The Priest and the Professor

A priest asks the scientist how he can prove the existence of love. “Well,” the scientist replies, “evidence. With evidence that leads to an assumption.”

“Many people have this assumption, am I correct?”

“You've noticed.”

“I have. But love itself cannot be proven. Not even by a scientist.”

“Especially not by a scientist. For example, when I look at my wife, I do not look at her with the eye of a scientist. I leave all of that in the lab. When you get down to it, you have to admit that being in love is a little magical. I know my wife loves me. There are these hints...these glances and changes in her voice—the way our eyes and hands can talk with one another. The first time we met I felt like I'd known her my whole life. This is just evidence. There are some things we can't explain that we know are true."

“And that," said the priest, deeply satisfied, "is the same way I know my God.”

"Well—"

"Because he winks at me.”

"Ok."

The scientist nods—acknowledging the connection.

“Yes. I am married to the Church,” the priest continues, rising with his voice and holding onto his collar. "This is my wedding band!”

“Oh god!" says the scientist and the priest nods—misunderstanding disgust for revelation. "Does it keep you much warm at night? Do you get lonely?"

“Very much so. And no.” says the priest.

“Let me tell you flat-out Father. Pussy is better." The priest leans back in his chair.

"Well, I suppose nobody can weigh two things in the same hand."

(That was a nice image—even the scientist, Professor Blankman, had to recognize that. Father Maloney, the priest, took great pleasure in the subtle shift of atmosphere and allowed the scientist a moment to think—he was finding his answers unsatisfying. Yet he was sure of them. What was happening here? he wondered.

1. Father Maloney baits Professor Blankman into equivocating the unequal, into holding dearly-held intuitions—one for earthly love, one for heavenly—up to the same light, weighed in the same hand.
2. Professor Blankman's tools feel dull, but they have only been misused. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's. Perversion in the highest degree! As such God's hand would be empty. Hoodwinked. Father’s intellect: retreat back to faith when the intellect becomes a burden. Know you truly own something when you can throw it away, I suppose. Men of the spirit always equivocating, finding spirit where they can. All caged up—there's a draft.)

"You're right!" the scientist says. "I suppose you are absolutely right. Your analogy is balanced. You religious folks do this all too well. Balancing. You're lauded for your consternation and prudence on matters the people have arrived at already. You criticize with most vigor the things you don't understand. I suspect it's because your first allegiance is to your own organization. And what you have to offer? The law, the moral code of the cosmos and their penalties. Judge, jury, and executioner! To be a simple subject of a tyrant and work to change what you can with the tools you have—that's what I do. I know I am not powerful, but I know I am not powerless. Your boss created hell—

"And Heaven."

“Oh shut up!"

The priest crosses his legs patiently.

"You wouldn’t know your dick if it were sitting in your hand!”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. It is how religion wheedles into the mind of man and divorces it from reason—from thousands of years of collective work, our human inheritance devalued by your absurd medieval preoccupations. It's much bigger than you think, Father. Much bigger and made for a better use. You can build a tower to heaven by loving right here on earth. You...you abiogenic flagellant!" ”

“Nice.” The priest is reclining in his garb, finishing the last of a series of yawns.

“Thank you. Sorry. It’s just...I didn’t really like Sunday school.”

“No, that’s OK. I heard what you said, but Lord have mercy. I ask you your opinions on love and you get angry. Come to a Mass. It’s not so much as anything you said but families spending time together. It sounds to me like a scary world you’re living in. If you say I’m missing it, I say good.”

“Well, I don't believe you know what good actually means."

"I don't believe you know what good actually means," the priest replies.

"I don't believe you know what good actually means," the scientist replies.

"I don't believe you know what good actually means," the priest replies.

"I don't believe you know what good actually means," the scientist replies.

"I don't believe" they say simultaneously and erupted in an enormous laughter.

"Agree to disagree?"

"Of course. It was a good discourse."

"I'd shake your hand, but..."

"I forgive you."
"Oh, great."

They were tied and handcuffed to a support column in the basement parking lot of the Marriott Hotel in Dubai. Three men next to them had been dispatched by the throat by a man with a black mask. They lay slumped nearby. The man in the black mask was on a cellphone, soon to be God's witness. He would stand over the priest and the professor and explain their offenses to God in Arabic, a language they didn't speak or understand. It could have been worthwhile if they did.