There was a post scriptum.
“We have been watching with great interest the lectures you have delivered in and around Los Angeles. We congratulate you on the depth of your perception.”
The PPS asked simply, “When can we hope to see you in Montreal?”
Sacha looked up at Deborah reading over his shoulders.
“They either don’t understand what I am talking about, or they really want me to represent them.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, my love. I shall. It is precisely what I am going to do.” He didn’t explain any further.
So the time has come.
He sighed deeply. Suzy and Alec were in the living room, busy with their own stuff. Deborah stayed next to him whenever she could. So little time. Soon she will not see me. Soon she will have to cope on her own. Probably with Alicia. Alicia needed help. I’ll make Debbie promise to look after her. She will like it. They like each other. They are good for each other...
Why am I going on like this?
I must be becoming very human. Perhaps… I really am.
Somehow when the storm hovers over the horizon, we don’t really believe it will reach us. We think that a butterfly will flap its wings somewhere over the Brazilian rain forest, and by the process of fractal augmentation the winds will blow the clouds away. We hope that the inclement weather will find a different course to vent its fury.
But that never happens. Virtually never.
We all carry our burdens, sometimes joyously, sometimes wearing us down to the very limit. But we always survive. Well, most of us. Some, those very unfortunate amongst us, must roll time back to prehistory, and start again. But this almost never happens, and when it does, the entity undergoing such a fate is not aware of what happened to it. It merely continues as though nothing had happened.
The Whole is not merciful. The Whole is mercy itself. It is all things to all men.
To all men of good will... As Lao Tsu said, Tao is impartial—it always favours good men. Destiny functions in mysterious ways—yet always, unerringly, for the universal good. Sacha smiled as he glanced again at the letter from Bonae Voluntatis.
For all men of bonae voluntatis.
Chapter 23
The Debate
Sacha was not a theologian. By all human standards he’d ever encountered, he was a confirmed atheist. He had no reason to accept that there was anyone or anything outside his own self that directed his life in any way. Of course, he recognized ‘self’ as his light body, the consciousness that resided permanently in the Undiscovered Realm. At the same time, no man thought of himself as more insignificant in relation to the Whole as he did. He also had total faith in the benevolence of the currents underlying all realities—currents, or laws, which manifested in the visible and the invisible universes. He believed, unflinchingly, in the power of love, although he might differ greatly as to what this four-letter word meant. For Sacha, love was first and foremost the unifying principle, a force that held the individualized units of awareness, bound together. Nothing, nothing man did or didn’t do, could diminish the integrity of the Whole. There was nothing man or any other individualization could do to detract from, or to diminish, Its completeness. That which is complete, that is holy. What is one with the Whole is perfect.
Quite simple, really, he thought.
From the moment he flitted in and out of his mother’s womb, even before he was born, before he became Sacha, he found it difficult to accept the evident constraints imposed on him by his physical body. He found them as difficult and trying as anyone of us. Yet, at some level of his awareness, he felt sure that he could overcome them. He had always suspected that physical limitations were only imaginary, that his true self could never lose its absolute prerogatives. He also grew convinced that men like his father would, in time, extend the boundaries of physical perception to heretofore unheard of levels. Later, much later in his life, he’d accepted that his physical body was necessary. After all, it was his physical embodiment, or more accurately his physical consciousness, which was instrumental in fulfilling his destiny.
And his destiny was drawing closer.
It was approaching as adamantly as the storm clouds gathering from the direction of prevailing winds. A storm as great and as inevitable as any man witnessed on his journey towards his destiny.
Sacha knew from observation and experience that the more universal the aspirations, the greater the resultant joy, satisfaction, and ultimately bliss in their fulfillment. He’d already learned that in the East End of London. He knew it to be true at all levels of his awareness. It sounded like a simple dictum. Universality versus parochialism. It was a much simpler concept than the complexities, intricacies, not to mention implicit and explicit mysteries, concocted by many an orthodox theology.
He had to convey this axiom to all who would listen.
The actual time for the Debate had been selected on Madison Avenue. It had been estimated that by extending time-slots on TV, they could cover a larger audience from the demographic as well as psychographic point of view. The demographics defined who has spent money on the items advertised. The psychographics dealt more with how they’d spent their money. Regardless, whether it was on junk food or expensive cars. All in all, there was more money in junk food. According to Marx, or Engels, it used to be religion––now junk food has become the opium of the masses. And the masses had more money than any Marxist had ever dreamt of. The leaders of religions swore to reverse this ungodly trend. Or, at the very least, to exploit it.
The advertising executives had decided to direct themselves at a demographic audience in the 18-49 age group, but to include the 50+ for the psycho-graphic angle. They had to. All the baby-boomers were now well over 50 but they still had the money. It was in the extraction of money that Madison Avenue specialized. And they were good at it. Like a good dentist, they knew how to pull, hard, no matter what the pain. They even became adept at making up stories that acted as an anesthetic.
“You need (whatever we have to offer). You’ll find it indispensable... It is for your own good... For your health, happiness, satisfaction, peace of mind... It will make you sleep better... It will reduce your obesity... It will give you abs, buns, pecs, (or other selected parts of your anatomy) of steel... For every ton of junk-food you buy, we give you a free sample of laxative pills guarantied to restore you to your previous contours...”
To quote the late King of Siam: et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. There was no end to their generosity.
Finally, after innumerable committee meetings and worldwide market research, they arrived at the ideal time for the Debate. By a complex system of ‘live’, ‘taped live’, and ‘presently being taped live’ as well as instant and not-so-instant replays, they were assured of preferred airings in different time zones. Not just in the USA, Canada, Central and South America, but in every country of Europe, Africa, Middle and Far East, people would, or at least could, listen to the Debate at their most propitious time. Prime Time—the time when people were relaxed and willing to watch and listen to the advertisers displaying their wares.
The advertising agents also worked in close cooperation with ACL, the Associated Churches League. During the last two years, various churches, sects and familiar charitable organizations, had finally learned that they can pull in more money if they cooperated. Secret negotiations had been conducted, compromises had been forged in signed contracts between interested parties, the gods, or at least the theological definitions of gods, had been realigned to suit everybody. Outside the select few, the gray (sometime crimson, sometime black, and sometime white) eminencies who run the church businesses, decided to attempt to live in harmony. It didn’t work yet, but there was hope. Money was a great unifying factor. The rest of the various believers continued to fight each other. The faithful wouldn’t fight on their own, of course, but with a gentle push, a little skillful manipulation, the struggle for theological supremacy was easily reawakened. The sheep needed a
push to become goats. But it was worth it. And it was good for business. Competition never hurt anyone.
But times changed.
There were undercurrents; clandestine trends among some of the League members, who attempted to exploit the power of religion for their own, political ends. The League would not permit this. It was not good for their image; it undermined their authority, and, let us be quite honest, it wasn’t good for business either. And business was very, very important. And necessary. The major religions, the religions that counted, had inherited an enormous burden imposed on them by history. There were tens of thousands of churches, mosques and synagogues, ancillary buildings, not to mention works of art, collections of precious metals, priceless jewelry, voluminous libraries, and all gods’ bounty, which needed upkeep. There were also traditional organizations that were, at least in name, sponsored by the churches. There were also the hungry to feed, the ignorant to teach––at least a little reading and writing. These were the duties the churches took upon themselves. And in addition, the churches swore to fight the murderers of the unborn, the purveyors of sexual exploitation or prostitution; pursuers of unjust wars, abusers of… there were so many irons in the ecclesiastical fire.
Business was extremely necessary.
The Debate was to be limited to the three principal religions of the West (and the Middle East). Sacha thought it didn’t amount to much until he realized that each of the major religions enjoyed countless schisms that had to be harnessed. Let the Hindus and the Buddhists take care of their own business, they told him at Bonae Voluntatis. To others, who pointed out this obvious inadequacy, this self-evident racism, the League replied ex officio that there was only so much the League could do. They were only human, etc., etc. And when that hasn’t silenced the professional critics, the League spokeswoman said that there was not enough money. The critics understood instantly—lest they were asked to contribute.
And after all, the Christians, the Moslem and the Jews shared a common thread. They all began with Adam and Eve, they all called Abraham their father, and they all believed in One God, even if they invoked His presence by different names. If these three could unify under a single Authority, all would be well. Or at least better. At least for now.
It would be good for business.
Sacha didn’t mind either. He knew that, left alone, Arjuna would do his best. He met his old friend from India periodically. They always chose the Home Planet. At higher planes the distractions to the mind were too great. In the Far Country they both spun universes with their mental fingertips. How could they have talked of Earth?
But that was another story.
At Oxford and the Sorbonne Sacha acquired a number of letters that qualified him to take part in the Debate. There were, however, many others of equal qualification. ‘The Debate of the Century’, as billed by the Ecumenical Movement and their Madison Avenue agents, was the first step towards clearing the way for the new Millennium. The millennium foretold by so many oracles and prophets. By the Book itself. At least, according to some interpretations. The fact that the millennium had begun some time ago was dismissed as a mere detail.
“God created time,” they said. “God will adjust it if and when He deems it necessary.”
Quite true. Over their combined history, the Churches adjusted time at least four times between them. In God’s name, of course.
Thus having letters behind your name does not a ticket of entry make. This is why Sacha had joined Bonae Voluntatis, in Montreal. He had already suspected, then, that with the United Nations holding court on the Asian economical debacle on the East Coast, the Ecumenical Movement would prefer to keep as far away from there as possible, lest they were accused of some political mongering. Sacha expected that being qualified and residing officially on the West Coast, all he needed was a membership of an established international charitable organization to be allowed, if not actually be invited, into the building.
He was right.
He wrote back to Montreal that he would be more than glad to report on the proceedings to the Bonae Voluntatis in due course. He got back a lapel tag that displayed his name in prominent letters, and sported his photo that they must have lifted from some digital TV program. He was now able to enter not just with the masses but, if there be such, the Holy of Holies. Later he found that this precaution didn’t prove necessary. This was not Boston, and he was no longer a fourteen-year-old. All participating members had equal access to the main hall where the Debate would take place. In fact there were no open tickets for the general public. Your very presence cast you among the select few. Whatever other entitlements, the membership of a recognized international charitable organization gave him access to the great leaders. To get a better seat in the auditorium, the Sorbonne had given him an extra edge. After all, it was the Sorbonne’s theological reputation that raised it above other colleges in Paris. Following all this, he’d never found out who was his counterpart, or colleague, from the organization he was representing. Perhaps there wasn’t one, after all.
As for the advantages of the Sorbonne, Sacha had been aware of such when he’d decided to study there. All roads lead to Rome, he’d thought at the time. If you only let them carry you in their indomitable current. But some get you there faster than others.
Other than all of the above, Sacha had no idea what to expect. He had acquired a reputation outside the academic circles that preceded him. He traveled extensively and shared his views with all who were ready to change their lives sufficiently not to fall back on what caused their original distress. He called congenital blindness the primary illness of the world. He was not referring to physical blindness.
He was long past working incognito. And news, in certain circles, traveled fast. He was ready. The gathering clouds swept his destiny directly overhead.
There were many speeches. They were all intended to rubber stamp the previous agreements, signed and sealed behind closed doors. This occasion was designed for the masses. The select many. For the world at large.
Urbi et orbi.
The orations had been delivered by tall men, and by men who were short. By men who were fat, and others who were skinny. A good touch that, thought Sacha. Everyone had someone to identify with. Some men had long beards, others who were clean-shaven. Some wore crimson––as the blood of martyrs, others black––as pure intellect, and others still wore robes as white and as innocent as the wings of the doves of peace. They all expressed their learned opinions on the advantages of ecumenism. They all sang the same song, in perfect unison. The orations had been well rehearsed. No money or business aspects had been mentioned. It was all very grave and earnest, very compassionate and catholic, very loving, understanding, thoughtful, generous, considerate and kind. It was all above board.
Listening to them Sacha wondered why it was that so many such compassionate members had chosen to murder each other, with no rancour or mercy, for thousands of years.
This was the first mystery Sacha was unable to resolve.
Then the microphones were passed on to the lesser representatives, or perhaps to children of a lesser god. They did not represent the churches, but had served the church causes, those of compassion and loving and generous understanding. Members who might, in time, improve their lot sufficiently to contribute to the greater glory of the church. Any church. Of the Unified Churches. Perhaps, in time a Single Church? United under a single banner?
There had been even more speeches from the representatives of these organizations than from the eminencies of the churches themselves. Nevertheless, for the most part, they gave depth to the Ecumenical Movement. The sacerdotal representatives spoke in the name of God. The lay members––in the name of the people, in the name of the children of God, of the masses ever willing to follow their leaders like good, obedient, meek and servile members, on whose backs the Churches of One God rose to such unprecedented glory.
They had been given ten minutes, each. And Sacha was among them.
; And then, it was his turn...
Look ... he said.
And with an effortless ease Sacha’s body began to shimmer, dissolve and then reintegrate itself on the podium.
Then his mouth moved but his thoughts were projected directly to each man and woman present. Their auras were so similar. They all, or nearly all, responded to the same vibrations. Each one of them heard Sacha speak in his and her own language. Yet it was so natural that not one of them became aware of what was happening.
Later, much later, they didn’t believe it either.
Sacha spoke as a Catholic, as a Southern Baptist, a Lutheran, and a Quaker. He spoke as a member of every Christian sect present. Then he spoke as a Muslim—as proponent of any and all Islamic sects that had joined forces in this Ecumenical Movement. He quoted vast passages verbatim from the Holy Koran and related them to the Christian teaching. Finally he spoke as a Hebrew. There were many different mindsets among the Jews, yet each saw the advantages of the Ecumenical Movement. There were as many Jewish sects, denominations, not present but listening over the airways, as there were Christian and Moslem, yet each calling themselves Jewish. The Diaspora. He showed them all what they all shared. Sacha confirmed the teaching he’d already promulgated by equally exhaustive evidence from the Old Testament. Even from the Talmud. He demonstrated the irrevocable interrelationship of all faiths, all creeds, and their interdependence in the process of arriving at the perception of reality. He gave substance to the real reason for the Ecumenical Movement. Not the agreed secret contracts that would remain secret ‘as all things of God must remain secret’. Or so they said.
Sacha—The Way Back Page 30
