One Reason I Don’t Believe in Hell

“. . . one God, father & almighty, maker of heaven & earth, of all that is seen & unseen.”

— Nicene Creed

Answering phones at the parole office     means slouching at a chicken-wire reception window, pulling files from cabinets to read out of boredom — Manila folders stuffed with court documents,       testimonies, grainy mug shots, puzzling together stories like Marburger’s —   a child rapist arrested down the road in Monument Park,   who twice a week sits nervous & cross-legged in wire-rim glasses, glancing up the hallway, down at his watch,       tapping his feet until Vickie shows up,         takes him back to the office to talk.

He’d called it a ringing in the ears, the need —       told them he couldn’t help it. & when his number came down, he’d even asked not to be released.

There’s a scene from a movie whose title I can’t recall: a foot soldier, a grunt, points a rifle at a cowering villager. He’s nervous, shaking,       sweat seeping through his stubble, dripping into his eyes. The villager — an old man, frail — sobs in terror,         practically crumpled against a wall. Beside the soldier stands a commander — hard jaw, calm eyes.      “Shoot him in the knee, private,” he says. The soldier is panting so hard you could call it a whimper. He doesn’t pull the trigger; doesn’t lower the gun either.     “You heard me, son, do it.” & the old man wails before the report even sounds.

& I think of Marburger — squirming in a gray office chair,      as though trying to shake out of his own skin; of the police report — the arresting officer        who’d been walking through the park when the boy — nine years old — ran from a cluster of bushes, “practically leapt into my arms” he’d said. & I no longer wonder how God         can allow such evil into this world — but rather if Marburger can still hear it in that chair, God’s voice in his head, a ringing in the ears:     “You heard me, son, do it.”