George Applegate sat at his computer finishing up a searing open
letter. The letter, which he intended for publication in the Times,
addressed some complaints about George’s new book made public by the Fundamentalist
Right in general, and specifically, by the righteous Reverend William Power,
televangelist extraordinaire.
He stopped for a moment to consider the structure of the closing
paragraph. Caught up in the words, he didn’t notice that it was a beautiful
spring day at his home in the Catskill Mountains. His barely concealed
anger and intellectual musings screened him from the vibrant greens and
blues just outside his window and didn’t hear the songs of the children
playing some circle game.
George leaned back in his worn leather swivel chair running his
fingers through his short, thinning straw-colored hair. He was determined
to sum up the defense of his newest book in a good style as well as making
it plain that the Rev. William Power was a misinformed cretin who should
be banned from the airways.
It still boiled George’s blood when he thought of that small-brained
lunatic burning his book on national television. Burning his book! Not
once but several times, against a backdrop of hoards of praying fans and
accompanied by long sermons calling for a “holy war against the infidel
who would transgress the sacred word of God.” Book-burning tended to get
George irate but seeing his own creation, the product of ten years of research
and writing, ignite and dissolve into its basic molecular components, sent
him into a conniption.
When George called his publishers telling them that he intended
to write a letter to the Times, they heartily agreed. In fact, they were
delighted, and resolved to use the controversy to best advantage, free
publicity being the best publicity, so they arranged to not only have the
letter published in five leading newspapers as well as the Times, and also
to have George read his statement at a press conference in New York, set
to coincide with National Banned Books Week. From what they originally
expected to be a modest New Age novel, The Earth Christian was quickly
becoming an international bestseller. This turn of events delighted them
to no end.
George approached the situation from a very different angle.
He reacted as if someone had threatened Melanie, his five year old girl,
with some dire doom. This book was his baby and he would protect it at
all costs.
The Earth Christian was begun about ten years ago, just
after receiving his doctorate. It had became apparent, through deep intuition
supported by years of exhaustive graduate school research, that the story
of Jesus of Nazareth was sorely misrepresented and incomplete. George had
entered into the study of comparative philosophy after getting his bachelor’s
degree in creative writing. For his doctoral thesis he compared the long
misunderstood mystic branch of Christianity, known as Gnosticism, with
other mystic traditions.
Since the day he was finally freed from the clutch of the sisters
at Our Mother of Immaculate Birth, he was aware that there was more to
Christianity than what was taught in catechism class. As he plowed through
his stint at Northeastern, graduated cum laude, and then continued the
search on his own, he discovered amazing revelations about the secret
teachings of Jesus. He found lost gospels hidden in obscure texts, indications
of the Christ’s travels to many lands, and most incredibly, the possibility
of incarnations prior to His life as Jesus.
George would be quick to admit that his theories were not what
one would call academically proper. Professor Applegate was thoroughly
trained as an academic. He knew the rules, and he was well aware that his
evidence, so much of it derived from hearsay, psychic channeling or obscure
sources, were not scientifically defensible. But since when, George questioned,
has religious truth been revealed by the scientific method? And there were
some documents. That Tibetan text that described a “Saint Issa,” for instance.
Saint Issa had traveled throughout Tibet, China and India, walking a path
of love and forgiveness. This Hebrew saint, the ancient document disclosed,
traveled through the lands of the east learning from many Masters, creating
a synthesis of all that he encountered and teaching his new philosophy
to the common people. The document related that the Saint, with his ragged
clothes and gentle smile, had finally returned to his own people to share
his revelations only to be tragically murdered by the established priesthood
there.
Strange and decrepit documents all, but to George they had the
ring of truth, resonant with his own soul’s truth, and more compelling
than the protests of his colleagues or the twitter of traditional doctrines.
Still, Professor Applegate was no fool. He had a family to feed and tenure
to maintain, and he didn’t want his carefully cultivated scholarly work
to go to weed, even for this project. After much soul searching, he ultimately
decided to present his research as a fictional account. He had been hankering
to try his hand at some fiction, anyway, and after a few false starts,
the book became a kind of autobiography written in the first person by
Jesus himself. George felt he knew Him, that he understood Jesus’ philosophy
about the natural world. It would easy and fun for the studious professor
to pretend to be Jesus through the veil of a story. His Jesus would be
a uncommon Jesus, a Jesus to be reckoned with.
Beating away at the keyboard to a turbulent crescendo, his gray
eyes burning coldly, George typed the final words of his final draft of
the letter. As the laser printer spit out the hard copy, he scanned its
basic format. It began with a soft-spoken appeal concerning freedom of
expression. When one person’s rights are trampled, he wrote, everybody’s
freedom is at stake. He made references to the book-burning of Hitler’s
Germany, then progressed to a strong comparison of the Rev. William Power
and “his money-sucking cronies” to the Nazis — he deleted that part several
times, but finally, with a sigh of apology to his family, he’d left it
in — and then demanded that the profits of the good Reverend’s GOD BELIEVES
IN YOU! ministry be looked into more carefully.
The letter then returned to George’s book which he described
as “a humble exploration of the life and philosophy of a great spiritual
teacher, known to us as Jesus, whose wonderful tolerance of other people’s
beliefs and ideas contrasts sharply with his intolerance of those who would
inflict their ideas upon others and rob the poor of their hard-earned pennies.”
George asked people to read his book and decide for themselves if the spirit
of the novel touched them or not. He mentioned that he was donating thousands
of copies to small community libraries, so that everyone might have a chance
to make up their own minds about it, and not leave their decisions up to
that lamentable religious despot.
After reading the letter one last time, George threw it on top
of the pile of papers and books that cluttered the broad oak desk and released
a long sigh. He looked up, and hearing a crow caw, noticed that the larch
tree outside the bay window was waving new green leaves against a translucent
blue sky. Beyond the tree, out on the wide front lawn, Melanie and her
friends were playing. Their piping voices, like soft squeaks, carried on
the sweet spring air and waved with the breeze through the open window.
George abandoned his chair and leaned way out the window, taking deep gulps
of fresh air, and then he yelled, “Hello, my friends, can I play too?”
The little faces turned toward the house and their faraway voices screamed
in delight. George turned off the computer and thought about how lucky
he was to have children around to remind him of what was real. He sat down
on the floor, stuffed his feet into a pair of dirty white sneakers, and
ran out the door yipping like a wild wolf.
Peter Swift put down his copy of The Earth Christian that George
had given him and reached for the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich that
he had made some hours ago. After blowing off a score of tiny ants that
were sharing his hospitality, he began chewing and talking. No one was
in his cabin at that time. Peter paced before a collection of home-made
masks that hung on his wall. They were his captive audience. “… it
seems like he is saying that Jesus was a teacher like so many teachers
before and after trying to show us dim-witted humans that WE could flow
in the original principles of God’s, or the Goddess’, or the Great Spirit’s,
or the Unimaginable Creative and Loving Force and Beingness of this God-forsaken
Universe … yeah …” Peter munched thoughtfully. “that we could develop a
way of perceiving all life with love and compassion and thus escape the
wheel of birth and death and birth and death and the pain and suffering
associated with moving through that cycle in such abysmal ignorance … yeah
…” He meandered over to his futon in the corner and picked up the book.
“I think … I wonder if Jesus was really so funny … I like this Jesus better
than the one hissed at me by those fuckin’ evangelists … and this one believes
in the Goddess! That’s cool, I guess us Stray Dogs have been having some
kind of influence on the old geeser, imagine that. Yeah, I like this Jesus.
George says the most interesting parts are in the last half, but it would
be cool to hang out with this Jesus someday. I’d invite him in, offer him
some snack, maybe a beer, maybe even a smoke. He did come from that part
of the world. That reminds me, where did I put that pipe?” Peter scraped
through that pile that he referred to as ‘his desk’, pushing away empty
beer bottles, digging through oozing flashlight batteries, excavating down
and down: loose change, pens and pencils, a banana peel (“got to put that
in the compost later”), magazines (“ah, there’s that issue of the Utne
Reader I’ve been looking for”) and reams of typed and hand-written papers
till he found his prey hidden in a cracked coffee cup. And yes, there was
even some pot still in it. Grabbing a lighter out of his pants pocket,
he ignited that petrified psychoactive ember and sucked on it for all it
was worth. Exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, he approached a mask painted
cobalt blue with a golden flame between its eyes that he had made for the
last Samhain, “Yes, it would be cool to hang out with some far-out spiritual
dude who wasn’t trying to dissect me or select me or neglect me. Shit,
I’m starting to sound like Dylan, I better watch out.”
Suddenly came a knocking at the door. “Hey, Peter — are you in
there?” It was Inka’s voice. “Damn, I forgot — I promised to drive
her to the hospital this afternoon.”
“Come on in, the door’s open,” Peter muttered.
“I’m not coming in, I have my uniform on, I’ll wait for you in
the truck.” Inka yelled through the half-opened door.
“O.K., I’ll be there in a minute.” Peter put the pipe in
his pocket. I’ll try to find the Three Jimmies, they’re sure to have some
weed, he thought.
(Excerpt: The New York Times Book Review)
The Earth Christian is a fictional autobiography of Jesus, “the
one who became known as the Christ.” It is written in a lively, often humorous,
style creating for the reader a sense that it is Jesus, in the flesh, telling
us stories of his life and times. This would be no small feat even if there
weren’t those departures from the commonly accepted knowledge concerning
His life. Those departures, Dr. Applegate informs us in the introduction,
are based upon his research into many esoteric sources which he says have
been suppressed for many years. For example, Jesus consistently refers
to His past-lives wherein He struggled with material desires and doubts
about His spiritual identity. Also He refers to the Creator as Mother,
Father or It, whatever seemed most appropriate. This book comes as a treat
to all those Catholic Mary worshipers that the Pope has been entreating
to turn back to the straight and narrow these last few years.
This Jesus is no pie-in-the-sky type, nor a hell-and-brimstone
type; He is very down-to-earth, much as the title would infer. He describes
a philosophy that honors our life on this earth as a gift and an opportunity
to grow spiritually. With wit and wisdom, this Jesus sees the application
of His principles as creating a heaven on earth, humans in partnership
with each other and Nature.
Dr. George Applegate, who holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Philosophy
and is a full professor at the Upstate University, says that much of this
information is accessible to the hardy seeker but he wanted to present
it in a unified fashion and interesting format in order to reach a larger
audience. “The Early Church had rewritten the biblical account many times
over the years,” Dr. Applegate informs us, “and the rest of it has been
interpreted rigidly in keeping with their agenda to persecute the poor,
maintain their vast wealth and control the minds of their followers in
general.”
Be that as it may, this reviewer found some aspects of Dr. Applegate’s
revisioning distressing. Particularly his notion of a secret conspiracy
…
“That Peter,” Inka Bloom said aloud as she carefully proceeded
down the steep path to Peter’s truck. She didn’t want to mess up her nursing
uniform. “Uck, go inside that house, it’s bad enough I have to get in his
truck. He’s always late, flaking out at the last minute. I can’t be late
for my shift, people in need can’t wait for long. I wish my car didn’t
need that brake job. I hate depending on other people.”
Inka pulled open the truck door, rusty and falling off its hinges.
I must be really desperate, Inka thought as she looked over the interior
of Peter’s truck. What a rat trap. She pushed aside some yellowed newspapers,
empty beer bottles and, uh… what is this? Inka shuddered and tossed
it gingerly behind the seat. She straightened out her white uniform and
sat down to wait.
Peter bounded down the path to the truck. Her knight in dull
olive drab, Inka thought. When will he get new clothes. He’s got a closet
full ever since that fire sale at the army/navy store three years ago.
I offered to take him out shopping just last week, and he refused and said:
“When these wear out.”
Peter jumped in, slapped a tape in the cassette player, and started
the truck up with a roar and a backfire. “And we’re off!” Peter grinned
as they assailed the dusty gravel road.
“I’ve been thinking,” Inka began.
“Oh, always up to something new,” Peter interjected.
“Fuck you… I’ve been thinking about that conversation Osha, you
and I had about the ‘coming of the Lord’, you know, the second coming of
Jesus Christ that all those fundamentalists are raving about. They’re really
depending on this miracle of miracles to save themselves from dealing with
the mess we humans have created in this world.”
“Yeah, a second coming for any man is pretty miraculous,” Peter
smirked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Inka said, sticking her tongue out at Peter.
“Anyhow, as I was saying, that conversation got me to thinking and I starting
working on a song with Osha and Jill. We got a chorus and melody idea and
we thought you could work out some lyrics. Here, I got a tape.”
“Sounds like a flashing hot idea, my beautiful blonde buddy,”
Peter put the tape in his shirt pocket, “this album is shaping up to be
quite the concept album. I bet this song would just about round it out.
We’re all getting riled up by those gasbag fundamentalists and I suppose
hanging out with Perfesser George has been rubbing off on us. Did you read
the new book? Yeah, cool. I think we all did. There’s so many concepts
of who Jesus was, or is, it’s getting to be like a game show: ‘will the
real Jesus please stand up?’. That’s how Osha and me came up with “Burn
your Bible”, ‘cause as a book for spiritual teaching it has passed its
prime, or rather in its prime it’s been the source of more human suffering
and anguish that any other tome on the planet. Plus, we gotta get back
at that dude who burned Perfesser Applegate’s book.”
“Exactly!” Inka said, “To actually believe that Jesus in the
flesh is going to come down out of the clouds, singing ‘hallelujah’ and
scoop up some self-appointed chosen people before all hell breaks loose
it’s, it’s…”
“Ludicrous,” Peter peppered in.
“Yes! I say, take us all or leave us alone!”
“I like that,” Peter said, “here — write that down, ‘take us
all or leave us alone’, hmmm, sounds good. I got some ideas already. So,
how is Jill, is she over that nasty wicked bladder infection?”
Inka nodded. “Oh yeah, we got that under control and only had
to use the short course of antibiotics. With the new herbs, extra vitamin
C, loads of water and changing her catheter more often, we can keep that
happening again. You know a bad UTI could really hurt her if it gets up
to her kidneys, she was peeing blood at one point.”
Peter shook his head. “It’s a shame that she had to be born all
deformed and paralyzed. She’s lucky to have you around. I hope you know
I think you’re a great person. I’d do anything for you.” Peter winked at
her though she couldn’t see it through his dark glasses.
Inka smiled and looked away. “Thanks, I think you’re o.k. too.”
The truck rumbled and screeched to a halt in front of the hospital.
“Thanks for the ride, be here at midnight and don’t forget!” Inka jumped
out. Peter trundled off to search for the three Jimmies.
As Inka walked up the stairs to her unit, she did her usual meditation
to focus her mind for another night of caring for the sick and dying. Ascending
the narrow industrial-green tiled stairwell, she imagined herself shaking
a small rattle. That calmed her mind and bathed her in clear light. As
she turned up the hall, she sensed it might be a quiet night. Inka heard
Paul Bonesteel calling from his room, the loud voice of a deaf man: “Something’s
goin’ on but I don’t know what it is.” Inka thought: you got that straight,
my friend.
Now where could those Jimmies be? Peter thought as he drove away
from the hospital. I’ll try Jill and Inka’s cabin, I think they’re building
some kind of something there.
Like a dust devil, Peter proceeded down the farm road and parked
near the Grrll’s cabin (as Inka and Jill called it). It was only a short
stroll on the wide paved path to their front door.
Jill Silver had been paralyzed from the waist down since birth
by spina bifida. Jill and Inka had been friends since grade school. Now
in their mid-twenties, they still enjoyed each other’s company enough to
build, with the help of the three Jimmies, this little cabin in the wood.
It was designed to ease Jill’s wheelchair-bound existence with wide ramps,
low tables and such amenities. Little by little, the Grrll’s Cabin, was
improved using Jill’s SSI payments and her under-the-table income from
dealing marijuana and mushrooms.
Ah, there they are, Peter thought. Looks like they’re taking
a coffee break. Cool. “Hey, dudes. What’s happening?”
Jim smiled. “Peter, my man, just the sentient life form I was
at this moment contemplating. Do you have your sweet little pipe?”
Jim’s perfect natty dreads cascaded in every direction. His eyes shone
in a well-crafted dark face that sported a neatly trimmed goatee.
“Oh, yes. Here you are. Howsit going, James, Jamie.” Peter hugged
them each. They sat down to smoke and talk. All the Jimmies were
self-described paisley-collared workers; that is, college educated carpenters.
They had met in an “Intro to Philosophy” class sometime in the Paleocene
epoch and became fast friends. They all went on to get Ph.D. degrees in
a variety of subjects: Jamie in Relevant Philosophy, Jim in Apolitical
Science, and James in General Humanity Studies (an independent study, to
be sure). The Jimmies were famous for their coffee breaks. The passage
of time altered when you hung out with the Jimmies.
They had built or improved just about every structure on the
farm. James and Jamie lived in the only legal house on the farm: the purple
farmhouse that George used to live in before he and his family moved into
the new big house. Jim and his wife Leaf had a small cabin near Jill and
Inka’s home that they had put up just a year ago. George Applegates’ friends
on the zoning board turned a blind eye to this contingent of squatters.
“Hey, you’re getting high and you didn’t even tell me,” Jill
rolled out on her electric wheelchair. “Hey, Peter, give me a kiss.” Jill
kissed Peter and then took a hit off the brass pipe. “It’s the kind bud,
yeah.” Jill spun her chair around.
Peter felt that pleasant oh-so-familiar sensation move through
his mind and body as he held the hit. The sun brightened and he saw halos
dabbed with violet sparks surround his friends. The conversation became
more animated.
Up the path came Osha and everyone howled. Osha stirred people
up wherever he went. He sauntered towards them, a warm breeze followed
at his heels stirring the leaves with whispers and speculations. Osha moved
smoothly around giving his friends hugs that felt like blessings. Golden
curls tumbled around a face that shone with a boyish beauty. Even after
all these years, Peter was still startled by how much in awe he was
of Osha. And a part of Osha’s charm was that he didn’t take himself all
that seriously. But what Osha did take seriously, his ideas and opinions
about spirituality, the flux of history and connection with the life-spirit,
had been Peter’s main inspiration in composing his lyrics. He would often
just read Osha’s poetry and get it to fit with the tune with a good rhyme.
Now, as they grooved in the afternoon sun, Osha described his
adventures in The City running around with his old friends and hooking
up a free concert date in Central Park for The Sun Dogs. “And it’s on the
day they’re celebrating Solstice,” Osha said, “I think this might be the
break we’ve been looking for.”
“Oh, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Jill said, “there’s tons
of bands that play in Central Park without much notice but hopefully we’ll
be able to sell a bunch of CDs and get ourselves out of debt.”
Osha frowned thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But
hey, what the fuck, it’ll be fun, right? Now tomorrow night is Taylor’s
initiation ceremony so we gotta make some plans…”
As Osha and the rest talked about young Taylor’s initiation into
their band, Peter sat to one side and wrote the words to “The Coming of
the Lord.”
The Coming of the Lord
The end has passed, the beginning draws near,
a no-man’s land where nothing is clear.
Preachers boast, Children scream,
Most of us spin in between.
This much is true I have no doubt,
Very few will help you out
and so I’m sad, angry and bored
by the coming of the Lord.
A book of tales like a bed of nails
It teaches us the strong will prevail.
For some there’s hope, for most a curse
I cannot tell you which is worse.
In the end, we’re ground to dust
until then we do what we must
on that day will we be ignored
by the the coming of the Lord.
The squeeze is on, so much to tell,
as you fall to heaven, I’ll fly to hell.
This parting arrives much too soon
Let’s make love with the Jasmine Moon.
Jesus Christ, your heart is stone,
take us all or leave us alone.
We’ll all pile into your flatbed ford
with the coming of the Lord.
