us condone. Let us condemn. Let us adjourn.
By the fifth day I was climbing the wall. They were talking about me. I was “that person” and I wasn’t even there. F. X. Franckks was there, writing an article for Life. Norman Mailer was there, writing a book on it.
Candice Bergen was there, sent by Cosmopolitan for “The Swinging Girl’s View of The Big Guy.”
“Judy, I have to go.”
“You can’t. You’re not invited.”
“But the conference is drifting. I can do something.”
“Oh, you can? God isn’t playing God. Why should you?”
She was right, of course, but I decided to crash the party anyway. I just had to see what was happening for myself. I couldn’t walk right in, though, or I’d be recognized. My plan was to do it with a disguise. I went into a little import store in my neighborhood and outfitted myself. Wearing a Moroccan fez, a djellaba, sunglasses and a veil—I know a veil is for women, but who’d know what kind of religious cult I was into?—I entered the press gate as Aba Zeb of the Rabat Herald.
Once I got into the U.N. itself, I saw that there were security guards all over the place. If most of the delegates’ work was being conducted behind closed doors, the doors were closed to me. I realized very quickly I was better off at home watching on television in a sweatshirt and dungarees than in the General Assembly in my djellaba and veil.
So long as I had gone to all that trouble, I decided to at least stay through the rest of the session. I found myself a seat in the press section next to a reporter from The Times whom I happened to know, and I crouched down so he wouldn’t recognize me, but he wasn’t the one to give me trouble. An Arab colleague approached me and said something in our native tongue. I nodded knowingly and blessed him with my hand, making the sign of nuclear disarmament in the air. He must have thought I was a weirdo because he shook his head and walked away. Before I got out of there I was stopped several other times by delegates, anxious to know my persuasion. I made my sign and moved on, leaving them to think they had just been blessed by a very religious person.
On the podium, the general position speeches of the first few days had given way to declamations by the various factions at the conference. At bat, was a fiery German Calvinist taking a strong anti-miracle, let-us-condemn position. This guy had a temper. The Georgetown group was ridiculed, I was ridiculed, the conference was ridiculed, and finally, running out of targets, but still working under full steam, God was ridiculed for letting it all happen. Now that’s angry.
Next was a Moslem who referred to this as a green time when ideas might flourish, but alas, as to miracles, this miracle was not written. I was listening intensely through my headphones to the puzzlement of the people around me wondering why in the world an Arab needed a translation from the Arabic.
Then came a little Catholic nun from France, a sincere young girl with a lovely voice. She pleaded with the delegates to stop bickering, to try to reach some level of understanding.
“The true miracle is that we are all here together,” she said. “So let us seize this miracle and issue one resounding statement for peace in the world. Let us tell the rulers of all our nations to seize the moment with us. I move that we close this conference to further discussion of whether or not a miracle has taken place, and that we discuss the specific ways that we can effect social change, that we try together for a new miracle on earth by people of all nations of all faiths, working for a true brotherhood and gentleness before God.”
I was very touched by her speech, but I’m afraid the delegation was not. This was not exactly what they had come for and there was only polite applause. I worked my way across the floor, blessing people as I went, to try to get to her, to say something to her. I finally reached her; she was surrounded by some reporters, and of course I couldn’t speak. I would have given myself away. So I just looked at her. She had a beautiful face. She was Audrey Hepburn in The Nuns Story and I was Peter Finch. She was lovely, and I’m sorry, Judy, and I’m sorry, anybody else who might be offended, the girl being a nun and all, but I had just fallen instantly in love with her. I reached out for her hand, a silent madman wearing a veil and sunglasses. She took my hand in hers, in thanks, and this gentle girl smiled up at me. We were doomed as a couple—but it was a sweet moment.
The day’s session ended and I was swept out onto the street by the crowd. I waited at the curb for the light to change next to where a little Good Humor man with a cart had set up. The Good Humor man was our Lord.
“Good God!” I said.
“Good Humor,” He said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Selling the Flavor of the Week and listening in on the gossip.”
“That outfit!” I said, pointing at His suit and cap.
“You look pretty nifty yourself.”
“I didn’t want to attract attention.”
“It’s some getup. This is my representative on earth?”
“I wanted to stay out of the headlines after I got your last note.”
“You said it. What a nut that book fella was. I saw him on Johnny Carson.”
“Then you’re not mad at me?”
“God should hold personal grudges? And right now, you don’t count so much anyway, if you excuse my saying. This conference is the thing. Terrific, huh? What a lot of religiousniks.”
“Doesn’t it bother you—the way they’re sitting judgment?”
“So that’s what they need to do. I think it’s kind of fancy.”
“Well, as you said, they’ve got the ball, let them run with it,” looking to disavow responsibility.
“It’s really something. This is big stuff.”
I noticed that He had a little portable radio and He had been listening to the radio reports.
“If you want to know what’s happening, couldn’t you just absorb it, or however you know things?”
“This is better. A person comes out, he buys an ice-cream pop, he talks to another person on how it’s going, and I listen to how it’s going. Not just any Good Humor Man could do this. You got to be able to understand every language.”
“What is going to happen here?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You don’t know?”
“How could I know?”
“You’re God. You know everything.”
“I know everything from before. I know everything from now. I don’t know anything from what’s going to be.”
“You really don’t know?”
“The future? Not a prayer.”
“Not even what’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“Not even what’s going to happen for dinner.”
“That’s astounding.”
“Why so? I know what is. How can I know what isn’t?
“I didn’t realize you had any limitations.”
“So write a paper on it. You can be a big philosopher, if you don’t feel you’re big enough.”
“If you don’t know, who does?”
“Nobody I know.”
“When I first interviewed you and I asked you about the future of the planet, you said you didn’t get into that—”
“I don’t.”
“But it never occurred to me that you really didn’t know.”
“Don’t think I’m not interested.”
“But if you don’t even know where the world is headed�
��that’s very disturbing.”
“That’s the way it is.”
“But why did you come to us now? Why now? This must have been a warning. You must know something.”
“I know everything. But not that.”
“But is the world in a crisis? Is anything imminent?”
“Sure, you’re in a crisis. Everything’s imminent. You didn’t know that?”
“I knew that.”
“So everybody knows it. Look, it’s a very important conference here. A lot of big shots. When it’s over, if they say it was a miracle, there’ll probably be a lot of ‘What do we do nows?’ and something will come of it.”
I wanted to go racing into the hall to tell everybody I have God outside and He just said definitively that He doesn’t even know if we’re going to make it, so let’s do something! Get together! Straighten out the world! Only dressed like a crazy Arab, babbling about a Good Humor man, they’d lock me up again.
“Where’s that little French girl?” I said.
“French nun you mean.”
“We can work on it together.”
“You got a crush on her? I think you want to date her up.
“Would you talk to them?”
“I already did that, through you.”
“But they don’t all believe.”
“That’s their problem.”
An English priest walked up and asked for a strawberry Good Humor.
“We’re out of strawberry. How about chocolate chip?”
“Fine.”
“How is it in there?” God asked.
“Very argumentative.”
“Could I ask what you think?” He said. “Was a miracle? God was here?”
“Impossible. In my view, God would never appear in that manner or to that person.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know. I’m just the Good Humor man.”
The priest turned to me. “What do you think, sir? Do you speak English?” I blessed him.
He walked away, eating his ice-cream pop. I spun at God.
“Now wait a minute. Wait just a minute. How did he see you? How did he talk to you? You said you appeared this way for me. If that’s so, how did he see you?”
“He doesn’t know I’m God.”
“But he saw you!”
“That’s right.”
“Do you do this a lot?”
“What?”
“Just show up.”
“Now and then. But nobody knows who I am.”
“Were you at the Whalers’ Festival?”
“So I happen to like cold beer and clams.”
“God walks around and people don’t even know it. Incredible! That man could see you!”
“You miss the point. He saw me as a Good Humor man. The trick is to know that Good Humor man is God.”
“Look, something has to be done here. I’ve got to—”
“What? What can you do? I gave you The Word and you worked it all the way up to this high-class conference. That’s good. We both did good. We’re covered.”
He opened the freezer. “Here, have an ice-cream pop and go home. Watch it on TV. You want chocolate chip, cherry jubilee, toasted almond?”
He handed me a pop.
“It’s on the house. Don’t say I never did nothing for you.
“Thank you.”
“It’s all right. Be careful you don’t drip on your veil.”
I turned to leave and just as I did, God moaned. He looked like He was in pain.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Ten-year-olds in Indianapolis singing ‘God Bless America.’ ”
The conference was nearing the end amid wild speculations as to the outcome. The delegates had agreed among themselves to act as sort of quasi-jurors and not tell outsiders how they would vote, so there were no valid straw polls of delegates. NBC programmed its computer for a computer-view of the possibility of a miracle and came up with a “too-close-to-call.” Jimmy “the Greek” Snyder in Las Vegas took the miracle off the board—-no bets—because he felt “you shouldn’t bet on such a thing,” prompting a big New York gambler to say bitterly, “Yeah, I bet the priests are dumping.”
I was following the last two days at home, drinking mint tea and wearing the djellaba as a bathrobe. By now, all those behind-the-scenes committees were finally surfacing. The Miracles Committee gave a report to the delegates on the history and the evaluation requirements for miracles. The Opinion Committee synthesized the various opinions at the conference. The Evidence Committee gave a report on the evidence submitted, dismissing all evidence as hearsay, except for the findings of the Georgetown Group, which was given a special report by the Georgetown Group Committee. That committee said that the Georgetown Group, although distinguished, could not be considered representative of the world’s spiritual leaders, owing to their exclusively American nationality, which to my mind didn’t address itself to the question of a miracle at all, but my mind had its own committee, reporting on me and supplying, to my astonishment, evidence from an F.B.I, dossier characterizing me as “having the hint of a radical” about me and that I was “potentially pink” and an “incipient troublemaker.” I was beginning to have trouble focusing. Fortunately, the next report was from the Procedure Committee explaining the courses of action the conference could take: they could take no action and simply disband; they could leave it all for further exploration by a committee; or they could vote on whether or not a miracle had taken place. After a vote on whether to vote, they decided to vote.
The actual balloting would take place on the next and final day of the conference, giving the delegates overnight to search their consciences, pray, and consider the reports.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I was up all night with a major anxiety attack. At one point in my nervousness I thought it would be nice if God would come by just to chat, but that’s another thing He doesn’t do.
The following morning, I was in front of my television set at 9 A.M. with a double Bloody Mary. The vote was to take place about an hour later and the networks filled time by running highlights of the previous sessions, by which time I had switched to straight vodka.
Finally, they were ready in the General Assembly. One of the chairman announced:
“Attention please. We shall commence the balloting. The question before the delegates is: ‘As a spiritual leader, and a representative of your faith, based on your judgment of the evidence and the opinions presented at this ALLFAITH conference, do you believe a miracle has taken place and that God has appeared on earth at this time?’ ”
What a question. Two thousand people who weren’t even there, voting on the opinions of other people who weren’t there. But this was it. The hall became silent.
“All who vote yes?’
The delegates stood in their places and were counted.
“Three hundred thirty-two.”
“All who vote no?”
“One thousand four hundred fifty-nine.”
“Abstentions?”
“Two hundred eleven.”
“The no’s have it. A miracle has not taken place.”
There was a roar, delegates cheering as though their man had just won an election, cheering as though a miracle had taken place. It was crazy. They didn’t want to believe. It was just too much for them. Too threatening, too miraculous—I don’t know. These experts had declared for all the world to know that God hadn’t been there—and at that very moment He was sitting right outside the hall selling toasted almond.
On the floor, it was a madhouse. Those who voted yes were furious, those who voted no were furious at those who voted yes—there was yelling, some pushing and a couple of fistfights actually broke out. Fistfights! Spiritual people and punches were thrown. Someone at the platform yelled, “Let us pray” and the delegates found themselves again, although you could just sense the fury underneath. They went through a series of prayers closing the conference by each of the participating religions that lasted five hours, then the
exhausted delegates adjourned and went home. They had done their job.
Judy tried to console me, but I was beyond reach and smashed on vodka. I watched the windup of the television coverage with my eyes closing, finally falling asleep in my chair. When I woke up, I needed a walk in the air by myself to clear my head. Outside it was getting dark now. No one was there but the man with the signs. Couldn’t shake him.
I started to walk toward the U.N., which is a few blocks away, thinking about the conference and thinking about Him. When I first met Him, I wasn’t sure He cared about us. But I’d begun to feel He did care. He watched us. He kept up with where we were. He even moved among us. What could He be thinking now? He had come here to reassure us that the world He created for us could work—and the world’s religious leaders had voted against Him.
Near the U.N. there were all the signs of the aftermath of a convention. A few people were milling around, the streets were dirty with leaflets. At the corner, I saw Him. He was sitting hunched on a little stool next to the ice-cream cart. I went up to Him, but I didn’t know what to say. I just shrugged. And He shrugged. He looked very disappointed, a lonely old man.
17
I DON’T WANT TO make too much of a World Series analogy out of this, but the period after the ALLFAITH conference was like the time following a particularly exciting Series. What had for a few intense days dominated headlines and conversation, suddenly lost its hold. There were some postscripts, some follow-up features in the press and then a drop-off of interest.
Sales of The Man Who Saw God plummeted, an index of how successful the conference was in discrediting my story. Faithful as ever, F. X. Franckks sent me a note:
“My sweet person, I still believe in you and in God.”
On the back of the envelope, he wrote something I haven’t seen in years—S.W.A.K. “Sealed With A Kiss.”
Religious leaders hurried to re-group and take a let’s-get-back-to-business attitude—and it worked. Most people were content to go along with it—it was just easier to accept that the miracle never happened. Within two weeks of the conference, the business of religion was almost back to normal.
