prophets without honor

I awoke sometime before 2:00 and lay awake in the dark, thinking about problems. The night air was cold. By 3:15, feeling farther from sleep than ever, I got up, pulled on a sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks, and moccasins, and padded downstairs.

In the silence of night the front-porch light glowed dimly in the corridor. I twisted on the heat in the living-room and reset the furniture, which I had moved for TV viewing earlier on, as every night. I switched on the standing lamp, poured myself a cranberry juice (I've decided to forgo whisky in these late-night times in favor of something more productive), and cracked open Asimov's Guide to the Bible (Old Testament), highlighter in hand.

I pushed on with his discussion of the Book of Jeremiah, the prophet of the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians, in whose long prophetic career he enjoyed virtually no attention, respect, or success (in terms of influencing the behavior of his countrymen). A witness to the destruction of the city and temple, which he had for so long predicted, he wound up a captive of hostile countrymen, finishing his days, apparently, in exile in Egypt.

What a career. He was buffeted by the same forces that swirl around us today: nationalistic and jingoistic passions, people pinning their hopes on tribal violence to produce good outcomes. Jeremiah was an early advocate of realpolitik, telling people, in effect, that God favors realists. Long before the arrival of Nebuchadnezzar, he was urging Judah to submit to Babylon, and thereby save the temple and walls of Jerusalem.

Jeremiah was right, but he was ignored.

Am I a prophet? I wondered. Is it my destiny to send a futile message to my fellow humans?

Maybe. But my life is easy--so far.

After two glasses of juice, I set down Asimov, switched off the light and heat, and padded back upstairs to spend the last hour of night in the warmth of bed. I dozed briefly before the alarm went off at 5:30.

in the pre-predawn

Once again sleeplessness drove me from bed, this time at about 4:00, into the cold darkness of the house. It was too late for whisky so I poured myself a glass of cranberry juice, twisted on the knobs for our electric heat (–2° C outside), pulled the living-room furniture back into its regular daytime configuration (seating not aimed at the TV), opened up Asimov's Guide to the Bible (Old Testament), and started reading.

I'd woken at around 2:45. By 4:00 I could tell that my racing thoughts would lead me only further into wakefulness. Might as well get up and do something productive.

And it was productive. While my mind is engaged with something to do, it is not distracted by worries and problems. I read up on Exodus, highlighting as I went.

Is there any use knowing things about Exodus? Isaac Asimov must have thought so. He wrote two good-sized guides to the Bible, even though he was a chemist (I think) by training and a sci-fi author by avocation. His interests were truly wide-ranging, and for that reason alone I like him and am inclined to trust him. His tone is always interested, balanced; skeptical but also open-minded--a brace of mental qualities that I particularly admire and regard as traits of the greatest minds. Without apparent effort, he brings tremendous erudition to any topic, seamlessly working all kinds of nuggets of otherwise hard-to-find information into his exposition. Asimov's prose style itself is a model of simplicity and clarity.

An hour and a quarter (and two glasses of cranberry juice) later, I was feeling the chill, and my eyes were feeling gritty and unrested. I stalked back up to bed and crawled in to warm up and rest my eyes for the last 15 minutes before the alarm went off and it was time to formally start the day.