The Five Lives of John and Jillian

by Greg Krehbiel

  “What do you mean?” John asked, sitting up in his chair and upsetting two of the four books in his lap.

  “He showed me a magazine article that had artifacts from a shrine in Israel, and there were pagan things there – in fact, awfully like this.” She held up one of her amulets.

  “Of course there were,” John said with a tinge of exasperation. “This ....” He shook his head. “This always amazes me. The Old Testament is filled with references to Israel’s episodes of idolatry. Remember the golden calf? The asherah’s? The high places? The Baals? But people always act surprised when archeologists discover that stuff in Israel. As if we shouldn’t expect that stuff in such a holy nation.”

  “And besides,” he continued, “it’s not as if orthodoxy would leave many trails for the archeologist. They’re not going to find an orthodox graven image.”

  “Hmm,” Jillian said and grew quiet for a moment. John sat still and watched her, wondering what was going through her mind.

  “So what do you think about taking these things into the sanctuary?” she asked again.

  John shook his head in a weary way. “I don’t want to sound reactionary, or fundamentalist. You’re not going to be doing the rituals, just showing them a few things about the rituals. But even at that, I don’t understand the point. Would we want to demonstrate how children were offered to Molech?”

  “John!” Jillian chided.

  “It’s the same in principle,” he said defensively. “But I think it’ll be okay so long as you do a very Christian presentation. Point out those things that you disliked about Wicca – the things you thought were silly. Show how it’s all conjecture, while Christian worship is based on historical realities. Think back to what persuaded you to abandon Wicca and tell them about that.”

  Jillian laughed.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking it’s a shame we don’t have a relic. You know, a fragment of the apostle Peter or something.”

  “I do have a couple good books on the shroud, if you want ....”

  “You’re just being difficult,” she said, throwing a couch cushion at him.

  “Oh, so that’s it?” he asked, losing his contemplative mood. He tossed the cushion back at her on his way toward the couch, where a fervent tickle fight drove other thoughts into their newlywed minds.

  * * *

  Jillian stole quietly into the kitchen as soon as she heard the water coming on for John’s shower. The muffins still had fifteen minutes to go, and she wasn’t sure exactly how to execute her plan, but then she remembered the fancy electronic toaster oven John’s aunt gave them as a wedding gift. It was in the cabinet above the refrigerator, and it had a timer. She took it down, plugged it in and set it for thirteen minutes at 375 degrees – she hoped she wouldn’t be there to take them out, and the muffins would finish as the oven cooled – and then she hurried to join John in the shower, dropping her nightgown on the hallway floor as she opened the bathroom door.

  “Sorry to make you late,” she said a half hour later as she rolled over in bed to look at the clock on the end table.

  “Any time,” John said through a smile. “But the sheets are all wet.”

  “You get dressed for work. I’ll throw ‘em in the wash.”

  John reached up and stroked her face gently. “I love you. You’re the perfect woman for me.”

  Jillian smiled good-naturedly, but suspiciously, expecting a trap. “Why’s that?”

  “You accommodate my foibles.”

  “What foibles?” Jillian asked, almost laughing.

  “Like hating to be late for the train,” he said, kissing her quickly and dashing to find a pair of underpants. But not before she swatted him on the rear.

  Jillian got up and started to take the sheets off the bed.

  Seeing her like that, naked, her hair still wet from the shower, stretching her lean body to undo one of the corners .... He almost decided to take a later train, but he shook his head, looked away and finished the top button of his white, pinpoint oxford shirt. He hunted through his tie rack for the blue one that went so well with his charcoal gray suit, and then he remembered that he’d given it to Jillian so she could sew the tag back in place.

  He went to Jillian’s sewing room and started looking for it. She walked past, still naked, carrying the bed sheets to the laundry, which was just off the kitchen. She noticed him poking around in her sewing room, panicked, dropped the sheets and ran in.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked with a nervous tremble.

  “My blue tie,” he said, turning to look at her. “Is something wrong?”

  She shivered. “No. You just usually don’t come in here, and it’s a bit messy. Here’s your tie,” she said, retrieving it from the top of her desk.

  “Okay,” John said, not completely convinced. He took her into his arms and held her for a moment. She seemed to shudder, and then she squeezed him around his waist a little tighter.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling, although the corners of her eyes had tears. “I’m fine. I’m a little cold.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” John said.

  “I’m okay,” she said again.

  John slipped his tie under his button-down collar and left for the train. Jillian sat down on the floor and cried.

  * * *

  The stereo came on as John pulled out the gravel driveway of their Bowie home and started the five-minute drive to the train station. He wondered if he had done anything to make Jillian cry, and he thought he understood. She probably felt hurt that he didn’t stay with her for a while, even sacrificing his precious punctuality for the sake of her feelings.

  He had to remind himself that it wasn’t over for her until quite a bit after he was ready to move on to something else. He tried to accommodate her feelings. He tried to stay awake at night after making love. He tried to talk. It was forced, yes, and she knew it, but the effort showed that he cared, and that meant a lot to Jillian.

  She was the one, after all, who had made a life goal of making feelings and actions into one consistent package. He knew that if something was wrong, it would come out. She would tell him long before it became a problem, and that comforted him. He didn’t have to worry that she was sneaking around behind his back, or hiding her true feelings, or nurturing a grudge from months ago. His slate was clean, and if it wasn’t, she’d let him know about it.

  He was suddenly aware of the contrast with the song coming through the speakers.

  Oh, don’t lay your bait,

  while the whole world waits around

  to see me shoot you down

  it’s all so second-rate.

  John turned off the stereo and thought about how thankful he was that he didn’t have that kind of relationship.

  Chapter 4 – Jillian’s Secret

  The Wednesday night literary club that had played such an important role in John and Jillian’s courtship continued to be a weekly part of their lives, although the book selections no longer focused on literature, or mythology, but ranged from politics – Slouching Towards Gomorrah – to devotional works – The Imitation of Christ – to simple fun – A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  This evening the group assembled at Frank’s house, which was one of the Levitt homes in Bowie. It was a nice home, but it showed the wear and tear of its 30 years. The living room ceiling had recently been torn open to fix the copper pipes, and the door to the bathroom alternately stuck or squeaked on its hinges. It was a fine middle-class house, but not as classy as Ed’s and Anne’s, or as cozy as John’s and Jillian’s.

  The furnishings were quality, but not extravagant. The walls were tastefully and recently painted and papered, but the art was plain and functional. It was mostly prints from the Smithsonian – classic and reliable.

  The discussion this particular evening had quickly turned into a fight. Somehow the conversation had been sidetracked from Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of
Avalon to a discussion of women’s ordination. Anne’s friend Jessica was a newcomer this time, and she came to the meeting armed for battle.

  “I simply loved her portrayal of Gwenhwyfar,” Jessica began. “It’s a sharp stick in the eye for all the patriarchal sexists.”

  Ed looked at John and rolled his eyes.

  “Are there patriarchal non-sexists?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

  Ed knew Jessica pretty well and agreed with her on many issues, but he tired of her strident and combative tone. He settled a little deeper into Frank’s largest lounge chair and poured the last few ounces of an English Bitter into his mug.

  He and Frank seemed to take it as a matter of pride to have some interesting beer available for guests. Ed’s devotion to beer was a little excessive to John’s way of thinking, but Frank kept up his end of the bargain, and John’s palate didn’t mind the education.

  “So are we interested in this as a historical matter, as literature, or are we going to get into theology?” Frank asked. “Because I don’t think we want to get into a theological debate while John’s here.”

  There were chuckles all around. John’s reading habits and sharp, analytical mind were well known to the group. Without somebody to stop him, he could get into the arcane details of a subject pretty quickly.

  Jillian gave him a glance that might have suggested equal parts, “that’s your cue, aren’t you going to jump in?” and “please be kind to this woman we just met.” But John sat back and sipped at his beer, trying to discern what Frank had told him about the difference between a porter and a stout.

  “I thought our resident Catholics,” Jessica prodded, “or at least the Catholic sympathizers, would want to jump in and defend Holy Mother Church. Gwenhwyfar as a priestess is a direct jab at the ‘orthodox.’”

  “Did you say it was roasted barley?” John asked Frank, holding up his glass of dark porter. “That’s the difference? I’m not sure I know enough to pick it out.”

  Jillian frowned, but Frank smiled and shook his head.

  “Okay, Jessica,” Frank said, feeling his obligation as a host. “Everybody here knows I’m no Romanist, but on this point the Catholics have it right. Only men can be pastors.”

  The air in the room immediately changed. It was as if someone had spoken the name of the Dark Lord, and the monster everyone feared had materialized.

  “Why?” Jessica asked, indignantly. “Because women aren’t good enough? Because of Eve’s sin? Why?”

  Frank glanced at John, who still seemed intent on his beer and his silence, and then continued.

  “In my opinion the ‘why’ is a matter for honest disagreement,” Frank said. “I have my ideas, and I’ve read a few theories. But there’s no honest disagreement on the ‘what.’ Scripture is quite clear that only men can be pastors.”

  Jessica looked as if she was a tea kettle about to sing.

  “Oh good grief,” she said, her face reddening. “Don’t tell me you’re going to spout some antiquated interpretations of St. Paul.”

  Frank gave John a very clear “give me a hand” sort of look. Frank was more than equipped to answer Jessica’s challenge, but he also knew he could be abrupt, and he didn’t want to insult Anne’s guest, or seem like the mean guy in the room.

  John got the message and reluctantly set his beer down on the coaster at his elbow.

  “You’re certainly right, Jessica,” he said. “Some modern scholars have tried to cast doubt on the traditional interpretation of St. Paul.”

  “‘Some modern scholars’?” Jessica protested with more than a hint of disdain. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a modern scholar who defends St. Paul these days.”

  John smiled and slowly took another sip of his beer.

  “You wouldn’t have any trouble at all if you looked at the bookshelf in my study,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s the real point. The question for me isn’t how some modern person bends the words, one way or another. The question is whether you believe in the church or not.”

  “A church run by men that has preserved male power?” she scoffed.

  “I’ll grant you that’s one way to look at it,” John said, trying to be diplomatic. “But it seems to me, based on my reading of Christian history and tradition, that this isn’t some minor part of the Christian message. The idea of God as Father, the idea of the incarnation of God in the person of Jesus – a man – and the idea of the priest as the human representation of Jesus, …. Well, that isn’t some sideshow or insignificant detail. It’s pretty fundamental, and the early church treated it that way.”

  Jessica made as if to reply, but John cut her off.

  “I know you might disagree with me on that,” he said, “but here’s where I’m coming from. In my opinion, if they got that wrong, why would I believe any of the rest of it?” He let that hang for a moment, and then continued.

  “You want me to believe that the church has been discriminating against women and twisting the message of the Gospel – pretty fundamentally, in my opinion – for two thousand years. And I say if they’re that untrustworthy, the game’s up. Never mind about church. Let’s sleep in and watch the crazy Sunday talk shows.”

  “I like ‘This Week,’” Ed added with a wink, and Anne playfully swatted him on the shoulder.

  “If that’s the way you feel, John, then why are you still in the Episcopal Church?” Frank asked. “You seem to have a high regard for the Bible. The Episcopals have women priests. How can you belong to a denomination that treats God’s word the way they do?”

  John rubbed his eyes and sighed, sorry he’d finished his porter so quickly, but not willing to get up and get another.

  “I like the liturgy,” he said. “It’s very traditional, and very English,” he added with a smile. “The practices of the Episcopal Church seem more like what I read in the church fathers than what I get from Presbyterians, or Methodists, or most other churches, and the Episcopal Church has a legitimate claim to apostolic succession. The sermons are usually dreadful and Sunday School is a joke, but I study on my own, so I’m not that worried about it. Church is where I go to worship. What they do in their meetings doesn’t concern me.”

  Jillian had been watching from a corner, but at this she shook her head. “But what they do in their meetings does concern you, John. What if they change the prayer book again? And what about the whole priesthood issue? We have a male priest now, but if you don’t approve of female priests, what would you do if the bishop assigned one to our parish?”

  Jessica shook her head indignantly. “So you’re another one? You want women to be second-class Christians?”

  “No, Jessica, I don’t believe women are second-class Christians,” John said. “I want the church to follow the commission it has from God. Scripture and tradition don’t allow for women priests, and unless someone has received a new Gospel, we’re stuck with that.”

  “So a woman is a deficient Christian? She’s not valid matter for the sacrament?”

  John shook his head and tried to hide his mirth.

  “Let’s not get into the technical language about sacraments, okay?” His tone said ‘you’d be in over your head,’ and no one in the room doubted it.

  “But I say the square of the hypotenuse equals the sum of the squares of the two other sides,” Ed added in a belligerent tone. “And that shows that I’m smarter than the Scarecrow, even after he got his diploma from the wizard!”

  “No way, you bloody idiot,” Frank replied with equal violence. “It’s ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c.’”

  And that was the end of debate about ordination ceremonies for the rest of the evening.

  John tried to concentrate on the vegetable tray and the odd Brown Ale Frank had given him, but Jillian felt the need to patch things up with Jessica for John’s benefit.

  Conversations continued in a disorderly way until the clock was more frequently consulted than the food. John thanked Frank for hosting the evening and got
Jillian’s coat from the front closet. He had, again, failed to take off his sports jacket the entire evening, and wondered why he was being so formal.

  Jillian caught John’s arm and they headed out the door for the short drive home. They weren’t two minutes down the road before John took Jillian’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” he said. “I shouldn’t have run out on you like that. It was very inconsiderate of me.”

  Jillian looked away as tears formed in her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You’re a wonderful man, John,” she said.

  * * *

  The basil, oregano and parsley were bursting out of their pots on the kitchen windowsill. Jillian tended them with care, watering them, talking to them, and sometimes trimming them. She knew it was the carbon dioxide from her breath that helped the plants to grow, but it was nice to think that talking did them good.

  “He’s going to find out eventually,” she sighed to the oregano. “It’s just a question of how and when.”

  She set her watering can on the kitchen stool and grabbed the scissors to clip off a dead sprig from the basil.

  “Of course he’ll be furious – or at least very disappointed. I should have told him before, and the longer I wait the worse it will be. But how do I do it?”

  The plants didn’t answer, so Jillian sat down in a chair at the kitchen table and reached for her mug of tea. It was a relaxing morning. The nine o’clock sun shone through the large, bay window that looked out on her garden, which was planted in pots and boxes in preparation for the upcoming construction.

  Soon it would all be gone. The window’s space would be taken over by a door into the “mother-in-law suit,” and the window itself would be moved into the living room. It would still look out on the garden, but the garden would be moved too, and it would be a garden fenced in on the right and left – a private, sheltered garden.

  Jillian’s mind wandered from her troubles. She thought it might be nice to plant a hedgerow along the back with a white, wooden gate, or perhaps a rustic gate with stone posts on either side, opening into the woods. It would complete the garden’s perimeter and create a very comfortable sanctuary.