In the first days Chemosh implemented Joe Denspots’s bizarre treatment plan, he found himself singularly introspective and preoccupied with questions—questions he’d never had before, to his remembrance. He reasoned that this was because they were superfluous to his conviction that a man’s life was over—finished—with his last breath. Of what use had it been to think about life after death for someone who knew there was none? How could he ever have been concerned with a judgment day while believing that a person’s life ends with his death?
These questions had come up only after he’d spent time contemplating—seriously contemplating—the differences between humans and animals. They were similar in many ways. Survival of the fittest was certainly as much evident in human civilization as in the rest of the animal kingdom. Chemosh had always known it was a dog-eat-dog world.
After the day he’d met with Denspot and studied those five rules, however, he had been struck with two dissimilarities between humans and animals. Human advancement totally revolved around written language—words expressing thought—whereas animals communicated, albeit satisfactorily, without spoken words, and certainly without written ones. Of course, Chemosh believed that given enough time, man would surely figure out how all animals communicate. Communication wasn’t the dissimilarity—words and language were. After all, every other animal species had the same communicative sounds, no matter where they were planted geographically. Not so humans.
But the second difference seemed even greater. It was the capacity to think beyond the natural, seen, and observed events to the supernatural, unseen things. The language upgrade was certainly a monumental advantage for humans in the evolution theory. But the ability to think in supernatural terms culminating in a search for God wasn’t so much of an advantage, was it? It was an interesting question. Hadn’t this supernatural bent always translated into religion in all its diverse forms? That was of no advantage—no benefit as an evolutionary development in the highest-ranking specie.
Religion as Chemosh knew it—from philosophy class back in college—had at best only served to impose stifling social mores on generations of people. And at worst, it had precipitated plenty of bloodshed and was in large part responsible for dark-age ignorance and superstition.
So why, Chemosh found himself pondering, is supernatural contemplation part and parcel of humanity? What could be the evolutionary purpose?
On the Monday following his last meeting with Denspot, Chemosh drove to his office more refreshed than he’d felt for months. He felt embarrassed to be carrying the piece of paper with the five rules on it as though it were a lucky charm, but he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of Denspot’s treatment program, bizarre as it was.
Pulling up to a stoplight, he glanced at the paper, quickly finding Rule 3. The second part of it continued to capture his attention. “For the Lord will not hold him guiltless who taketh his name in vain.” Funny how he’d never felt an ounce of guilt before about this. Yet now he was sure there must be some inexplicable connection between his conscious restraint on his tongue and the relief from the nightmare he’d experienced since Thursday night. It was not a rational conclusion, but it was his conclusion, just the same.
No one besides himself came to the clinic on Mondays. He used it as a day to catch up on abortion-related articles from the newspaper as well as magazines and medical journals that his assistant always had ready for his Monday “study.” He also used this first day of the week to ‘map out’ the succeeding five days. He glanced at the articles—a couple of editorials and a piece on the morning-after pill, then looked at the new week’s schedule. He swore under his breath before catching himself.
“OK, Chemosh,” he addressed himself. “Clean it up. We don’t want a nightmare.” He held up a hand involuntarily. “Sorry,” he muttered as if to thin air. “Didn’t mean to.” He put his hand down slowly and sat there looking at it momentarily, shaking his head and blinking his eyes as though trying to get rid of a sour taste in his mouth. “I can’t believe this!” he exclaimed in a whisper, but there were none of the usual expletives.
……….
Three weeks later, Gene Chemosh walked into Covella’s, squinting his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. He glanced around and nodded his head in acknowledgement of the man in the far corner booth. As he crossed the short distance, he smiled back at his friend already seated.
“Hi, Joe.” Chemosh slid into the booth and picked up the menu on the table. “How’re things?”
“I can’t complain. I birdied a hole over at Canterbury the other day. Lee and Jerry were almost as surprised as I was.” He laughed and Chemosh joined in.
“You’re getting pretty good. What’s your handicap?”
“Well, I’ve improved considerably in the last three months. I went from 100 to 95.”
“So how often do you play?”
“That’s the problem. I was out there twice a week most of last year. But I’ve cut back to once, so my improvement might be temporary.”
“Too busy?” Chemosh queried.
“I guess you could say that. Other things on my plate.” He shrugged his right shoulder nonchalantly and smiled.
“Like what?” Gene Chemosh was curious.
“You really want to know?”
“You’re taking seminary classes.”
Joe threw back his head, laughing.
“You’d make a great TV evangelist.”
“I’ll think about it, if you’ll join me,” he said, grinning.
It was Gene’s turn to laugh. “I don’t think so!”
“No, me either. Once a shrink always a shrink.”
“Yeah.” Gene envied his friend for a fleeting moment, but refocused on the purpose of this lunch meeting. “Well, I’ve followed your regimen. I’m sorry it took so long for me to schedule another meeting.”
“No worries. We’re not bound to a particular time frame.” He leaned forward and became as serious as he’d been jovial only a moment before. “How are you sleeping, Gene?”
“Well, I have to admit, much better.”
“Are you following the rules?”
“Rules?”
“Yes. God’s rules.”
“Yes. Yes, I am—well, the ones you gave me.”
“Ah. I’m impressed.” A smile spread across Joe Denspot’s face. “And what do you think of them by now? What has it been—a month?”
“Yup, almost.”
“And?”
“Well, I hate to say so—in fact, I really hate to, but I think they’ve changed my life.” Gene looked at Denspot, whose face was all encouragement for him to continue.
The waitress appeared momentarily, and the two men ordered.
“You say they’ve changed your life?” Denspot asked.
“Well, for the first time I can almost believe there might be a god. I guess when I’m following rules that aren’t my own, I’m giving some kind of credence to the maker of the rules, whether it’s God or whatever. But that first rule… I’m ignoring it. Sorry, man, but it’s not even on the chart for me.”
“No, not at this point.”
Gene Chemosh looked at his friend with friendly suspicion, but went on. “The second rule is no problem to a life-long atheist.”
“Right.”
“And the third. Well, it’s a doozy. You wouldn’t think deleting a few words here and there…”
“A few?” Denspot’s face had a dubious smile on it.
“All right—a lot. You wouldn’t think that would influence your whole way of thinking—your whole life—but it has for me.”
“How so?”
“Well, I think the biggest adjustment for me—especially at first— was allowing an awareness of being accountable to Someone—Something listening. It wasn’t like having an invisible taskmaster; it was just…not being on my own—alone. I don’t really know how to describe it. But I have to admit it wasn’t uncomfortable.”
“Did Sally notice your language upgrade?”
Gene chuckled. “Did Sally notice! Yes, Sally noticed,” he said emphatically.
“And?”
“She was curious. She’s still curious, because I haven’t told her about the rules. I was a little bit skeptical that if she disdained them I wouldn’t have the motivation to follow through, and the nightmares…” He shook his head and dropped off his sentence with a weary expiration of breath.
“What did you tell her?” Denspot asked. “How did you explain?”
“Well, I just told her I had decided to stop swearing—maybe permanently. I left it at maybe. When she pressed me about it—I mean, she’s curious, Joe—I asked her, ‘Do you want me to swear all the time?’ She said no, that she actually was impressed, but just wanted to know why the change.”
The two men stopped their dialogue long enough to enjoy their food. As they were finishing, Joe asked about the fourth rule.
Chemosh took out his little card and glanced at it momentarily. “Well, that’s turned out to be the best one. Sal really likes it, and so does Andy. Sunday’s becoming a real family day—brunch, some kind of afternoon activity we can all enjoy together, and then popcorn and a movie at home. The whole exercise was worth the change we’ve made just from that fourth rule. If your god made the rules, I’ve got to give him credit for that one, at least.”
He looked at the pleasant surprise on his friend’s face and hurriedly added, “I can see what you’re thinking, Joe. No, I still don’t believe in God. But whoever wrote that rule had a handle on some important issues for the human race.”
“What about Rule 5?” Denspot asked.
“Mmm… That’s been a little difficult. My parents divorced when I was in med school, and my mother remarried a man who could hardly keep two dimes together. When I graduated, she couldn’t afford to make the trip, and my dad—not my stepdad—my dad refused to pay for it.”
“Did your dad come?”
“Oh, yeah, but I was about as bitter about my mother’s not being there as she was, so I don’t have pleasant memories of a time that should have been one of the highlights of my life. I worked hard for that medical degree, and so did my parents—both of them. It’s too bad my dad couldn’t see his way to let loose a few hundred dollars so we could all be together at that particular time and place in my life.”
“People do strange things when they live by human rules.”
Chemosh took a moment to respond. “Hmm.”
“So, are you ready for the next five?”
Gene Chemosh smiled. “I don’t know. Am I? You’re probably a better judge than I.”
“I think you are. Here they are.” Joe Denspot pulled out a small card from his vest pocket. I laminated them, because there may be times up ahead when you might be tempted to misplace them, but I don’t want you to have the excuse that the paper wore out.”
“OK, doc. So what do I have to do—or what can I no longer do?” he asked, smirking but still congenial.
“Hopefully most of them won’t be much of a challenge for you.”
Chemosh studied the card. “‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Well, that’s a no-brainer.”
“All right,” Joe Denspot replied.
“‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ Hmm…not a problem. Sounds like a reasonable rule.”
“Don’t forget it.”
“Excuse me?” Gene said defensively.
“I said don’t forget it. It sounds easy enough, but people change, you know. Your parents, for example. Somehow a chink got lodged by someone or something in their marriage. You and I both know the statistics these days. But I can guarantee that if you’ll remember the rule, you’re halfway home.”
“But Sal’s got to subscribe to the same rule, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Chemosh sighed. “So far so good…knock on wood.”
Joe chuckled his disdain for the trite response.
“Number 8. ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Plain enough.”
Joe smiled enigmatically.
“C’mon, Joe. What?”
Joe shrugged. “These are rules from a supernatural god, not a natural man. Just remember, if you’re sincere about implementing them in your life, He’ll show you how to do it.”
“What do you mean? I’m green, you know. Don’t act like I know anything about…God, because I don’t.”
“You know more than you think, Gene. You are learning very practically, in following the Rules, about the two operating forces in our world—the natural or the created, and the supernatural, the Creator. God created our minds and our very beings, and He has let us know—told us—that the fear of Him is the beginning of wisdom. The fear of Him starts with the sheer allowance that there just might be a rule-maker; and wisdom, in His eyes, is the knowledge that God’s ways are above ours and to be chosen over ours.
“So with this eighth law—and all the others, for that matter—you will understand from a new perspective—that of the rule maker. You already have a natural idea of what stealing is—even that it might be justifiable under certain circumstances. But when you decide to act on the idea that God gave us the rule, He will give you clarity of perspective you’ve not had before. Wait and see.”
“I don’t know, Denspot.” Chemosh took a deep breath and stretched his back. “Sometimes I feel I should keep pinching myself when I’m around you to make sure I stay in the real world.”
Joe smiled again. “And I am convinced that truth of God prevails over the real of the world.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t worry about it, Gene. Just follow the rules naturally and leave the supernatural revelation to God.”
“Okay,” Gene replied, with skepticism in his voice. He looked at the laminated card again. “Rule 9. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness.’” He looked up at Joe.
“Don’t lie,” Joe said simply.
“Mmm…don’t lie?”
“Just don’t lie. Tell the truth.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
“It might not be for you. It certainly was for me. I was used to bending the truth, and the hardest part was admitting to having bent it—after the fact. I had to eat crow quite a few times before I wised up enough to avoid the uncomfortable patchwork. I’ll be surprised if it’s not pretty much the same for you.”
“I guess we’ll see.” Chemosh glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. Number 10.” He read through the rule. “Whoa! This will be a challenge.”
“It’s just an exercise in contentment. It won’t be hard.”
“Sure, Joe.” Gene Chemosh smiled, rising from the booth and extending his hand. “You’re taking me on quite a journey. I hope it’s not just for a ride.”
“I hope not too. Call me any time.”
“OK. Later.”
Chemosh walked down the corridor between the tables and out into the brightness of the winter day. “Weird!” he muttered as he headed for his car.