The Birth of God, a story

April 3. 2006 5:00 am
Some thoughts, rather meandering, about the oligarchical societies man has constructed and why. And other non-interlaced thoughts.

Christ Our Beloved Pastor

It should surprise us little to realize how appropriate the symbol of the Christ figure is the shepherd leading his flock — for us who live and follow in the circle of the good life — the ultimate and unattainable apex and pinnacle of the most desirous form of life in the world: a life where you are never cold, never hungry, never in any need, where you are adored and loved and waited on by adoring servants and the huge public of the little-haves, the medium haves, the no haves, the rich haves, the powerful-haves, the hated and those at the pinnacle of the most desirous life in the world: Royalty. And under this most of us are like sheep. Especially in the present day and in a lot of the world where hypocrisy has become more important than truth and freedom, where the call of "Give me liberty or give me death", is now "Give me a BMW and a comfortable life to a ripe old age ending in a luxurious nursing home, my every demand met and then let me be buried in a chrome stainless steel coffin so the bugs and spiders don't ruin my hair." The leader of the flock is always the first one to get killed, because he is the only one that is visible, him and the herders on the outside — the rest of us sheep want a comfortable life above all other things, the protection of our property next and to hell with the rest for it is too daunting and too powerful to stand up to; and don't be a fool. Hide away like a lamb and no one will ever notice you. And only God can listen to your thoughts. And yes, sometimes, even the regular sheep have to tell someone, the priest or the shrink how they really feel. But now it is very dangerous. We've all seen those movies about communism and nazis and how everyone hid away in silence while their neighbors were being arrested. So the sheep yearn for the "singular" life, the most protected life, the "good life". Does it really matter to me that Exxon-Mobil charged me $3.50 a gallon for gas last summer and then reported that it had "gross-ed" it's biggest profit ever of over 31 billion dollars! And the sheep don't even bleat. And their so called leaders or government doesn't bat an eye, since most of them are sitting their overfed fat asses on leather chairs that the fat corporations have bought for them.

Ah, Royalty. The paradigm and metaphor for the way in which not only we humans live, but as also represented in the animal kingdom by the "leader of the pack", the chief dog, the male lion, the leader of the Pride, who when he can no longer fend off and fight off the younger male lions who all want to take over the pride and possess all the females and have the weaker younger males as his adoring followers and court lackeys, must leave the pride, beaten and toothless and old and despised for weakness and loneliness and being cut off and abandoned, and depleted of his semen and muscle falls prey to the hyenas and the jackals, the ultimate nightmare death for us all: the crazed giggling and laughing of these wild dogs who tear apart the weak and the old — we have these same in our human world, the serial voracious killer eaters, or the armies of our tribal enemies, our religious persecutors, our states attorneys, our judicial system, whatever it is that threatens us at all times with this most horrible hell of all: old, sick, young, weak, undefended and unprotected by the gated communities that are the vision of the apex of human society — the Royal castles with its guards in fine red uniform. The Queen in her Royal bed sleeping soundly and for as long as she wishes with no threats — why do you think that the whole world gasped to learn one morning that an intruder had managed to break into Windsor Castle and make it to the bedroom of the sleeping Queen, the sanctum of sanctums! How frightening and threatening to all of us who are weaker and less privileged.

We as humans use everything around us to support the idea of the pyramid in life, or the circle at the center of which sits the fabulous virgin queen, festooned in diamonds and rare furs, like the most sought after and rarest butterfly whose every beat of the wing is heard all over the world, on dark and cold unfriendly nights: because to get to her you have to go through a lot of circles of protection and policing. You cannot have that life — we call it the lottery prize of the semen. We justify that this is the only way to live that is natural and good and all, because it is what God created (remember the divine right of Kings?). God who is the supreme of all because there is no one above him. He is immortal and undying and beyond any needs and wants of mere mortals and the creatures of nature's scheme of birth and rebirth and death and reincarnation or whatever metaphor we take to heart in our march through life to the grave.

Why do we have animals in our lives? Why are we crazy enough to have cats and dogs, who in the western industrialized world, live softer cozier, more contented lives than most humans in the third world. The pets are less despised and greatly loved and bathed and fed and kept from cold and rain — unlike the millions of poor children dying by the thousands in the streets and deserts of the world from cruelty and hunger and thirst and every other ill that plagues all living things. Someone said that with animals it is all about domination, nothing more and nothing less. It is the survival theory of the species — the most dominant has it all and the others in pecking order have less and less. Our animals reinforce the paradigm of the King because we believe and see all the time the way nature works, even in our concrete cities. Yesterday I went to a dog park in a park in Chicago (where by the way are now being called DFA's — dog friendly areas — and where in order to enter with your dog you must have a special city tag to bring in your dog or you can be fined $500! The tag might cost you over a $100 depending on the state of your dogs shots, and whether he's had his stool sample checked and approved by your vet! What! Did the veterinarian lobby coerce city hall into this bull — there goes the walking enjoyment of the pets of the poor! Indeed in the Chicago area to get into some DFA's you have to pay an annual fee of around $65!) — I am meandering a lot, my head is very full of everything I want to talk about: so the dogs in the dog park — my young male Jack Russell and another 7 month old terrier were chasing and running and trying to hump each other (mine is fixed): Ah, dogs and domination! Not much different than two human males and domination. Ok so we have all these pets to keep us in touch with nature, reduce our anxiety and show us that the things in life are not that important, even though we never really believe that! What dog really cares whether he lives in a mansion or not?
Whether his owner looks good or not? Whether or not his owner smells bad or not, the smellier the better! Of course as long as the dog gets enough to eat he really doesn't care where you live, for he is an instinctual animal and kind of an example for many of us who want to live the natural, instinctual way. But most importantly, we are being reminded constantly that domination is the natural metaphor for all life. The monarchical, oligarchical paradigm holds for every living thing, and for many above all at the top is the unseen, unproved, unknown Supreme Being (well not being because "he" can never become un-being) — the smartest most intelligent designer of us all!

This is not a paradigm that is easily disposed of because it is in our very genetic structure: everything we believe and learn and know comes from the idea of the ONE AND THE ONLY ONE that gave creation to everything else: the big bang being the first and central force of all knowledge and desire. Everything in our lives on a minute by minute basis supports the pyramid symbol: the floating eye at the apex. When I was quite young I read a book that profoundly influenced me. Called Cebes Pinax, or Tablet in English, it was written by a neo-platonist by the name of Cebes, and comes to us I think from the second century A.D. It describes how we all, all living things really but especially humans walk through life in various circles, deceived and misled by all kinds of things. Pinax formed the basis of the metaphor that Dante used in the Divine Comedy. One sees it in Jain symbols: the embedded circles that lead to enlightenment at the very center where resides the enlightened and perfect one, the Buddha. Our religion, our fabric of life instant by instant is based on this metaphor. BUT??? where am I going??? God made man unlike any other thing on the face or surface of the created universe: the special traveler, the one who could ponder his own being and consciousness without being trapped ignorantly and in natural inclination or in rutted instinct. We are all the Christs to the lesser leaves and bees and bugs and grains of sand, because we can bring life, creation, or change and death to all other things, though we too are victimized by the uncaring, ignorant, brutal forces outside of our control, such as disease, natural disasters or what have you. And when these great forces come against us and all that we tend, our innumerable flock of the particles of the universe, we are put in our place, because even the center of human achievement and desire is equally affected. So whatever our destiny is we can chalk it up to the acts of nature or the mysterious plan of the great designer. We just want a life of comfort and hopefully nothing bad till we die in comfort and are buried in comfort and leave our offspring in comfort with all the property that we spent our lives acquiring and more importantly protecting. Along with the single One-at-the-top idea is co-joined for humans the idea that property is the absolute necessity for being the one to make the rules. Ok, it was ok for Christ to despise and reject material wealth, but look what happened to him — he gave his life so that we can live the "good life". And the best at the top is the old King thing.

Think on the flea. Isn't it almost the most perfect, powerful and enlightened "being" on our planet — in the same category as the tiny virus that can replicate and mutate itself to cover a continent as large, powerful and great as ours in only eighteen hours, and decimate every living thing. These tiniest creations of nature are in fact the other side of the metaphor we hold so dear: the Princess Diana, the very pinnacle of the desirous life, but, cut down by the viruses", the winds of death and destruction — ultimately unprotected and carried off to Nirvana, or Heaven where she will live in gilded perfection entranced by the eternal harps of angels and the wafts of cherubim on white puffs of feathery comfort, fat, and well fed and in perfect state of happiness. Of course, back to the other side of the metaphor — the opposite of the very thing we as humans strive against every moment of our lives — being sucked into the maelstrom of un-protection — the lonely, toothless, former king of the pride driven away into the teeth of the mad dogs — the other side of the paradigm is grayness and sameness and not "the good life" but the laborious struggling life of the unwashed poor.

As created, we are the only forms of consciousness that we truly know about that can think about all this crazy stuff — the rest of stuff just gets along on being what it is — which is also very desirable to us because it represents the apex of the instinctual life, the accepting life, the life that just IS. No striving among viruses as far as we know to be the Queen. But, the queen of the bees, is that very desirable as an image to us? Yes, she is much bigger and has millions of handsome drones after her, but all she does is give birth to more-ness, while the paradigm of paradigms, the perfection of the world, only gives birth to itself, or to a very limited supply of the semen prize winners.

What I have been thinking about a lot now in my older age, reaching soon sixty-five, almost the bank of the river where we make the last crossing on the ferry boat, is why is everything the way it is? What is God? What is this metaphor of the One, from which radiates all the others that desire to merge with the One? Karl Marx had a vision of man and life that is very threatening to the monarchical metaphor we hold so dear: the dreary grayness of sameness, man as the virus, just fulfilling its chosen role and nothing more — none castles and gated communities ye shall have, but only the same hovel as all the rest, only one kind of car shall ye all drive and available, as Henry Ford said, only in black! Jesus, what kind of vision is this? But the idea of the cooperative, loving human, the helper, the Christ really, is very repugnant to us on a certain level, because it leaves us, like the king of the jungle in the last light of life, unprotected and at the center of the world or of our lives: yes, at the apex of the very thing we are all striving for: the desirable, most beloved, most cared for: all of us as the king, each and every one of us. But what an invidious more than hateful thing that is to the ones who already live out the monarchical metaphor. They have taken every instance of this metaphoric perfection found among the race and converted it into the actual concrete monarchical eidos: Jesus is now the Pope-King in the Vatican. Only he has the telephone with a direct line to the One and only, the most divine, the one we all owe everything to, the mysterious one who brings everything to us, no matter what it is. God works in mysterious ways.

The Birth of God a story.

A long, long time ago, while whoever were the first precursors to homo sapiens as they moved from grunting to the first use of language so that understanding was beginning and explanation that could be told to the group of other homo sapiens, there lived a group of these guys, in a cave? or maybe they were wanderers and berry pickers? Although anthropologists and other weighty degree bonofied professors today think that the brains of early man only became big enough to think on all these things was when they started getting a lot more protein, and wearing fur.

Anyhow there lived this group of grunting, belching, bickering, mating early men, much like a tribe of baboons who could communicate with specific and complex grunts and sounds that meant more or less the same thing every-time they were issued from the lungs and vocal chords. Now, we all know, for it is the whole idea behind every religion and it is all around us in the animal kingdom, that every group has its Lion king. In this case his name was Bocher. Now as Bocher got a bit older — and in those days no one lived much beyond about forty years — maybe he was seventeen, and more vicious and stronger and more fearless than anyone else in his group, and behind whom the others huddled if another group came and threatened them: Bocher protected them all, the female and the babies and the younger and the weaker males. But Bocher noticed that there was always a group of much younger males huddled under a mulberry tree, eating worms and berries, and picking at themselves against mites and fleas, grunting out very quietly and mysteriously. And Bocher always wondered what they were doing — what was their grunting about? Were they dissatisfied already with him? Were they plotting to kill him and take over — of course, even in that little group of younger males there was the central male who was strongest, most fearless, bravest of all, fearless really.

Bocher always preferred the company of more adult males and of course as night fell the company of the most desirable most fecund females. And everyone really adored and feared Bocher at the same time and when he approached they all grew quiet waiting to see what his next move was, because he had a history of bonging the heads of those that did one little thing to displease him — for this he used a very big and special club, made from a very, very rare kind of tree. Bocher never went anywhere without it. In fact, when he was a little tyke, his mother would chant and coo to him that one day the powerful club would be his, and she too was a fearless, fierce mother, and so protective of her offspring that she would rather be killed by the group leader than let him come within striking distance of her son. Anyhow, Bocher grew and grew into the strongest most loved and most fierce of the young men, and one day the older leader of the group came near him, as his mother kept warning him about when she sang him lullabies about birds and flowers and butterflies, for she had seen the leader before take umbrage with a young male and smack it with the holy club — he wouldn't eat the babe because by now these guys were no longer cannibals, but he would just chuck it out and let the mad wild dogs eat it, while the mother whimpered and tried to protect her beloved and often died right after he was killed, or she along with others like her, found ways to protect him when he was totally helpless and dead: the women who grouped together and got along pretty well with each other, more loving than the males were to the other males, for they were only in competition to be the favored one of the group leader, began digging deep enough holes so that the mad dogs couldn't dig little "Torless" up. Often, they put a big pile of rocks on top of the pit after they had placed the body with much veneration and love in the hole so that even the leader of the group would find it too much trouble to get at the body and chuck it laughing to the hyenas. Leaders would do anything to anyone for they feared no one in the group or anywhere else for that matter. Like Achilles, they never knew fear, for their mothers had dipped them in holy water to protect them against mortality.

On the day that the older leader came near Bocher, he was sitting alone, minding his own business, listening to the buzzing of the bees among the fragrant flowers, enjoying the peaceful breeze, the warm sun, the singing birds and the twittering and giggling young maids at whose movements he had grown in the last months to become very attentive to, because the part of himself that was between his legs had started to get big and hard when he saw them mooning about so coquettishly. Anyhow, Bocher was nibbling on some of the lice and fleas that he kept picking out of his hair with a small stick, enjoying this moment of life greatly, when the big shadow of the leader blocked the sun from his face. Bocher, being the kind of male that he was, instantaneously grew into a huge rage that someone would take away his sunlight, that he pounced on leader in one second, snatched the club and bonged him to death. Everything became deadly quiet at that moment. Bocher stood there over leader, holding the sacred club, the symbol of leader, and he laughed out loud, and this broke the intense silence and all the others came and sat around him doing him homage because now he was leader.

Anyhow, Bocher noticed the small group of young, strong males whispering and grinning to each other. They would always fall silent when he was nearby, and Bocher had at first felt and thought that it was just out of reverence and veneration for him. But now dawned in Bocher a new thought, that came from the whispers, cooing and soft singing of his mother, that they were plotting together to attack and kill him — there was no other single male near as fierce or strong as he, and only a pack of them could ever bring him down. Bocher, actually being kind of a nice guy after all, and deeply loved and respected, just couldn't get it that these other wimps would even want to try to get him. But he realized that maybe he'd be off his guard one day or taking a short snooze in the sun and they could come at him swiftly. Bocher was also not only the handsomest, most muscular, most fearless of all of them, he was also the most intelligent. His mother had fed him very well, for she was the best rabbit and squirrel catcher among all the woman, so he got a lot of meat. She had seen how the birds fed their young by chewing up the worms and then putting the cud into the beaks of the anxious whimpering little baby birds. So from a very early age in Bocher's life, even before she had finished milking him her breast nectar, she began feeding him the same way the birds did, a bit of rabbit or squirrel. Little Bocher thrived as no other had ever before — he was as close to perfection as any mortal since or after. So he realized that even though he could just kill off the other younger males, that one day he too would be weak and helpless or maybe sick and one or more would get him. So he walked along, kicking up the sand, foot-balling a nice round stone, and chewing a very sweet, long grass leaf, and it came to him at once: "eureka!", he exclaimed, "I have a better way to deal with these punks."

That very night, as everyone sat around the fire — lets assume that by now these very early men were making repetitive intelligent sounds and using some form of language, and they also had fire and maybe cooked the meat — full and belching for they had all enjoyed a young doe that very night after Bocher had brought it down with a single stone — they looked at each other smiling and feeling safe for Bocher, the great protector was there, looking his handsomest and best and strongest. That afternoon, after he had taken the blood from the doe and drank some of it and poured the rest over his naked body, he had then bathed in the clear running brook nearby where the group lived, and had washed his hair so that it shone in the firelight. The girls glowed looking at him, each darting glances at the other to see who was admiring whom.

Now, earlier in the day, Bocher had spoken at length with his aging mother, the most respected, admired female of the group who was named Marannaya. Now Marannaya was given to telling stories and singing to the group in the nightly gatherings — she was looked upon as a mother-protectress, and everyone wanted to be in her very good favor as they thought that this would protect them and bring them closer to Bocher so he would either choose them or not kill them out of displeasure. And so she began to sing. And what a song she sang!

"Aya, aya, the warm stones are singing, the snake is grinning,
the ants are smiling, the sweet grasses touching,
aya aya, all is happy, quiet and safe, for the great father of the tribe
sits there above, pouring out the light
the smiles and the might that keeps the people all safe and warm and full of
food.
Aya aya aya, he gives to us the berries and the sweet fruits, the nuts, the roots,
this sweet doe, this roasted leg and ribs.
Aya aya aya, how happy is the head man, for the great father
has favored him, and loves him above all others.
Aya aya aya, forever he protects and will smite those who
come near the head man or who touch him in his sweet sleep, as
he is rocked by the gentle breezes the great father pours over
his golden face."

"Aya aya aya, the great father will smite any who even think one thing bad
about the headman, for great father hears, see and knows all.
He knows how to make the mad dogs attack, how to make
the hated unseen things that make us filled with ugly puss sores
and kills us slowly.
Aya aya aya, always obey the Great father--listen carefully
to the headman for only he knows and understands
great father and can speak the secret songs to him, for great father
loves him like his son and favors him above all others.
Aya aya aya. Listen well to these words I sing to you."

The whole group got silent for they had never heard such a sweet yet strong song. They had never heard about the great father before — they had only thought of Bocher as their father, and now Maryannana was telling them that there was another even more powerful than HE!

Bocher bided his time, for all were quiet and kind of scared. Finally he spoke.

"Yes," he said, "I have never told any of you this nor has anyone else, neither father rain, or the eagles of the winds, neither the chirping of the crickets nor the mad laugh of the hyenas, but there is, unseen by all, for he is so powerful and great, that he can hide himself even when he is right behind you and has in his great hands so many little red ants that will bite your bum till it bleeds, the big black ones that will chew you to the bone in an instant, the big hard things that will fall on your head from the tree and kill you, the little white things that get into your nails and itch you till you die crying, the big grey one who will stamp you into the ground in one second. Yes, this is the Great Father, and my father even though none of you have known this till now. And I am the only one he has chosen to see him and talk to him, for he is my strength and my protector, and anyone or anything that comes near a hair of my body will he smite down, whether I am sick or sleeping or weak. If anyone thinks even, he sees and hears all, of trying to kill me so he can get the sacred stick, that one will never again catch a running deer and soon all the group will pounce upon him for they will be dying of hunger and will straight away want another leader.

"You women, if you do not want to die bleeding and screaming when you try and squat under the tree to let out the new one, you must come to me first and I will talk to the great father to help you and protect you. You mothers must come to me and ask me to help your sons grow big and strong without dying very little, killed by another jealous man or carried off by a leopard, and I will intercede and ask my great father to protect him. For it is only I that understand the ways of my father and into his great place often I will go and sit beside him and he will make me see all things and tell me all things.

He has chosen me, and when I die, all of you too might die for no one will be able to intercede with the great father. So assure, each and every one of you , that I am the chosen one, the one that can speak the language of the unseen great one. Help me give you all a better and safer life with lots of good things to eat and sweet water to drink and warm sun to heat you and cool breezes to make you laugh. Harm not a hair on me for you will be smitten straight off."

And they all hard Bocher and grew silent and very scared, for not a one knew not whether the great father stood near himself for they could never hear him, or see him, or plead with him — only Bocher was the chosen one.

And so was born God. And so was made the first monarch. And so was made the pyramid that runs our every moment.