Short Stories

“But how so?” asked Otto.

“Because just as there’s an horizon when a snowstorm finally stops in the world,” Georg replied, “so—though there may be storms in our minds—there is an horizon there, too, which times of peace and quiet allow us to see. We know there is one—an horizon in our minds, too—because God gives us peace when we trust in His Word. So, Otto, because God reigns over the mind of the man who is at peace with Him, there finally is an horizon and a clear and blue sky. So yes, storms come in our minds, but He is able to bring clear weather and end storms in His good time. I know the one true God remains above and He gives meaning to life and direction for us, so that if we are willing to pay attention to Him, we are never, ever lost and lacking an horizon. We do not will meaning in life—no God gives it. It’s from outside of ourselves.”

“A heartfelt reply,” answered the professor immediately, “and one I have often heard. Oh, I acknowledge that traditional beliefs must assert themselves in self-defense, as you have done. But what I’ve said can be exhilarating and hopeful, too, Georg, once you embrace the fact that every story mankind has told to explain things ends up being a tale—just a tale—a tale he tells himself. I would never doubt your sincerity—but I tell you this is the very gist of the new philosophical realization: every idea that speaks of something being there is the result of man’s willing it—every single one. Man tells himself a tale so that he may live well. But without that, naturally speaking, there’s nothing there.”

But now Otto suddenly hesitated again, as though he feared he’d said too much. And yet, as though he thought he must still try to make it plain, went ahead yet again.

“We are utterly dependent on human imagination if we are to give some meaning to human existence. But this is not a truth to make us despair! No! Our new truth will simply be the dignity of man!”

He now grew almost rapt and, practically crying out said, “Dear Georg—dear Mr. Reiter—man at last will be as he was meant to be. Man must perfect himself for the glory of his own dignity, and, as I said before, it is science which will be his chief aid!”

“What are you saying?” Elizabeth Reiter suddenly broke in, crying out, a look of horror on her face and with an uncharacteristic harshness in her voice.

“I only wished to show that—
“—Otto, man is incapable of such a thing—of any such thing at all! This is a way that leads to, to—to disaster. I tell you, my young professor, that man, left to himself, will soon choose something wrong, something wicked! Man has long ago shown how often he has thrown his dignity in the dust! To speak of the glory of the dignity of man? Man is in need of rescue because too often dignity means nothing to him! It’s pride and power and arrogance that mark him more often than not. Thank God we have a good Master in Christ, who loves us and saves us from ourselves! You say nothing of him. What of him?”

“Ah, Elizabeth, God is nothing more than the effect of the will of man,” Otto replied, suddenly growing mild. “Man is on his own—he must define himself. Arrogance? No. It is only necessity. Yes, it’s necessary for man to strive to deny his nothingness, and that is precisely what he does—but now, at last, let it be done without myths and stories that make us subject to bondage! Man must be free of every yoke! Not arrogance, but the yearning to be free of every yoke—this is what characterizes man at his best.”

Elizabeth Reiter was silent. All was quiet now. Ida had never seen her mother or her father engaged in such talk with anyone. Her brother Carl, too, blinking and with a startled expression, looked at his parents and at their guest, each in turn.

“You speak of yokes, Otto, and of freedom from bondage,” said Georg, looking first at Professor Ojemann, then at his wife and children, and then turning again to regard their guest. “These are shining and glittering terms, but terrible things are being forgotten in all these words. Terrible things! It would be bondage, indeed, to leave man to invent himself with his selfish and rebellious heart. The heart of the problem is the deceitful heart of man. It’s sin—sin is the problem. What is sin? It’s just one way of saying man is a rebel against his Maker. No, Otto, what new forms of slavery man would create for himself if he embraces such a view of the world! What you are saying is no solution to the problems of life—to depend on the mistaken idea of the goodness of man!”

“But Georg,” Otto replied, “there is no other way because there is no one else. Man’s hour, man’s time, has come. Man isn’t fallen at all as the traditional view insisted—no, he is ever ascending, and now for the first time he finds himself free from such heavy burdens as religion has placed on him and so will be the more able to stand. Yes, he is a rebel—a rebel against falsehood and illusions. Now the full ascent of man will begin!”

“It won’t happen,” Georg said softly, almost with pity. “Man, as Elizabeth was saying, will make even a greater mess of things if this is to be his work. But I must tell you it’s not necessary at all for human beings to create a new story because the true old story we learn from the Bible hasn’t failed and that story is not dependent in the least upon man! But besides that—since you speak of horizons as invented by man—there is a real horizon in the very nature created by God. Man makes nothing at all, finally. God makes the horizon, for speaking of these, we see divine purposes in nature all around us. There is a real horizon, even nature tells us.”

“Ah, Georg, you defend your story as you did before, and I know there are many who agree with you. But scholars in Europe will begin to filter out from the universities there and come here to America, too. They have weighed the authority for the old view—and found it wanting. This is the finest fruit of what is known as the European Enlightenment, of human reason set free from superstition. It might be helpful for you to know of the chief exponent of these ideas—because I’m not telling you my theory. Several years ago in Gottingen, in the heart of Saxony, I began to read with such joy the persuasive works of the great Friedrich Nietzsche. From this man, Friedrich Nietzsche, I have learned that we invent not only religion but all meaning. We are determined to do only one thing—to deny that we are nothing! This is a great revelation and the truth that this man, Nietzsche, found! This is much-talked-about all over Europe. Many are beginning to share such views without even realizing their source in a great thinker who represents the glory of Germany. He is the first and most profound of those who talk this way. We are at the dawn of a new age. We know these truths will lead to a great new freedom of the human spirit.”

Ida, closemouthed, her eyes wide and alert, and her older brother, both listened and watched. Ida’s father, his hands on his knees, sitting back from the table in his chair, looked at his wife.

“So, where do you say man comes from?” Georg asked with great seriousness.

“Many say they don’t know. They say he just found himself here, but many now say the answer is obvious—the Englishman Darwin showed us so that it is obvious! He evolved.”

“From what, Otto?”

“From a long series of accidents involving matter alone—there’s nothing beyond that. All that is is matter and motion.”

“And so where does man come from?” asked Georg.

“A kind of effect of the evolutionary process. An accident of a very long and natural course of events.”

“Man is an accident?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But Otto, your believing it doesn’t make it so. Your expression is one of faith.”

“Georg, if you wish to speak of origins,” Otto declared, “you are left with a Bible story—Adam and Eve—which no serious scholar of these matters today can any longer believe.”

“Ah, Otto, is this belief that man came from God and that God created Adam and Eve, so much harder to accept than your belief that man, in all his wondrous complexity and imaginative ability, is an accident? And there’s the matter of life in the first place. Where did that come from—the life that started off in what you say was an accidental matter? Life is so rich and complex. How can it be an accident?”

“Time—lots of time—and chance. And so the inorganic somehow, by some spark that was an accident, became alive. Ah, Georg, it’s far easier to believe man is an accident than to believe the stories of Adam and Eve. No, some primeval storm, some enormous electrical charge eons ago, when every ingredient was just right—

temperature, gravity, electricity, the presence of the right forms of matter—some electrical burst, some mechanically explainable galvanizing power brought animation to a single cell, and that was life, and from that came all the rest. I suppose it happened in some sense like that. All that then was needed was lots of time—eons and eons. It was an accident—a marvelous one, no doubt, but still an accident. No Providence was there. Another great German, Friedrich Lange, in 1865, in his History of Materialism, made this perfectly plain. Lange and Darwin and Nietzsche—liberators of the human race from myth! It’s far easier to believe that than the Bible!”

“No, Otto, it’s not easier,” said Georg Reiter, “but it is more convenient, because if man is not an accident you then are faced with a God to whom we all must answer. That, dear Otto, is very inconvenient for the rebellious heart of man which wants to be allowed to do as it pleases and answer to no one. No, Otto, it’s not easier to believe man is an accident. But man is a lost rebel and your doctrine is just the newest expression of that and it’s further proof that man needs a savior.”

“I don’t mean to be obstinate, Georg,” Otto replied, “but it’s not just me. It’s the character of the future and it’s coming and its watchword is this: Only man can save man.”

Elizabeth leaned confidentially toward her guest and said, “To follow these things”—she said this with much conviction, “is to go into that very nothingness you say man will now deny by his own cleverness!”

As Elizabeth Reiter was saying so, Otto began to sit further back in his chair—had he been standing he would have taken a step backward—for Elizabeth, leaning toward him, spoke with such quiet confidence and fire in her tone that the young professor felt himself being almost physically pushed by a strange mixture of defiance and compassion.

Now he began to realize he had deeply offended her.

“I do understand you,” said Otto, clearing his throat.

Then with a slight bow of the head and a half smile of embarrassment he said, “And I fear, again, that I’ve said too much. I have forgotten myself. I didn’t want to disturb you—not in any way. Please forgive me. I see I have offended. I don’t know what came over me. I usually don’t speak about these things except in the company of those who already hold them dear, and yet we found ourselves speaking of them against all my better judgment. It has been some time since I did—the pressure to declare them had built up. But now that I have spoken of them, I apologize. I forget how new my ideas will seem to some. I forget that others have their own ideas which are dear to them, too. I did not mean to have offended and I am afraid I have. I understand your honorable defense of your beliefs. I’m sorry. But let’s not argue any more.”

“No, we won’t argue,” Georg replied. “We have said enough, I think.”

“You have honorably defended the old religion,” said Otto Ojemann.

Ida stole a glance at the professor. For several minutes she had been afraid to look at him, so intensely had the conversation proceeded right in front of her.

“How patient you both have been with me, considering how I fear I have offended,” the professor continued.

“Otto, let’s not speak any more about it,” said Georg, “and don’t worry about my willingness to be part of your work. I will gladly join your fertilizer experiment.”

“You are doing this for my father’s sake, but I am grateful—and after I have been so impolite.”

“We do this for you, Otto—we wish you well in your work,” said Georg.

He drank another cup of coffee and ate another piece of Elizabeth’s dessert, and then after a few more minutes the Reiter family escorted Professor Ojemann to his  Chevrolet touring car. Once he’d started the engine he allowed Carl to sit behind the wheel for two minutes as he explained some of the automobile’s features to him. Then with many thanks and final words of farewell, he drove away.

When Professor Otto Ojemann had gone, Georg Reiter and his wife asked

Carl and Ida to come into the formal parlor. Seated in the four large, stuffed chairs there, they asked their son and daughter what they thought of the conversation they’d just had over lunch. A time of questions and answers ensued and then Carl and Ida were excused.

“I am afraid for them,” Elizabeth said when they were alone.

“We don’t want them to be unprepared, Elizabeth,” Georg replied. “They will have to fight doubts of all kinds. If they never have any practice, how will they do in the days ahead? It’s important that they be forearmed.”

“They’re without defenses—we have rarely heard such things ourselves. And today was a strong assault, wasn’t it?” Elizabeth worried.

“They heard our replies. May such things build them up and make them strong,” Georg replied. “We will pray.”

“And trust our Lord,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, Elizabeth.”

One morning in late August, six months later, Ida read the Houston Chronicle aloud to her father, mother, brother and Mr. Kolb, their hired man—as she did often on Saturdays when the men came in from their early work for a big breakfast. This was a practice Ida loved and which had been going on for nearly a year, for she was a very precocious reader. Georg delighted in having Ida read aloud. He often pointed to a headline and said, “Ida, would you read us that one?”

On this August Saturday they began with the calamities overwhelming Europe, for the war had begun. After they’d finished breakfast and Ida had read several articles, Carl and Mr. Kolb went out to the barn but Georg lingered with his daughter and his wife at the table. He pointed to a headline prominently displayed on one of the inside pages, “Gulf Coast Society of Freethinkers Established at Rice Institute.”

“Ida, let’s see what that’s about,” he said. He remembered Professor Ojemann using the term “Freethinkers” during his visit in February.

Ida began to read. They learned that the founders of the Gulf Coast Society of Freethinkers were all university professors—a Professor McGaugrin at Rice Institute in Houston, one Professor Paul Klein at LSU in Baton Rouge, and with excitement she read, “Professor Otto Ojemann of Texas A & M!”

The meeting had taken place in Houston and had included a debate as the inaugural event, a debate, the paper reported, which had included some heated argument about the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche.

“A professor of history from Rice Institute,” Ida read aloud, “attending the meeting, got to his feet and shouted that the works of Friedrich Nietzsche were `unwholesome and destructive of the character of any true gentleman,’ and that `no doubt the Kaiser’s soldiers going off to war right now are carrying Nietzsche’s books in their rucksacks.’”

The article went on in a more placid vein to describe something of the genesis of the Society. Ida reminded her parents that she remembered the professor telling them about the famous man with that same name—and now here he was again.

“You remember his name, Ida! So you remember, too, what `Freethinkers’ are, then?” Georg Reiter asked his daughter after she’d finished the article.

“People like Professor Ojemann?”

“Yes,” her father nodded, “but Ida, when I look at the trees, when I see the corn coming up, when I look at the sun in the sky during the day and the stars in the sky during the night, when I see our cows calve and when I look at you and Carl, and at your dear mother, and at myself, too—I can’t help but know there is an explanation for the beauty and orderliness of the world, in spite of all that’s wrong with it. These all cry to me of the truth that God made us. No, Ida, these Freethinkers are in the grip of a very great falsehood.”

“Yes, Papa, and yet he knows so much—he is a professor! He came here to visit us, a famous man! Why, he’s even in the newspaper.”

“Ida, is this proof that he’s right?”

“No, but Papa, still, that corn you planted with his fertilizer—it’s so much taller than the corn you left without the fertilizer.”

“True. Professor Ojemann is learning the secrets of nature. It’s all the more a wonder to me, then, that he is unable to see that it’s God behind it all. But God gives wisdom and gifts of knowledge to whomever He pleases, even to men who do not believe in Him.”

“But Mama, Papa, does he really believe that God is the invention of man?” Ida asked.

“It seems he does, Ida,” her mother replied. “Remember, dear, very smart men can still be mistaken.”

Georg Reiter was quiet then for a long moment.

“The greatest miracle is that we are able to see God’s hand in the world—for we are not naturally wiser than Professor Ojemann. It’s only God’s goodness that enables us to see, so we must be patient and loving toward those who do not yet see. God, in His wisdom, shows wonderful things to those who are not wise in the ways of this world, and He hides His truth from those who are judged very wise by this world. But we are not better than others. What we know is only by the mercy of the good Lord.”

“God is good, Papa, isn’t He?” asked Ida, who put her hands on her father’s arm and then leaned her head down on it as well—resting it there as they sat at the breakfast table.

“Yah, dear Idaleine,” he said, stroking her head, “of that I am convinced. He is good. But there is this war in Europe. It’s because men turn from God that they resort to such wars, and the only way back to peace is through the Gospel way that God has given us. When Jesus comes again, only then the swords will be turned into plows and the spears into pruning hooks, just as the Bible says.”

And with that he embraced Ida, kissed his wife, took his hat and went out the door, calling to Carl and Mr. Kolb, who had been waiting, talking to one another in the shade by the barn. His wife and daughter saw him placing a hand briefly on a shoulder of each as they walked out into the fields again to continue their morning’s work in the August sun. It was already getting quite hot on this bright, blue-sky Texas summer morning.