Stapleton Hall

By Pamela Taylor

The campus was beautiful, just what one would expect from a seminary. White stucco buildings, pristine against the grey-green foothills of the Diablo Mountains of Northern California and a flawless sky of cobalt, circled a broad expanse of grass, basking in the warmth of a brilliant sun. Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient elm, a trio of earnest, black-robed young men was engaged in an intent discussion, fingers and faces augmenting their arguments. On the other side of the green, a turbaned sheikh, his beard as snowy as his robes, sat cross-legged on the ground, speaking with a circle of eager-faced students. A rabbinical scholar strode by, muttering to himself in Hebrew. A tour guide, her red hair flaming in the afternoon sun, walked backwards across the green, leading a gaggle of prospective students and their parents.

David paused a moment, listening to her spiel.

“The Abraham Academy of Religious Studies was established in 2127,” she recited. “It was the first of its breed, a pioneer in the field of multi-cultural ordination. To this day, Abraham Academy remains a leading institution, graduating over 600 ministers, rabbis, sheikhs, ayatollahs, shamans, lamas, maharishis, and priests -- Catholic, Buddhist, Jainist, Shinto, Hindu, and Daoist -- each year.”
David smirked. In other words, Abraham churned out more religious leaders than any other school this side of the Atlantic. Even so, it had a reputation as one of the finest seminaries in the Western Hemisphere.

“As you may know,” the red-head went on, “Abraham is one of the few seminaries that requires that all graduates minor in two religions other than their faith of ordination -- one monotheistic and one pantheistic. Abraham stands for diversity, for mutual understanding and respect. We believe that the edifice of world peace lies on a bedrock of tolerance, knowledge, respect and appreciation, and that it is the task of seminaries everywhere to foster such qualities amongst the religious leaders of tomorrow.”

David turned away and headed towards Gandhi Drive. He hadn’t come to Abraham’s to listen to platitudes or canned speeches!

Gandhi Drive, a wide boulevard fronted by a pair of evergreen oaks, was located behind the library. As David turned into the street, he was greeted by a lean minaret. The mosque itself was a blaze of white tile embroidered with turquoise Arabic script. Beside the mosque stood a red brick, onion-domed church, orthodox crosses gracing the points of its spires. Next was a pagoda, brilliant red and gold, encrusted with gilt dragons and swathed in bright yellow banners. A stupa covered shrine. A plain, clapboard protestant church. An adobe sweathouse, tree limb ladder sticking out of the roof.

He followed the street around a bend and took in a modernistic synagogue, a colonnaded gurdwara. And then he saw it. The cathedral! Stately, elegant, a marble monument to the glory of God, complete with flying buttresses and twin spires that must have been two hundred and fifty feet tall. The triple front doors were massive, crowned by a magnificent pair of rose windows. Above them hung a gargantuan alabaster sculpture of Christ on the Cross. Even from afar, David could see the cold, grey iron nails piercing the stone palms and feet, pinning the statue to the wooden beams of the cross, rust from the iron running like blood across the marble fingers and toes. Christ’s head lolled on His chest, the thorns of His crown piercing the flesh of His shoulder, the peace of death unable to wipe the agony of His torment from His blessed face.
David dropped weakly to his knees. A cold sweat broke on his forehead. His breaths came fast and shallow. He had always heard the Abraham cathedral was magnificent, but nothing had prepared him for the reality. It was perfect! He folded his hands to pray. He would have bowed his head, but he could not tear his eyes from piercing gaze of those pale marble eyes.

Oh, Father in Heaven, he whispered. I have to come here! Have to pray here, study here, live here! Please, Dearest Father, Dearest Son, let me come here.

The statue’s stone eyes stared into his, never wavering, and David could have sworn He was there, that He had heard his words. David knew he absolutely had to get into Abraham Academy, that he could not exist except in the shadow of this cathedral. And knew with a thrill of zeal and fervor that God the Father and God the Son would answer his prayers.

David’s fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the keyboard filling the air with a frenetic ticking, a release of nervous energy as he read over the essays he had just finished. The questions had been difficult -- not because he didn’t know the answers, but because he didn’t know which answers the admissions staff would be looking for.
Why do you want to pursue ordination? Because I want to help people. Because I want to lead them to Christ’s love and to God’s salvation. Because God has called me to the priesthood. Isn’t that what every aspirant would say? How could he explain the passionate yearning, the consuming need he felt to share Truth, to witness God’s love for humankind, to bring others into the fold, to thwart the forces of darkness? How could he make it clear that he had no choice but the priesthood? How did you explain a fiery drive to someone who had never been burned?

Why do you want to attend the Abraham Academy of Religious Studies? Because you have the most glorious cathedral in the world. That was surely not what the admissions officer wanted to hear. So he made up platitudes about fine institutions, esteemed history, respected scholars, all of which were true, but none of which spoke from his soul. None of which would distinguish him from every other applicant.

David grimaced, and then his fingers flew over the keys. He couldn’t resist adding an extra paragraph.

“Besides, the Abraham’s cathedral is a true masterpiece. Such a testament to the Glory of God should be attended by those who can truly appreciate it.”

If you could leave one legacy for the world, what would it be? That one at least was easy enough. Spread Truth as far and as wide as I could, save as many souls as is humanly possible. He felt a twinge of conscience that he hadn’t addressed hunger or homelessness, poverty, child abuse, or domestic violence – these were fundamental issues for Catholics -- but the tribulations of the world were nothing compared to the Tribulation sinners would suffer in the Hereafter.

Choose two religions and discuss their similarities and differences. That was easy, too.

“Catholicism is Truth, the rest are only approximations thereof. Take Islam. Its belief in the One God is clearly resonant with reality, but its rejection of God’s sacrifice of His only begotten Son leads to the central falsehood in Muslim theology: the concept that a human being is capable of earning salvation on his or her own merits. The result is an outward similarity between the two faiths -- a similar dedication to God, the One and Only, and a similar set of morals -- but when one considers the spiritual implications, the fatal difference becomes clear.” The essay had turned out longer than he thought it should be, but it was a brilliant analysis, if he said so himself.

The last one had been the worst. Describe a personal experience that you feel has changed your life direction. It had been hard to choose. His first Eucharist, his first joining in the Blood and the Body? The confessional in which he had learned that even priests were tempted by sin? The time God had spoken so clearly into his heart, telling him that he would become a priest himself? How could he pick one? It was too hard; they had all been pivotal moments in his life. In the end he had ended up describing all three. Another long essay. At least the admissions staff would really know him well, would understand his sincerity and the level of his commitment.
With a swift prayer for success, David tapped the send icon, and waited for the email daemon to confirm that the twelve pages -- perhaps the twelve most important pages of his entire life -- had reached their destination.

“There, by the Grace of God, go I,” he thought, chuckling at the quirky usage. He would make a good priest.

*****

A chime at David’s hip alerted him to an urgent incoming message. He slipped his pocket computer from its holster and flipped it open, fumbling with the catch in his nervousness. It was the 15th of April after all.

A new-message icon, bearing the Abraham address, flashed impatiently in the upper right hand corner of the screen. The file was over 50 KB! A good sign!

“God, let it be, let it be,” David prayed silently, and then tapped on the icon.

“Congratulations, Mr. Kirkpatrick, Abraham Academy for Religious Studies is pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for admission,” he read.
The pocketcom hit the grass only seconds before David’s knees.

*****

The administrative offices of Abraham Academy faced the broad central green. An imposing building styled after a Greek temple, its lintels were blazoned with foot high letters: “My effort should never be to undermine another’s faith but to make him a better follower of his own faith.” A quote from the great Indian statesman Gandhi.
David bounded up the steps two at a time, and made his way to the office of his Placement Officer, one Mr. Traiber, wearing a grin as wide as the straits of Gibraltar. He still had trouble believing he was truly going to be a student at Abraham Academy.

The secretary smiled encouragingly at him when he told her his name and ushered him into Mr. Traiber’s office.

A dark-haired, slightly rounded man sat behind a wide wooden desk. He stood and offered David a hand, shook his heartily.

“Welcome, Mr. Kirkpatrick,” he said warmly.

“Hi… uh… Thanks!” David replied, unsure as to how formal he should be.

“Just give me a moment to pull up your records.”

Mr. Traiber turned to a mahogany file cabinet behind his desk, flipped through the folders, pulled one out and scanned a few pages. “Ah, yes… I see…Mm-hm… Yes, yes, quite clear.” The Placement Officer looked across at him. “It’s quite evident, Mr. Kirkpatrick, that you belong in Stapleton Hall.”

David couldn’t remember any Stapleton Hall on the campus map he had been poring over ever since he had received the acceptance letter. But no matter, he didn’t care where he lived so long as he was here.
Mr. Traiber leaned over, spoke into an intercom that lay on one corner of his desk.

“Ms. Garcia, would you please send in Connor and Gomez?”
David heard the secretary respond in the affirmative and a moment later two burly men came through a back door David hadn't noticed before. Heavy guns hung from their belts, and handcuffs, and nightsticks.

“Connor, Gomez, please escort Mr. Kirkpatrick here to Stapleton Hall.”
The men nodded curtly.

“Yes sir,” the one on the left grunted.

“Um, Mr. Traiber, sir,” David spoke up. “About my classes?”

“No need to worry, Kirkpatrick,” the man answered, the geniality gone from his tone. “Residents of Stapleton Hall have a set curriculum.”
One of the men behind him gave a derisive snort. The other grasped his elbow, tightly.

“Come with us,” he told David, pulling at his arm, nearly knocking him off the chair.

David resisted him, turned to the placement officer.

“Uh, Mr. Traiber. I was hoping to take Catholic Theology 107,” he said. “And… and Cross-Cultural Counseling.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be taking those classes.” Mr. Traiber’s back was turned; he was filing David’s folder in a large cabinet to one side of his desk.

“What classes will I be taking?” David asked. He was confused, perplexed by the Mr. Traiber’s sudden disinterest, uneasy with the gruffness and weaponry of the two men who were to lead him to his dorm.

“Multicultural Appreciation. Interdenominational Ethics. Disapprobation Interdiction. Spiritual Reorientation.”

“Spiritual Reorientation!”

Mr. Traiber turned back to him, eyed him for a moment. “Yes. Spiritual Reorientation. Although I doubt it will do any good.” He seemed almost despondent.

“What?” David cried. If they thought he needed spiritual improvement, why had they admitted him in the first place?

Mr. Traiber regarded him steadily for a moment and then sighed. “I’m afraid, Mr. Kirkpatrick, that you have been party to a deception.

David jumped to his feet. The guards moved towards him, but Mr. Traiber waved them off.

“I never lied to you, I swear!” David averred. “I was completely honest in my application.”

“I’m sure you were.” A grim smile played about Mr. Traiber’s lips. “It is Abraham Academy that has not been totally upfront. And every other seminary currently in operation.”

David sank into the chair again. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” the placement officer said. “Do you know who Sergio Stapleton was?”

“Um… no…”

“He was, perhaps, the greatest thinker of all times.” Mr. Traiber settled into his chair. “Sergio Stapleton looked at the history of mankind and saw that all wars, all ethnic pogroms, terrorism, colonialism, not to mention a great deal of oppression, hatred, assault, murder, vandalism, have direct ties to religion. And he realized that if the material wealth -- the human and economic resources consumed by the maintenance of defense forces, the lives and assets devoured in the prosecution of warfare, the waste of personnel and property expended in fighting crime -- if all those resources could be directed to alleviating hunger and poverty, the world would be a much better place, and human suffering would decrease exponentially. This is nothing earth shattering. In fact, it’s rather obvious.”

“What makes Stapleton such a brilliant mind is that he realized that it is not religion in and of itself, but religious extremism, religious bigotry and the demagoguery of zealous, self-superior, intolerant clergymen that whip average people into a frenzy of hatred, and goad governments into making war on their neighbors. And he realized that we had the perfect solution, right in our hands.”
Mr. Traiber smiled, not a pleasant expression, but one that reminded David of a bully getting ready to punch his victim.

“What is the solution?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Seminaries.” The grimace widened. It was positively evil now. “It’s really a two-pronged attack. On the one hand, we provide the spiritual leadership for most of the world’s population. And on the other, we have access to the zealots of the world, to the religious bigots. Stapleton convinced governments all over the world, and the UN, that seminaries should be regulated, that applicants should be carefully screened. Those who are truly spiritual, who desire to make the world a better place for all, a place of harmony, who understand that all religions lead to God -- those students would receive their education, and would lead the world toward tolerance and peace. The other kind, the ones who think they have a corner on Truth, the ones who cannot stand the thought of people on the ‘wrong path,’ who see sin and evil in anyone who does not accept his understanding of the Divine, who believes his or her role is to save people, to purify them, and this world, that kind of student -- your kind of student, Mr. Kirkpatrick -- receives a different sort of education. A reeducation, one might say.”
David jumped up again, alarmed. “I don’t need re-education!” he croaked, his throat suddenly dry.

“Your type rarely thinks they do.” Mr. Traiber seemed saddened by the thought. He shook his head slowly. “Old John Paul must be turning over in his grave. Haven’t you ever heard of Vatican II?”

“I have,” David answered. Of course he had heard of Vatican II -- the beginning of the end, as far as he was concerned. Vaticans II, III, and IV had been a cascading sell-out to theological relativism. It didn’t surprise him that the vast majority of Catholics had embraced the multi-culturalism of the documents. Most of them, as far as he was concerned, were slackers, willing to give lip service to the Truth but not much more.

“Doesn’t it bother you that you are stuck in an ancient, iconoclastic paradigm? That the rest of your faith group long ago moved on?”
David didn’t answer. Clearly Mr. Traiber hoped he would recant his views on theological relativism. He wasn’t about to do that, but he was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t do him any good to say so.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Kirkpatrick, until we are satisfied that you pose no threat to peace and harmony, you won’t be allowed to… to graduate.”

“What!” David cried.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kirkpatrick. You were admitted to Stapleton Hall. Until you demonstrate that you have real tolerance, real acceptance of people as they are, and of different religions, I’m afraid you will have to remain there.”

“But! But! That’s like prison.”

Mr. Traiber nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose it is a form of incarceration.”

“But I’ve committed no crime! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Perhaps you haven’t yet, perhaps you never would, but there’s a chance – a good chance – you would,” Mr. Traiber stated baldly. “If we gave you that chance. You could be one of those fanatics inciting others to bigotry, to intolerance, to hatred, and that leads to crime, and violence and suffering. And so, to be safe, we are not going to allow you to do that.”

“There must be some mistake,” David stammered. “This can’t be right!”

“No, Mr. Kirkpatrick. No mistake. Would you like to review what you wrote in your essays? Classic 19th century missionary thought-patterns. Very destructive. Just the kind of thinking that led to the Crusades, the Inquisition, the marginalization of the Native Americans, the Holocaust, the cleansing of the Tutsis, the Bosnians, the Palestinians, the Tibetans, the terrorist acts of Bin Laden, O’Callahan, Krishnamurati, and, of course, the Biocide of ‘73. I’m afraid you are a very dangerous man.”

David stared at Mr. Traiber, dazed. The man was so cool, so rational. He might have been talking about the weather or what he planned for dinner. Instead he was calmly telling David that they were going to lock him away for… perhaps forever!

“But what about my parents? They won’t stand for this!”

“I’m afraid the government is prepared to put considerable pressure on them to keep them silent. Especially if they want to see you again.”

“They’ll go the media! You’ll be exposed.”

“No newspaper will print the story. No television station will air it. The media know. They saw the seminaries that wouldn’t follow the plan shut down. Surreptitiously, by pressure applied to donors who were dependent on government tax breaks, soft regulation, and trade protections; by smear campaigns, by infiltrators posing as professors or administrators creating scandals; through legislation that was impossible to live up to, unless the government turned a blind eye The media helped shut them down. They aren’t stupid, they know the government could refuse to renew their licenses or regulate them out of existence too.”

David suddenly lunged towards the window. He had to get out of here!

One of the security guards dove after him, caught his ankle, brought him crashing to the floor. David kicked out with his other foot, catching the man in the shoulder, but his grip was unyielding. The second guard rushed up and cracked him over the head with his nightstick. Black spots filled his vision and a terrible headache spread out from the point of impact.

The guards grasped David roughly by the arms, hauled him to his feet. His knees were too weak to hold his weight, and he sagged between them.

“Get him out of here,” Mr. Traiber said.

“Yes sir,” the guard replied, dragging him towards the door.

“Wait, you can’t do this!” David’s voice came out feeble, weak. “It’s not fair!”

“Shut up,” the guard grumbled, poking him in the ribs with his nightstick.

“Please,” David whimpered. “Please, give me a chance.”

But they had already dragged him through the back door and he was beyond Mr. Traiber’s hearing.

The security guards hustled him out a second door, into a waiting electrocar. The ride to Stapleton Hall lasted several hours. David looked out at scrubby live oak trees, gnarled sagebrush plants, the occasional steer as the road wound up into the desolate hills of the Diablo Mountains. At last the car turned into a narrow lane. David caught a glimpse of a plain sign -- Stapleton Correctional Facility.

The complex of buildings was immense -- solid granite walls, windows barred. It was encircled by two high fences, electrified by the looks of it, and topped with rolls of barrel wire. The car stopped at a small guard post.

“Got another one for you,” the driver said to the man at the post. He nodded.

“Mr. Traiber just phoned us. Mr. Kirkpatrick, is it?”

“Yeah. A tough cookie, watch out for him.”

“Thanks! We will.”

Two more guards had come out of the little building. They opened the door and pulled David out.

“See ya’ Gomez, Connor,” they called as the electrocar pulled away.

“Please.” David pulled at a sleeve. “Please, you don’t need to take me in there. I can change.”

The man guffawed as he dragged David through the gap in the fence.

“That’s what they all say.”

Pamela Taylor is co-chair of the Progressive Muslim Union, Director of the Islamic Writers Alliance, and co-editor of the finally launched MWUZine. She likes to think of herself as a pen of all trades. She works as a journalist covering the religion beat for NUVO magazine and as an opinion writer for the Religion News Service and the Indianapolis Star. She is an award winning poet and science fiction author. You can find more about Pamela on her website, www.pktaylor.com or her blog www.pktaylorcom/pksblog/warpedgalaxies.html.

This story was first published in Citizen Culture Magazine, Feb 2005.