“A religion of domination.”
“Exactly. It’s only natural that a culture of domination, of slave-holders, would produce religions of domination. Would sanction caste systems. Would say that people are poor because of something they, themselves, did in a past life and not because the power-holders in the culture have gone insane with greed and power. Would blame some ancient woman for the pain people experience, rather than the kings and wealth-holders.”
“But we don’t have slaves today. How come this persists?”
“You don’t have slaves?” Joshua said. “What is a slave, but a person who owes his life to another. In the city above you are millions of slaves. The corporations who own them even buy and sell them with their properties, just as in the old days. And when they don’t need the slaves they acquire with new properties-new businesses they buy-they expel them, leaving them alone and frightened to fend for themselves, just as they did in days of old.”
“We’re slaves?”
“Do you know anybody who works for a big company or government who would describe himself as free’?”
“You mean free cultures don’t have religions that blame bad things on god or on the person himself?”
“No, they don’t, by and large.”
“But what about people who experience supernatural things,” Paul said. “Evil things. Ghosts or the devil. Or good things, for that matter, who see angels? I thought that evil was the absence of good or love, so none of those things could be real. But it sounds like what you’re saying is that evil is in the culture when it’s taken over by a small number of evil people, but that it doesn’t exist on a spiritual level.”
“Now you’re getting close to a greater wisdom,” Joshua said. “Although instead of calling them ‘evil people,’ I prefer to call them ‘sleepwalking people.” They’re still asleep in the dream of our culture. They don’t yet know wisdom.
“which is?” Paul took his notebook back out. He was thinking that instead of a newspaper story, there was enough here to make a book. They gave Pulitzer Prizes for books, too.
“The Creator is the formless behind the form, encompassing everything, interfering with nothing. However, if enough people believe–or one person believes enough–it is possible to bring from the formless a ‘spiritual’ form, demonic or angelic, gods or demons, spirits or sprites, angels or ancient beings. All are human creations, as they represent projections of human consciousness, but all are real, nonetheless. The Mystery is that gods and angels and demons are the creations of humans.”
“This is getting really confusing,” Paul said. “Do you mean to say that if there were no people, there would be no angels, for example?”
“No human-like angels,” Joshua said.
“What other kinds are there?”
“What other kinds of conscious beings exist in the billion billion billion worlds of the universe?”
“I get it,” Paul said. “Do dogs have dog angels?”
Joshua smiled. “I don’t know. I’m not a dog.”
“So I created Noah?”
“No,” Joshua said. “But someone-possibly he, himself, when he lived as a human-or some group of people provided the belief that allows him to exist. Remember the power of belief.”
Paul thought back to his first encounter with Noah, and said, “I think he said something about that.”
Joshua shrugged. “He understands how it all works.”
“So, then, this means that the Demiurge, an angry god, demons, angels, fairies, the whole range of spiritual beings, that they are real? I mean, even though we made them, they exist? They’re really real?”
“Yes. It is stated this way. It is possible–paradoxically–to ‘prove’ there is an intervening spiritual realm and that there are spiritual beings, because with belief or prayer or ritual people can bring forth from the formless their own projected forms. And so it is real and true that people like Katherine Kuhlman could perform miracles, that Biblical stories could be true, that Hindu fakirs can be in two places at once, that the Virgin Mary can heal people who pray to her, and so on.”
“But I thought that when we attempt to envision a god, we create a man-made or man-like god.”
“These two truths do not contradict each other. People built these tunnels. It doesn’t make them not-real. You can still die in a tunnel collapse, or hurt your head banging against the iron beams, or find protection and shelter here.”
“But there’s such variety between cultures when they talk about their supernatural beings. I mean, the Irish have their fairies and the Norwegians their gnomes and the Native Americans have animal spirits…”
“Each reflected the culture which created it. And, when you talk with the people of each of those cultures, they will assure you that their creations are real. And they are, just as this tunnel is real. Gods and angels and demons and all the others are absolutely as real as any other reality.”
Paul wrote down in his notepad, We, or our culture, can create supernatural things, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real, anymore than the buildings and cars we create, and put it back in his shirt pocket. He looked around the circle and said to Pete, “Do you all understand this?”
Pete said, “I don’ need to unnerstand; I just believe, ya know? I live in the love of The Creator of the Universe.”
“Yeah,” Paul said.
“I mean, I seen Joshua do this stuff,” Pete continued. “I don’t care how, I jes seen it, and so I believe. I feel it. Dat’s ’nuf fo’ me.” He pointed to Joshua with an exaggerated swinging gesture and added, “I die for dat man, you know? He my man.”
“Got it,” Paul said.
“I’m with Pete,” Matt said. “But I also understand what Joshua says. This ain’t rocket science here.”
“I think it would be to most people,” Paul said. “It seems to me that most people want everything real simple, spoon-fed to them.”
“This is simple,” Salome interjected. “You ever try to make sense of the difference between the Baptists and the Seventh Day Adventists? I tell you, my mother was Baptist and my father Seventh Day Adventist, and there was never a moment’s peace between the two of them. Talk about making the simple into something complex.”
“You want power over others,” Mark said, “you make it complicated. You put yourself between people and the Creator of the Universe or whatever gods you claim exist. You make it so only the priests can figure it all out, and they got to go through years of study to get there. You tell the common people that if they don’t do it your way, they’re gonna burn in hell. Then you got the church, you know? And that’s complicated.”
Paul looked at Joshua. “What about Jesus, then? Who was he?”
Joshua sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “He is the living son of the Creator of the Universe.”
“The Messiah?”
“’Messiah’ is a Hebrew word that means ‘anointed.’ Every king the Jews had was anointed; it was how they were certified as the king. The high priest poured oil on his head, just like in the Twenty-Third Psalm. There were lots of messiahs before Jesus; he claimed the lineage. David was called messiah, as was Saul and Absalom and Solomon and so on. The anointed one was the king, the ruler of the Middle-Eastern tribe that called itself Jews.”
“The savior?” Paul said.
“If you believe in the Demiurge, like the Greeks, Romans, and Paul did, then the messiah’s job is to save you from the Demiurge. If you want to be saved from the domination of the Caesars, then Jesus gave specific instructions about how to walk away from the kings and the Caesars. Look what he told his disciples about how they should live. That they shouldn’t carry money or spend their lives trying to become rich, shouldn’t store up food, should pray in private and not in public. Those lessons are still applicable today as if you want to be free of the modem kings and Caesars, although you can search this city’s churches from one end to another and you will not find any preacher living as Jesus instructed. Nonetheless,
in either case, I’d say the answer is a definite ‘yes.”’
“And if I don’t believe in the Demiurge and I don’t mind being oppressed by the modem-day kings and corporate Caesars?”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, but it’s the confidence a dreaming man has when he thinks his dream is real. Remember the parable of the man who built his home on a foundation made of sand.”
“So Jesus was the Son of God.”
“Yes,” said Joshua. “As am I and as are you. And so we, now, must awaken people to save the world because the kings are not only oppressing the people, but they are endangering All Life. They are tearing out the heart of our Mother Earth Herself. The stakes are even higher now than they were two thousand years ago.”
“Does that mean I’m a messiah?”
Joshua shook his head. “No. You can’t imagine how difficult that would be, how much self-sacrifice is involved. The first must be last, must become the least.”
“Is this the Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century?”
“No,” Joshua said. “This is common knowledge that any scholars of ecology or Biblical times can tell you. You are not yet ready for the Secret.”
“When will I be?”
“That is not for me to know,” Joshua said. “I’ve given you my part.”
“Who’s hungry?” Juan said as he pulled a box of mismatched plates and silverware from under his chair.
Chapter Eleven
Rich’s Revenge
When Paul entered the lobby of his apartment building on Eighth Avenue, Billy, the elderly security guard, wasn’t in the lobby. It wasn’t so unusual, Paul thought, reflecting on other far more unusual oddities, such as he’d experienced in the tunnel. After sharing a vegetable curry and spaghetti with the small group and what had essentially been small-talk, Jim had escorted Paul back to the larger tunnel and the grate so he could head back home and start his job-search.
Paul stopped at the rack of mailboxes near the elevator and opened his. Inside were several pieces of junk mail, a yellow slip from the Post Office informing him he had a registered letter from the building’s co-op association that he needed to go sign for, and a letter from the Internal Revenue Service in a white window-envelope.
He pushed the button for the odd-floor elevator, noticing from the indicator that it was coming down. When the doors opened, Billy stepped out. When he saw Paul he looked startled and embarrassed, muttered, “Hi,” and walked by with fast, short steps while carefully keeping his attention on the floor.
Odd, Paul thought, as he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for twenty-one. On the way up, he opened the letter from the IRS and discovered that the pleasure of his company was requested for a full audit of his returns for the past three years. It would be a nuisance, but he didn’t have anything to worry about; he hadn’t used any odd tax dodges or anything like the rich folks did. He just claimed the standard deduction and sent about a third of his total income, in various forms, to the government. As the elevator went up, he remembered last year’s Taxpayer Freedom Day. It was proclaimed by some organization he couldn’t remember, and some time in May they said that the average taxpayer had been working from the first of the year until that day for the government and now could begin working for themselves. He wondered how much the Roman conquerors had taxed people two thousand years ago. A tenth of their wealth? A third? Half? Three quarters?
The thought brought to mind the conversation he’d had with Jim when they were walking back to the grate.
“You gonna go back to pushing rocks up the side of the pyramid?” Jim had said.
“What do you mean?” Paul had said, as they walked down the long, empty tunnel.
“I mean like the Pharaoh. Moses set his people free. He said, ‘We’re not gonna take this any more. Build your own damn pyramids.’ You know what I mean?”
“I guess.”
“Like Bob Dylan said, ‘I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.’ He understood. Do it my way or hit the highway. So, you gonna go back to work for the pharaoh?”
“You mean get a job?”
“Yeah. Work for somebody else. Let them run your life. You gonna?”
“Really, Jim, a regular paycheck lets me run my own life. I think if I’m going to join you guys in trying to share Joshua’s message, I need that kind of support. I mean, without it, I’d have to depend on the government for welfare.”
“I don’t get welfare,” Jim said, a sharp note of pride in his tone.
“And you live in a packing crate in the tunnel,” Paul said, careful to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m sure it’s fine for you, but I think I can do more to influence the world from an apartment up above the street. And I’ve gotta have money to pay for that.”
“You saying that apartment is worth trading your soul for?”
“It’s not like they’re taking my soul,” Paul said. “Just eight hours a day, more or less.”
“And what else is your soul? What is your life?”
“All the other stuff! My social life, friends, maybe a wife someday, kids, TV in the evening, go to the theatre, read a good book. It’s all my life.”
“Are you sure?” Jim said. “I work about an hour a day. Two hours on a bad day, when there ain’t many cans to be found in the trash. Get the food and money I need in an hour or two. That’s about the same workload as most tribal people have, you know? The rest of the time, I spend with my friends, or reading, or thinking. Getting ready to spread the word, when Joshua says the time has come.”
“Must be nice,” Paul said, reflecting that in the past year or two he’d lost touch with all the people he’d once considered friends. Nobody had the time anymore for anything other than work, it seemed. At least among those who were climbing the ladder.
“So it’s back to work for the pharaoh?” Jim said, coming back to the question as if Paul had seriously reconsidered it.
“I guess. Until I’m stable and can publish some of this stuff.”
“You could always start your own business.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Paul said.
“I got mine. ’Jim’s Can Service.”’ He laughed, then grew serious. “No taxes, no boss, no rules except those imposed by the real world. No bull to take from anyone, and I got friends who’ll die for me. Don’t got to give any of what I earn to the pharaoh, and don’t got to lift stones up the side of the pyramid for him.”
“It sounds like a good life,” Paul conceded, although he was thinking about what it would be like if he’d ever tried to explain to Susan that he was living in a packing crate in a tunnel under the city. It was unimaginable.
“It’s sure better than the army and better than any of the other jobs I’ve had over the years. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it’s my life, you know? Nobody else runs it but me.”
“I understand, but I don’t mind the slavery, I guess.”
“Well, brother,” Jim said with a wink, “remember what the working girls say. They can buy your body, but that money don’t mean they get your heart or soul.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Paul had said as the subject ran to its end.
The elevator hit twenty-one and opened, and Paul walked to his apartment door, the mail in one hand and his keys in the other. As he put his key into the dead-bolt lock, he noticed that the metal looked shinier than it had before. Like it was a new lock, or had been scrubbed clean with steel wool. Odd, he thought, as he tried to turn the key.
It wouldn’t move.
He jiggled the key from side to side, up and down, but nothing helped; it wouldn’t open the door. He tried his other key, for the lower lock and doorknob, and found that it didn’t work, either.
Paul pulled out the key and walked over to Rich’s door, knocking on it in a quick rap-rap-rap imitation of Rich’s knock. He heard somebody walk to the door, saw the flicker in the peephole.
“Yeah?” came Rich’s voice from behind the door.
“
Rich, it’s me. Paul.”
“So?”
“So my key doesn’t work.”
“Of course not. You’re evicted.”
“What?” Paul shouted, his voice echoing down the hall. “What are you talking about?”
“I warned you,” Rich said. “But back he came, still asking if I wanted to sell my soul. So I did what I had to do.”
“You got me evicted?”
“This joke’s gone way too far, buddy.”
“Rich, open the door and let me in. Let’s talk about this.”
“You better go, Paul. Your stuff will be downstairs on the loading dock tomorrow at noon.”
“Rich!”
He heard footsteps shuffling away from the door, so he banged on it with his fist. There was no response, so he banged again. “Rich, open up! This isn’t a joke, and I don’t have anything to do with it!”
Behind him, Paul heard the elevator door open. Billy stepped out, his rheumy eyes watching the floor as he walked over toward Paul.
“Billy, what’s going on?” Paul said.
“Mister Abler,” Billy said, his right hand resting on the gun in the holster on his right hip, his eyes looking determined but a bit fearful. “I think it’s time for you to go now.”
“Why?”
“I just got a call from Mister Whitehead, saying you was up here causing a disturbance. We can’t have disturbances in our halls. You know that.”
“Billy, I live here!” Paul was standing on the balls of his feet, bouncing, waving his hands in the air. “That right there is my apartment!”
“Not anymore, Mister Abler. Mister Whitehead give me a court order just an hour ago to change the lock on the door, and so that’s what I done. It’s not your apartment any more.”
The Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century Page 13
