Oxford University
Same Time
HALF A WORLD AWAY, low clouds promising rain, clutched at the spires of Trinity College as Frederick Neisen hurried toward Brighton Hall for his first lecture. According to the seminar’s syllabus, the subject for the afternoon was cultural correspondence and focused on similarities between the dream walks of Australian aborigines and the time journeys of the Yanoako, an Amazonian Indian tribe.
He slid into his seat, eagerly anticipating his teacher, Dr. Francis Abelard’s, presentation, but found himself gazing instead through the window at the stately and quiet beauty of Oxford’s spires and gables cloaked in mist. As if from somewhere far away, he heard the muffled voice of Dr. Abelard as he began lecturing.
“Though widely separated geographically, the planet’s so-called
‘primitives’ have intuitively sensed what we in our more advanced societies have either forgotten or chosen to ignore.”
The beautiful scene outside the window so captured Frederick’s attention that for several moments he was unaware Abelard had stopped speaking. The room’s silence finally alerted him and turning, was embarrassed to find his teacher and fellow classmates staring at him.
“And how do you account for this, Mr. Neisen?”
“I’m not sure I…” Frederick stammered to a halt, unsure what the professor meant by this.
Abelard fixed him with an annoyed glare. “Their sense of direction, Mr. Neisen. Di-rec-tion.” He massaged the word, milking each syllable for its maximum dramatic impact.
Draped in a black academic gown, Abelard’s great bulk overpowered his small head, especially small, some thought, for such a ponderous intellect. Crowned by a patch of unruly hair, it sat upon an elongated neck swathed in sagging skin. As he spoke, it jutted in and out of his collar, reminding Frederick of a large buzzard pecking away at carrion. The way his deep-set eyes probed with emotionless detachment the faces of each student, added to the impression.
“Since the Tower of Babel,” Abelard continued, “when man first reached for the stars, human progress, or its lack, has been measured in terms of direction.
“Advanced societies believe the human race rides on a swift running river of time that is carrying us forward toward a future growing brighter with each challenge overcome along the way.
“I believe you have a saying in America…” He glanced at Frederick again. “Something about ‘going with the flow’?”
Frederick nodded an acknowledgment, relieved Abelard had apparently forgiven him for his inattention.
“‘Going with the flow.’ That about sums up so-called enlightened societies’ views of progress.
“By the way,” he added, “this flow is always forward. And if a society fails to go forward?” He paused again, as if for dramatic effect, and looked about the room. “That’s the reason primitives remain primitive.”
Now totally absorbed with his subject, the class’ attention was riveted on Abelard as he strode to the chalkboard. Frederick had never heard a teacher lecture with such obvious passion.
As he spoke, he scrawled barely legible words on the board. “Salvation. Happiness. City of God. Valhalla. Paradise. Whatever name you choose to describe the ultimate good, it is always somewhere just beyond our reach.”
He stopped again and scanned the students’ faces for their reaction, then continued.
“Regardless of religious or political philosophies, all advanced societies believe the perfect world lies ahead of us. Some believe we will reach it after a climactic battle between good and evil; others, after the final step in societal evolution; still others, following an ultimate medical or scientific breakthrough.”
He paused again and let his gaze drift from face to face until it settled again on Frederick. “Only the more enlightened among us know better,” he said.
“This drive forward toward a utopian goal is what inspired nearly all the great explorers to set out on their journeys. Consumed by a spirit of exploration and discovery, they did not accept the opinions of ancient cartographers who wrote ‘Nothing Beyond’ at the borders of their maps where knowledge of the known world ended.”
Frederick swallowed, unnerved to find Abelard still staring at him. The thought flashed into his head: He’s talking directly to me!
There was more than a trace of sarcasm in the professor’s voice as he peered over his glasses, his long, turkey-like neck extended in Frederick’s direction. “Those of you raised in a strong Christian tradition know your religion teaches that Jesus Christ came into the world to bring redemption to humanity. But His mission is incomplete. Your credo states that our planet, the cosmos, and all living things still await the final redemption, which will come only when Christ returns to make the world a Paradise again.”
A thin smile creased Abelard’s face as he studied Frederick for a reaction to what he was saying. It was as if Abelard was reading his expression to judge whether he was able to rattle him with his obvious mockery of centuries of Christian belief. Frederick returned the stare, his eyes unwavering. Far from shocking him, Abelard’s lecture only fertilized thoughts that had germinated in his mind ever since his break with traditional religion when he was just out of high school.
Frederick leaned forward, eagerly absorbing Abelard’s words as he closed his lecture.
“Think of it,” he said. “All religions, all philosophies look to the future for deliverance. But what if the primitives have it right? What if, through their dream journeys and time walks, they have tapped a racial memory as old as mankind itself, one repressed in more civilized societies by centuries of so-called progress?”
Frederick’s heart thumped in his chest as Abelard seemed about to verbalize his most privately held thoughts, ideas he had not fully articulated even to himself.
“Perhaps the old mapmakers were wiser than they knew when they said there was nothing beyond the Gates of Hercules. Perhaps primitives are the truly blessed not to be living in a world filled with a carnival of competing ideas and deafened by the barkers of religion, philosophy, and science who promise a future paradise. Could it be that, unlike us, they have heard the roar of the falls ahead and know intuitively they drop off the edge of the world into oblivion?”
However, it was Abelard’s last words that brought Frederick forward to speak to him after the lecture and won for him an invitation to Abelard’s apartment that evening.
“What if the path to Paradise, to the fulfillment of all our dreams, lies behind us rather than ahead,” Abelard had said softly, almost as a benediction.
Frederick stared into the fire on the hearth, Abelard’s afternoon lecture still echoing in his mind. Not a lecture, more like a revelation, he reflected, as he thumbed nervously at the serpentine carvings on the arms of the ancient leather-backed chair. The room was in disarray, a wild hodgepodge of books and scholarly journals scattered about. The smell of stale pipe smoke clung to everything, confirming his first impression that his host was an unrepentant bachelor. The great broadsword hung above the mantle, and a full suit of body armor on a rack in the corner testified to his teacher’s fascination with all things medieval.
“…and so, Mr. Neisen, toward what end do you plan to focus your considerable gifts?”
Dr. Abelard’s blunt inquiry signaled an end to the social pleasantries that until now marked their evening together. The question of his life’s purpose now lay like a deep gulf between him and the widely published and internationally acclaimed Chairman of Oxford’s Department of Social Anthropology. Abelard, best known for his groundbreaking, often controversial, research into relationships between ancient myths and modern man’s social and moral development held the department’s prestigious Ragsdale Chair of Anthropology.
Though his views put him at odds theologically with traditional
Christianity, theologians respected him for demonstrating some
Biblical narratives, believed by liberal scholars to be myths, actually were rooted in historically verifiable events.
Frederick knew he must bridge the chasm just created by Abelard’s question of his life’s purpose with a satisfactory answer if the budding relationship with his teacher was to blossom into a lasting one.
He knew Abelard’s hawkish eyes were on him, taking note of every word, weighing critically his every nuance or change of tone.
“Dr. Abelard, it’s like I indicated in my letter and like you stated so brilliantly today in your critical assessment of Christianity’s impact on the human species, western society has had two thousand years to build a better world, modeled at least in part after the Christian ethic and…”
He paused and glanced at his teacher, trying to gauge his response. Except for an impassive stare, he saw none. He recalled that afternoon his first impression of the great man had been that of a buzzard, hovering over fresh kills. Watching…waiting.
“And…,” Abelard interjected, priming Frederick to continue with his thought.
“And…” Frederick nervously cleared his throat. “In my opinion Christianity has failed.” Then, in a transparent effort to curry Abelard’s favor added, “from what I’ve read in your books and heard today in your lecture you feel it has fallen short as well.”
“Fallen short, but not totally,” Abelard added cryptically, before shepherding the conversation down a more personal path.
“In your letter, Mr. Neisen, you said you had witnessed Christianity’s failure first hand.”
“That’s right. I saw it fail my father.”
“Oh?” Abelard gave his student his steely-eyed attention. “And how was that?”
“If you recall, sir, I stated on my application for admission that my father was a minister.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, he had been preaching for some time before I came along, and spoke to me only once about his early years in the ministry.” Frederick paused, glancing quickly to see if he still had the great man’s attention. “A deacon told my dad that I had written obscene words on a restroom wall in his church. The actual perpetrator laid the blame on me, and a prominent member chose to believe him. He told my father he should punish me and make me clean up the mess.”
“And?” Abelard looked quizzically over the top of his glasses.
“To dad’s credit, he believed me when I told him I did not do it. However, when I asked him why the other boy, one my father had baptized only a year before, would do such an un-Christian thing, he said something I’ve never forgotten.”
“What was that?”
“He said he’d given up believing God ever really changes human nature.”
“That was when he described his early years as a preacher.” For a moment, there was a far-away look in Frederick’s eyes as he exhumed long buried memories.
“He told me that when he began in the ministry his faith had been very simplistic. For instance, he believed human history started in a literal Garden of Eden with a man and woman whose disobedience cost them Paradise. He believed the Bible described how God had worked throughout history to return humankind to that idyllic place. In those early years, he said all his sermons centered on Christ and His power to forgive sin and change human nature. They always ended with a plea, or ‘altar call’ as he called it,’ for people to come forward to affirm their trust in Him.”
“Continue,” Abelard leaned forward in his chair.
“However, Dad said his sermons seemed to make no lasting difference in people’s lives, so he finally stopped giving his ‘altar calls’ altogether. When some like-minded ministers gained prominence in his denomination, he began working with them, focusing his energy and messages on peace, love, and the importance of working for social justice rather than seeking converts for Christ.
“Several years after that talk with my dad, I attended a Billy Graham crusade. It struck me that Graham’s passionate sermon was probably much like one Dad would have preached in his early years.
“When Graham gave his invitation, I had the strangest feeling.” Frederick hesitated before dredging up still another unpleasant memory from the past. “Suddenly, I saw my dad on the platform instead of Billy Graham and, instead of inviting people to give their lives to Christ like Graham, he was looking directly at me and saying, ‘I’ve given up on God.’
“After leaving home for college I never attended another church service or felt any inclination to do so.”
Again, Frederick paused, gauging his story’s impact on this man whose opinion mattered so much to him.
“It’s like I said, Dr. Abelard. Christianity failed my father and a lot of others. Including me.”
“And I also,” Abelard murmured bitterly under his breath. In his mind’s eye, he glimpsed a mother, far too young to die, and her little boy beside her bed. Please God don’t let my mother die, he remembered praying with a fervency and sincerity reserved only for children. But heaven was silent. For a moment he felt the acidic hurt return, one that for years he had carefully hidden under a carefully crafted veneer of intellectualism.
“What about his church’s work for social justice?” Abelard asked.
“With all due respect, sir, look around at our society.”
Abelard’s gaze seemed to soften, but still Frederick had no idea what he was thinking. My last chance to impress him, he thought, judging by Abelard’s tepid responses that all he had said up to now had failed to do so.
Desperately he fired his last salvo.
“Your lecture today Dr. Abelard, resonated with truth.”
“Oh?” Abelard’s eyes widened slightly as he resettled his large frame in the chair.
“You see I’m not like my father who, as a Texan might say, sometimes throws the baby out with the bath water.”
Abelard’s expression betrayed his complete befuddlement.
“What I mean, Doctor, is that my dad came to the place where he not only believed Christ had no interest in changing people, but discounted the Bible as just a collection of fables handed down from generation to generation. I’m not willing to go that far.”
“Tell me then, Mr. Neisen…” Abelard’s buzzard-like eyes settled on Frederick with surgical scrutiny. “Exactly how far are you willing to go and what are you willing to do?”
Here was the crux of Frederick’s whole argument, and he answered quickly. “Unlike my dad, I believe there is a kernel of truth in the Bible.”
“And what is that?” For the first time, there was a hint of excitement in Abelard’s voice.
“I believe the Garden of Eden may be a real place and that it may be possible to regain it. Just because Christianity has not found the way back doesn’t mean one may not exist.”
The conviction Abelard heard in Frederick’s voice brought a thin smile to his lips.
“You said ‘may,’ dear boy.” For what seemed an eternity, he studied Frederick with an appraising stare, only the ticking of a clock somewhere breaking the silence.
“My young friend,” he finally said softly, “I believe a way does exist.”
Frederick sensed his life had reached a turning point and willed that his eyes remain focused on his teacher. As an undergraduate at Evangel University, Abelard’s book, Paradise Regained, first sparked his interest in studying under him. That book opened his mind to the possibility that a way to regain Paradise might exist, but one that did not insult the mind by requiring blind faith in what he considered theological gobbledygook.
Here was the opportunity Frederick had been awaiting. He forced his voice to exude a confidence he was far from feeling.
“Then you have answered the question you asked me earlier, Dr. Abelard, about my life’s purpose. If you will allow me, the focus of my life will be to help you find man’s lost Paradise.”
It was half past ten when Frederick finally left Abelard’s flat and began the mile walk back to his digs at Trinity College. Light fog had settled over the city, its wispy fingers mingling with the light streaming from street lamps along Broad Street, diluting their glow from bright to pale yellow. Ahead, the ancient stone mountain that was the Everett Craig Museum loomed out of the mist.
When he arrived at Oxford two months ago, it was one of the first places he visited. He entered the museum for the first time and stood before the bust of Sir Norton Collins-Ragsdale with a feeling akin to reverential awe.
Though long dead, Ragsdale’s designation as the world’s leading authority in the field of social anthropology went unchallenged. More than any other writer on the subject, he helped Frederick realize Christianity was not the key to human progress. Instead, Ragsdale insisted the utopian dream of a better world would only come when humanity shed itself of what he called “Christianity’s contagious illusion.”
A barking dog somewhere nearby alerted him to his surroundings and he quickened his steps toward home, eying the saw-toothed, silhouetted shapes of medieval towers, gabled roofs, and belfries that hovered above the edge of the narrow street. His late hour weariness conspired with his imagination to produce the impression ancient buildings looming out of the fog were derelict schooners, grounded and doomed to rot away on some uncharted bar.
He loved Oxford, its history, its quirkiness. He still could hardly believe his good fortune. A graduate of a lackluster college with no powerful friends to endorse him, yet here he was at one of the most prestigious universities in the world with a full scholarship, studying under Ragsdale’s successor, Dr. Francis Abelard.
Over a hundred had applied for the five graduate openings in the department of anthropology. His undergraduate counselor had warned him his chance of being among the few selected was poor.
Nevertheless, he filled out his application, feeling about as much confidence as one would have in picking a winning lottery number. Like most of the other applications, his would probably receive no more than a cursory glance by some administrative underling.
However, just as he was about to seal the envelope, a thought occurred to him. He was asking only for admission to the department of anthropology. Why not send a copy of his application directly to Dr. Abelard, along with a letter expressing his desire to study directly under him. Perhaps initiative and daring would count for something, he reasoned.
So, he wrote the letter and bared his soul to the man he so admired. Tonight his private visit with Abelard confirmed his conviction that the letter had opened the door. But now, he sensed his commitment to join his professor’s quest for a way back to Eden had forged an unbreakable bond between them.
Back at his digs, he undressed, sat down at the desk, but found himself unable to concentrate on the reading for tomorrow’s classes. He pondered Abelard’s question: To what end do you plan to focus your considerable gifts?
The professor thought him gifted.
A brief flicker of self-doubt drew his eyes to his reflection in the mirror above his desk. Had Abelard meant just gifted enough to get by, or was he being typically British and understating his appraisal? Frederick spent a moment admiring the determined look he saw staring back at him. Highly gifted, he decided as he gave himself a knowing wink, closed his book, and made his way to bed.