I was born in and lived my first few years in a pre-Revolutionary War farmhouse in New Jersey, not far from the site of the Battle of Princeton. George Washington, who is a distant relative, a great-great-great-and-I-don’t-know-how-many-greats-grand uncle, is reputed to have spent the night there, either right before or right after that battle in January 1777. No one knows for sure. But the farm stayed in the family for over two centuries, with many of my ancestors using it as a summer retreat. Some wag had a plaque made up: “Washingtons slept here – many of them!” If General George did sleep there, then, like me, he must have shivered the whole night through, as there was no heat in that house except for the cast iron wood stove in the kitchen, or plumbing or electricity for that matter. My parents, who were back-to-the-land hippies long before there were such people, loved it. I did too, especially on winter nights, when my father would heat bricks or stones in the fire, then wrap them in towels and carry them upstairs to the bedrooms. I still remember the sensation of the warmth from a stone on my feet traveling up my legs and throughout my body. It was a feeling much like that when I had my first conversation with God.
Like Washington, the hero of the Revolution and the first president of the nation, I was instructed as a child not to lie (something some recent presidents thrived on) so you can be sure that what I am about to tell you is the truth. All and nothing but, as they say.
My parents named me E. Pluribus Unum, an unusual name to be sure. My mother called me Pluribus., my dad Unum. Neither would explain how or why they came to choose that name.
I was a precocious child. My mother had sung to me all through her pregnancy and it is family lore that I came out of the womb singing, so surprising the delivery doctor that she dropped me. I began to speak almost at once, saying “mama” and “dada” within the first week and fashioning whole sentences by the time I was a month old. I could read at age one, do numbers by two, and when I entered first grade, my father used to boast, I was smarter and knew more than all of the teachers, having read my way through – and committed to memory – the Encyclopedia Britannica..
After only a few weeks, the school washed its hands of me. I studied at home, through correspondence courses and, to the extent that she could, with the assistance of my mother. She was not an especially bright woman but smart enough to know how special I was. With her help, I went down a path that earned me a high school diploma at ten. I entered Princeton University the following year and graduated at 13. Then grad school, a PhD in philosophy, and finally law school. I was admitted to the bar at 18, an age when most young people are just graduating from high school. My father had encouraged me to study law, thinking that would be a profession to challenge my mind. But law, difficult as its language and textbooks may be, is remarkably simple, merely a balance between legal – that is to say, “right” – and illegal (“wrong”). I found it boring.
I took off, to Asia, where I spent weeks hiking and climbing in the Himalayas, going so high I felt if only my eyesight were keen enough I’d be able to see through the clouds to the face of God. Then to India, where I studied transcendental meditation at the left foot of the Maharishi. It was there that I had a life changing experience that left its mark on everything I’ve done since.
I was sitting cross-legged, the lotus position, on a flat rock in the garden of the Maharishi’s ashram, meditating. I was naked and my skin was slick with sweat as I baked under the midday sun. I had not eaten or drunk for hours. I was concentrating on the sounds of birds, both their songs and their movements through the leaves of a fig tree beside a nearby stream, but gradually these sounds faded and all I could hear was the beating of my heart and the coursing of blood through my veins. Gradually that too faded and I was engulfed in total silence, a silence that I would come to learn was the mind of God.
Finally, I heard a voice calling my name, the full first name, not either of the shorter versions my parents used, and followed by my last name: E. Pluribus Unum Washington. I knew instantly that it was the voice of God, though it was nothing like what one might expect, neither ethereal nor thundering. In fact, it sounded remarkably like the voice of the grandmother of a childhood friend, Mrs. Himmelfarb. She was in her sixties, a survivor of Hitler’s death camps, and she spoke in a high-pitched voice drenched in an accent that had sprung from her childhood Yiddish. Yet I knew with certainty that this was the voice of God, that God was speaking to me and had chosen – wisely, I thought – to speak in a voice that was both familiar and comforting.
My eyes, which had been closed, sprang open and I found myself gazing into the face of God.
Of course, God has no face, not in the normal sense. God has no corporeal presence, takes no human shape – the powerful, white-haired, bearded man medieval paintings depict him as – in fact, there is no shape to God at all. God is a void, a vacuum, akin to what scientists refer to as a black hole in the darkness of outer space, sucking in everything that crosses its paths: asteroids, fragments of dying stars, thoughts and prayers. There are many such black holes in the infinity of space, and all of them are God. They are God and, at the same time, they are the face of God, and God’s mind.
Nor does God have a voice. I heard Him calling me – I use the terms “him” and “he” for convenience sake only, as God has no sex, no gender – heard Him calling me though He has no voice, makes no sound.
I was dumbfounded, surprised – and yet, strangely, not surprised.
“You called me?” I asked, finally, when I’d found my own voice.
“I believe you have some questions for me,” God said. “You can have three.”
I had to laugh, so much his comment reminded me of the fables of genies who grant three wishes.
Just a day or two earlier, I had been sitting with the Maharshi and after a long silence I burst out with a series of questions: what is the meaning of life, why do we die, what is the nature of sin, why is God so filled with wrath one moment and so merciful the next – and with a wave of his hand, the guru silenced me.
“Why do you ask such questions of me? I’m merely a man, like any other, not unlike you. Certainly no wiser than any other man, and probably less wise than many. It is to God you must direct your questions if you seek answers to them,”
Now here I was with God directly but speechless.
“So?” God said finally. “Nu?”
Again I was dumbfounded, struck dumb. The voice I heard was not just similar to but virtually identical to that of Mrs. Himmelfarb, even down to her favourite expression. Despite myself, I began to giggle.
“I said something funny?” God asked.
“No, no…” I stammered, trying to regain my composure.
“I know, I know, Mrs. Himmelfarb,” God said. As I’ve told you, God has no actual face, but at this moment I imagined He did and that there was a smirk on it.
I didn’t mean to, but this is what came out of my mouth, surprising me as much as it probably did God – presuming, that is, that God can be surprised, being the know-it-all He’s reputed to be. “You’re Jewish?”
God’s laugh was reminiscent of church bells tolling. “Why wouldn’t I be? But, honestly, I give you three questions, and you wasted one on a triviality?”
“I…I didn’t mean to.” I was still stammering. “It just slipped out.”
“Okay, let’s call that one a bonus. You still got three. Make them good.”
“Only three? I’ve got dozens of questions, hundreds…”
“Okay, that’s one,” God said. He sounded annoyed. “Two left.” He paused. “Make them good,”
“Damn,” I said, then, “Sorry.” I thought, thought hard. Two questions, and yet so many things I wanted to know.
“Joy,” I finally said. I was pleased with my choice.
“Joy?” What about it? God sounded incredulous. I had the feeling His patience was wearing thin.
“Yes, what I said. Joy. Finding it, pursuing it, getting it, holding onto it nurturing it, remembering it when it’s gone.”
“That’s, let me see, one, two…six” – I tried to picture God counting on His fingers – “that’s six questions.”
“No, just one. Joy. Tell me everything about joy.”
God was silent, the silence broken only by what sounded like the distant muffled thunder of machinery at work, wheels spinning.
“Joy is unique to every individual,” God finally said. “Unique to you.”
I could imagine Him squinting, getting a closer look at me.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” I said. “You’re obfuscating.” I was shocked by my impudence, but I didn’t flinch.
“It does,” God said. It sounded like a pronouncement, not to be questioned.
“Think about it,” He said. I could almost see Mrs. Himmelfarb in front of me, a small frown on her puckered lips. “You’ve answered your own question.”
“I have?
“Think about your name.”
“E Pluribu and so on…what about it?
“What does it mean?”
“One from…oh, I get it.”
“Good.”
“I mean, I really get it.”
“Finally!” He shook what I imagined to be His head. “One left,” he added, His voice softening. “Make it good.” I thought He might have added, “…for God’s sake,” but why would He?
“I’m beginning to see why you brought down famine and locusts, fire and brimstone, not to mention days days of rain…you have a short fuse.”
I thought I saw a brief smile on what I thought was God’s face. “Well, I was younger then. I’ve learned patience. Now, are you going to ask your third question or not?”
“I don’t think so. Can I hold on to it?”
“Sure, “God said. I thought I heard the murmur of a chuckle in His voice. “Put it in your hip pocket.”
“I’m naked here God.”
“You know what I mean. Smart, you are. That doesn’t mean you have to be a smart Alec all the time.”
And He was gone.
That was many years ago. Years passed and I lived my life. I took up law as my father had wanted, and gravitated to an organization that worked to right wrongful convictions. I became a judge while in my early 30s and worked my way up the judicial ladder. Clinton nominated me to the Supreme Court and I probably would have been approved, becoming the youngest associate justice ever, but a handful of Republican senators had it in for me and I withdrew my name – who needed the hassle? Indeed. One of my opponents told reporters “Good riddance. Justice Washington is altogether too good-natured for the sober work of the Supreme Court.”
Along the way, I’d met a wonderful girl – smart as hell but not quite as smart as me. Still, I was smart enough to know it didn’t matter. We had six wonderful children, and now, I’ve lost track, seventeen, I think, wonderful grandchildren.
And every one of them has brought me joy.
Sure, some heartbreak too, but, as Mrs. Himmelfarb might have said, that’s part of the recipe, a little bitter to make the sugar sweeter.
I’ve talked to God again on occasion, nothing serious, “just checking in,” He says. “Everything okay, Pluribus?”
He hasn’t been Mrs. Himmelfarb again. Once He was my uncle Stanley. Another time Groucho Marx, which suited Him right down to the ground, I thought.
“Everything’s hunkey dory,” I tell Him.
I imagine Him rolling his eyes, Groucho-like.
He never fails to remind me about that one unasked question.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell Him. “I’m holding onto it. You know, for when I really need it, whenever that might be.”
“Okay,” God says. “Your credit is good with me.”
That’s comforting but, you know what? I don’t think I’ll ever cash in that debt. I wasn’t as smart as I thought back then, but with age comes wisdom. I’m smart enough now to know that joy is really all that life’s about: seeking it, losing it, relishing it, remembering it. What more could God tell me?
