A Bible Story

April 1, 2013

I once stole a bible. It was wrong, I shouldn’t have done it, and part of me would like to forget that it ever happened. But this day, April Fools’ Day, seems as good a time as any to tell the story of my shameful deed.

The theft took place when I was a young participant at the Marlboro Music School many years ago. Due to a housing shortage that summer, I was asked to sleep in a Marlboro College building used primarily for classrooms during the school year. In wandering through the building after hours, I soon discovered the remnants of a library in one of the rooms. I say remnants because there were relatively few books on the library’s shelves, giving it the appearance of disuse or transition to a new location. A group of ten or twelve books scattered on one shelf caught my attention. They were all old bibles, many of which dated from the 19th century. Several had inscriptions such as: To my beloved sister Emily on the occasion of her 25th birthday, from Abigail Bingham, July 6, 1859. One in particular, bound with leather covers worn to a beautiful patina by years of use, struck my fancy. It had an especially touching dedication done with stylish penmanship. I loved everything about that old bible- its weight, feel, looks, and above all the sense of personal history as it was handed down from generation to generation over a hundred year period. If only the book could talk, I thought to myself. Holding the bible in my hands, I suddenly knew that I had to have it for my very own.

Was I too poor to buy my own bible? No. Was I particularly religious? No. And did I not realize that stealing the bible was a sin? Well, yes, sort of. But, you see, the bible was so wonderfully old, a genuine antique- a little piece of history, really- and besides, nobody seemed to care about any of those bibles strewn willy-nilly across the library shelf. The school wouldn’t even know that one was missing, I rationalized.

So I took the bible home with me and placed it in one of my bookshelves. Occasionally, I leafed through its pages admiringly and once or twice I looked up biblical passages that interested me, but soon I pretty much forgot about it. Years passed, even decades. Every now and then, I would spy the bible sandwiched curiously enough between Portnoy’s Complaint, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance- Christian, Jew, and Buddhist silently rubbing shoulders on the bookshelf. I’d shake my head and wonder what had gotten into me those many years ago. It was wrong to steal a book, but this wasn’t just any book. This was the Holy Bible for God’s sake. I’d feel bad for a moment, but only for a moment, and then I’d try to brush the unpleasant feeling away. Funny thing though. Each time I encountered the bible I felt increasingly guilty about my youthful indiscretion, no matter how many months or years elapsed in-between,

After an absence of over thirty years, I returned to the Marlboro Music School as a participant in the summer of 2005. A couple of weeks earlier, I happened to come across the bible in my bookcase once again. I eyed the book nervously thinking of my arrival at Marlboro, the scene of the crime, only days away. That night I had a strange dream:

I was on my way to Marlboro College with the stolen Bible. I carried it with me in an open shopping bag. En route, I came across a flea market and stopped at a stall that sold rare old books. When I put down the shopping bag, the saleswoman spied the bible inside and accused me of stealing it from her book collection. A heated exchange followed in which I declared my innocence to no avail. In order to resolve the situation quickly, I reluctantly made the lady an offer: “I say the book is mine, you say it’s yours,” I told her. “Tell me how much the bible is worth and I’ll pay you half its value so that I can continue on my trip.” She named a price, I paid her half, and then I headed toward Marlboro College once again, hoping to finally return the stolen Bible.

I awoke with the dream fresh in my mind. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the dream was trying to tell me. Two weeks later, I traveled to Marlboro armed with music of Mozart, Schubert, a seldom-heard Piano Quintet by Erich Korngold, and a bible. One of the first people I ran into when I arrived was Miles Cohen, in charge of scheduling. Why not tell him the bible story and seek his advice, I thought. Miles was extremely sympathetic and even offered to put the bible in proper Marlboro College hands- an offer impossible to refuse. I left Miles with a lightened heart. After almost half a century, the bible was going to be returned to its rightful place.

I had a wonderful time at Marlboro that summer playing great music with great musicians. Not once did I think about the bible. And why should I have? I had repented for my sins by returning it. In my mind the theft was cancelled, the fires of eternal damnation avoided, and my conscience clear.

Shortly after Marlboro ended that August, I received a letter on Marlboro College stationery, something that had never happened before. I opened the envelope impatiently thinking it might be some kind of appeal for money. I began to read the letter while relaxing in my hammock on a hot end-of-summer day. The letter:

As I read the letter, my pulse started to quicken, my jaw dropped slightly, and my hands became sweaty. “Rare book collection”, “$17,800 value”, “Civil War General”, “Killed in action with the bible”. The phrases swam menacingly before my eyes. Good grief. What had I gotten myself into? This wasn’t just any old garden-variety bible that I had stolen. It was one anointed by great American history. I read on, fingers trembling slightly. But then, a good halfway through the letter came words that began to trouble me in a different way. “Blood stains in the upper left corner of the back cover”? I didn’t remember that. “It’s DNA assumed to be from General Polk”? They couldn’t analyze DNA back then. Now wait just a minute. I sat bolt upright in the hammock with a new thought. Could this be a practical joke? I showed the letter to my wife, then my daughter, my son, and finally my son-in-law. Each had exactly the same reaction. The letter was convincing enough to absolutely be the real thing but something about it smelled funny.

The truth came out easily and quickly with one call to the Marlboro School. Miles Cohen had not given the bible to the Marlboro College library as he promised. With a prankster’s zeal, he had given it instead to Philip Maneval, the School’s manager. Philip, a gifted composer who also has a way with words, gleefully wrote the fictional letter, a work of genius in my estimation. Ellen Lovell, Marlboro College’s President, was happy to go along with the joke- good sport that she is- by signing the letter on College stationery.

I don’t steal things anymore- not even little bars of soap from hotel rooms. Too many bad things can come of it, such as letters in the mail that scare the dickens out of you. Today, April Fools’ Day, is an occasion for practical jokes, but they can happen at any time of the year. They can happen even as you lie unsuspecting in your hammock enjoying a hot end-of-summer day.

Thou Shalt Not Steal