The Prisoner’s Cross. Peter B. Unger

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СКАЧАТЬ Dr. Wilson’s class,” Don started out, “but I hadn’t realized that belief in the resurrection would be questioned at any seminary, including here.” Don knew he was qualifying his behavior in Wilson’s class, but felt that, although it might have been better to state it separately, he had a valid point here.

      The dean paused as if to weigh his words very carefully then said, “Don, we take academics very seriously here, and that means offering students the latest scholarship of some of the top scholars.” Don knew intuitively it would be better for him to hold his tongue, and say something like, “Yes sir, I understand.” But there was something about the dean’s patronizing authoritarianism that had struck a nerve. Don felt that the dean’s statement held a clear bias toward one liberal school of Christian scholarship. He also obviously believed that the seminary’s heavy reliance on its academic reputation to attract students made the undermining of what some at the seminary regarded as naïve faith beliefs of less consequence. Don, again aiming for a calm respectful tone, responded, “But Dean, if the seminary is also about preparing students to be pastors isn’t it possible that some scholarship, if presented, particularly by NT professors, as the predominant view might undermine this goal which is equally important?” Mitchell leaned forward, extended his arms, and placed them on his desk, hands down in a looming imposing way. “Don, you are not here to do a replay of your argument with Wilson.” The dean was obviously going to sidestep Don’s question no matter how respectfully he tried to raise it here. “For you,” the dean continued, “to have caused this much of a disruption this early in the semester concerns me, Don. I don’t know what your issues are, but I strongly suspect controlling your temper is one of them. We expect, as is clearly indicated in your student handbook, that our seminary students will act in mature and responsible ways. Therefore”—Don knew Mitchell was about to lower the boon—“if you disrupt another class, and do so in a way that is personally disrespectful to one of our instructors, we will have to put you on disciplinary probation.” Don had read the handbook, and knew this meant a three-month period where any other infraction meant a permanent expulsion from the school.

      Don met Mitchell’s stare with his own. He tried not to look angry, or sullen, but could feel his jaw tightening, and his face redden. He felt his anger rising. With as blank an expression as he could muster, and trying not to sound impertinent, Don said, “If that’s it, Dean, I have a class to get ready for.” Although Don knew his words alone conveyed a certain uncowed defiance. “Do you understand how probation works?” the dean responded, not quite ready to let him off the hook. “Yes,” Don responded in a monosyllabic tone. “Well, I think we have reached an understanding, Don, haven’t we?” Don, still refusing to be patronized, grinned, and looking straight at the dean said in a slightly mocking way, “Loud and clear.” Don turned and slowly exited the dean’s office. As he walked through the secretary’s office and passed her, he said sarcastically, “Have a nice day.” Don walked slowly back to his dorm room oblivious to anything around him and lost in thought.

      Don knew he was out of line, and that his temper was still getting the best of him. It also disturbed him that he had vented his anger in the same smug, formal, sarcastic way he suspected was the convention among the more status-oriented. The last thing he wanted to do was become like a stereotype he despised, and had encountered in David, and the dean. Neither did Don feel this was a more valid way to express anger than the way he had been able to back home, at least before the accident. Back then if he had an issue, particularly if it was between guys, his friends, a coworker, or with strangers, you just bluntly told the person face to face what it was that had irritated you, and let the chips fall where they may. The problem was, and Don knew it, since the accident he did have an anger problem, and it was coming out in ways he couldn’t really justify. But Don was not ready yet to deal with his raw grief or the emotions of shame and humiliation that were now all roiling just beneath the surface of his consciousness. His anger was fast becoming a fixed perimeter around these deeper overwhelming emotions. It protected him from dealing with what was really bothering him, but he knew it would create many other problems for him in the future, perhaps the near future. And as for the old code on how to handle anger as a kid, it had worked well in the working-class circles he had grown up in, but he knew, even if he could resolve his deeper anger issue, the old way of venting his anger would not work here.

      As he walked into the dorm Don continued to ruminate. Back home, before the accident, even with his anger issue, he had a better chance of regaining control of his temper. Expressing anger there was seen as an acceptable emotion within certain boundaries. If one stayed within those boundaries, of no physical violence and refraining from hurling personal insults, one could clear the air with an old friend, or even set the stage for making a new friend. The stifling formal and disingenuous atmosphere he had experienced at the seminary might give the appearance of more self-control, but in reality it was just a more insidious, often premeditated form of anger expression. One thing Don knew for sure was that he was out of his element here. Even after the accident he had not been tempted to act out this way in any of his classes at the community college. Don began to doubt, particularly with his anger issue, that he would be able to survive in such an environment. He now felt thoroughly exposed for the working-class, Southern redneck he was. What could he have had in mind enrolling in a prestigious Eastern school? What troubled him even more was that he had begun to doubt that any plan that God might have for his life could work here.

      As Don entered his dorm room his heart sank, there was David reclining in his easy chair, wearing a bow tie, dress shirt, and slacks with matching brown dress shoes and puffing on his pipe in full scholarly mode. He was staring directly at Don while holding his pipe to his mouth. Don threw him an annoyed, weary glance. He was about to fling himself on his bed when to his chagrin he noticed that he had left the letter from the dean’s office open and on his bed. Had David lowered himself to the point of reading it? Don tried to reassure himself with the thought that, that would be inconsistent with the scholarly elitist affectation David worked so hard to project. Don failed to convince himself of this, however. David didn’t have a genuine bone in his body, and whatever insecurity had led him to assume such an extreme affectation probably also prevented him from developing a healthy conscience. David, watching Don with the same imperious stare, waited until Don picked up the letter, put it back in the envelop, placed it in a book on the desk, and then lay down on his bed. Then, after clearing his throat, with as English a sounding harrumph as he could muster, proceeded to question Don about his day. His overly formal, impersonal, and obviously disingenuous tone grated on Don’s already frayed nerves. Don felt anger flaring within him. “So, Don, how was your day?” David asked. “Fine, David, just fine,” Don responded in weary, slightly irate tone. “You look upset, did something happen?” David persisted in asking. After a long pause, Don, in a weary, dismissive voice, replied, “I am fine, David, I just need to be left alone right now.” “I see,” David answered in a slightly bemused way that to Don suggested he knew more than he was letting on.

      Don lay on his back for some time, his emotions swirling around inside him. He tried to keep the mixture of worthlessness, anger, and growing depression he was feeling at bay. Did he even want to continue at the seminary, he kept asking himself. After laying there for some time, another emotion arose within him, one that had, since his sophomore year of high school, resulted in the habituated behavior of fighting back no matter the odds. It was an emotion best summed up as defiant rage, the utter defiance of a cornered animal whose self-preservation was on the line. He would not let them win, whatever that meant. He would not let them chase him out. Don wasn’t sure how to fight back against something that was nothing like the bullies he had encountered in middle school. There was no simple fight-or-flight choice here. In fact if he continued to fight back, especially given the intensified anger he had felt since the accident, he would give them the fodder, the excuse they needed to throw him out. He wasn’t sure will power would be enough, but he would try. Each day after all, he told himself, is a new day, but this sounded cliché, even Pollyannish, and rang hollow to Don even as it sprang to mind. No matter, Don reasoned, I will just have to figure it out as I go along. He would start by trying to get himself in a better state of mind.

      Although Don would try to keep his anger in check, he would СКАЧАТЬ