WHEN MY CLIENTS HEAR VOICES

 
As a young Tennessee lawyer during the early '50s, I was aggressive, flamboyant and alcoholic. Consequently I made a mess of my life, as well as my practice. Peggy and I, in an effort to save our marriage and my sanity, with one son in school and another on the way, moved to Florida to be near the ocean and to write. We stuffed everything we owned into a Buick station wagon and drove south, with very little money and no job prospects. (Even though I was an agnostic at the time, I must have believed in something.) For the next 20 years I worked on, around, and under the ocean. Somehow, during that period, by the grace of God I was caught in the big net of the Ocean of Love, and my life took on new meaning.

When after all those years Meher Baba pushed me back into law, I eventually found myself, at the age of 60, hanging out my shingle for the second time and starting a solo law practice in Tennessee. Soon, to my astonishment, I was busier than ever before, happy and fulfilled, representing the poorest of the poor and making a good living at it. All of my clients were disabled, and most were also indigent. About half had mental impairments in addition to severe physical limitations.

Some of my clients heard voices. Usually they were afraid to admit it, however. They had heard of people who lost their children or were committed to an institution because of behavior considered abnormal, abusive or otherwise unacceptable to the "protective services" arm of the bureaucracy. Chances are, they themselves had long been victimized by a system that penalizes people for being poor at the same time it holds back the benefits they desperately need and deserve.

I am an expert on how bad the system really is, and on how we can force the bureaucrats to follow their own rules (which they often choose to ignore). Therefore I can usually gain the confidence of my clients.

"All I want you to do is tell the truth," I tell them. "I'm on your side, believe me. When we go to that hearing, the judge will see you for only an hour or so. I want him to realize that you're a human being who has very severe problems."

"Well, I've got problems, all right."

I nod. "I know you do. But the medical record doesn't show how bad they really are. Now, Ms. Johnson, you have rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes, and you've had surgery twice for ruptured discs. But you're only 35 years old, and you've got a high school education. Your doctor says you can sit for six hours a day, so the judge may decide that you can do sedentary work. What will you say if the judge asks you why you can't work as a receptionist or cashier?"

"Well, I can't be around people, for one thing."

"Why?"

"I get to shaking all over. I lose control of my bowels. Besides, I can't get to work. I don't have a car, and I'm too nervous to drive anyway."

Maintaining eye contact, I say, "Ms. Johnson, this is a very personal question, but important. Has God ever spoken to you? The mental health records say you told your counselor that God talks to you. Is that true?"

She looks away. "They'll lock me up."

"No, they won't. I promise. An administrative law judge doesn't have the power to commit anybody. This is not a public hearing. Nobody will be in that room except the judge, a court reporter, a vocational expert and you and me. Nothing we say in that hearing will ever go outside that room."

"He'll think I'm crazy."

"Good. I hope he does. That may win your case. Listen to me. I know very well that talking to God doesn't mean you're crazy. I talk to God all the time, and sometimes He answers back. But that's a secret between you and me. I can't go in that hearing room and tell the judge that I talk with God. That wouldn't help your case at all. But you can. And if the judge thinks you're crazy, it's the best thing that can happen."

So she opens up and tells me everything. And when we get to the hearing, she tells the judge how God appears to her and fills her soul with light. She explains how the voices of devils urge her to jump off the bridge or hurt people, but God always stops her from doing destructive acts. She also tells how, when she goes to the grocery store, she sees canned goods fall off the shelf when she walks by, and how once a box of Quaker Oats exploded when she looked at it. (Can you believe it? Quaker Oats, the cereal endorsed by the Avatar Himself!)*

She was a tortured and lonely soul. But she loved God. And now she gets a disability check every month.

In the course of a year, our office will handle about three hundred claims for Social Security disability and SSI (Supplemental Security Income) benefits. And, by the grace of God, we win most of them. My staff consists of four Baba-lovers: attorney Ann-Douglas Tycer, our daughter Melani Stephens Jones, my wife Peggy and me. In addition, we have two devoted Jesus lovers of a very special breed — David Coleman and Alice Chatman, who are very comfortable with Meher Baba — and also a young woman, Jody Warrick, who often has very interesting dreams of Meher Baba. Pictures of Meher Baba (and other great Masters) are all over the place, and many of our clients and former clients keep "Don't Worry Be Happy" cards on their mirror or refrigerator at home.

I should explain that we don't usually mention Meher Baba's name to our clients. Unless they ask, I never attempt to explain who He is. But when they come to the office for an interview, I am often prompted to hand them a Baba card. I say something like "Here's a little card I want you to have. I've got one just like it on the mirror at home and, believe me, it really helps me get through the day." They look at the card closely and then they usually smile broadly and keep smiling all the way out the door. Sometimes they phone later and ask for another card for a friend.

Every day in our office Meher Baba carries us through problems that, before Baba, might have been crises of devastating proportions. Baba truly turns every key and opens every door. As long as we can keep ourselves out of the way, things move along very smoothly. Every time I get a telephone call, I pause and give it to Baba before answering. And when the caller's problem is extremely serious (she is suicidal or about to be put out on the street), I pause again and seek Baba's counsel. Somehow He always seems to give me the right words to say.

One of the most important things I've learned is that when Baba tells us He is with us all the time, He really means it. He means He is there every moment, no matter what's going on or where we are. Therefore, the least we can do is to acknowledge His presence. (Not necessarily to others, but to Baba. Show Baba we know He is there.)

Nowadays I seldom go to court — I putter around in my shorts and sandals while Ann and David and Alice do the court appearances. But during all those years when I went to court frequently, I always placed an empty chair beside me at the counsel table, and I silently asked Baba to take a seat as I held the chair for Him. I always placed Baba's chair between the client and me, so when I questioned my client, Meher Baba was in the middle of each exchange.

After taking a seat, I'd pull my chair up close to Baba's and place my arm on the arm of Baba's chair. In my mind, I was putting my hand on Baba's hand. If the hearing went poorly, or if I got stuck, I'd lean over and rest my arm on Baba's and ask silently, "What do we do now, Baba?"

Often I'd immediately get a glimpse of Baba raising one hand in His familiar sign of perfection, and I knew everything was all right and I could relax. Sometimes, at that moment, He would remind me of something I should stress in my closing argument. Once I had a difficult case in which the proof was skimpy and my client seemed too frozen with fear to elicit sympathy. I was stumped and didn't see any way to loosen her up or to win the case. So I leaned over and consulted my Senior Partner.

Baba prompted me to ask one last question. "Ms. Hill, is there anything else you want to tell the judge?"

"Yes, there is," she said, leaning forward and staring hypnotically at the judge. The floodgates opened, and with fire and tears and heartbreaking eloquence she told of the inner turmoil, confusion and pain she'd endured without respite for seven long years. There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

When she finished and sat quietly, eyes closed, breathing deeply, the judge said softly, "Ms. Hill, I'm awarding you disability benefits."

Baba had pulled my chestnuts out of the fire again.

What an Avatar! What a Divine Beloved! What a Partner! What a Friend! How did I ever survive without Him?

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*Meher Baba once told a wonderful story of a mother who went to the store to purchase Quaker Oats for her child. One box of Quaker Oats is like any other, Baba said, but any mother would naturally prefer to buy the fresh stock. It is the same, Baba said, with the different manifestations of the Avatar. Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Meher Baba — they are all the same. There is no difference. However, Baba added, "I am the fresh stock."