“May I have a name, please?” the kind young woman asked as she finished relaying my tall latte order to her co-worker.

In the nanosecond or two that bridged the gap between her question and my response, a strange and potent power seemed to make its presence known deep within the gaps of my psyche. Here was my chance, I surmised, to change my identity. I could, with the ease of unchallenged conversation, simply become someone other than myself.

For instance, I might stare deeply into her rather unresponsive hazel eyes and say, “They call me Steel” and see if such nomenclature might buckle her probably aching knees. Or, if I was feeling a need to convince myself and any overhearing others that I possess intellectual powers now abundantly lacking, I might respond to her innocent request by squinting more than a little, push the bridge of my glasses higher up on my formidable nose and say, “Albert” or, “Leonardo”, if I’m feeling that bold.

My mother once mentioned that I bore a striking resemblance to Paul Newman or maybe it was Danny DeVito. No matter. Now was my chance to try on either for size. Actually, I have for many years now spent too much time wondering what it would be like to have a book on the bestseller list. I could say “John” (as in Grisham) or “Chicken” (as in Soup).

Isn’t this fun? OK maybe fun isn’t exactly the right word but surely you can see the myriad of possibilities that present themselves. You call the restaurant to make your reservation but instead of something as prosaic as Jones or Smith or Mayfield, we get to say, “Ferrari” or “Gates” or maybe “Eli Manning” if you’re feeling really cheeky. I’ll bet the table waiting for you won’t be by the bathroom door.

I probably shouldn’t admit this but, just between you and me, I sometimes am not completely honest when someone asks what it is I did before I retired. Like changing my name, I have been tempted not to fully reveal my former professional status to strangers. Over the years I have found such a pronouncement can, and very quickly, end conversation and put dampers on any fun. Once on a chairlift, I was, most hospitably, offered a toke on my seat-partner’s marijuana joint. My smiling declination did not prevent him from sharing two-thirds of his life story by the time we were half way up the lift. As we hit the mid-point, he inquired as to my profession. Honestly I told him and, honestly, he never said another word.

Another time, on a two and a half hour flight to California, the fellow sitting next to me offered me something very different than my acquaintance on the lift. This guy gave me nothing more than a big smile. But then he opened up a Bible and began to feverishly take notes, underlining whole chapters. He would frequently turn toward me in a not too subtle invitation to conversation. I buried myself in my book and pretended not to notice his very public piety. Had he asked I would, without question, have told him anything but the truth. I’m nauseous enough when I fly.

“Pierre”, I could say with one raised eyebrow, hinting of exotic locales. “Igor” I could grunt and experience, if only momentarily, what it might be like to be an intimidator rather than always the intimidatee.

My dad had the wonderful name “Max”, although I never appreciated it when I was a kid. I wanted an old man with a moniker like “Joe” or “Bud”. “Max” always seemed more mousy than macho. People named their dogs “Max” not their people. Only now that he’s gone I miss hearing his name. So here was my chance to honor his memory. Should I take it?

I once knew a man named “Caroll”. Johnny Cash knew a boy named “Sue”. I have a male friend named, “Joy”. Would it be too shocking to tell her my name was “Charlotte”? Would the laugh be worth the embarrassment of innocently shouting out “Margaret”?

The possibilities are many, the risks reasonably few. Here was my chance, at least for the moment, to alter my past, leave my mistakes behind and start completely anew.

I bit my lower lip and took a deep breath.

“Rich”, I said.

Have you ever wondered who all those people are who are listed in the credits at the end of a movie? Do you have any idea of what a Key Grip does or how a woman can be a Best Boy? How in the world can there be so many people involved in the making of one little film?

Before I ever earned the “Rev.” before my name, I spent a good many years working in television and motion pictures. Indeed, there are a few movies where I am listed as one of those interminable names at the end. I have been not only a Key Grip and a Best Boy but a Gaffer, a Boomer, a Loader, a Puller, an A.D., an Assistant to the A.D., a 2^nd Unit Director and, believe it or not, a stunt car driver. Although the memory dims, I think I can still remember just what each job entailed although I am a little fuzzy over what my responsibilities were back when I was paid to be a Clapper. I know it didn’t have anything to do with applauding.

Such reminiscing calls me to reflect on the myriad of folk who have had a hand in my own making. Leading roles would go, of course, to my parents but the list of credits would be long and probably, much like the movies, of not great interest to anyone but those whose names are listed.

Nevertheless, it seems a worthy exercise to ponder just precisely who would be on the rolling credit when my life finally goes to black.

I would have to include my first grade teacher, Miss Schwartz, who planted the seed of reading pleasure deep within my soul. In that same category, although I cannot remember any names, I would honor the librarians at the Westchester Public Library in Los Angeles who allowed me to spend hours taking up valuable space just paging through old Life magazines and re-reading Beverly Cleary books.

I don’t know what I would call them: Molders and Shapers? This would be a long list that would contain all those dear people who sacrificed time and energy to get me where I’ve gotten. I doubt many of them ever imagined I’d end up working in the religion biz but, in some strange and mysterious way, because of them I did. I’m thinking now of Mr. Lopez from High School English Class who wouldn’t allow me to just get by. Curiously, I would also give credit to the college counselor who in my freshman year told me to save my parents’ money and drop out now. Her lack of conviction in my abilities, I am convinced, made me all the more able.

Teachers seem to make up a lot of my credit list. Part of that is because I have spent so much time in and around schools but it also reminds me of what a sacred profession teaching is. The power these men and women have in the lives of all of us should give us pause. It should also compel us to make sure they are the very best our society can offer. It is an interesting commentary on all of us that we pay teachers so little and expect from them so much.

Antithetically, I would list Reginald DuPree as “Reality Doser”. DuPree was my first employer out of college. When he hired me to work in his Import/Export business he took note of a proud fact I had listed on my resume. “Oh, I see you’re a college graduate.” he said to me. When I smugly smiled he went on to say, “I’ll give you an extra $25 a month for that.”

As the credits continue to roll, I would have to add a long list of names under the title “Inspirers”. Included would be the famous and the almost forgotten, all those who, by their lives, encouraged me onward and outward. Some of the great writers would be on this list but so would some of the not so great. I am humbled to remember how certain folk have reached out to me in the course of their lives and changed the course of my own.

I remember casually mentioning to a friend a long time ago that my wife and I were pregnant. “Oh brother is your life going to change!” is what he said and what he said was absolutely true. Under “Life Changers” I’d list three. Under “Life Sustainer” I’d list just one: my wife, my lover, my dearest friend.

The list is long and growing longer so I’ll have to leave some space for other names between now and the inevitable The End.

The recent release of the new movie production of John LeCarre’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, which involves the search for a mole within the British Secret Service, reminds me of another search closer to home that scandalized America and shook the FBI to its core.

His name is Robert Philip Hanssen and he was a 25-year career FBI agent who was arrested in 2001 for spying for the Soviets. His friends and neighbors, his co-workers and superiors, all expressed shock and disbelief. Apparently, Hanssen exhibited the most conservative and traditional of values as he went about his nefarious business. No one suspected that he was a willing participant in a terrible treachery.

All kinds of theories have been proposed as to how the man managed to pull off what the Justice Department called “possibly the worst case of intelligence disaster in US history”. Some suggest that he was simply in it for the thrill. Others say it was the money. I’ve read one analysis that plays with the idea that Hanssen was schizophrenic and literally led two parallel lives that never seemed to cross.

Interestingly to those of us who ponder issues of morality, there are some experts who believe that Hanssen may have managed to compartmentalize his life so much that he was totally unaware of the damage he was doing to others.

While serving in the FBI, Robert Phillip Hanssen was an active follower of Opus Dei, the ultra-conservative Roman Catholic organization that seeks a kind of Christianity more akin to the Middle-Ages than the 21^st Century. Opus Dei is rabidly anti-modern, anti-ecumenical and, most certainly anti-communist. Given this fervent religious conviction, it is almost unbelievable to think that Hanssen was involved in such a reactionary movement while, at the same time, selling secrets to the Russians.

Almost.

But haven’t we all met people who have, on a much smaller scale, acted in similar ways as did Mr. Hansen? Good, decent folk who have managed through intellectual self-manipulation to compartmentalize certain aspects of their lives so that they do not affect other aspects.

For instance, sensitive as I am to the foibles of ministers and priests, I have, on occasion, been both amused and a little shocked to find radar detectors on the dashboards of some of my peers. I wonder how they have managed to work out the seeming incongruity of a man or woman employed in an occupation based completely on honesty and trust with such a dishonest activity. They have managed, of course, because they see no connection between radar guns and religious activity.

Kids are good at pointing out this same incongruity. Sometimes they do it with their behavior rather than their voices. After all, if one’s normally honest and truthful parent brags of beating the government out of taxes that are rightfully owed, why should we blame a teenager for breaking the law in his or her own way? All they are doing is compartmentalizing their lives in the same way most of us adults do.

One of my heroes is the late Cardinal Joseph Bernadin who spoke often of the need to have a “seamless garment” of philosophical consistency. If we claim to be pro-life in regard to the not yet born, we must also be pro-life in regard to capital punishment or reckless defense spending or the battle against AIDS or a host of other examples where being pro-life means more than picketing Planned Parenthood Clinics. Compartmentalizing allows us to ignore the inconsistencies that fill our lives.

For those of us who have worked in social services, an all too common example of compartmentalizing can be found in cases of abuse. Often the abuser leads an exemplary life in all areas but one, a very terrible one. Long ago I learned not to be surprised to discover that some of the most seemingly upright of folk are engaged in the most despicable of activities. Even more shocking, perhaps, is how often these perpetrators fail to see the incongruity in their lives. A lifetime of inconsistency can build a strong foundation for a future of contemptible incongruity.

There is an old saying in my circles about making sure you take the log out of your own eye before you point to the speck in another’s. Perhaps before condemning Mr. Hanssen and others like him, we search for similar inconsistencies in our own lives.