Paradise World

by Dan Edmund

Chapter 14 - Controversy!

  I went back to our living room where my parents were anxiously waiting. I flashed them a reassuring smile. "Hey, don't worry," I said.

  "Don't worry!" my mother shrieked. "We don't understand. What happened in there?"

  "Yeah, son, it sounded like a riot."

  Not to alarm my parents any further, I decided not to reveal Harry's bizarre dream. "No, really, it's all right. He just got a bit excited, that's all. An angel then arrived -"

  "Another angel!" my mother exclaimed.

  "Yes, and with him this bright light. It must be part of the Divine Light because suddenly he calmed down. He's actually now soundly asleep."

  "Oh, thanks be to God!" Mum sighed with relief. "Even though I still don't really understand, I know we must have trust and have faith in God."

  After a few more reassuring comments, I suddenly became overwhelmingly tired. I bade my parents goodnight and went off to bed. The next morning, as the morning rays filtered through the window, I felt fully refreshed and confident that Harry would now also be all right. Or would he? My answer came with a loud and bitter shriek.

  "No! Not again! And get this beast away from me!"

  I jumped to my feet and rushed over to the spare bedroom to see Cory lying on the bed, and on top of Harry. "Cory, get off him, and come here!" I snapped. Still wagging his tail, Cory jumped off and came to my side. "I'm sorry, Harry, he's just trying to be -"

  I had no time to finish my sentence. In one swift movement, he flung himself off the bed and pounced towards me. I thought for a second he was going to hit me. However, he only reached out to touch me. "Oh, my God, and you're still here! And why haven't I woken up in my own bedroom?" he moaned.

  Just then, my parents came out of their bedroom, but I beckoned them not to come. Reluctantly, they went to the living room. I sent Cory outside and closed the bedroom door. Meanwhile, Harry slumped back onto the bed. "What in God's name is going on?"

  I prayed silently for another miracle, but none came. However, I felt relaxed and patient enough to accept the challenge of my mission. "Listen, Harry, don't you recall what happened yesterday?"

  "Yesterday?" he asked blankly. He shook his head in despair. "I only remember dreaming about you and this crazy world of yours!" He banged the table with his fist. "What the hell is going on?" There was a poignant pause, and the air was almost palpable with grief and confusion. Then he uttered in a low undertone, "Yesterday I was safely at home. But then I didn't feel well and went to bed early that night and dreamt that...." His voice trailed off. He again looked as if he would go back into another one of his trances. Fortunately, he did not.

  Nonetheless, he went ghostly pale and stammered, "Oh my God! What the Devil is happening to me? I thought after waking up this morning, this ridiculous dream would finally end. But I see that it hasn't." He then looked at me in disbelief. "Obviously, I must be only dreaming that I have woken up from my dream. Yet, when will it end? When will it end?"

  "Harry, it's all right," I said comfortingly. "Don't you remember that I met you yesterday on top of a mountain, and that I took you here to our village, and then to our home?"

  He reluctantly nodded. "Yes, I...I do recall dreaming that," he stammered, "but...." His voice trailed off once more. He then violently shook his head, desperately trying to wake himself up. However, when he realized I would not disappear, he gave a pitiful laugh. "I guess I'm doomed to continue this crazy dream of mine, at least for a while longer." His face hardened. "Very well then. So be it! I guess I'll just have to endure it."

  It was obvious the angel and the Light had not provided the total and instant cure I had believed. However, he seemed no longer as traumatized and neurotic as last night. There definitely seemed to be an improvement, and at least he now resigned himself to the fact of being here, albeit in a dream. Recalling now the angel's request of helping him, I tactfully asked whether he remembered telling me last night about his strange apocalyptic dream, and of seeing an angel, and being immersed in the Light.

  He shook his head. "What angel and what light? You must be the one dreaming." He then paused before adding sardonically, "Rather, I'm the one dreaming since you can't possibly be dreaming because you're dead, and dead men dream no dreams." He forced a feeble laugh. Then again he went ghostly pale. "Oh, my God!" he gasped. "I do vaguely recall having such a dream. It was even a lucid dream!" He then abruptly stopped and shook his head in disbelief. "Yet, the strange thing is," he was again talking more to himself than to me, "I can't recall any details. How is that possible? I remember even writing the details out in my journal and discussing it with Roger. I never forget any of my lucid dreams when they are written out in full." He then chuckled to himself. "Of course, stupid of me. For a second I forgot that this is only a dream. You can't remember your other dreams whilst being within a dream!" He frowned. "At least I think you can't."

  I now knew it was pointless to still try to persuade him that he was not dreaming. He still needed more time. However, I was very glad to see him no longer as traumatized as last night. This was already a big step. With God's help, I was now determined to make his rehabilitation complete. Last night he held psychology in high esteem, so I now decided to use a bit of psychology myself. Why not simply play along with the game and let time do the rest? I flashed a devious smile, then casually said, "All right, Harry, just accept that it's only a dream. I don't mind. However, I promise you it'll be a wonderful dream, in fact, the best dream you've ever had, one that will not only cure you of your trauma, but will give you happiness for the rest of your life." I placed my hand consolingly on his shoulder. "So let me be your guide in this dream. Then, when you'll finally wake up, you'll really have something to write about in your journal." Knowing it would flatter his ego, I then stated flamboyantly, "Who knows, you might have stumbled upon the Rosetta Stone of dream interpretation, and like Carl Jung, be making history yourself!"

  The ploy worked. He suddenly smiled with self-gratification and nodded. "Yes, you may have a point. Roger always believed my dreams to be truly unique, even amongst lucid dreamers."

  "Good!" I cheerily exclaimed. "So how about meeting my folks again and having some breakfast before we explore this dreamworld together?"

  Thus we all sat together over the breakfast table, enjoying our flapjacks and freshly brewed herbal coffee that in taste and aroma would have surpassed the finest Arabica beans of the former world. My parents were both delighted and amazed over Harry's drastic change. Informed of my scheme, they also played along with the charade. The best part of it was that the more we talked about this paradise dream, the more interested Harry became.

  After breakfast, Dad also demonstrated how the lighting and cooking within the house worked, and he seemed genuinely intrigued. "It makes no scientific sense!" he naturally exclaimed. "However, if this was all possible, it would surely answer all the global warming and energy problems." Yet, what impressed him the most was when he saw his reflection as a young man in the mirror. "It's absolutely incredible! It seems I have discovered the fabled 'Fountain of Youth.'" He smiled forlornly, "Too bad it's only just a dream!"

  "I know for you it still seems like a dream. You just need more time, that's all," I said, forgetting my charade. "However, for us it's not a dream, and we all look that young, and some of the people have lived here for years, even decades!"

  "Doing what?" he asked.

  "Well, all sorts of things," my father now responded. "For example, I enjoy building furniture. My wife likes gardening and doing paintings, and my son enjoys playing his guitar."

  Harry smiled. "Yes, I've heard him play in real life. I must admit, I was rather impressed by his performance." He then gave a wry smile. "It was the same day I also met his rather pretty, but overbearing wife."

  I thought back to that time when I had been asked to perform at a wedding reception for the daughter of one of the faculty members of the history department. Jenny had also been invited, but only because she had been m
y wife. During the party, she had become involved in a religious debate between Harry and a faculty member from the theology department. I chuckled at the idea that Jenny, with only a modest education, but with all the preaching zeal of a missionary, would debate with these two learned men about early Christianity and their religious beliefs, particularly about the Millennium.

  Harry, noticing my chuckle, replied, "Ah, you recall our little argument, I gather?"

  "I certainly do, and it looks like she was right!" I said with a smile.

  Harry neither laughed nor smiled. "Yes, of course she was," he answered, then hastily and emphatically added, "in her dreams!"

  I laughed. "And also in yours!"

  Harry flashed a short, sardonic smile. "So where is this wife of yours? Why isn't she also here in this dream of mine?"

  "She hasn't been resurrected yet. But soon she will be!" I answered cheerily.

  "Of course, anything is possible in dreams!"

  "It sure is! And this is one heck of a dream to live in," my father said, keeping up the charade. Dad then turned towards me. "Hey, son, since he liked your playing so much, how about giving him a number or two?"

  Harry looked at me. "Yes, why not? I suppose you'll play as well in my dream as you did in real life."

  "Better!" I bragged. I therefore retrieved my guitar and footstool and sat myself on a chair in the middle of our living room. "All right, Harry, any requests?"

  For a moment he was silent, unsure of his choice. Finally, he replied, "Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata."

  Although written for the pianoforte, and thus technically not part of the guitar repertoire, nonetheless, Francisco Tarrega had also arranged a guitar version for it. I had always loved both the piano and guitar versions, and thus played it often at guitar recitals. I took a second or two to compose myself. Then I commenced the famous arpeggio introduction, slowly and somberly, letting the notes ripple forth their melancholic charm. Then came its equally melancholic melody, riding with and above the ongoing arpeggio. Harry and my parents stared and listened intently to the music flowing gently and seductively out of that magical musical box. Occasionally, I glanced up at Harry, delighted to see that he too seemed to be enjoying it.

  Finally, upon completion, my parents clapped, grinning with admiration. Yet Harry looked as mournful as the music he had just heard. "Yes, a fine performance. Well done!" Then with another ironic smile, he added, "Perhaps even Segovia would have approved."

  "You know of Andres Segovia?" I asked, complemented by the praise.

  "Yes. I have even seen him perform live in concert, as I have a number of other great musicians, including the pianist, Wilhelm Kempff, and the violinist, Mischa Elman."

  "By the sounds of it, you're a music connoisseur. Did you also play an instrument?" I asked.

  He gravely shook his head. "No, I knew I would never have the talent, nor in fact the time."

  "But here you have!" I quickly added. "I can teach you. I also play the piano. It had been, after all, my second instrument of choice for my master's degree in music. Of course, I can't play it nearly as well as the guitar. Still, I can teach you either, or even both of these instruments. Would you like to learn?"

  Harry sniggered. "What? Learn to play a musical instrument whilst still being in a dream!"

  I smiled almost mischievously at my next ploy. "But didn't you say anything is possible in dreams?"

  He nodded. "Yes, I did."

  "Well, Harry, because you believe anything is possible in dreams, what about you now playing the guitar?"

  He hesitated for a moment and then accepted the challenge. "All right, I'll just focus on the belief that I can play Beethoven on the guitar. As Roger had suggested to me, when I'm in one of these lucid dreams, I need to take control. He believed it was possible by visualizing something strongly enough, I might be able to affect the outcome of the dream." He shrugged his shoulders. "All right, I might as well test his hypothesis right now." He placed the guitar on his lap and clumsily placed his left fingers on the fretboard, and the right hand over the strings near the sounding hole. Then, almost theatrically, he closed his eyes and visualized himself playing the guitar. He must have gone through the entire score, but finally he opened his eyes, and then with an intent glare, he started to pluck the strings. However, instead of Moonlight Sonata we only heard some muffled and uncoordinated notes. We all laughed heartily, except Harry. He instantly stopped and angrily pushed the guitar back at me. "I told you I couldn't play!"

  We all stifled our laughter. "I'm sorry, Harry, but you either just proved the error of Roger's hypothesis, or else we have finally proved to you that you're not dreaming."

  "You've done nothing of the kind! I just couldn't focus myself enough, that's all."

  I smiled and nodded. "All right, Harry, I won't try to convince you. Just go ahead and continue dreaming. Meanwhile, as long as it lasts, can I show you around your very own dream?"

  It was just then that Cory started sniffing around Harry's legs. "Does this dog have to come with us?" he asked, pushing Cory aside.

  It was obvious that Harry was no animal lover, but I simply smiled and replied, "No, of course not."

  "Good!" he snapped. "Have you any pens and writing material in this dreamworld?"

  Puzzled, I asked, "Yes, but why's that?"

  He stared at me as if I was an imbecile. "I thought that would be obvious." He then heaved a sigh. "By writing the dream down, I will then be able to recall the details better when I wake up in the morning. Have you already forgotten that I keep a journal for my lucid dreams?"

  "No, of course not. I'll go get them for you." Moments later, I handed him a pencil and a clipboard with a stack of paper. Thus prepared, we commenced our tour of Paradise.

  The first place my father and I showed him was the building site area on the southern outskirts of our village. A group of our brethren were currently constructing a dozen or so new homes. However, upon seeing us, they stopped and tentatively came over to us. From the way Harry had responded last night, it was only natural that many felt reticent. But not Carlos. He immediately asked, "So, Harry, how are you feeling this morning?"

  "Like being in a dream!" came the terse reply.

  Our unflappable village spiritual mentor only laughed. "Ah, I see. But, my friend, I also see you're now fully awake!"

  Harry's face hardened, unsure what to make of that statement. I then explained to him that when he had met our community last night, he had been asleep.

  "What do you mean asleep? I am still asleep!" he snapped.

  "Not like last night, when all these people saw you fast asleep on your feet," I replied.

  Harry appeared genuinely puzzled. "What do you mean? That I was sleepwalking? That's absurd!" he protested. "I may be suffering from lucid dreams, but I've never suffered from somnambulism of any kind!" Then, after a moment's reflection, he dryly added, "Unless, of course, I was sleepwalking in my dream!" He then vigorously shook his head. "No! What am I talking about? I'm still in my dream!"

  Carlos chuckled. "All right, my friend, never mind." Still smiling, he pointed to the unfinished houses. "Would you like to help us?"

  "I'm an historian, not a manual laborer," he said with contempt. "I only want to be an objective observer, not a participant in this dream. Besides, why are you building all those houses?"

  "Because of the Great Resurrection!" Carlos replied with pride. Then, looking up towards our sacred mount, he added, "Like you, a lot more people will soon be resurrected here on Mount Anastasis."

  Harry frowned, then sniggered. "Of course, another symbolism. In the New Testament, the Greek word anastasis literally means to 'stand up,' and hence is translated as 'resurrection.'" Then, to the amazement of those around us, he started scribbling. I explained that Harry was taking down notes in order to remember the details of his dream when he woke up the next morning. Carlos laughed good-naturedly and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It's good to see you showing such an interest,"
he said, without the slightest trace of sarcasm. "So, my friend, would you like to just walk around and observe how houses are constructed here in Paradise?"

  He nodded and thus Harry and I inspected the various jobs. At several points he would stop to ask questions, or add to his notes. Although he probably knew very little about construction work, I could nonetheless see by his often surprised look that he was impressed by the way and the ease in which work was undertaken. However, after a little while, he lost interest. I then suggested that I could show him other places in and around our community. He readily agreed, and so the two of us ambled towards our Fellowship Hall at the center of the village.

  Along the way, we met a number of other people who greeted me in the paradise way of smiles and hugs. Harry, to his relief, had to settle only for the smiles. He nodded in return, and tersely answered their questions. To Harry, the people were nothing more than mere figments of his imagination, and this was exactly how he treated them.

  When we arrived at our Fellowship Hall, Harry scrutinized its exterior walls and steep roof. "I'm impressed, but tell me, are all your houses made from wood?"

  "Yes, at least in this part of the world where there are so many trees. The ones we use have a very rapid growth rate, and the buildings blend in well with our surroundings and thus..."

  "And thus making them environmentally friendly," he finished the sentence. "Obviously another dream symbolism in my subconscious. It probably pertains to the necessity for the real world to drastically alter the way modern society is ravaging our global environment."

  To humor him, I nodded and then invited him inside. The hall was empty, but I told him there was a scheduled Love Feast for tonight.

  "Love Feast! What on earth do you mean? Sex orgies?"

  The words shocked me. "No! Of course not! Not in a moral world as ours. Besides, well... I don't know how to explain this. Well,

  there's -"

  "Well, out with it, man! Don't just stammer like an imbecile!"

  "Well, there's no lovemaking anymore."

  Harry's eyes widened, and then for the first time since his resurrection, he laughed, a genuine and hearty belly laugh, right into my face. "And you call this place Paradise!" he exclaimed amidst more fits of laughter. Finally, after several seconds of mirth, he added soberly, "Not that it would matter to me anyway, even if there was such a world. I'm old and my wife is frigid!" Then shaking his head, he added, "You know, I've read a number of utopias, from Plato to HG Wells, but none that I could remember ever espoused total celibacy. Not even the pious Thomas More. However, tell me, just out of curiosity, how in the world do you expect the average person to be happy in a place supposedly like this?"

  I perfectly understood what he meant. In the old world, I would have reasoned likewise, but not any longer. "You see, Harry, it's like this. People who have been resurrected, or even lived through Armageddon, have been so biologically, chemically and emotionally modified that there simply is no libido in people anymore. Therefore, there is no procreation or even coition." I paused to reflect. "Yes, I think that's the right word. Anyway, only feelings of genuine and deep love remains, both between the opposite and same gender. So nobody misses it, and nobody is lonely either, because people that used to be married can still live together, or with others, or alone if they wish."

  Harry gravely shook his head. "I'm afraid that would only exist in your dreams."

  I laughed. "And in yours!"

  His lips twisted into a half smile. "Touch?! Now tell me, what's this love feast we're supposed to be having tonight?"

  "It's a custom we have once a week in which our whole community has a meal and fellowship together. It apparently used to be an old Christian custom."

  "Oh, yes," Harry sighed, "I should have remembered. Tertullian wrote about it, didn't he?"

  "Tertullian? Oh, yes, I guess so. But it's also mentioned in the Bible in -"

  "Yes, I know, in the Epistle of Jude."

  I nodded, surprised that he knew the Bible so well. "You know, tonight we'll be officially welcoming you into our community."

  He rolled his eyes. "Not if I wake up first!"

  I chuckled, then asked, "So what do you think of our Fellowship Hall?"

  He gazed around, noticing the polished parquet floor, large windows, and cathedral ceiling decorated with frescos of people, animals, birds, trees, and the Divine Light. Then slowly, he nodded his head in approval. "Well, it's not exactly the Sistine Chapel, but nonetheless, quite impressive, I must admit, at least in a sort of rustic way." He then smiled as he added, "Of course, the dream symbolisms, with all these frescoes of nature, are again all too obvious."

  "If you like it now, just wait for tonight when this whole place becomes alive. There's even going to be music performed there on the stage," I said, hoping to create an air of excitement and anticipation.

  Noticing the piano on the platform, he asked, "And I suppose the music will be played by you on that rather odd looking piano?"

  "No, probably by somebody else. There are two ladies that play reasonably well, as well as somebody who can play the violin not too badly, and another the flute. Carlos, who you just met, can also strum the guitar."

  "What do they play? Your church music?"

  "Yes, that's what basically they mostly play, I suppose."

  "What about you? You're classically trained? And you said you can also play the piano."

  "Yes, but certainly not up to concert standard. Also, the only classical piano music pieces I had a chance to play since my resurrection were Schumann's The Happy Farmer, a couple of Schubert waltzes, and Beethoven's Fur Elise."

  He flashed a smiled. "Then please be so good as to perform."

  I nodded somewhat reluctantly and played a less than perfect rendition of Beethoven's famous piano piece.

  By the look on his face, he clearly saw the mistakes I had made, particularly on the demisemiquavers. Yet, I simply laughed it off. "I tried to tell you, Harry, that I'm very rusty, as you can see."

  However, he simply nodded and then commenced scribbling. At first, I thought he was writing about my performance, as if he was some music examiner at the conservatorium. However, upon getting up from the stool, I realized he was writing about the Fellowship Hall. He then started writing about Deer Park Village and its inhabitants, including the conversations we had so far, much of it verbatim. He filled the entire first page, then a second, then even a third, amazing me with his prodigious memory. Finally, he looked up and asked, "So what other wonders am I going to be shown?"

  "What about our Hall of Worship?" I asked.

  A wry smile appeared. "Ah, the Hall of Worship. Of course. Yes, why not?"

  Again, he only seemed to be moderately impressed, although it was by far our most impressive building in Deer Park. To get there, we had to walk to the south-eastern edge of our village, and there on a hill, nestled amongst the pines, near the foot of Anastasis, our place of worship sparkled like a jewel.

  "Certainly this isn't of timber construction. Is it made from some sort of glass?"

  "No, actually from highly polished wood."

  "That's impossible!" he declared. "No wood could be that reflective." He sniggered and then shook his head. "Ah, I keep forgetting that this is only just a dream." Upon entering, he gazed up at the cathedral-type ceiling and studied the frescoes. "Yes, quite impressive, but, of course, they don't compare to the frescoes of Michelangelo." Noticing then the glassless windows, crisscrossed with delicate carved wooden lace, he added, "How quaint. However, why not use real stained-glass windows. It would have been more effective." He then pitifully shook his head. "However, even then, it still would not even compare to New York's Cathedral of Saint John the Divine."

  Oh, brother, what a snob! I thought. I seemingly liked him better as a neurotic. However, I only politely smiled at his condescension. "It's of course empty now, but on our seventh day, we pack our hall with more than three hundred people from our village and surrounding areas."


  He then noticed the piano, again very similar to the other one in the Fellowship Hall. "And I suppose during these occasions somebody will be playing hymns? But why on a piano? Why not on a pipe organ? It would sound so much grander."

  We walked towards it and he lifted up its cover and tapped a few keys. "So, could you at least provide me with an example of a hymn? I presume they are not the standard hymns one hears, but are compositions from your religion."

  "Yes, that's right. Would you like me to play one for you?"

  He nodded and thus I again sat myself on a piano stool and played 'We Thank You Our God.' It was a simple piece that I had easily learnt over the last two weeks or so. Upon completion I chuckled and added, "It sounds better when the congregation sings along."

  He sniggered. "Yes, of course." He then stared around our worship hall before walking up towards the platform. On the lectern he saw a closed book. He opened it and was surprised to see that it was not the Bible.

  "What is this?" he asked.

  "It's what we call the 'Paradise Text.'"

  "The paradise what?"

  "It's now our main sacred text, written under inspiration here in Paradise."

  He rolled his eyes but remained silent as he began scrutinizing the text. Occasionally he gave a sardonic laugh whilst steadily adding to his notes. Finally, he lifted up his head and asked, "So, has this book replaced your beloved Bible?"

  "No, we still use it. However, we use the version that has been rewritten under inspiration here in Paradise."

  "Oh dear, another version. Just what the world needed! All right then, is there a copy somewhere?"

  "Yes, in the cupboard behind you, where you'll also find copies of our hymnbooks."

  He opened the cupboard and firstly skimmed through our hymns before he picked up one of the Bibles. He moved back to the lectern, handed me the Paradise Text and placed the Bible onto the lectern. He opened to Genesis chapter one and read the first verse aloud: "'In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.' Or as it says in Jerome's Latin Vulgate, 'In principio creavit Deus caelum et terram.'" He paused and repeated the Latin words, 'caelum et terram,' literally meaning 'heaven and earth.' Yet, in the ancient Hebrew, heaven is shamayim, literally the plural form for heights, but can also mean heavens, and also always in the plural form. It is believed by many authorities that the ancient Jews conceptualized the heavens as consisting of firstly the ordinary sky which the birds flew, secondly the starry heavens, and thirdly the heavens of the heavens of supposedly God and the angels. Besides, the Hebrew word for God as used in this verse is Elohim, and it's in the plural form, not the singular, suggesting more than one God, this Yahweh of the Old Testament, or Jehovah, if you like." He paused and stared at me as if I was a student in one of his lectures. He then slowly and solemnly repeated the famous opening words of Genesis, then added, "Yes, those words in Genesis sound majestic. Too bad science proves them to be false."

  "Only if you believe in the theory of evolution!" I countered.

  "Darwinian evolution through natural selection is confirmed by paleontology, genetics, biochemistry, physiology, ecology, molecular biology, and perhaps even quantum physics. However, you creationists will never accept that fact."

  I knew it would be futile, even senseless to argue, but I did. "Then if blind evolution accounts for everything, then why does creation show such intricate design, from galaxies to the human brain, from the electromagnetic spectrum to the periodic table, from the biosphere to cells, DNA, molecules and atoms? And who or what started the initial spark of all this design, and who created all the scientific laws which controls the universe, the Earth and all its life? Also, why are there distinct species that cannot interbreed? Or why are there such gaps in the fossil records?"

  He laughed and mocked, "You forgot to add the ontological proof arguments of Anselm, Descartes, Spinoza and Leibniz. You also forgot Thomas Aquinas's prime mover argument, as well as Kant's famous but specious reasoning regarding universal moral laws!"

  I could not believe it. Here was a man who had just been resurrected from the dead, and here I was arguing with him over the existence of God. "Then how do you explain what has happened to you?"

  He sighed. "Because this is only a dream! How many more times do I need to repeat myself?"

  "All right, then how does evolution explain dreams, or consciousness, ideas, feelings of love and compassion, beauty, music, mathematics, spiritual phenomena, as well as the unconscious mind you kept referring to last night?"

  For a moment he had that wild-eyed look about him that he had yesterday, but then he shrugged. "I don't know."

  Then we just stood in silence, both of us unsure what to say next. Finally, after a long pause, he added, "Anyway, these arguments are outside my field of expertise, and I need to do more research, but not so with history and basic commonsense."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "I'm sure you know what I mean by history. However, by common sense I mean basic contradictions in here," he replied as he held up the Bible.

  "Sorry, Harry, that's not how we see it, especially now in Paradise. We again have the perfect text, exactly the way the original authors had penned them under God's inspiration, now perfectly harmonizing with itself."

  He laughed. "Then what about all those historical inaccuracies, the conflicts in biblical chronology? Have they also been harmonized?"

  I confidently nodded.

  He then flipped through the Bible until a text caught his eye. "Ah, here is a good example. He cleared his throat and read: "'Solomon your son is the one that will become king after me, and he is the one that will sit upon my throne in place of me!' So it says here in your opening chapter of the First Book of Kings." He frowned. "You know, my dear boy, there is not even the slightest historical or archaeological evidence that King Solomon even existed!"

  Momentarily I was unsure what to say. I certainly had not expected to be challenged on teachings we always took for granted, especially here in Paradise. Finally, after getting my wits together, I replied, "But Josephus, the ancient Jewish historian, wrote about him."

  He laughed mockingly. "Josephus! He lived in the first century, and thus centuries after this supposed king. Also Josephus's Antiquities of the Jews, at least in its earlier sections, is nothing but a glorification of the Jewish nation and its sacred books. He just rewrites supposed history from these books. Of course, he mentions, even glorifies this majestic and wise king of theirs that had supposedly built this magnificent temple, which likewise never existed."

  "Then what about the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem," I countered, suddenly realizing my mistake.

  He sighed. "The Wailing Wall, for your information, is the remains of the temple built during the time of Herod the Great." He then flipped the Bible back to Exodus. "Ah, I see. This myth is also still retained!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "This Moses character! Again, there is not a solitary shred of historical evidence of him in all the inscriptions and papyrus manuscripts discovered in Egypt. In fact, nowhere is there even any evidence that the Jews were even in Egypt during the biblical time period mentioned. As regards to he being the writer of Exodus, that is likewise a joke. The supposed books of Moses consist of three distinct literary traditions, the J, E, and P strands, each with their own writer living in different time periods. Now, regarding Moses supposedly floating down the Nile in a reed basket, and then being rescued by Pharaoh's daughter, well, that myth seems to be taken directly from the account of Sargon the Elder, the founder of the Akkadian Empire, and who reigned somewhere around 2300 BC. Folklore has it, according to an inscription found in the ruins of the royal library at Nineveh, that he was also secretly placed in a basket and cast into the river by his mother, only this time it was the Euphrates River, and the baby was rescued by Akki, the irrigator, and that the goddess Ishtar took care of him."

  "Harry, please, that's enough," I pleaded. However, there was no stopping him.


  "Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter!" he declared as he opened to the Gospel of Matthew. "I see you still have the Nativity scene, as well as the mass slaying of the infants in Bethlehem by Herod." He then looked up at me with a smirk on his face. "There are absolutely no historical references to these events, not even in Josephus, a Jew who lived just after the supposed life of Christ."

  "But Josephus does write about Jesus!" I snapped.

  "That reference to which you are referring to is also in his Antiquities of the Jews, where he speaks of Jesus as supposedly being the Christ, and according to the text, and I quote, 'condemned him to the cross' and that he 'appeared to them alive again the third day.' This is certainly a fraudulent Christian interpolation, although I admit that in another passage, where Josephus writes about James, who was the 'brother of Jesus, who was called Christ,' may be authentic."

  "Then there is also the Roman historian, Tacitus," I added. "I know he also wrote about Jesus."

  "That was in his Annals, which was written well over half a century after Christ's supposed life. However, Tacitus mentions almost nothing of Christ, or 'Christus' as he calls him, except that he, and I again quote, 'Suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus.'"

  "But Tacitus also mentioned that the Christians were used as a scapegoat by Nero for a great fire in Rome, and thus were savagely persecuted for it. I think that was about the year 50 AD, which was only twenty years or so after Christ's death. A religion that was so savagely persecuted could never have arisen and survived unless there really was a Jesus Christ, who not only performed great miracles, but was also resurrected from the dead, as the Bible states."

  He scoffed. "You have your dates muddled. The generally accepted date for the great fire that ravaged Rome was 64 AD. Also, the commonly four accepted Gospels were written long after Christ supposedly lived. It appears that much of his supposed life and teachings were actually taken from the mystical religion of Mithraism, which included such concepts as needing a mediator between God and humans, the teaching of baptisms, and the resurrection of the dead. Why, your Gospels are no more real than those Gnostic Gospels, or, for that matter, even those Christian novels like Quo Vadis and Ben-Hur! You know, I'd advise you to research some of the non-biblical texts of the Dead Sea Scrolls and those of Nag Hammadi, as well as -"

  "Stop! Enough!" I yelled in exasperation. For the first time since my resurrection, I had become angry, something I thought would have been impossible, until now. "Look, Harry, I know this must all seem impossible to you, but who do you think you are? You've died and were again brought back to life in an absolute paradise. Just because you think you're an expert in ancient and religious history, you lecture me about it, and try to deny everything you've seen and experienced." I huffed. "How about showing some gratitude!"

  "Gratitude to be in a dream?" he scoffed.

  I shook my head in dismay. "All right, Harry, have it your way. I give up! At least I can accept reality when I see it, which is more than what I can say about you. I thought I'd play ball with you by letting you believe that you were just dreaming, thinking by being patient you'd eventually realize that you weren't dreaming after all. But go ahead, try to wake up if you can. Try to prove to yourself that this is only a dream!" I paused and eyed him coldly. "But you'll soon discover that each time when you go back to bed, expecting to wake up in New York, you'll find that your right back here in Paradise. And you know what?"

  "What?" he asked defiantly.

  "If you keep wanting to escape, or even rebel against God's Paradise you've been blessed enough to be in, you might just get your wish. Only you won't be going back to New York, I assure you. You'll be going back to sleep all right. Permanently!"

  He glared at me. "Is that a threat? 'Big Brother Is Watching You!'"

  I sighed and shook my head. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. However, if I were you, I would be careful."

  After a few more heated exchanges, we both calmed down. To ease the tension, and hopefully convince him that he had indeed been resurrected, I suggested a walk up to Mount Anastasis.

  He nodded his approval. "Why not? If that's the place I first recalled entering into this crazy dream, it may be the stimulus to wake me up and take me back home again."