The Return

Solomon Thrust stood huddled under the portico, squeezing his collars together at the throat, squinting through the mad, summer rain. An instant later and it subsided. The sun shone glossy on the pavement as sparkling tributaries poured away into the gutters and were gone. Solomon could clearly see now, the priest had pulled up and was already being helped from his car by two men, one of whom was careful to hold up a black umbrella over the old father's head at all times. The priest said something to him, and the man, seeing that the rain had stopped, closed up the umbrella and stuffed it in his coat.

They made their way over towards the door where Solomon stood. Only the priest was smiling.

"Fine day, after all," he said, with a friendly nod.

"For a funeral," said Solomon.

"Yes, that's right. I suppose a bit of solemnity is in order, after all. But it is nice, isn't it, to see the sun, after what began as such a dismal morning. Oh, look, the family has arrived. Well, it won't be long now."

"Nope. Should have him in the ground by ten o'clock, easy."

"Well that's not what I -- ," the priest now gave him a closer, more suspicious look.

"Of course, not," said Solomon, "Why don't you go ahead and find a seat, Father. I imagine the ceremony is about to begin."

"Oh, but I'm here to perform the rites, you know. After all, --"

"I'm just teasing, Father. After all, a little levity," he winked.

By now the priest's suspicions were more than confirmed. The man was not right.

"There's the boy's mother, now," said Solomon, indicating a large, stout woman standing just behind a large wreath, as though trying to remain obscured from view. Her eyes had been scrubbed raw. It was clear that her suffering was beyond tears.

"I should go to her," said the priest, almost to himself.

"You think?"

Solomon watched as the priest shook the mother's hand and patted her on the back. You could see he intended to embrace her, but, having hesitated, thought better of it, and gave her, instead, his already outstretched hand. She grabbed it like it would fall to the floor in less than a second, and rushed it to her breast. She held it there and smiled at him; a grim, miserable, pleading grin.

"He's in heaven, now. He's in heaven, Father," she whimpered desperately.

"Indeed, he is. Indeed, he is," the old man reassured her. "Singing with the angels."

"He always liked to sing."

"Singing and carrying on. Why, he's probably out riding his bike through the clouds, at this very moment, having a gay old time, while we make such a fuss over him down here."

"You think so, Father?"

"Absolutely!"

"He always liked to ride his bike."

"Well, now he can ride it up and down and all around, can't he? Yes, sir. He can ride his bike in any direction he pleases, yes he can. Up, down, and all around, I say. No roads in heaven, just open sky."

The priest was gazing into the distance, as if really seeing what he spoke of.

"Oh, I know you must be right, Father. You must be."

"That's it. Cheer up. Now let's remember him as he was. A happy boy."

"Oh, yes. He was a happy boy."

"A boy who loved and kept animals, am I right?"

"Oh, yes, Father. He loved and kept them. He had quite the collection, let me tell you. Jars all over his room. Frogs and lizards and bugs and snakes. You name it! He even brought home stray dogs and cats, though they never hung around much. I suppose he must have patched them up and sent them on their way."

"Well, that's just the kind of Christian boy he was," said the priest.

Still under the portico, rolling himself a cigarette, Solomon pulled the door closed, so as not to overhear any more of their conversation. He turned to look at the little boy who was sitting on the steps just a foot away.

"You never bothered to poke holes in those jars, so the poor creatures could breathe, did you? And what ever did happen to those stray dogs and cats," asked Solomon, licking the cigarette, twisting it up, and fitting it behind his ear.

The boy turned to look at him, then he looked all around, then back up at him. Solomon wasn't looking at him, just gazing rather absently over the grass at something across the street.

"Are you talking to me," he asked the man.

"Well, I ain't talkin' to myself."

"You can see me? Hear me?"

"Sure can."

"But nobody else can."

"Better get used to that, kid."

"What do you mean? Why can't they see me? What's going on?"

"You died, remember? You fell in the creek."

"No, I - what? I - this is a dream. A nightmare, I mean."

"You don't remember falling in?

"I never - What are you talking about?"

"Tell me what happened to the animals, Kenny."

"I - the animals? I don't remember."

"You strangled them, didn't you?"

"I - what?"

"Drowned them in the tub. Held them under by the necks."

"I - I wanted to see," said the boy.

"Yeah?" Solomon looked directly at him for the first time. The man's pupils were as red as burning coals. In fact, if you looked closely enough, it was just possible to see that they were, in fact, burning coals.

"What did you see?"

"I -"

They were silent for a few moments.

"Your eyes...," began the boy.

"Nevermind my eyes. You'll know soon enough what they see. First, I want you to tell me what you saw. I think you can remember just fine."

"I don't want to remember," said the child.

"Why not? It was the most fun you ever had."

"I drowned them, yes. But -"

"You strangled them. You held them under as they struggled."

"Yes, I remember now, but -"

"You tied them into garbage bags full of rocks and dropped them in the creek."

"I dropped them, yes, but-"

"Over the side of the bridge. And you sang a song."

"I did, yes, but-"

"You always did like to sing."

"You don't understand."

"What was the name of the song?"

"The song? I don't - I don't remember."

"But you do. Of course you do. The song. Your favorite song."

"I don't - I can't remember."

"Come, I'll sing it for you."

"Please don't."

Solomon cleared his throat. He was really enjoying this. But, then, he always loved his job.

"'Hush little baby, don't say a word.'"

"Stop it!" the boy shouted, springing up from the steps.

"Do you remember what happened to the baby? Your little sister?"

"She - she fell in."

"She followed you. She saw what you did. She screamed."

"I -"

"You covered her mouth. You filled it with pine needles, dirt, and dead leaves."

"I told her not to scream. I told her."

 "That's right, you remember now. She choked to death."

"I did, I know. But you don't understand."

"And then you dumped her over the side, just like the animals."

"The animals..." recalled the boy, absently.

"The dogs and cats."

"I killed them."

"Yes, you did."

"And I killed her."

"And then you fell in, too, didn't you?"

"I slipped. My foot got twisted and I fell."

"You died."

"I - Are you sure?"

Solomon smiled.

"But it's not what you think," the boy protested. "I was - Something was wrong with me. My mind was sick or something. I feel different now. Really. I don't know why I wanted to do those bad things, I really don't. I don't feel that way any more."

"Are you sorry?"

"I am. I'm so sorry. I wish I could go back and change everything."

"Can't do that, kid."

"No, I guess not. But what happens now?"

"Why don't you go find a good seat? Your funeral's about to begin."

"My funeral? What about..."

"Don't worry, kid. It's just like this for a while. First, it takes a little time to remember. Then, once you remember, you can start to forget. That takes time, too. But you're already past the remembering part. So don't sweat it. You did good."

"I don't understand. Why was I sick? Why did I do those things?"

"That's just what happens down there, kid."

"Well, then, why did I go down there?"

"Beats me. I guess you thought you were hot shit, with your free will."

"Huh?"

"Not as free as you thought you were, though, eh?"

"Um -"

"Take my advice, kid. Earth is overrated. Try staying up here for a while."

"Up here? But this is my house."

Suddenly, house and portico, steps and door, and the whole neighborhood were pulled right out from under them and instantly lost from view. They tumbled in space for a minute or two.

"Isn't this nice,' asked Solomon.

"It's pretty cool," said the kid.

"See that?" Solomon was pointing to some brilliant, emerald and pink constellation in the distance. "They'll take care of you there. Just keep on that way and don't look back. You'll be fine."

"What about you?"

"I've got work to do, kid. You lost souls can't find your way back here on your own, you know."

And he swiftly disappeared.

But Kenny kept on, as he was told, tumbling towards the magnificent constellation. As he grew closer, it seemed to expand and become increasingly immense. A feeling of unimaginable love began to permeate his being, as if he were suddenly coming in from the cold, to sit by a warm fireside. Though he had never even realized how cold and brutal his former environment had been, he was quick to appreciate the contrast. This place was unfamiliar, and, yet, somehow, this was home.

A moment later, and he began to remember.

This had always been home.

Winter Fragments

I met a man wearing a crucifix. "It's for protection." he said, "against evil spirits." I wondered, so I asked him how that worked. "Oh, it's nothing so mysterious, really, -- but, then again, maybe it is," he winked. "It simply reminds me of what I know in my heart. To be kind. To listen, to care, and to help where I can."

A mystic is ultimately a realist, - the ultimate realist, in fact; someone who loves all things; someone to whom nothing is preferable to whatever is, at any given moment.

Religion is what happens when philosophy falls in love.

Genius is often treated as though it were a higher octave of talent, when, in fact, it is entirely possible to be richly possessed of genius while being destitute of talent. Such a condition would be madness, or would appear to be madness, for talent is the means by which genius finds expression, and a genius which cannot express itself must keep silent, or else be interpreted as madness. Genius is the message, but talent is the medium. Talent is therefor indispensable to genius, if genius is to express itself in a congenial way. Moreover, the extent to which an individual is gifted with genius will determine the extent to which he must be gifted with talent, if his daemon is to find a medium equal to its message. Intelligence, too, even at the highest levels, is incapable of adequately communicating the insights of genius. Without talent, intelligence is altogether too analytical and mechanistic to capture the tail of this dragon. Likewise, without the clear-sightedness of intelligence, talent (which is the sum of intuition, just as intelligence is the sum of thought) is too personal and obscure to convey the universal nature of genius. There is something unworldy about genius, which requires both the clarity of intelligence and the magic of talent to express, or to manifest, itself in a way which the world can fully recognize and appreciate. Only where talent and intelligence intersect can genius find an opportunity to cut through. No matter how incredible his gift may be, a genius must also possess both of these, intelligence and talent, each fitted to his stature like skates upon his feet, if he is to trace the most elegant figures on the ice.

I once knew a man of profound genius, but, would you believe, his intelligence was thick and slow, and his talent could never be counted upon. He was like a madman, mouthing strange words no one could understand. Don't ask me how I knew he was a genius, in spite of his estate, for I cannot clearly say it, though I believe it to this date. It was evident, perhaps, in the briefest things he'd say, for whenever he attempted to say more, he ended by saying too much, and the effect was altogether lost, like a swordsman who spins, and spins, and never thrusts.

I think our souls probably incarnated on Earth for essentially the same reason that American soldiers enlisted to go to Iraq. We thought it was a good idea.

Shakespeare couldn't write symphonies.

Nietzsche was right in calling Christianity a condemnation of the world. His accusation that this condemnation amounted to slander, however, depended upon his conviction that no other worlds are possible, and that faith in the beyond is a siren song to which the weakest, most avoidant characters are susceptible. In actual fact, Nietzsche's own philosophy is full of rousing tributes to the spirit of exploration and the forward-looking overman. Forward, but not beyond, he would perhaps say. Still, I think there is no significant difference. Whether to transcend ourselves or to transcend the world, we are speaking of the will to pass through and pass on. The believer has, perhaps, something more of the adventurer and the gambler in his blood, for he is courageous enough to take what appears to be an outrageous leap of faith, in the hope of attaining his ideal in a single bound. Nietzsche's dependence on will was purely a lack of faith. This is the fundamental problem of existentialism. Man assumes the burden to actualize his life, because he lacks the eyes to see what God has already accomplished in the world. Really, the world ended with Christ on the cross. The culmination of history, and death itself, is not a defeat, not a surrender, but a victory. Nonetheless, it is one thing to win, and quite another thing to know when you have won; and when to put away your sword.


We're not living in the end times. Not any more.


I take courage that I may not be entirely without merit or use, so long as noble sentiments still fall, like freely scattered seed, upon the soil of my breast; though their roots do not (yet) extend into my legs, and their fruits do not emerge from out my wrists.

Author's Note

for: "The Secret Chord"

[rough draft, for a possible forward/preface/introduction/author's note (whichever applies)]

If a doctrine may be found in this book, simple or sophisticated, evident or obscure, it makes no claim to perfect orthodoxy, but, at best, it is the honest product of one man's attempt, in searching for "The Holy", to align himself with streams of Christian tradition, in order to interpret the still-potent symbols of this tradition in ways reflective of ultimate truth, and of his own sincerest insights and aspirations.

It is the opinion of the author that great visions and utterances should lend themselves to new and manifold interpretations, so long as they have blood left in them. Regardless of their origins, or of the conscious intentions of their creators, the most vital religious images continue, as if impelled by a hidden will, to transcend our attempts to narrow their meaning, and to take on wider significance. The author commends this apparently inherent tendency of religious imagery towards transcendence and makes only the merest efforts to rein it in.

Nonetheless, there are many who would like to see this indomitable will stabled or put out to pasture. That time-honored symbols should reveal or even erupt into manifold vistas of interpretation is not a comfortable idea for them.

While most systems of theology, and most denominations, do permit of some degree of innovation, and confess that only a work in progress is truly alive, yet, it remains largely a question of personal temperament and proclivity, whether one is called into a path or denomination where innovations are allowed to tumble in at what speed they will; or whether one prefers and is perhaps suited to a more gradual and conservative organization of elements.

For the most progressive, rebellious, and occasionally reckless (not to say, heretical) religious thinkers, there is almost always an inexplicit tentativeness, a flexibility, or permeability to certain statements, which allows the mind to assume various perspectives, which may be illuminating for a moment, without having to become locked into seeing or worshiping from any single position.

Again, the individual, the reader, is at liberty to decide for him or herself to what degree each particular view or notion may be stretched, where it stands and where it falls.

Though more officious and dogmatic minds will almost certainly have difficulty with a number of perspectives described in this book, the author has hope that many Christians will not find it difficult to relate to the material from the very deepest levels of their experience.

Moreover, it is hoped that people of all faiths and philosophical backgrounds, undeterred by Christian terminology, may find in these pages well-expressed elements of basic truth with which good-hearted people everywhere have always experienced a special and delightful affinity.

Or, if the truth is poorly set down in some places, then let us share no less in a civil spirit, regarding the good intentions of all who seek the ultimate source of divine radiance, however decoyed we may be, at any given time, by inferior lights.

The author begs forgiveness for any real or perceived offenses he may have given through the utterances here set down. His intention was ever to illuminate.

Gabriel Eris (Final Chapter)

CHAPTER THE SIXTH!!!

Gabriel lay motionless in bed, as he had done for several days, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his fingers slightly twitching by his sides. Thorazine was heavy in his blood and the shocks they had given him continued to route and reroute themselves inside his body. He felt vaguely that something was wrong.

The nurse who had taken a liking to him sat by his bedside. Her name was Karen and she had a very kind, very open, moon-shaped face. She looked at him now with a compassion she could scarcely contain. She felt like a mother whose child has fallen into a coma.

She prayed.

"Dear God,

Won't you please, please help this man, who is so simple and so good? Please, Lord, restore his senses and his wits. Make strong his heart and his mind. Carry him into the presence of Your healing love; the Holy Spirit of Your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen."

This prayer, though she articulated it most deliberately, nevertheless, formed itself perfectly organically out of her love. To pray, for her, was not a conscious decision, but a spiritual operation as natural as waking from sleep. If she clothed it in the language familiar to her grandfathers, it was not due to simplicity or impressionability, but to a genuine and deeply formulated belief in the reality of Christ. Karen was an intelligent woman, and though she often could not account for her aversions and affinities, she nonetheless enjoyed plumbing, pondering, and casting speculations like coins into the depths. Over time, she had developed a rather sophisticated theology of her own, which she nonetheless believed to be orthodox in the most important respects. She did not doubt that Christ was one of many symbols for something more comprehensive than Himself, yet, this awareness never prevented her from appreciating His concrete reality. Christ was an expression of themes rooted in what Jung called the collective and spiritual unconscious, but, then, so were we. And whether we incarnated through bodies, or were virgin-birthed from imaginations, we are no less real. But Christ, who uniquely symbolizes Love, was something more than real. He was central, and his reality was second to his centrality.

She set her hand over Gabriel's. It was cold, twitching, damp.

A glimmer of recognition seemed to cross his eyes like a shooting star, and his lips began to weakly move. Karen leaned closer, but she could make out only random words and phrases. Something about exile in Babylon and returning to Zion. How strange. Was this an answer to her prayer? She began weeping copious tears, and clutching his hand tighter, as if to hold the tremors still.

But a moment later he was still.

Gone.

Education and "Free Will"

The wise, in every age, have never been, nor have they ever proposed to be, anything more than teachers, whose purpose is to guide others in the way of becoming wise. The word "sage" is useful in illustrating this point, as it essentially means "wise teacher", but it is also redundant; since we should understand that a wise person and a teacher are one and the same. The function of the wise person is to educate or instruct, and the very first, most essential teaching which wisdom sets before us concerns the ultimate importance of education itself.

Down through the ages, nothing has been stressed so much as the proper shaping of young hearts, minds, bodies, and wills. Always, the wise have tried to make clear how profoundly a man's fate is determined by his upbringing; how fine characters may be corrupted, and lesser natures may be ennobled, according to the influences brought to bear during their formative years. The task of education is to be undertaken with the utmost seriousness and diligence.

The Chinese sage, Sun Tzu, before he teaches us anything of "The Art of War", takes pains to illustrate the significance of instruction itself. He speaks of a certain tree whose grain is knotted and whose trunk is not strait, and points out how even this wood, after receiving the proper treatment, can be made pliable; laid flush or perfectly bent into a circle. This is the man of little potential who, through proper guidance, may yet become a master. Conversely, he tells of a certain plant known to produce the most exquisite perfume, and how no person would want to smell it were it doused with urine. Clearly, this is the man of great talent whose gifts are smothered by improper education.

This first principle of wisdom has been almost utterly neglected in our present time. It is widely believed that boys will become men quite on their own; without help, or without much help, from educators. This is clear from the fact that, beyond a certain age, -- which may be relatively indeterminate or as exact as the eighteenth birthday, -- they are held entirely responsible for their choices; which cannot be traced to their upbringings without awakening tremendous controversy. "Free will" has taken such a powerful hold on our modern imaginations, we easily fail to see that it is utterly at variance with the very concept of education.

One may object that children, nonetheless, spend the majority of their time in school. And it is true, many hours are spent on learning mathematics and the like, but morality is altogether left out of our lesson plans; and morality, not mathematics, is the true measure of a man (and, by extension, of his education). No, it enters only as an afterthought; the child is reprimanded or punished for some "unforeseen" transgression which, it is assumed, he ought to have known and abstained from without preparation of any kind. Moral lessons do not begin or end the day, except in fairly religious families, where these lessons are often muddled and overshadowed by various dogmatic superstitions.

Consider the world as it is now. Who does more ill to a child, than those into whose hands he is commended for good? Those who love him most, but most unwisely, do him the gravest harm, by catering to those baser appetites which readily present themselves, and not to that subtler taste for virtue, which must be acquired. They feed his clamoring vices, and starve his quiet virtues.

In spite of this, our culture is saturated with moral exhortations and examples, so that we cannot help but acquire some sense of what it means to be a righteous person. The prospect of becoming righteous ourselves, however, is treated rather carelessly. We are accustomed to shrug off such notions with words like, "Well, I'm not Mother Teresa". It has become almost unthinkable that the very purpose of our existence is, perhaps, to become very much like Mother Teresa.

Individuals whose consciences are sensitive, however, have no choice but to entertain such thoughts. Early on, they conceive a desire to be good, and find themselves attracted by stories of the most exalted heroes. They are not confused by the multitude of heroic types which our culture sets before them, but immediately begin to zero-in on the true teachers of mankind. Napoleon and Alexander, Newton and Franklin, Rembrandt and Shakespeare do not impress them half as much as Francis, Gandhi, and Siddhartha. Yet, even these talented youth, who exude the perfume of virtuous aspirations, can scarcely hope to escape being doused by the urine of our modern age.

Enticed by virtue, they will, nevertheless, be conditioned into the most deplorable habits of stagnation and self-indulgence. Rather than learning to be silent, -- for this is the foundation of patience and all the virtues -- they are inundated with desensitizing stimuli to such a degree that they may forever after be seeking intense sensory experiences; often leading to drug use or other destructive behaviors. Before they can talk, they may be plopped down just a few feet away from some big-screen television. While the simplest things would suffice to inspire their awakening wonderment, they are immediately confronted with a maelstrom of colors and sounds, often for hours on end. Then come the video games. Before they can ride a bike, they are committing virtual car-jackings. Rather than the vigorous exercises which ought to be prescribed, they are left to wander among amusements which are so demonstrative as to force them into a passive and receptive condition.

It ought to be noted here that training of the body is no less serious a matter than training of the mind. To equip the mind with an understanding and appreciation of virtue, while habituating the body to stagnation and self-indulgence, is to set a man upon a course which he has no possibility of seeing through to completion. Morality is conceived in the heart and mind, but it is practiced with the body. Is it any wonder, then, when physical exercise is neglected, that we see men going only half of the way?

It is as though they have hit a wall. They stand motionless on the path, and exhort others to righteous actions which they have not the capacity to perform themselves. For they were brought up to love virtue, trained to praise what is good, then, with insufferably sluggish bodies and thoroughly wayward wills, sent into the world and expected to bring their actions into accordance with their noblest ideals and impulses.

How could they be anything but hypocrites?

For their sake, it might have been better to pervert their judgement no less than their will, so that the two would, at least, accord with one another, and the man who is wicked would be known as well by his words as by his deeds. He would be at odds with the world, but relatively at peace with himself; as unconscious as he is incapable of goodness. Instead, we fire young souls with a passion for goodness, even heroism, while denying them the means to accomplish such lofty ends.

Not bodies only, but wills, as well, must be disciplined. Even where bodies are conditioned to vigorous activity, we see, all too often, these muscles developed only in the service of the personal will. Charity is praised, yet, the actual incentives which are used to promote an active lifestyle are almost always of a highly personal nature; one gets for oneself, and not for others. Ultimately, the man who is self-sufficient in pursuit of his selfish desires is no less spoiled than the one who depends on others, and he may yet be a far greater burden on society. Indeed, the latter waits on charity, and survives on what modest allowance is provided, while the former, who has the power to gather as he pleases, always takes much more than his share. And, yet, both men retain in their minds and hearts a knowledge and appreciation of virtue which will never permit them to be comfortable with such a life.

Finally, we say their training is at an end (when it has just begun), and deem them adults, responsible for their choices. We unleash this cruelly exaggerated lie of "free will"; which essentially contradicts every principle of education. After all, what would be the purpose of education if every man, however instructed, were equally capable of knowing and doing what is right?

An Alternative To Determinism and Free Will

"Man is a synthesis of the infinite and the finite, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and necessity..."
~ Søren Kierkegaard

The logic of Determinism is far from inscrutable. While it attempts to trace a conveniently linear chain of effects back, and back, through antecedent causes, it cannot account for an ultimate cause (a "causeless cause") in time and space, nor can it do otherwise than ignore the relationships which surround phenomena on all sides; and not merely in two directions.

Whether we view the universe as infinite or as having a point of origin, the matter is equally boggling for determinists. If it is infinite, there is no ultimate cause, and the so-called "effects" must be otherwise explained. If, on the other hand, it is finite, then the ultimate cause itself is not an effect, and the fundamental assumption of determinism falls flat. While our theory of the Big Bang may present a clear and consistent explanation for the unfolding of events through space-time, it can offer no explanation whatsoever for itself. It is the mystical core of our mechanistic worldview; the dirty little secret which materialists everywhere would like to keep hidden, even from themselves.

As for the second objection, that determinism denies the multidimensionality of relationships between phenomena, a simple analogy should suffice. When we identify a single direct cause for a particular effect, and another single indirect cause behind the first, it is as if we were to locate the source of a son in his father, and of the father in the grandfather, without accounting for the mother, the grandmother, or the social and organic orders which seemingly provide the innumerable conditions required for his appearance in the world.

At the heart of deterministic logic we find the most compelling contradiction of all. This universe of ours, say the determinists, is one, indivisible whole. The division of this whole into causes and effects, beginnings and endings, is a kind of optical illusion, adopted for convenience. It is not the whole truth, but the model which we construct for the sake of accomplishing our mortal aims, since we should be entirely lost if we could not imagine beginnings and endings, or make more-or-less permeable distinctions between phenomena. We may intellectually regard the world as a single, dynamic process, entirely composed of relationships, and not a collection of individual phenomena, or things, but, for the purposes of living, we must draw lines of demarcation. As Saint Paul writes, "I speak as a man." The problem is that we forget the whole altogether when we posit the motive force for a particular phenomenon outside of itself; in another phenomenon, or even in the whole of phenomena. We forget that the whole is not outside of the part, and that nothing whatsoever is outside of the whole.

The universe *must* be self-regulating, for there is nothing besides itself. And the individual, being a manifestation of the whole, must possess a kind of freedom, though not of a personal nature. If man has the power to choose, it is because the whole of creation conspires and agrees with his choice. His changing mind is the changing mind of the All. He does not determine it any more than it determines him, for they are one and the same.