Read Online Christian Nation by Frederic C. Rich - Free Book Online Page A

for God, while at the same time the courtesan whom he comes to save ends up renouncing her life of pleasure and entering a convent to devote her life to prayer. What were we to make of this, he asked? Was this just an O. Henry–like plot twist, or was Massenet taking sides? Was the hero the monk or the prostitute?
    After allowing others to speak first, Sanjay then offered his opinion.
    “I would imagine,” said Sanjay, “that we are intended to conclude that neither is the right path to follow. Instead, both paths illustrate the same fallacy, the fallacy that religious devotion can lead to real redemption or salvation. The monk learns from hard experience that he cannot be complete as a human if his only relationship is with an imaginary being, and that striving for eternal life is a futile quest. The courtesan spends her life striving for pleasure, but when she finally realizes that she is in need of redemption from an immoral life, she makes the same mistake as the monk in seeking it in an equally futile marriage with God. Massenet is telling us that we humans make the same mistakes over and over—the mistake of striving and of endlessly seeking unobtainable extremes. This opera is, I think you will see, a tragedy.”
    Emilie looked momentarily uneasy. We both knew from prior experience that Sanjay’s earnest frankness, especially on matters of religion, could easily offend.
    “Yes, yes,” the investment banker exclaimed. “Brilliant. You are right. I’ve seen the opera a half dozen times and never thought of it this way. But that’s it. A carefully disguised polemic against religion. Faith and religious enthusiasm leading where they always do, to tragedy. Heh. Heh. I wonder if any of the French clerics got it. You had to be careful back then, you know.”
    “You have to be careful now,” Sanjay observed.
    “Oh, don’t worry. We’re Episcopalians; we’re not offended. We don’t believe; we go for the music, and so our kids have someplace nice to get married.”
    “I am glad that you and Mrs. Mettrick are not offended, but that is not what I meant. I was referring to the evangelical political movement. They are easily offended. Did you know that 40 percent of Americans believe that blasphemy should be a crime?”
    “No,” said the wife. “You don’t mean America; you must mean Afghanistan or Pakistan or some such place. It’s the Islamics who go on and on about blasphemy.”
    “You are right—but actually it is all fundamentalists—Islamic, Christian, and even Hindu—who are not only offended by blasphemy but believe that it should be a crime. A capital crime, by the way.”
    An uneasy silence settled over the table, and Emilie shot Sanjay an imploring look.
    “But,” said Sanjay, “I think what is far more interesting is the structure of the violin meditation. Have you ever studied the music? Its structure is fascinating.”
    And at this the wife of another young banker—she had played violin at Brown—took the bait and engaged in a discussion with Sanjay about the musical form of the famous instrumental interlude.
    The evening was a great success, and Emilie told me the next day that all the guests were fascinated and enthralled by Sanjay. It was typical of Sanjay at the time. He could capture any audience, but he had not yet figured out how to work his preoccupation with the religious right into his everyday interactions.
    The next weekend we started to settle back into a mode of regular visits with Sanjay. He came over Sunday morning, one of the few times when Emilie and I were unlikely to be needed at the office. Emilie was on the couch reading the paper wearing, without having asked, a pair of my boxer shorts and one of my shirts. It was, in fact, a shirt that I had intended to wear that week to an important meeting in Dubai. Also, I resented that it cost me eight dollars every time I had to send it to the laundry.
    “Fucking unbelievable,” she said. Emilie had not only picked up