Writing & Critiquing Since 1979
News & Updates: Bearlodge Writers Blog
Jim Bowers Bio
Having received degrees from Dartmouth College, Yale University and the University of Redlands I taught English at several colleges and universities in the U.S., including a year at Yale teaching an advanced writing course. I also taught in Finland, China, The Czech Republic and Lithuania.
My short stories intend to probe the human soul, from the depths of depravity to the heights of ecstasy. By bringing to light the evil in us as well as the good we can embrace the paradox of our complexity and delight in the joy of living.
Publication Credits
In the Shadow of the Bear Lodge, Many Kites Press, 2006
Voices from the Underground, Many Kites Press, 2006
Foreign Ground: Travelers’ Tales, Pronghorn Press, 2003
To the Rescue: Stories from Health Care Workers on the Scene of Disasters (Kaplan Publishing 2009)
Nurses Beyond Borders: Stories of Heroism and Healing around the World (Kaplan Publishing 2010)
Excerpt of Writing
RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION
In the midst of an enticing conversation with several neighbors eagerly leaning forward to gossip about the minister and the charming widow who had just moved into town, Miss Suzy suddenly rose from the rocking chair on the porch.
“I’ve got some important business to attend to.”
She had arrived less than half an hour ago. At least two hours were her normal rite of visitation. But here she was, off again, as if time had instantly become important, too precious to be wasted.
She was driving a dark blue Cadillac with mileage over 100,000, rust showing under the doors and on the fenders, a large dent in the rear bumper where she had backed into the oak next to the driveway. She sat crunched up against the steering wheel so that her short legs could reach the gas pedal, wide-brimmed sunhat askew, wisps of long, white hair hanging over her ears. The ridges of blue veins on her fingers gnarled by arthritis were throbbing as she clung tightly to the wheel.
She was well into her eighties. Her driver's license should not have been renewed, of course, but at renewal the macular degeneration had not been so obvious. Now she could barely see through the haze of indistinct images and relied on her peripheral vision to determine whether or not she was on the right side of the road. It was a rural area, not many vehicles, and the locals knew enough to give her wide berth. There was no talk of her giving up driving; she wouldn't hear of it. She needed to get out of the house, buy groceries, visit friends. Just sit home all day, call on neighbors to help her out—no way!
No sooner had Miss Suzy navigated the twists and turns of the driveway than she headed straight for the Lutheran church in the center of town. The church secretary was surprised, perhaps even delighted, by her sudden appearance. Miss Suzy no longer went to church regularly, having for the last few months made a point on Sunday mornings of tending the rose bushes which lined her front walk.
Oh, she had been a fervent Christian for many years, if by “Christian” you mean one who joins every woman’s circle in the church, attends regular services every Sunday and prayer services every Tuesday evening. That is, until the Reverend Mr. Goodsell became the pastor. He had just graduated from the seminary. This was his first pastorate. He was a handsome figure in the pulpit, tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired, a Viking plundering the shores of Satan's kingdom armed with the sword of faith.
Few members of the congregation had bothered to take notice when Pastor Goodsell and Miss Suzy were seen together walking through the woods—she with her head held high, her steps firm, her arm locked in his, a reluctant acknowledgement of her need for support. On Sunday mornings she sat as always in the front pew, and during the sermons the pastor seemed appreciative of every smile of concordance.
Their intimate relationship came to an abrupt halt, however, on Mother's Day when he preached on the story of Adam and Eve. He had just read a book on Gnosticism in the early church and was enthused by their interpretation of the story: that eating the apple of knowledge was not the first great sin but rather the beginning of man's search for understanding the nature of the universe. Eve was not to be forever condemned as the cause of man's fall but rather honored as the mother of curiosity and invention. Miss Suzy rose from her pew and walked out just as the ushers were coming down the aisle to receive the collection plates.
So it had been almost three months since she had crossed the threshold of the Lutheran church, and here she was, confronting the church secretary, demanding to see the pastor: “Now!”
“As you can see, he’s busy on the phone right now. I know he will be most happy to see you as soon as he is finished.”
“Don't you know the meaning of the word now?” Miss Suzy strode past the secretary into the pastor’s office without closing the door.
The pastor was just concluding his phone call. “You have no idea how much your contribution will mean to our building fund.” He raised his eyes, startled by the sudden appearance of an enraged goddess of vengeance in a crumpled straw hat. “Again, thank you so much. Sorry, I've got to hang up now. Call you back later.” He rose from his chair, a ministerial smile on his face. “Why, Miss Suzy, it’s so good to see you. I’ve been missing those delightful talks we used—”
“Sit down!” Her voice thundered from her frail body. The broad desk, covered with books, scattered notepads, half-finished letters, provided a fortress wall behind which the pastor could retreat while Miss Suzy plumped down in a leather chair opposite and glared into his eyes. “I can still change my bequest if I want to, you know. A lifetime of savingsenough to build your fellowship hall, and more!”
“Yes, of course I’ve heard about your generous . . . .”
“So what’s this I hear about Mrs. Winthrop? That’s her name, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, I believe there is a Mrs. Winthrop who has recently joined the congregation.”
“And you've been seeing herquite regularly, I hear. In the evening.”
“Well, I’ve made a few pastoral calls, yes.”
“In her home?”
“She’s got two small children, you know. It’s not easy to find a babysitter when you’re new in town. The loss of her husband has been a terrible shock. She needs someone to talk to desperately. I’m really concerned she might . . . .”
“You’re not to go there again.” Miss Suzy rose from her chair and headed for the door. “Do you understand?”
Within an hour the whole town became aware of the conversation between Reverend Goodsell and Miss Suzy.
Almost a year passed before Miss Suzy, apparently sensing that her mortal existence was in jeopardy, decided to seek the consolation of the church by attending the Sunday service. It proved to be an unfortunate decision. Pastor Goodsell had chosen a passage from the Gospel according to the Hebrews, written within a century of Jesus’ death, but not found in our orthodox New Testament, which reads as follows:
The second of the rich men said to him, ‘Teacher, what good thing can I do and live?’ He said to him, ‘Sir, fulfill the law and the prophets.’ He answered, ‘I have.’ Jesus said, ‘Go, sell all that you have and distribute to the poor; and come, follow me.’ But the rich man began to scratch his head, for it did not please him. And the Lord said to him, ‘How can you say, I have fulfilled the law and the prophets, when it is written in the law: You shall love your neighbor as yourself; and lo, many of your brothers, sons of Abraham, are clothed in filth, dying of hunger, and your house is full of many good things, none of which goes out to them?’
The pastor paused for a moment and looked straight at Miss Suzy. Preparing this sermon had been a week of agonizing prayer and self-condemnation. But he had to speak the truth, no matter what the cost.
My father was a heating contractor, and as a young boy I would sometimes go with him when he went to a customer’s home. On one occasion he was called to a row house in a black neighborhood. As we entered the front porch, I saw an old couch, dirty and torn, with a single crumpled blanket. We entered the kitchen, bare except for a table and single chair—no cans of food on the shelves, only a single bone devoid of any remaining nourishment lying in the middle of the table. My father descended into the cellar, but the furnace was beyond repair. No one was home.
I had never seen such poverty, for the poor are invisible. They are not included in our circle of friends. They are not members of our church. We do not notice them on the streets, for they are clothed in our cast off clothing and look much like ourselves. They may be malnourished, but not actually dying.
Of course, on our T.V. screens we see hundreds of thousands of African children clothed in filth, dying of hunger, but they are thousands of miles from here—and certainly not our brothers. Our houses are full of many good things, none of which goes out to them.
Yet we pray to Jesus, “Teacher, what good thing can I do so that I may live with you in heaven?” It is a prayer which can not be answered; or to be more precise, there is no answer which would be at all acceptable. For by praying in such a manner we are thinking only about ourselves and what reward we can get for being a good person.
Jesus gives the only reply that can be given: “You shall love your neighbor.” Love demands that we not think about ourselves, but only about others—what we can do to alleviate their suffering. And the demand is absolute: “Go, sell all that you have and distribute to the poor.”
Perhaps we do our best. A physician in our congregation has been traveling down to Guatemala for several weeks each year to care for the poverty stricken. He and those traveling with him pay their own travel expenses. They live as guests in the homes of those who are their patients. These patients do not require cancer treatments that cost $7000 per injection. Their greatest need is vitamin pills—vitamin pills! But on his last visit he was unable to care for those who needed him. He had himself become too ill to do so. Our immune systems do not protect us from the diseases of poverty.
What do these words of Jesus Our Lord have to say to us as a congregation? Perhaps we can never love our neighbor as much as we ought to, but at least they point us in the right direction. I suggest that we take the money raised for the building fund and give it to the local food pantry, use it to provide housing for the homeless in our community, send it to Africa to pay for food and medicine for those in refugee camps.
As for myself, you pay me too much money—money which should be going to those in real need. I can not accept payment for my services as your pastor. I will gladly continue to conduct Sunday services and do my best to meet the pastoral needs of the congregation, but I have no family to support. I can live very simply on a part-time job I can surely find in the community. This is what I feel in the deepest recesses of my heart is the will of God for me. I pray fervently that each and every one of you will likewise accept what you feel are the demands of love in your own life.
At the end of the service Miss Suzy was heard to mutter, “No money of mine is going to go to those damn niggers in Africa.” A few weeks later she died, and her grateful alma mater received a large bequest to build a new building with her name on it. Soon afterward the church council decided it was time to search for a new pastor.
Voices From The Underground
Available from Many Kites Press.
Also Available from Amazon.com
Email Jim