Dear diary,
You find yourself alive. To keep living, you need water and food. You can eat roots that you find growing wild in the forest, and you can drink from the river. All that you need to survive has been provided for you. For shelter from the extremes of the weather, you can use a cave that you found in the side of a hill. For clothing, you sewed an apron out of fig leaves.
Now, what about entertainment? Where do singers and songwriters fit in your world? Do you need television personalities in the forest, to help you search for roots? When did you learn how to generate electricity? How is it that your river is not yet polluted? Didn’t you build an oil refinery and several manufacturing plants?
You like actors because they . . .
Do you really like actors? I was going to say that they dream for you. But now that I think about it, they don’t really dream. They just walk around and talk. Mostly they stand. And what is communicated? In a dream, the actors speak what your gut instructs them: they are the true prophets of your gut. But if a play occurs outside of one’s mind, one should ask: Who is the scriptwriter? A strange god attempts to usurp your world.
So, say that you’re hunting and gathering roots near the river where you live, in the heart of the forests of the night. You notice that over yonder a tragedy is being performed by some seasoned actors:
Gentleman A is contemplating buying a bouquet of flowers. The price is two coins. He takes two coins from his pocket.
Gentleman B approaches and begs a coin from Gentleman A; the latter generously gives the former one of the coins; Gentleman B thanks him and leaves.
Gentleman A’s kind smile now turns to a frown, when he realizes that he can no longer afford the bouquet that he intended to purchase; so, he points to a single flower and pays his last coin for that. With this flower in his hand, Gentleman A goes to visit the woman he loves. But when he arrives, he finds Gentleman B has gotten there before him: Gentleman B is presenting the woman with a large bouquet of flowers and a ring: he proposes marriage, and the woman accepts.
Once the above meeting concludes, Gentleman A approaches this same woman, whom he loves, offering her the small flower that he bought earlier. The woman declines, pointing to her new ring.
Gentleman A now goes out and hunts down Gentleman B and taps him on the shoulder. A battle ensues between the gentlemen: fists fly, legs kick. The police arrive and wrangle them into the street as the pair of men continue their fight.
An oncoming streetcar slowly approaches the gentlemen, who are engaged in mutually choking each other. The slanted grill of the streetcar presses against the disputants, who fall back and are carried upon its bars, still locked in their deadly embrace, and the vehicle putters off into the distance.
What does this farce have to do with wilderness wandering? Do we receive any benefit from this type of show? Does the LORD God sanctify slapstick prophecy?
We need a reliable supply of freshwater, and ample foodstuffs. Nightclubs where standup comedians perform will seem more attractive once our lives attain stability. It’s hard to find the value in jokes when all life is in danger. However, some claim that joking helps a beleaguered people cope with the continuous threats of a forestine existence. But do we really want to dedicate a subsection of our populace to producing these comedies and tragedies, when they could be helping us collect mushrooms, berries, and nuts? Besides, none of us have any free time left, when our day of labor is done: We go straight to sleep.
And beasts are always attacking us.
The second play that our civilization staged was called “Racecars.”
There was a racetrack in the middle of the woods. Our nation’s hero came out and pretended to forage innocently and absentmindedly upon the track while the cars kept racing past him. He took great pains to convince us that he was unaware of the surrounding danger. The vehicles continued zipping by at lightning speed, just missing him, while our hero gathered wild garlic and edible acorns. Then at last our hero got hit, and the curtain fell.
If God were to appear in one of our dramas, what part would he play? I think that he would act the role of the suffering servant. Then, at the end of the production, when he is getting nailed to the cross and screaming “Why have you forsaken me, O heavenly father,” there would be genuine blood, and he would die onstage; the curtains would draw closed, and there would follow a tense few moments of fearful wonder. But finally the curtains would re-open, the cast would all take a bow, and God would tear his arms and legs away from the nails, and come down from the crucifix, and explain to the audience: “It’s really me: I was simply playing the part of this Nazarene; my lines were written by Saint Mark the playwright – it was all an act.” And we would marvel at this.
Then there would be discussions between our theater critics about the effectiveness of the sacrifice of a deity who never actually dies. And some would say: “But he did die – didn’t you watch the play?” And others would answer: “But his martyrdom was faked – he himself admitted as much, when he climbed down from the tree at the end and announced: ‘We were only pretending.’ Moreover, death is a place from which no traveler returns; so, if a man tells you that he’s back from the grave, then, by definition, he did not visit Sheol: he only tricked you, the way that a magician relies on illusions to beguile belief. Or at the very best, it was a misdiagnosis.” And some would say: “But he is God, not a regular man; therefore he is not susceptible to the same rules and regulations as we are.” Others would snap back: “I see no value in an immortal faking his death. If this is what we’re required to have faith in, then I side with the nonbelievers. If he says ‘I won’t forgive your sins until you accept my bloody sacrifice,’ then I say: Your sacrifice was stage-managed and directed by yourself from behind the scene; you could forgive me if you wish. Your refusal to forgive is a reflection of your will: it’s your own choice, not mine. If you only grant salvation to those who claim to like your brand of entertainment, that’s like paying for a favorable review. And I’ll bet that those critics who support you are all feigning their appreciation. They’re just scared, and it’s easier to say ‘I found his performance convincing’ than to risk being blacklisted.”
But God is a decent sport. He has thick skin; don’t worry, he can handle the toughest criticism. He’s seen it all. Remember, he grew up fighting with the Devil, so he’s had a lot of practice fending off insults and pranks. The Devil once even got the church and state to place a banana peel on the path where his brother normally walks on Skull Mountain. But our God outsmarted him: He used his skill as a thespian to perform a pratfall, and by gesturing he persuaded the Devil that he was lethally injured. So the Devil went elsewhere, presuming his job was finished. Then God got back up on his feet and came out into the lobby, after the curtain closed, to reassure the audience. And, to this day, nobody can agree on exactly what happened, because God looks quite different when seen up close versus onstage, due to variations in the intensity of lighting and the amount of theatrical makeup he wears.
MORAL: Civilization often seems to be at its end when it is only just beginning.
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