That all makes sense. I only know of Billy Graham because my parents' minister felt the call having seen him preaching in Glasgow way back when. I had him down as a tent revivalist sort. I think your idea of using him in an secular manner, not as a form of ridicule, but as an icon in his/its own right is pretty fascinating. I've been an atheist since I was 16, but I never felt I had an axe to grind or a score to settle, something that struck me when I met with secular humanists in a bid to be 'with my people'. As you say, using the iconography of the religious in your context probably throws up more important questions anyway. "But... but Billy Graham is ours damnit!" they probably clamour. "Get your hands off that man!"
The only people who've ever gotten uncomfortable have been the non-religious. That includes atheists and those who are part of the SNR (spiritual, not religious) movement.
Religious beliefs--or a lack thereof--are a deeply personal issue, and I respect all of them, as long as the person doesn't do the "think as I think" thing.
Since my father died, we've experienced some pretty incontrovertible evidence that he's still around. We predicted it, because he was so afraid of dying that he ignored his cancer for two years. He had superhuman willpower, and we figured that since he didn't want to die, and since he NEVER did anything he didn't want to do, he'd refuse to go with the program.
So he's still here, talking, appearing in mirrors, and dismantling the sprinkler. He built it himself, and the top is an intricate homemade nozzle made up of five parts. You have to unthread it from the sprinkler by hand and then use a screwdriver to take it apart. Tim found the five parts neatly laid out in the grass beside the sprinkler.
Dad loved busywork, because it distracted him from these sorts of thoughts. It's hilarious and deeply sad that he made the journey that he feared all his life, and it made no impression on him. He died and discovered it didn't kill him, but instead of being happy, he's hanging out here, trying to repair the sprinkler.
The
Ghosts trilogy is about how gratitude for what you have allows you to endure that which you thought was unendurable. Dad simply never felt gratitude, so I'm sure his attitude on the other side is, "Okay, so I'm still here, but why can't I go home now? I have sprinklers to fix and salami sandwiches to eat!"
I think the way the system is set up, free will is paramount, so if he wants to hang out here, they let him. "There's the door, pal. Knock yourself out. Come back when you're ready."
It's very odd that I wrote a book about metaphorical ghosts, and now my father is a real one. But it's just Dad. He doesn't scare us. Hopefully, he'll give in to reality and move on after a while, because it's actually pretty annoying. He loved doing dishes, so whenever Tim or I wash dishes at our respective houses, Dad either appears in the mirror over the sink as if he's standing behind us, or he starts talking. In life, he never... stopped... talking.
We need a break. Fifty years with him was more than enough. We want him to go back to Iowa and haunt his relatives, since they all have the death-obsession he had. If he showed up there, monoguing and dismantling sprinklers, they'd lose their minds in terror, even though it's only Ed.
Maybe we can lure him into the car with a sprinkler and a salami sandwich and drive him there ourselves...
