The 1001st Night

by Cliff Burns

We were created on the very last day. Not a consummation, an afterthought. Everything else named and in its proper place and then it was like God suddenly snapped His fingers. Almost forgot something

The final symbol/glyph on the Mayan calendar, the one everybody is convinced foretells the end of the world, actually means, roughly translated, to be continued.

The angels, according to some legends, are neuter, glowing with unnatural light, smelling of saffron and myrrh, residing at the feet of Glory, singing Gods praises in pitch perfect harmony.

Other accounts contend the Heavenly Host are divided into a complex caste system, promoted or sent down at their Masters whim. Scheming and conspiratorial, jealous of humankind and the special status we hold in the Creators great heart. Drawing attention to our every failing, urging the Boss to wipe the slate clean, start again.

The scientists insist were an accident. The believers maintain we were made. The agnostics refuse to think about it. The atheists couldnt be bothered.

 Or, put another way: I want to believe in something. I yearn for reassurance that this isnt all there is. I guess what Im really talking about is, well, faith. And now all at once youre having trouble meeting my eyes

Theyve found early humans buried with keepsakes, shells and strange fetish objects. Grief, a custom that predates history. For millennia, we have wailed, wept, torn our clothes. Trying to come to terms with the emptiness swelling inside us, an ache as large as our soul.

That venerable maxim I originally attributed to my father: I come from a long line of dead men. The Scot-Irish in me bestowing a morbid streak, a tendency for self-pity, pridefulness, cruel humor, not to mention a monstrous thirst for drink.

I like the notion of a scapegoat. Loading some poor creature down with all the sins of the community, whipping and scourging it, driving it out into the wilderness to perish. Our wrongdoings expiated for another year, none of our misdeeds remembered. Pure and unsullied, complicit in our ruthless innocence.

Jesus was a suicide. Some people dont like to hear that. But he knew he was going to die, right? When he went to Jerusalem? He knew the prophecies and he was well aware that the religious authorities abhorred his good news and the Romans didnt look kindly on trouble-makers of the, shall we say, Jewish persuasion. Isnt sacrifice just another

 euphemism for suicide? Do the circumstances matter? What we die for? Why is suicide considered such a terrible sin? Isnt suicide, in some cases, completely understandable,

even commendable? Isnt it, examined objectively, an indication of Gods sublime mercy? Arent we, in effect, surrendering so that we can be saved?

Im keeping you from something important. You said you were meeting a friend for a movie. Which one? Good God, why? Its just another stupid comic book adaptation. Whats the point? Dont you ever get tired of feeding your mind crap? Okay, never mind, its none of my business. Its your money. You should probably get going. Ill talk to you later. Traffics murder right now. Youll be lucky to make it in time

Ive been reading Kierkegaard, Ive been reading Nietzsche. Its getting so I can spell their names without checking the front cover. My Anglican minister told me to check out Spinoza (and never mind what the Jesuits say). My cousin Patricia just came back from Brazil, where she communed with a shaman and drank ayahuasca. It was a dreadful experience, she got brutally sick and was beset by leering, grotesque visions for eleven straight hours. On top of that, her shaman turned out to be a brute, making sexual advances on her while she was tripping. She returned a changed woman. Unfortunately, it wasnt for the better

First Nations people used to go on spirit quests. Wander for days, weeks, before finding a remote spot, resisting food and water, pushing themselves to the limit of enduranceuntil the universe (at last) relented, offering them a vision or premonition, a holy hallucination that brought them into fleeting conjunction with the All There Is.

 Returning to their lodge humbled and ennobled, with a song to share of their ordeal and the revelation they had received. In the great circle, to the beating of ancestral drums.

The Grail. The Golden Fleece. Eldorado. Shangri-La. Oz. Serpent mounds and reaching pyramids. Daubed and painted on solid rock, in caves dark and inaccessible. Preserved in clay jars, stone niches. By campfires, to thwart what might be lurking outside the shelter of light. Handed down by each generation. Tall tales and old lies, to frighten the children, teach them not to stray.

Worshiping in secret. Furtive glances and hand signals, a network of followers, defying edicts, official proscription, risking certain death. Gathering in grottos, praying and singing by torchlight, praising their invisible King. Betrayed and discovered, denounced and condemned. Herded to the killing ground, pummeled, jeered. Dying with remarkable bravery, devoured by curling flames, burning long into the night.

Does God choose sides? Did He fight with the English at Agincourt, the Viet Minh at Dien Bien Phu? Can an eternally wise, infinitely distributed deity play favorites? Can He (or She) really see a sparrow fall? As a child, I was told by our pastor that my soul was situated somewhere between my throat and chest. A very specific location. It wouldnt show up on x-rays but it was there. Its where God resides. The perfect lookout spot. To catch us when were doing wrong.

 I love it when you sleep pressed against me. Draping an arm or leg over me, murmuring in your sleep. I dont even mind when you fart. Its good to feel someone there. In the night. I get funny thoughts sometimes. Dwell on the craziest stuff. Death seems closer and God farther away. Lying there, nothing to distract you. My mind

refusing to shut down, shut up. What is it like to be dead? Imagining the world without me. One night, while Im sleeping, just slipping away If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. But please, please, Lord: dont let me die. Not tonight. Im not ready. Im not done. You still have some use for me, dont you? Something you need accomplished? And then suddenly youre there, snuggling up to me, kissing the back of my neck. An affirmation, perhaps even a drowsy blessing. But its enough and, at long last, Im able to sleep. Thats when the dreams come

Im good friends with a couple who made the famous pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I know at least a dozen people who have personally visited the Vatican, viewed the Sistine Chapel. My buddy Rashid plans to go to Mecca next year, along with his oldest son. Two of my nieces joined a hedonist cult, Uncle Frank goes to sweat lodges and my younger brother Danny swears by magic mushrooms. Ive accumulated a whole shelf of books on spirituality. I have the desire to seek, but not the courage. I pray without knowing why.

 Lacking certainty, we embrace fanaticism. Simple answers are easiest to digest. Too many questions imply a contentious spirit; doubt is a form of apostasy. Religion requires structure, which requires rules and governance, which require coercion and separation, which require indoctrination, which requires dogma, which requires differentiation, which requires discrimination, which requires suspicion and xenophobia, which require

(Whispered:) God grant me a sensawunda.

Come to me, Scheherazade. Your ordeal is nearly at an end. Tonight, you shall tell me the story of how we came to be here, you and I. A creation myth, yes? A welcome diversion from this accursed insomnia, part of the burden I bear for ruling such a great and prosperous land. I need you to be gentle on this occasion, no tales of fearsome djinn and enormous, roaring beasts. My vizier has strict orders not to disturb us, not on our final night together. Soafter all this time, the myriad stories youve told, let me hear one about the Beginning. The birth of the moon and sun and stars. How the sea was persuaded to give up the secret of life and mountains raised to withstand the weight of the sky. Fill my ears and eyes with the magnificence of the universe, of worlds fantastic and impossible Why are you frowning, my dear? Why so glum? Surely, your mighty reservoir has not run dry? Speak to me, I beseech you, woman. Or else you die and with you, your song.

Copyright, 2013 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)