by Jon Saboe
“Your volitional essence is as immortal as the Creator Himself.”
The statement was directed at Peleg, but Shem was staring intently into the campfire as he spoke. They had been discussing volition (again), but their conversation had slowly dwindled to silence, and the last few minutes had been spent watching the fire and listening to nothing but the crackle of embers, and the occasional “pop!” as the flames found an air pocket in the burning birch branches.
It was late in the evening of their second day of travel. There was no sign that anyone was following them, but they continued to travel with care—avoiding the main roads, attempting to follow the path of the river, and traveling mostly at night.
Their trip would have taken a single day had they traveled on the river, but they had decided it was more prudent to avoid major trade routes. Numerous cargo vessels and pontoon barges had passed them during the last two days, and occasionally they were spotted by a pilot manning his rudder or a seaman adjusting his sails. When this happened, Peleg always felt awkward and a little nervous. It simply looked strange for three well-dressed men to be walking in the open fields and damp marshes next to the river. They looked like they had money, but they had none. Even if they had wanted to travel by ship, purchasing passage would have required Shem to part with more of his stones—and he had made it clear that he was not willing to part with any more of his treasures from the previous world.
Their evening meal had consisted of roast hart, and Peleg had enjoyed the spices that Bernifal had collected—primarily because they reminded him of home. His thoughts swirled slowly as he stared into the fire.
Choices. Reu’s choice to give wealth a predominate priority. Peleg’s choice to trust Shem—within reason. And, of course, the decision to leave at once for Ur.
Peleg was startled out of his reverie by Shem’s final comment, and with a slight shake of his head, he responded.
“Essence?”
Peleg coughed slightly as a whiff of smoke turned towards him. His eyes watered.
“What do you mean by ‘essence’?” Peleg asked again, squinting.
Shem turned from the fire.
“At the Citadel, you were taught that man consisted of two parts: mind and body.” Shem raised his eyebrows to wait for Peleg’s confirmation, then continued.
“I believe we have demonstrated that a third component is required; one that transcends the physical, and this component is the volitional or decision-making abilities that make us uniquely human.”
A thought suddenly occurred to Peleg.
“Animals make decisions, also,” he blurted. “They choose when to fight, when to run, when to eat, and so on.”
Shem smiled.
“Don’t confuse instinct and learned behavior with true free will,” he said. “Animals can’t choose to think about impossibilities, or make self-sacrificing decisions contrary to their nature or training. They may have extremely complicated thought processes, but they are completely within the confines of hereditary or experiential conditioning.”
Shem shifted to avoid smoke, and looked directly at Peleg.
“You have special abilities. You are able to imagine a rock floating in mid-air, or believe something for which there is no evidence,” he said. “If I am not mistaken, you call it ‘faith’.”
Peleg nodded. Faith was not something encouraged at the Citadel. It was the last refuge of the superstitious, and was only espoused when no evidence for a belief could be found. But he had to admit that, when defined as ‘imagination’, it was something that made humans special—and was certainly a source for creativity and innovation. For the first time, he considered the possibility that faith could be something positive.
“Your volition makes you uniquely you,” Shem continued. “It is much more than simple decision-making. It defines your unique personality, unique emotional traits, and your unique preferences. And your mind is much more than simple memory and thinking. It coordinates between your body and volition, calculating and solvinghow to accomplish those things your volition has chosen to do.”
Peleg nodded, trying to absorb it all, as Shem continued.
“Before the curse was brought down on creation, man was perfectly comprised of three immortal parts: body, mind, and volition. Since that fall, however, the body fails, the mind forgets, and the volition, although still immortal, is forced to function in ignorance and isolation.”
Peleg waited for him to continue, but Shem had finished his thought and turned back to the fire. Nothing was said for several minutes. An ember exploded, sending a cascade of glowing sparks skyward. Peleg’s thoughts began drifting, expanding to fill the silence. The idea that there were once people with superior physique and intellect was not uncommon. In fact, the request that Inanna had made of him before his departure was based on this premise.
But this time he began to personalize the concept, and a flush of anger went through him. He disliked the thought that he was frail and weak-minded in comparison to what he should have been. If this Creator had damaged his own creation out of pure spite or vengeance, perhaps he was not to be trusted. If Shem’s view were correct, then the entire human race had been spoiled—and the condition could only get worse.
Peleg’s question had an obstinate tone as it punctured the silence.
“What type of crime against your Creator could justify such a punishment?” he asked. “What does He expect from us? Perfection?”
Shem turned back to Peleg.
“The initial transgression was simple disobedience,” he said. “However, no one really knows what rules or laws the Creator intends for us to follow. Someday He will reveal them, but I think we can be sure that laws against overt crimes like murder, stealing, and lying would be among them.”
Peleg was instantly defensive.
“Well I certainly have never committed such offences. The Citadel has swift sanctions for anyone who violates its policies.”
Shem smiled.
“I said ‘overt’ crimes. Since we are the handiwork of the Creator, we are all equal in His eyes. If anyone feels he is better or more important than another person, or if they despise someone because of a weakness or inability, they insult His creation. You can be sure that such attitudes would also be among His list of prohibitions.”
“How can the Creator demand what we think?” asked Peleg angrily.
“Remember,” said Shem, with that same irritating smile. “You are supposed to control what you think.” He shifted to face Peleg more squarely.
“You must understand,” he said, “that one day, when His law is revealed, there will then be two types of people. Those who violate His law, and those who feel they are superior because they keep His laws. Both will be guilty before the Creator.”
Peleg fought against the feeling of entrapment that threatened to overtake him.
“You’re speaking of pride,” he said quickly. “Most thinkers and statesmen condemn that. But to suggest that there is no escape simply because this Creator designed a no-win situation is cruel—and He is not a Creator in whom I would be interested.”
Peleg looked hopefully at Shem, expecting him to be offended. But instead, Shem began laughing in the same infuriating manner he always did when Peleg was demanding a serious answer. It took all of Peleg’s self-control not to punch Shem where he sat.
When Shem quieted down, he wiped his eyes.
“There is an escape,” he said. “The coming Zeh-ra provides it. When the Creator becomes a man, only He will be able to live a life fully obedient to His law, yet completely devoid of any pretense or pride. Those of us who have chosen Him to represent us as our advocate will be declared free from any guilt.”
The embers were slowly dying, and Shem poked them with a large stick causing them to flare-up with sparks and small white-hot flickers.
“You have no need for concern,” he continued with a large smile. “Today, the Creator has only one demand of us. We must simply believe Him—believe what he has rev
ealed.”
“Believe him?”
“Yes,” replied Shem. “You see, Peleg, there is really only one crime that we can commit against the Creator.”
He stopped, refusing to speak until Peleg had voiced the obvious question.
“What is that?” asked Peleg, finally giving in.
“Insanity.”
Everything stopped as Peleg refused to believe what he had heard.
“Insanity?” he choked, incredulity emanating from every part of his being. “How can that be?”
Shem smiled annoyingly and asked, “How would you define insanity?”
Peleg took a deep breath, (inhaling a little too much smoke) and eventually answered tentatively.
“Believing something that is not true. Insisting on living contrary to reality.”
“Good,” Shem smiled, more pleasantly this time. “And some examples?”
“Well,” said Peleg slowly, trying to think of the most ridiculous propositions. “Believing that you can breathe underwater, or that the earth is flat, or…” he paused, squinting at Shem. “Or that you are the only one to possess all knowledge.”
Shem laughed slightly, ignoring the innuendo.
“Naturally,” Shem added, “you would have to include those who live by superstitions and irrational thinking.”
“Absolutely,” said Peleg, encouraged by this new direction.
“In fact,” said Shem, “Whenever anyone functions or makes decisions contrary to reality, you can be sure they will arrive at incorrect and often dangerous conclusions. If, for example, one were to believe that they could fly, and that gravity did not apply to them, they might test their beliefs by jumping from a precipice. If one assumed that all people are trustworthy, they will soon find themselves cheated or lied to.”
“Or if someone believes,” said Peleg, beginning to enjoy this game, “that their poorly made ship can survive a powerful storm, they will be destroyed. And anyone who believes that nothing can kill them is certainly insane!”
Shem nodded, offering more examples.
“Or someone who believes that design can spontaneously arise from chaos, or that matter can move without external force.”
Peleg laughed.
“And what about a person who thinks that the moon is made of nothing but …”
Shem silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“I think we have established the concept,” he said, nodding, leaving Peleg feeling both embarrassed and slightly insulted.
A rustling in the low brush caught their attention, and they immediately fell silent, nervously wondering who or what was approaching.
Peleg watched Shem sniff a few times, and then relax. It would be Bernifal. Peleg had watched this procedure countless times during their months of travel.
Eventually, Bernifal pushed through the undergrowth, carrying an assortment of figs and several pears. He was wearing his one-piece fur outfit—his finer clothes were always removed the second they set up camp.
Soon they were all enjoying their dessert, and Shem continued the conversation.
“If it is a given that the Creator possesses all knowledge, and that this knowledge defines reality, then it would stand to reason that any disagreement with the Creator would constitute insanity, correct? After all, a disagreement with the Creator would be a disagreement with reality.”
Peleg’s earlier mirth vanished instantly, replaced by indignation.
“Are you trying to say that the Creator can not tolerate any dissent?” he demanded.
Once again, Shem responded with his vexing laughter. And once again Peleg forced his hands to remain at his sides.
“Naturally, the Creator can handle dissent,” Shem said as his laughter faded. “It is we who can not endure the conflict between His reality and our ignorance.”
“I hardly think it is fair to condemn someone just because they disagree.”
Shem shrugged slightly.
“The Creator is not obligated to alter His reality to accommodate our subjective whims,” he said with finality.
Peleg turned back to stare into the fire, finishing his pear. He did not appreciate being told that his disagreements were “subjective whims”. His entire life had been devoted to the removal of ignorance, the accumulation of knowledge, and the preeminence of objectivity. But what if a higher source of information did exist? One that provided knowledge beyond the observable—yet was eminently more objective than he could ever hope to be. He certainly did not wish to be close-minded.
Suddenly, angry words, which had been spoken by his late friend, Serug, returned to his mind. Serug had spoken them to their tonga driver on the way to dinner; the same evening Peleg had asked his friend to join him on the Great Discovery Expedition.
There are more possibilities in the universe besides the simple ones you make up in your head. You know, ignorance is a powerful thing—it makes fools feel omniscient.
Peleg smiled slightly at the words as he thought of the large driver rising from his seat—and his memory of Serug with the look of panic in his eye, determined to stand his ground, yet shrinking back slightly from the impending fight.
He also recalled Serug’s disillusionment as he realized that all theories and speculations of humanity, regardless of their brilliance or complexity, were still “made up in their heads”.
With a flash of insight, Peleg realized he needed to apply the same criteria to Shem.
“You have offered nothing but words,” he said sharply.
Shem jumped slightly as his own thoughts were interrupted.
“You have presented complex and mind-stretching analogies,” Peleg continued, “and presented a compelling case for something higher than human intelligence. But I have only your words—which, for all I know, represent your own insane speculations. Even if there is a Creator, who is to say that your assessments—or pronouncements—line up with His reality?”
Shem was taken aback. He tossed his pear core into the fire where it sputtered.
“The Creator has revealed…”
Peleg cut him off, angrily.
“I am familiar with many myths and legends in oral and written literature. Most claim to be ‘revealed’. And the sole purpose of that claim is to prohibit accountability on the part of the ‘revealer’!”
Shem said nothing, staring at Peleg, his mouth moving slightly but forming no words. The silent impasse stretched until Peleg almost felt sorry for his outburst. Eventually Shem lowered his head and spoke.
“Please forgive me,” he said slowly. “I have presumed a great deal of you.”
Peleg showed no response.
“You should never be expected to accept what I say, simply because I say it.”
Peleg gave him a slight nod.
“However,” Shem continued, “With your permission, may I recite the Amar, or declaration, which the Creator has revealed to us? I don’t suggest that you should accept its content, nor would I demand that you believe it comes from some supernatural source.”
Shem smiled gently before adding his final suggestion.
“You could simply add it to your collection of origin stories.”
Peleg nodded, surprised by Shem’s sudden docility.
Shem accepted his permission, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back.
Peleg was familiar with standard origin myth formulas: Start with broad, incredulous generalities; select some arbitrary mystical element like cosmic mud or shining vapors; personalize some natural forces with names and special abilities; and finally toss in some lightning, some earthquakes, and other sources of conflict. Suddenly stars, mountains, and oceans appear out of the swirling mix, and eventually the first humans appear, ready to challenge the aforementioned personalities. Add some intriguing drama and then declare that any one who questions the validity of the story will be punished—usually by the same personalities. In fact, he had composed some himself in his creative writing classes.
Shem was still sitting silently, his
eyes closed.
Finally, he began.
“In the beginning...”
He stopped and opened his eyes.
“You must understand,” he said with a slight grin, “that I have never recited this in your language. There may be some pauses.”
Peleg nodded, exerting great self-control as he forced himself to not roll his eyes.
Shem closed his eyes and began again.
It was nothing like Peleg expected.
As Shem spoke, Peleg was stunned with what he heard. Shem’s recitation contained simple declarative statements with no attempt to impress or awe the listener. He spoke in short, matter-of-fact sentences, and succinctly presented the Creator’s steps as He formed the various realms of His creation—delivered in a concise, daily outline. There were no explosions or violent storms accompanying the creative acts. The Creator simply spoke, and the desired handiwork was simply willed into existence—from nothing!
It was unlike anything Peleg had ever heard. A listing of straightforward facts, occasionally followed by brief elaborations. If it wasn’t so fantastic, it would have been boring—a historical narrative, listing events and summarizing results.
Shem told of the first man, and the gift of volition bestowed upon him as he was formed in the Creator’s own image. The ability to make choices as he named and categorized other creations. The gift of a wife and a perfect environment.
Shem then spoke of a serpent who tested their volition. Peleg was reminded of Viracocha—and the leader of the Nephilim—as the serpent sought to undermine the Creator’s nature and deceive the new couple. Shem then told of their failure to believe the Creator, their willful defiant disobedience, their attempts to blame one another, and the ultimate, tragic consequences of their rebellion.
Death, pain, toil, and sorrow were explained, but in the midst of this agony, a remedy was also offered. Peleg felt a brief moment of inexplicable joy as he heard of the coming Zeh-ra—and how He would crush the head of the serpent!
