Several times I have started to write a fictionalized version of my father’s career as a minister. I have a title: The Twelfth Disciple. I have an underlying theme: sons bear fathers’ hopes. I have dramatic scenes in my head of near-cinematic quality. The farthest I have gotten is 24 typewritten pages, done with a friend in the 1970s.
I shared my most recent attempt—15 years ago—with an English teacher friend. She read my description of a son flying down the center of California to be with his dad (named Matthais, like the twelfth disciple, once Judas was gone) as he lay dying. My friend made a few English-teacher-type suggestions, all helpful were I to have continued writing.
Then she asked, “Who is this book really about?”
She nailed me.
People of a Certain Age who may be inclined to record the past for posterity, if you were to write about one of your parents, in a memoir or in fiction, whom would the book be about?
The title, The Twelfth Disciple, offers me a biblical way to talk about the poles of my dad’s life, perhaps any life. Judas Iscariot, we all know about. Matthais was chosen by the remaining eleven disciples for his virtue.
The theme–sons bear fathers’ hopes–is an assertion. More than just genes or a family name pass from father to son. A family business, a sharing of occupation, a host of expectations; those can be part of the package, too. Some sons embrace the father’s vision. Others resist, sometimes not nicely. Seldom is the vision ignored.
My grandfather wanted to be a minister, but his eyesight was too impaired for academic study. Dad wanted to become a doctor but became a minister. Why? How’s this for dramatic tension?
When you and I read the same novel, we bring to our reading our uniqueness, an individualized lens. Why would it not also be true that when we write, we interpret facts through a lens of our own?
I thought Dad’s life had enough drama to make for good reading, events that would serve as teachable moments in the life of the Matthais I would create. Whether I could describe the events as nearly as they happened, though, would be a mark of luck.
For example, I was told that, at a key juncture in his life, Dad was a finalist to be senior pastor at two different churches. One was a small parish in West Virginia. The second was a larger church in Ohio connected with a nearby college, allowing Dad, as was his desire, to work with college students as well as parishioners. The small church offered him its job first and wanted an answer before the second church would choose.
Dad took the bird in his hand. The second church did, in fact, offer him their job. Dad reasoned that he had given his word to the first church, and his word was his bond, the opportunity to do what he really wanted to do notwithstanding.
The telling of the story in this way reflects the value he placed on “giving his word.” I’d like my word to be understood to be my bond, too.
Or, the story about the man in the congregation who called Dad to tell him that he had a gun and was going to shoot his wife and then himself. Probably the call was a sign that he wanted to be talked out of his plan but still, there was a gun involved. Dad went to the house, spent hours listening, talking, and praying. The incident ended with the man getting the psychiatric help that he needed.
I’d like to see myself as cool under pressure, the one who defuses tense situations and saves everyone’s lives.
Who is this book about anyway?
In the 1970s version, I made up a story to explain why Dad left his position at a church he liked, where he was well-liked, and where he could work with college students. He was the number two pastor in the largest church of that denomination in the region. My story involved Dad’s knowing about an affair between the senior pastor and a secretary, and Dad confronting the man.
The senior pastor offered to help Dad land the lead job at the largest church in another region. He was uncomfortable with Dad staying around knowing what he knew.
Another moral dilemma, perfect for a novel about a guy called Matthias, the twelfth disciple.
One evening I shared my tale with older friends who had been actively involved in that church when Dad was there. Their faces turned white.
“How did you find out?” one of them asked.
Pure luck, right?
How much, my men friends, do our fathers inhabit us subconsciously? How far does the apple fall from the tree?
I might yet write the book. Thanks to my teacher-friend, I won’t delude myself about my subject. Dad and I are inextricably a part of each other.
Daniel E. White
October 17, 2016