My office is down a steep little flight of stairs and low overhead from the sidewalk, easy to miss, hard to navigate, but the clients still manage to find me. Only a little sign above the entrance almost the same color as the brick: 'Divulgence Services: The Truth Will Make You Free' tells them they're in the right place.
It's a small room with only a desk, a chair, a sofa for snoozing, a coffee pot, and a dirty street level view of feet trudging by. Yet, it's as big as it needs to be because clients only come in one at a time, all kinds, some ashamed, some afraid, all of them tired, and each with something in their craw they need to get out and can't do it themselves. So they come to me. I don't judge; I'm just the messneger.
Don't get me wrong; I earn my fees. Sometimes I have to coax out of them what exactly it is they want to divulge, and then the particulars of this or those to be let in on the secret. I require some verification of the truth of the secret to make sure I'm not being used for a hit and run job, and have them sign a waiver along with the contract. Then it's up to me when and how to spill the beans before I turn the matter back over to my client to handle the fall out.
Adulteries, pregnancies, thefts, what have you, all come down come down into my cave. Some of the secrets are so old its hard to find the person they need to be told to. Some so old they've gone beyond expiration to mold and aren't worth my fee to tell: 'This isn't a secret; this is junk. You need a dumpster, not Divulgence.' Still, they keep coming, but one of the strangest was the minister.
He was an affable guy, pastor of a liberal congregation downtown, an easy conversationalist, and interested in what I do. So what can I do for you? I asked and he told me he had a criminal past that he wanted divulged.
Probably something to do with embezzlement of petty cash, but no: he had years ago deliberately and with ingenuity stolen over the course of a week a complete leather-bound multi-volume Bible commentary from his seminary library, and while he knew intellectually what he'd done was wrong, he didn't actually feel it that way. In fact, the presence of this impressive set of books on his shelves made him feel seriously intellectual and good about himself.
So you want to divulge this secret to your congregation? I ventured.
I've already done it. When I told them it came out sounding glamorous and it actually improved my reputation.
To whom then? I asked.
Myself, he replied; I want to feel the full weight of what I've done come home to me. As it is, it just contributes to my general sense of respectability. I just can't feel bad about what I've done, and I should.
This was a new one for me. Usually the secrets I divulge come as a surprise to the people I contact. My hardest job is often just to convince them that, no matter how angry or sad they feel, the facts aren't going to change. Your situation, pastor, is just the reverse.
I understand, he replied. But think of this as someone keeping a secret from themselves. The dastardly me is keeping a secret from the respectable me, the secret of shame. I want to be shocked by what I did and dismayed by what it says about me. As of now, I don't.
He plunked a thick book down on my desk with a thump, and said, Here's volume one. There are twenty one more at home. A tremendous undertaking by one lonely scholar but fascinating and I've found it useful as a source of ideas for my sermons.
I picked it up, studied the ornate title page opposite the etching of author in the frontispiece and then thumbed through the gilt edged pages, all carefully slit, admiring the elegant typeface of the text and the copious footnoting. Inside the front cover on beautiful green marbling was a bookplate clearly identifying the book as property of a prestigious local seminary.
Okay, so how will I know if I've earned my fee? I asked. Good question, he answered. How about if you give it a good try and if I still don't really recognize what I've done, then I'll just consider myself incorrigible and pay the full fee?
I don't like taking money for doing nothing, I responded, but I'll give it a try.
My first call was to one of the librarians at the seminary telling them that I knew the whereabouts of said commentary and asking if they would be interested in getting it back. The woman put me on hold for it must have been twenty minutes before coming back and telling me that the library had deaccessioned books of that theological persuasion. However, she said, they had been much sought after in their day judging by the record of request slips the library kept. Whomever removed it illicitly (she didn't want to accuse me directly) should understand what that meant.
I'm working on that, I said as I hung up. When I told my client, he remarked that the seminary was notorious for avoiding any accusations or confrontations that could disturb the 'holy tranquility' of the place. He wasn't touched.
My next move was to post a description of the books on a collectors' message board, hinting broadly at the irregular provenance. Nobody would buy of course but I got what I wanted: a stream of insult and vituperation that hopeful would blast through the complacency of my client. He saw himself described as sneak, scum, better off in hell, and so on.
This is you, they're talking about, I told him. They know what dishonest is and they call it. How does it make you feel?
The words makes me feel dirty but really all this nastiness is really over the top, isn't it. What's going to work is something between the sly insinuation and the bludgeon.
My last idea was the annual book-sale of the local library. I rented a table and had my client display the set on it with a sign saying, If you ever wanted it, here it is. I stood behind the table and he sat further back.
In that bustling room full of trestles laden with trays of books, plenty of people found time to come over to admire the collection, this beautiful artifact of what might be a lost civilization. Then one old slow-moving fella with sag-ass jeans, flannel shirt and Hulk Hogan mustache, came up, stopped, looked over the array, picked up the eighteenth volume (big XVIII on the spine) and opened to a certain place near the end and began to read...and read...took out a small notebook and jotted something down...and read some more.
I stood stock still till he closed the book on his finger, looked far away to the ceiling, then around at us. You know, he said, addressing me, it must be this very set that years ago we read at the seminary.
Oh Lord, how it's coming back to me. My fiancee and I would meet in the stacks near where this was shelved. We were passionate--about our faith, and each other. We looked up the commentary on Paul's 13th chapter of 1st Corinthians, you know the love chapter, and it seemed that every word he wrote was a tocsin ringing in our hearts. You know these Germans can sometimes be so solemn but he seemed like a pastor blessing us. We began to pace out our reading aloud to make it last, it was so sweet for us. We'd read, talk, hold hands, pray, almost as if we were in heaven already.
The old guy stopped, and drew a ragged breath, then continued: The night before our wedding, we came here again to finish the chapter, we were almost at the end of the discussion of 'And now these three remain...' but when we went to turn the final page we found it hadn't been slit so we went right to the beginning of the section on chapter 14. We didn't want to attempt to open it. So she had this wonderful idea. We wrote out our promises to each other on a sheet of paper and slipped it between the pages where the last words on chapter 13 were written.
Why did we do that? Maybe we felt we were planting our love inside this greater love; maybe, because we were a bit superstitious, we thought we would absorb the blessing radiating from the very words; maybe we thought that words unread and unspoken, secret words, had a some special potency, like our silences together. We called it our Pocket of Praise.
My client was leaning forward listening, searching the old man's vertically-lined face.
He went on: When we came back after the wedding, the whole set was gone, vanished; the books on either side pushed together. It was perplexing and sad but we had plenty of other things to think about. Now it seems it was an omen. We tried hard to escape but couldn't. Somehow we lost our faith and we lost our love, I don't know why. It was so long ago. If she's still alive, I do wish her well.
He opened the book again, and separating the two next pages, reached in and with the tips of his fingers pulled out a small sheet of lined paper torn from a notebook.
Can I keep this? he asked of me, and put it in his shirt pocket. I'm all of a sudden having lots of memories, he said. I think I should go sit down.
Watching the old man go, I felt my client touch my shoulder, and I looked around at a face aghast.
That's what we do at Divulgence Services. Call for an appointment or drop during office hours.
It's a small room with only a desk, a chair, a sofa for snoozing, a coffee pot, and a dirty street level view of feet trudging by. Yet, it's as big as it needs to be because clients only come in one at a time, all kinds, some ashamed, some afraid, all of them tired, and each with something in their craw they need to get out and can't do it themselves. So they come to me. I don't judge; I'm just the messneger.
Don't get me wrong; I earn my fees. Sometimes I have to coax out of them what exactly it is they want to divulge, and then the particulars of this or those to be let in on the secret. I require some verification of the truth of the secret to make sure I'm not being used for a hit and run job, and have them sign a waiver along with the contract. Then it's up to me when and how to spill the beans before I turn the matter back over to my client to handle the fall out.
Adulteries, pregnancies, thefts, what have you, all come down come down into my cave. Some of the secrets are so old its hard to find the person they need to be told to. Some so old they've gone beyond expiration to mold and aren't worth my fee to tell: 'This isn't a secret; this is junk. You need a dumpster, not Divulgence.' Still, they keep coming, but one of the strangest was the minister.
He was an affable guy, pastor of a liberal congregation downtown, an easy conversationalist, and interested in what I do. So what can I do for you? I asked and he told me he had a criminal past that he wanted divulged.
Probably something to do with embezzlement of petty cash, but no: he had years ago deliberately and with ingenuity stolen over the course of a week a complete leather-bound multi-volume Bible commentary from his seminary library, and while he knew intellectually what he'd done was wrong, he didn't actually feel it that way. In fact, the presence of this impressive set of books on his shelves made him feel seriously intellectual and good about himself.
So you want to divulge this secret to your congregation? I ventured.
I've already done it. When I told them it came out sounding glamorous and it actually improved my reputation.
To whom then? I asked.
Myself, he replied; I want to feel the full weight of what I've done come home to me. As it is, it just contributes to my general sense of respectability. I just can't feel bad about what I've done, and I should.
This was a new one for me. Usually the secrets I divulge come as a surprise to the people I contact. My hardest job is often just to convince them that, no matter how angry or sad they feel, the facts aren't going to change. Your situation, pastor, is just the reverse.
I understand, he replied. But think of this as someone keeping a secret from themselves. The dastardly me is keeping a secret from the respectable me, the secret of shame. I want to be shocked by what I did and dismayed by what it says about me. As of now, I don't.
He plunked a thick book down on my desk with a thump, and said, Here's volume one. There are twenty one more at home. A tremendous undertaking by one lonely scholar but fascinating and I've found it useful as a source of ideas for my sermons.
I picked it up, studied the ornate title page opposite the etching of author in the frontispiece and then thumbed through the gilt edged pages, all carefully slit, admiring the elegant typeface of the text and the copious footnoting. Inside the front cover on beautiful green marbling was a bookplate clearly identifying the book as property of a prestigious local seminary.
Okay, so how will I know if I've earned my fee? I asked. Good question, he answered. How about if you give it a good try and if I still don't really recognize what I've done, then I'll just consider myself incorrigible and pay the full fee?
I don't like taking money for doing nothing, I responded, but I'll give it a try.
My first call was to one of the librarians at the seminary telling them that I knew the whereabouts of said commentary and asking if they would be interested in getting it back. The woman put me on hold for it must have been twenty minutes before coming back and telling me that the library had deaccessioned books of that theological persuasion. However, she said, they had been much sought after in their day judging by the record of request slips the library kept. Whomever removed it illicitly (she didn't want to accuse me directly) should understand what that meant.
I'm working on that, I said as I hung up. When I told my client, he remarked that the seminary was notorious for avoiding any accusations or confrontations that could disturb the 'holy tranquility' of the place. He wasn't touched.
My next move was to post a description of the books on a collectors' message board, hinting broadly at the irregular provenance. Nobody would buy of course but I got what I wanted: a stream of insult and vituperation that hopeful would blast through the complacency of my client. He saw himself described as sneak, scum, better off in hell, and so on.
This is you, they're talking about, I told him. They know what dishonest is and they call it. How does it make you feel?
The words makes me feel dirty but really all this nastiness is really over the top, isn't it. What's going to work is something between the sly insinuation and the bludgeon.
My last idea was the annual book-sale of the local library. I rented a table and had my client display the set on it with a sign saying, If you ever wanted it, here it is. I stood behind the table and he sat further back.
In that bustling room full of trestles laden with trays of books, plenty of people found time to come over to admire the collection, this beautiful artifact of what might be a lost civilization. Then one old slow-moving fella with sag-ass jeans, flannel shirt and Hulk Hogan mustache, came up, stopped, looked over the array, picked up the eighteenth volume (big XVIII on the spine) and opened to a certain place near the end and began to read...and read...took out a small notebook and jotted something down...and read some more.
I stood stock still till he closed the book on his finger, looked far away to the ceiling, then around at us. You know, he said, addressing me, it must be this very set that years ago we read at the seminary.
Oh Lord, how it's coming back to me. My fiancee and I would meet in the stacks near where this was shelved. We were passionate--about our faith, and each other. We looked up the commentary on Paul's 13th chapter of 1st Corinthians, you know the love chapter, and it seemed that every word he wrote was a tocsin ringing in our hearts. You know these Germans can sometimes be so solemn but he seemed like a pastor blessing us. We began to pace out our reading aloud to make it last, it was so sweet for us. We'd read, talk, hold hands, pray, almost as if we were in heaven already.
The old guy stopped, and drew a ragged breath, then continued: The night before our wedding, we came here again to finish the chapter, we were almost at the end of the discussion of 'And now these three remain...' but when we went to turn the final page we found it hadn't been slit so we went right to the beginning of the section on chapter 14. We didn't want to attempt to open it. So she had this wonderful idea. We wrote out our promises to each other on a sheet of paper and slipped it between the pages where the last words on chapter 13 were written.
Why did we do that? Maybe we felt we were planting our love inside this greater love; maybe, because we were a bit superstitious, we thought we would absorb the blessing radiating from the very words; maybe we thought that words unread and unspoken, secret words, had a some special potency, like our silences together. We called it our Pocket of Praise.
My client was leaning forward listening, searching the old man's vertically-lined face.
He went on: When we came back after the wedding, the whole set was gone, vanished; the books on either side pushed together. It was perplexing and sad but we had plenty of other things to think about. Now it seems it was an omen. We tried hard to escape but couldn't. Somehow we lost our faith and we lost our love, I don't know why. It was so long ago. If she's still alive, I do wish her well.
He opened the book again, and separating the two next pages, reached in and with the tips of his fingers pulled out a small sheet of lined paper torn from a notebook.
Can I keep this? he asked of me, and put it in his shirt pocket. I'm all of a sudden having lots of memories, he said. I think I should go sit down.
Watching the old man go, I felt my client touch my shoulder, and I looked around at a face aghast.
That's what we do at Divulgence Services. Call for an appointment or drop during office hours.
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