
Meeting Pasqualini
I was to meet Geraldo Pasqualini at the Blue Lagoon.
You know … Pasqualini, the famous Pasqualini who had written five best-selling books on the ridiculousness of a Creator and who had sold more books than Alfonzo Demille and Richard Staplewood together. So, honest to God, I was a little nervous about meeting him. But, then again, what was there to be nervous about? Didn’t I come in the name of the living God?
The smell of roasted meat and French fries greeted me as I stepped into the warmth of the restaurant and, while I scanned the tables to see if I could spot Pasqualini, a young waiter took my coat.
“Is Mr. Pasqualini here?” I turned to him for help. “He’s expecting me.”
“Ah, Mr Pasqualini.” He beamed. “Come, follow me.”
He led the way along a busy corridor and guided me to the back of the restaurant, where he stopped in front of a small table. A burly fellow in a black suit, with a shiny moustache that curled at both ends, was sipping Scotch.
There he was … The man himself.
“Mr Pasqualini…”
Pasqualini looked up and wrinkled his nose, which caused his moustache to move up and down as if he were in the possession of personal windshield wipers. I felt his eyes scrutinizing me, and I was sure he had formed his opinion of me already.
“You must be Joe…the Christian.”
His words came out as if he were lecturing a student in his auditorium. He didn’t get up, but motioned for me to sit down.
Here I was face to face with Geraldo Pasqualini, the director of Atheists for Eternity or AFE, in short. Since I had written a book in defence of the Christian Faith, he wanted to see me and discuss the matter.
“Scotch?” he offered after an uncomfortable silence.
“Thanks. It’s a bit early. tomato juice will be fine.”
Pasqualini raised an eyebrow. “A religious thing?”
I shook my head. “No, I just don’t care for it.”
Pasqualini narrowed his eyes and a venomous little smile appeared on his face. This guy was dark indeed.
“I invited you…,” he began, “as a gesture of goodwill. I read your book and, believe it or not, we atheists are very kind-hearted folks, and I, like Christ, believe in loving the enemy.”
The enemy?
“I don’t see atheists as the enemy, sir.”
Pasqualini smirked. “O, yes you do. In your book, you talked about… the arrogance of unbelief. I quote from chapter 3, page 45: ‘The wicked— that’s me— are chained about with pride.’” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me for a while in glee, smacked his lips and then said, “By the way, I ordered roasted lamb. You eat lamb, don’t you?” He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “And … eh, just so know, we are going Dutch. I don’t feel like paying for your meal.”
My face was getting warm. Was his only goal to taunt me?
Lord, help me be a good example to this man. “I was merely quoting a Bible verse to stress the need for us Christians to understand atheists, otherwise we can’t help them. The verse I quoted was from the Book of Psalms. (1)
The waiter returned and with an elegant motion placed the tomato juice in front of me. Pasqualini ordered another Scotch. When the waiter left, he leaned over, shook his head and said, “Why in the world do you think atheists would ever need your help? You talk about arrogance, but do you have any idea how arrogant your statement about helping me is? His nostrils flared as he downed the last of his Scotch.
Help me, Lord, to love this man.
Pasqualini continued his tirade. “You know, I have a degree in logical negativism. I have a Ph.D. and your book…well, it sucks.”
“I am sorry you think so. The reason I wrote about helping atheists is that I am concerned about atheists. Inside, you do not differ from anyone else. It’s just your worldview that’s different. But you have the same fears and longings as everybody else…” Pasqualini cut me off and started to breathe heavily. “No! no! no! You Christians always bring up that soft, mellow emotional baby stuff.”
He raised his voice now and made quite a stir, until he roared,
“It matters not how charged
with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
My head is bloodied, but unbowed. (2)
While he said it, he waved his arms in the air and knocked down his fresh glass of Scotch that the waiter had just put down before him. The glass shattered on the stone floor.
“Idiot,” Pasqualini mumbled. He stood up, threw his napkin in my direction and fumed, “I’ve seen enough. How I hate Christians and their God.”
My mouth fell open as he stomped off.
“Was that the famous atheist, Geraldo Pasqualini?” the waiter asked, as he had observed us from a distance. “I didn’t like him.”
I felt tired and said, “I don’t particularly like him either, but we need to pray for him. He needs help.”
“I think he does,” said the waiter. “But if I may ask, sir, how does one pray?”
I looked at him. He appeared so innocent. A comfortable warmth flushed over my face. Maybe this evening wasn’t entirely lost.
“When’s your shift over?” I asked.
“Soon,” he smiled. “But first you need to eat your meal. The roasted lamb is ready.”
“What about Pasqualini’s meal?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll eat it in the kitchen, but I am sure the boss will charge his credit card.”
***
Author’s note
- Psalm 73:6 KJV
- From Invictus. A poem by William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)