Archive for the ‘cult’ Category

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The Sins of the One Outweigh the Faith of the Many

January 8, 2017

Many Americans ask what has become those rhetorical questions, “Why are Republicans pro-life? Why does the life a newborn take precedence over that of a mother? Why is abortion not an option even when the health and welfare of a child is questionable?”

We know that “pro-life” attitude only pertains up to the birth of a child. After then, they and their families are all on their own. But, why?

The answer is Biblical. It’s that commandment, “Thou shall not kill.” Breaking that commandment as well as any of the other nine sends someone’s soul the Hell.

But, surely, it would be the doctor who would pay that price, and maybe the mother, too. Let me borrow a tired euphemism of our new president and say, “Wrong!” Those Ten Commandments are in the Old Testament, written long before Jesus walked Creation in the flesh, before the promise of forgiveness through confession or grace through faith.

See, those commandments were then written by a wrathful god. That was when He (or to be fair, She) was still prone to flood the Earth.

Okay, God promised there would be no more floods. But, that one deluge was before Sodom and Gomorrah, so us mortals can’t be so trusting. Even then, He/She was still rash and not as omniscient as believers hope. God had to send an angel to investigate His/Her suspicion. And finding only one righteous soul in the city, He/She again brought destruction to the planet; a smaller devastation, to be sure, but still horrific.

So, despite a pretty rainbow and even Jesus, the distrustful faithful believe the wrath of God to this day is visited upon swaths of mortals for the sins of a few and even the one. That’s how paranoid those religious folks have become.

AIDS, 9-11, hurricanes, oil spills and droughts are modern evidence of situations in which God has lifted His/Her hand because He/She has become so disgusted with those made in His/Her image that only death quells His/Her rage. He/She used to get blood sacrifices but that was not always enough.

There is why women today are forced to give birth, why drug users are locked away instead of freed on their own recognizance, and homosexuality is disdained. It’s not just an individual’s soul that is seen at risk, rather the country itself. Because despite the love and patience of Jesus, our savior still has an angry dad/mom.

(Hell, inferring God may be a woman probably pisses Him off. Blame the opioid epidemic and shrinking middle class on that. And give Him the blood a goat, for Christ’s sake. Maybe that will help Him chill.)

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How Hillary Will Lose

August 26, 2016

Radical feminism undermined Occupy Wall Street in 2011 when coincidentally feminist Gloria Steinem stated the movement about economic equality was really about gender. The movement Atheism Plus was asphyxiated in 2012 when dogmatic atheists like associate professor PZ Myers dictated cutting edge feminism must constitute the foundation. And there was Gamergate in 2014, when radical feminists such as the dubious Anita Sarkeesian trespassed into video game development: saying Feminists don’t like butts or cutting the digital heads off sprites. Now, in 2016, Black Lives Matter is endangered by the same self-serving element.

Feminism itself is a good thing, well, now a good thing after coming out of the late 1860s when the Women’s Suffrage movement stood in the way of Blacks being allowed to vote (women wanted to vote, too, and would not have black people gaining the right before them). Equal rights is essential for sake of egalitarianism – hence the 14th Amendment to the Constitution. The Feminist movement itself is not evil, individual feminists are not bad, but its study is complicated. Novices gain what little knowledge is available to them in undergraduate courses and they, themselves, become dangerous. They sling words as if they were weapons.

As I have written about previously, and even wrote a poem about, the language now passed from barely educated protesters to the unsophisticated American masses is counter-productive, even hostile. I’ve heard statements like these come from the mouths of vernal radical feminists…

“All white people are racist”
“Only white people are racist”
“All men are sexist”
“All men rape”
“All cis-gender people (those happy with their sexual identity indicated by the genitals) suffer trans phobia (fear of people who have mangled the boy or girl parts to resemble the opposite sex)”

I believe each are misinterpretations that have arisen from Peggy McIntosh’s article, “White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences through Work in Women’s Studies,” 1988. In the article, the feminist and anti-racism activist defined “privilege.” She used subjectively observed models to illustrate how white men experience America, and she qualified herself by introducing “intersectionality,” otherwise her Venn diagrams were too easily redefined by substituting the word “race” with “class”, as in economic class.

Outside institutions of learning, Academia, out of the mouths of amateurs, phrases such as white-privilege and male-privilege even sexism, sound like accusations, blame for historic events beyond the control of anyone alive today. And I believe the street-level usage is intentional as in those are the stated meanings aggravated protesters intend to communicate. The hostile backlash is understandable. The surgically inflicted wounds are especially prevalent on white conservatives of all economic classes. These are people who vote in elections with hurt hearts, their now scarred feelings.

So I say with expectation, radical feminists will strangle Black Lives Matter. The movement will likely vanish as had Occupy Wall street. Radicals will be instrumental in the election of assumed Republican candidate Donald Trump in 2016. And a renewed Black Suffrage will be met with the same revolt as Senator Bernie Sander’s movement called Our Revolution. Because radicals will never think of the future nor take account of broader perspectives and shut their mouths.

 

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As I Was Saying Before Some Guy Started Flinging Poo

August 24, 2016

Since Feminist and anti-racism activist Peggy McIntosh wrote an article in 1988, “White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences through Work in Women’s Studies,” the ideas of white-privilege, male-privilege, (all hosts of privileges) have flowed into Academia and none are yet adequately defined. Hey, it’s only been thirty years and roles are changing. Academia has kept them all together in a loose bundle called sociology, then it all got out of the hallowed halls and onto the street.

The layperson terminology of “privilege” has been tossed about for decades, causing sparks. But as I was trying to tell an angry, male self-identified radical feminist, it really didn’t start blazes until 2015. That is when Black Lives Matter gained media attention and young, well-off women were learning about a modern further-Left leaning Feminism in their college classes. This green understanding of new theoretical ideas was then bled over Conservative parents, employers and even the average passerby on sidewalks. Right-wing media found yet another abomination to set spikes against. They felt threatened by aggressive young actors who apparently didn’t know what they were talking about. And neither did nor do the victims.

Poorly-educated mouth pieces arose again on both sides of a growing political bush fire. Where foul mouthed and insensitive elitist graduates spouted dynamic misunderstandings about Feminism, the Right wing propaganda machine spun horror stories about the quality of education, money, and the wrath of the Lord himself.

Hence my disbelief in “privileges,” for now. Let’s call what we have “Rights,” as had our damnable patriarchy titled the Founding Fathers. Let professors better define just what privileges exist. I think they’ll maybe be sure by the time I am dead. Until then, let us treat everyone equally, like those “men” who signed the Constitution wanted. Egalitarianism does not mean misogyny.

Matthew Sawyer

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About R’lyeh: Those Things I Will Tell Your Child

December 31, 2014

about cove-smlr

About R’lyeh: Those Things I Will Tell Your Child

Matthew Sawyer

I was telling my second-generation niece, Rilynn there in pink pajamas, that her name sounds like R’lyeh. She is only five. “No,” she tells me back. The child lives with her parents in the country not very far from where I was born.

Rilynn explains to me, “They don’t rhyme.”

I tell her something incomprehensible; something even a smart little girl her age would not yet understand. I say, “The consonants don’t have to rhyme. The words just have to sound the same.”

“Nuh-ahh,” she replies and in that moment, I conclude she must know what I am talking about, or she has a solid idea.

“I’ll tell you a rhyme about the sunken city of R’lyeh.”

“What?” Rilynn peeps and jumps up from the Living Room floor. The little blond thing pops onto her bare feet like she does forty times forty times a day, She joins me opposite a laminated coffee table small enough that the girl might rest her elbows on stacked magazines atop the surface. She does not relax and instead regularly shifts her inconsequential weight between her feet.

Late on my cue, I recite, “That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.”

Rilynn’s mother yells at me. “Matt!”

And Rilynn admits, “That rhymes.”

“It’s a poem,” I beg the mother. The woman’s name is Brenda – for the purpose of my narrative. I admit I have de-purposed the names of other relatives for the sake of that same said narrative. So, there is my first confession.

I cite for Brenda, “HP Lovecraft wrote that in his short story Call of Cthulhu.”

“One of those old stories?” she wonders knowingly.

“A great old one,” I say. “It’s like a hundred years old.”

Rilynn interrupts us when she demands from both the only adults in the room, “I want to hear the story.”

Her father is at work, delivering packages, and the girl is an Only-child. Her mother, Brenda again, hovers on the threshold between this room and another. The grown woman frowns at me. She issues a warning. “I have heard about you.”

“Probably from my sister-in-law,” is my answer. “She is a religious nut.”

Brenda admits, “Holly does now wear the Shield of David and a Cross around her neck.”

While I nod she explains, “But she lives there in Wister Town with your brothers and sisters… and your mother… and you can go back to your home in California. Don’t cause trouble.”

“I am an old man.”

Brenda denies my factual report.  “You look twenty-five.”

My automatic response lists, “Exercise, eat right…”

“You look younger than me.”

“It’s what you read,” I then support.

Rilynn stomps her naked soles and whines. “I want to hear a story!”

“Okay,” her mother condones. “Your Uncle Matt can tell you one.”

“About R’lyeh?” I inquire from Brenda while simultaneously her daughter claps.

Brenda states, “Nothing about death or monsters or anything gross.”

I stammer, “Well…”

The woman stops me. “There was an earthquake the last time you were there in Wister Town – an earthquake in south-central Wisconsin. And you said a house walked away – monsters came out of the hole it made.”

“It was a story…”

“It makes no difference, bad things happen when you tell bad stories.”

“Bad?” I do wonder aloud. Despite what critics will say, I withhold judgment on myself for that judgment would end me and my very life. And hypocritical with my skepticism, I tell Brenda, “There is no difference between religion and being superstitious.”

“The earthquake started fires that burned down half of Wister Town!”

“I never talked about that,” I counter.

“Small blessing,” Brenda supposes above her breath.

“I’ll tell you what,” I proposition, “I’ll clean it up. And I’ll try not to be creepy or scary.”

“All right.”

Grinning at Rilynn I paraphrase, “Sunk somewhere in the South Pacific ocean, a corpse-city called R’lyeh…”

“Matt,” screeches her mother.

“It’s in the story, I didn’t write it,” I present for my defense.

“It’s the same difference.” Brenda states once more, “No dead things or death.”

“Okay, that was only an adjective. It was about a city but no more. That’s the last one and I can tell Rilynn about R’lyeh.”

“Yes,” the small girl screams and she claps her hands together again and harder.

I grumble loud enough for Brenda to overhear. “It won’t be exciting.”

“Just make it fun,” she answers me. “Keep her attention for an hour or so.”

Observing Rilynn squirm while she stands on her feet, I tell the girl’s mother, “I’ll last for a couple minutes.”

Brenda nods and vanishes beyond the doorway. Rilynn leans completely over the table, lifting her legs off the floor, and she whispers nearer my ear. “Are you gonna talk about dead things?”

“No,” I chuckle. “I’m going to tell you who lives in R’lyeh – the city beneath the ocean. Cthulhu cannot die.”

“Catsup!” Rilynn announces and leaves me disorientated. I swim with my thoughts atop the ruins of an undersea R’lyeh. Yet the city itself is not ruined and appears as it had newly built eons ago. Erected in my imagination, the immense construction merely threatens to topple.

Finally able to comprehend my niece, I try correcting the young child. “Cthulhu. Ka-thoo-loo.”

“Ka-choo,” answers Rilynn. “Ka-choo-choo.”

“Ka,” I started to say again then decided my effort was futile. I play with the girl. “Ka-choo,” I repeat with an exaggerated exhalation. I wipe an imaginary expulsion from beneath my nose.

Rilynn laughs and she repeats the word until I believe she makes herself truly sneeze. She refuses to acknowledge the genuine rivulet that has run down and clung on her upper lip. “Does he come out?” my niece asks me. “Is R’lyeh like his house?”

The strange question makes me wonder if the girls has already heard the story. “Is R’lyeh like his house? As a matter of fact, it is. Ka-choo-choo is big, he’s huge.”

“Say it right,” Rilynn requests. “I can’t say it, but you can say his name right.”

“Cthulhu.”

“Yeah!”

“He can only come out when the stars are right,” I educate the impressionable mind. “The thing is, the stars will never be right.”

“Why,” Rilynn pouts. She looks sad for real.

“Well,” I say making preparations, “There is a difference between where the stars were when he came to our planet and where they are now.”

“Why?”

“Because space is expanding.”

“Why?”

The distress on Rilynn’s face reflects the frustration I experience as I try to explain impossible concepts to a five-year old brain. “Cthulhu was originally an extra-dimensional being. He was an Outer God until he was trapped on Earth and he became a Great Old One. They don’t really understand how our three dimensions work.”

“Why?”

“Because, where they come from, they can be anywhere at once, be everywhere. Their space doesn’t move.”

“Matt,” Brenda declares. “You’re confusing her. I’m confused.”

“I’m confused trying to explain it.”

“Make it simple,” the mother begs me. “Or else I will get questions I can’t answer.”

“Okay,” I consent. “Cthulhu can’t come out. Besides there are Elder signs everywhere.”

“Older signs?” Rilynn questions.

“Close: Elder signs, like the elderly. They grow in nature, you can see them in the tree branches, the veins in leaves and even the veins under your skin. HP Lovecraft drew a picture of it.”

“Can I see it?”

I hesitate. “It might be hard to find. Let me draw a picture for you. Do you have paper and something to draw with?”

Rilynn runs away laughing. The girl returns in an instance with a single clean sheet of typing paper and a handful of red and blue crayons. A green wax stick had fallen from her grasp whilst she had come but Rilynn never paused and retrieve it. She presents to me my requested tools.

“Draw Ka-too-loo,” she insists.

“Cthulhu?”

“Yeah.”

The request frightens me without explanation, so I stall. “I thought you wanted to see the Elder Sign.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, but draw Him first.”

“Oh,” I stutter. “You should never summon Cthulhu without an Elder Sign. What happens if he demands a sacrifice?”

“Matt?” Brenda inquires of me.

The woman startles me as if I have been caught speaking the unspeakable. I scuttle my argument against a juvenile and I decide what comes next. “Let me show you the Elder Sign. Then I will draw Cthulhu.”

Before Rilynn objects, I sketch together six broad hashes, making the red image of a branch. Three twigs project from its top, two from below. Rightward on the picture, two opposite twigs reflect each other as would a mirror. The second bottom twig appears sprout from the branch in the space between the two remaining leftward twigs on top.

“Humph,”Brenda says looking over my stooped and sketching upper half. She tells me, “It looks like something you would find in nature.”

“Who put it there?” Rilynn asks.

Dissuaded against trying to explain the Outer Gods again, I reply to the girl and her mother, “We’ll make your one aunt happy and say God put it there. And he looks just like Santa Claus.”

Unafraid now that I have constructed a ward for my protection, I intercept any awkward confusion and I say, “Here is what Cthulhu looks like.”

I have been to Art School and I have always been naturally drawn to doodling, so much I am more talented with a blunt pencil than any other drawing implement. Knowing so, my sketch immediately takes form. The representation of Cthulhu is a simple image of an octopus – one octopus with eight radial tentacles in place of the head of a primate. Although I do not provide any scale, this abomination is larger than King Kong.

I say primate because I have often seen paintings of the Great Old One in which He has a spine and four limbs besides a pair of colossal membranous wings. Those four jointed appendages always terminate with five clawed digits, these usually webbed. Rilynn reacts to my visual interpretation.

“Icky.”

“Matt?” Brenda cautions me. “I don’t want her awake tonight.”

“It’s okay, the Elder sign…”

“Stupid,” Rilynn states in verdict. Her mother shakes her head.

“It’s okay,” I presage again. “There is another Elder Sign. August Derleth made it – he was a cheese-eater, just like us. He was from Wisconsin – Sauk City.” Having revealed an alternative, I start drawing a second archaic symbol on the same one sheet of typing paper.

“You know,  August Derleth was the first guy who published HP Lovecraft. He wrote stories, too. He also wrote about a lot more than horror.”

“There,” I tell Rilynn and her mother. The second Elder Sign comes presented to them as a blue, five-pointed star. A red eye engulfed in red flames flickers at its center. “The star is actually supposed to be green, but Rilynn dropped that color on the floor.”

“Get it later, sweetie,” Brenda absently tells the girl.

I boast in tangent. “Now that would scare Klingons.”

“What are Klingings?” Rilynn asks me.

My outrage is a showy mockery. “Brenda, your daughter is eight years old and still no Star Trek?”

“She’s five.”

“But still…”

The mother ends the silence that follows my lacking an excuse. Brenda asks me a serious question. “How did you learn about this?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly at first. “Read?”

“You should write about it when you go home. Did you and why not?”

“It wasn’t in my stars,” I tell her in accordance to the mythos we discuss. Brenda does not understand. She probably won’t until I do write down something. I let the woman know, “There are tons of other authors who could tell you the stories. I’ve got something parallel, but it’s about what happens in Wister Town.”

“I know,” Brenda moans. Before the woman runs out of that same breath, she tells her daughter, “Put on warm clothes, we’re going to that toenail of a town… like Uncle Matt calls it. Let’s visit your great grandma.”

Once Rilynn is busy upstairs getting dressed, and Brenda and I are alone, I make a cordial appeal to the woman. “Brenda, my nephew would never allow it, your husband would forbid that you ever speak to me…”

The woman steps back from me but she does not flee. Snared by curiosity strengthened by her agnosticism – her disbelief in a Creator that she confessed against long before – Brenda listens to my corrupt words.

“You are right, I will be young until I die. I will die young at the age of one hundred and twenty-five. Rilynn can remain young, too, but she must know. The earlier, the better.”

“My daughter is not going to visit you in California,” she tells me. Knowing who I am and being closer to my family than I physically am or ever was, my in-law, Brenda, has heard all my other relatives have rejected my similar notions.

“What is in California?” she nibbles still. I expected she would ask before I had come two thousand miles to visit her family.

“The sun,” I say generically. “That’s where it stays, and its home was made for the Divine.  There is power in California – power for those who know how to tap it. There is more power there than in that hole in Wister Town.”

“The Jews sense it, and the Mormons. That’s why they are there. There are big cults and Moonies and Scientologists and Jehovah Witnesses – you name it. They crawl down from the palm trees. They all feel the secret power so few people can actually ever know.”

The woman I speak with gnaws her bottom lip. When she soon starts shaking her head, I promise, “Rilynn will know more than me. She will see the future. Maybe she will see R’lyeh.”

When my words cease to make impact, I escalate the strength available to the female child. “She will foresee every consequence of every action she takes. And she will know there is only one course through life. The sun is the root of all religion. Praise Hastur.”

Once I am shut out of the house, I warn Brenda, “Hastur has corrupted in the American Midwest – the power of the sun does not manifest in cows. All of that is Egyptian perversion. The providence here is made base and unhealthy! Defiled and there is no protection. There is no God. We still live blind in the Age of Babylon.”

– END –

Impressed by my writing? I hope so. Read more from me, as Matthew Sawyer or Mr. Binger, at Smashwords.

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The Sermon On Squirrels

August 29, 2014

The Sermon On Squirrels
Mr. Binger

“I remember the year after Wisconsin became a permanent Republican stronghold. America’s Dairyland had always been a conservative state. “It’s full of cheap Swiss,” expatriate citizens often say.

“These same people then grow old and have delusional hankerings to roll back time. They get desperate before they die. They come home to the North and dream to freeze the date to nineteen eighty-three – before Big Brother, who is the true Satan, introduced the sinful World-Wide-Web to worldwide sinners. It was the year good folk stopped coming to church.”

“Before then, a rash of Democrats occupied the county houses and State house. These godless souls destined for Hell had been negligent and they allowed evil to saturate the countryside. So when our anointed Representatives were elected into office and seized control, they necessarily instituted decency laws.”

“Nudity was not allowed in parks, whether the public spaces were owned by cities or the State itself. But disenfranchised Liberals demanded the bill be specific. Politicians employed lawyers and every detail was defined. The law was passed with one hundred percent of votes.”

“Specifically, male and female reproductive organs were to be completely covered. The anus was also to stay unseen. A clothe or paper patch no bigger than a quarter adequately met the condition. But then there remained the distressing vision of people’s butts – their buttocks, their corn-overly-fed buns. These shined in glossy white and red pairs throughout the summer.”

“By Fall, outraged radical conservatives engineered a way to broaden the law. They found a means of forcing everyone to cover themselves more completely. These people claimed. ‘The law applies to animals, too.’”

“’The government paid lawyers to write the bill,’ grassroots campaigns and lobbyists declared. ‘There is no language that says the law pertains only to human beings.’”

“’The issue went all the way to the Head of State,’ they said. ‘The governor recognized the documented will of every elected official. Not one member of Congress went on record saying, ‘Nay.””

“The problem became how to dress animals. Those kept on farms were okay being naked. There was no issue with what happened in private. And if any nude creature stayed hidden in the woods, that was not a problem either.”

“Squirrels presented the dilemma. They were everywhere. Old folks often fed cheese to them. Longhorn Colby was popular, and so much had made the naked tree-rats virile. There were so many, so activists decided, ‘We’ll make them pants.’”

“Their thinking went like, ‘If the only way animals can obey the law is to wear pants, everybody will wear pants. Let’s give them pants, for charity. It will be the thing to do, because why not? Nobody wants to break the law on purpose, except Democrats.’”

“They had to do something – cops never arrested the animals nor tossed them into jail. Every fine issued to the creatures went unpaid. Midwestern cities were losing the only new revenue available to the municipalities.”

“After school before Halloween, kids joined the effort. They and their parents chased and dressed unabashed squirrels in colorful bell-bottom trousers. The crazed campaign went a week before someone got bit.”

“After the matter, scientists found all that cheese Wisconsin squirrels were eating affected their DNA. The bushy rodents weren’t only acting frisky, they were passing on their mutated genes. The transfer was as simply practical as a blood-borne infection introduced through a bite.”

“The transmission was so effective, human beings were infected with the mutation, too. A lot of people who were bitten, quite a few Christian folks, they changed into squirrels. They became fuzzy comparisons to themselves, everyone growing a tail. All the pairs of pants they owned no longer fit.”

“The squirrel-people were the same height they were when they were regular people, their waistlines neither shrank or grew, but they had nowhere to put their tails – these always longer than their poor hosts were tall.”

“When some went naked into communities, law-abiding conservatives screamed, ‘You have to wear pants. The law still applies to you.’”

“’How,’ inquired talking squirrel-people. ‘We are neither people nor squirrels. We are a species in-between. Where does it say specifically the law applies to us?’”

“We came into existence after the legislature,” clarified a monster who was yet a lawyer. “I believe we are a special consideration.”

“Other mutants said in secret, ‘We will escape society and live in trees.’”

“And there is the Midwest today. America’s Dairyland is where everyone wears pants except where mutants live in trees. Older cheese-eaters there in Wisconsin are dying off, muffling an aggregate conservative voice. And so indecent Liberal hating-God-speech gets louder.”

“Soon, naked animals will have run of of the Capitol Dome in rodent-infested Madison. All year and not just homecoming, the rally is heard, “Liberty, Longhorn Colby Squirrels! Vida Cheddar.” Squirrel-people bark the expression with religious zeal. They do so as they crawl through people’s yards on Sundays looking for acorns.”

 

-End

Want more surreal politics and horror, well then come and read my stories – The Strange Apocrypha of Mr. Binger at Smashwords

 

 

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Mary of Bethezuba One Day Lost Her Mind

August 12, 2014

One Christian mystery that believers are content is left among the addressable riddles of their unknowable Lord is the Eucharist. That sacrament with consecrated bread and wine transubstantiated into human flesh and blood is merely scorned by skeptics. The obvious inferences of cannibalism is pedestrian. Authors such as Kenneth Humphreys and Joseph Atwill do consider the problem, but they and few others deeply discuss the origin of this terrible miracle.

Someone knows for certain. When I was a curious adolescent, somebody from my Protestant church mentioned the ritual of communion began so that pagans might be lured into the Christian belief. The language of blood and gore was only a metaphor. Savages liked those sorts of things.

“Nobody can know for certain what Jesus said or what he did,” my pastor preached as much in a sermon. He stated the equivalent of…

“The New Testament was a wonderful compilation of second and third-hand testament. Hearsay.”

Every author except Paul was suspect. That apostle was a special case, and even then, he appeared late after the crucifixion. Understand, the congregation in my hometown believed the Good Book was just another book. Faith and Trust in the Lord were the true messages. All the rest was dark and barren.

“Jesus did live and does still,” the faithful there say today. “He was resurrected.”

Essentially they tell us that He lives in our hearts and its all very probable the One-True-God will come back. “Jesus does live,” after all, as vaguely circular and mysterious as that sounds. There is the whole consideration with the Living Word and who might that be. The identity of this spiritual being and the Holy Ghost are yet comfortably unknown. There is probably something relevant about them in the dusty Old Testament – I bet somewhere in Psalms.

The Protestant church in my hometown held up the latter early Epistles of Paul. They contain all that anyone needs to know about the Faith. Followers insist his approach at gathering the flock was the best, the most productive. He surmised himself in a letter to the Church in Corinth, Greece.

“19 Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible. 20 To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law (though I myself am not under the law), so as to win those under the law. 21 To those not having the law I became like one not having the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law), so as to win those not having the law. 22 To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some. 23 I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings.”

1 Corinthians 9:19-23 (NIV)

The subterfuge and Paul’s naked hypocrisy are considered merits where I come from. “Any means to an end,” people there say. “As long as those ends justify their means.”

They mean those means are for the good of local Protestants at service on any particular Sunday in a year. Those same honest, hardworking folks dependably vote Republican, too, regardless their personal interests and living wages. Any suffering done wherever it comes from is in love for the Lord. Principles like this scapegoat in Southern Wisconsin are truly born twisted and deformed.

My contempt grows overt despite my attempt to stay sublime. Forgive me, and please permit me to talk about the Liturgy again. I do appreciate a patient reader. I, too, am inclined to think the morbid sacrament was not merely a metaphor. There are black roots to this aspect of the Last Supper.

Whereas, I fail to find accreditation or an example, I have read Shakespeare created a woman he called Cannibal Mary for use in his plays. The character was a suspicious parody of the Virgin Mary – although, this seems as much gossip as the Canonical Gospels.

My writing itself is about to become positively sanguinary, so I will first express I do understand there is community in communion. Any event in which food is shared generates camaraderie. The symbolism is visually primal; images erupt in which families are brought together, strangers are met at meal times and friends are made. Bonds are renewed.

Yet the message of fellowship is divorced from what makes the Eucharist memorable. Just before, I abruptly mentioned a ghostly Shakespeare’s Cannibal Mary and I will return to that point, for she is my true subject. The New Testament verses which bring me to consider the woman are purportedly born out of the very mouth of our exalted savior. It is written…

26 … Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” 27 Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. 28 This is my blood of the[a] covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

Matthew 26:26-28 (NIV)

The author of Luke was a little more succinct…

19 And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” 20 In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.”

Luke 22:19-20 (NIV)

Come on, look at what He said, it’s elementary. Jesus was talking about cannibalism. He said it more plain than when my mom told me,  “Take your brothers fingers out of your mouth!”

Why would the messiah even bring up something like that? Where does the idea of eating Him come from? But people remember He said it.

I cannot think of anywhere in the Old Testament that mentions anything pertaining to the stomach-churning presumption. The topic isn’t really discussed or even so much attributed to heathens. We are not suppose to eat each other, I know that. There are criminal laws against it in the United States of America.

I suppose people eat the Passover lamb, but what does that have to do with anything religious? I was taught Jews once made blood sacrifices to God, but I never heard anything special about the flesh of the animal. And the goat was certainly never a human being… well…

I assumed the kosher carcass was discarded as a matter of course. I never cared, it was what the Jews did and don’t anymore. The leftovers would not miraculously return the following year and be the same lamb. An idea like that was pagan, especially if a person was substituted for an animal sacrifice during an equinox or more often a solstice.

Today, the more liberal observers of Judaism cannot possibly believe their individual quests to discover God have anything to do with killing people – that goes against the Sixth commandment. The act is desperate and mad.

And a Mary of Bethezuba is one who smashed that binary commandment one day she lost her mind. People across the civilized world heard about the incident and remembered it for a long time. Indeed, I told you I have read Shakespeare referred to the woman involved as late as the 16th century. This was Cannibal Mary. Her story maybe inspired the ritual of consuming loathsome symbols. She perhaps contributed an apparent message to the Last Supper.

The Romano-Jewish scholar Josephus documented Mary in his history “Jewish War,” 75 CE.  Josephus was born in a Roman-dominated Jerusalem and emigrated to Greece, so the ‘Romano’ part of the preface describes the scholar as a citizen of the ancient Roman Empire. Indeed, the Emperor Titus Flavius Vespasianus made the man his historian.

Josephus documented the Flavian campaign to destroy the temple of Jerusalem in 70 CE. Actually, I believe trouble started four years earlier in 66 CE when statues of Caesar were to be erected in temples of every order and denomination. The Emperor was to be worshiped as the supreme god. Fundamentalist Jews could not stand that, nor would any devote Christian or Muslim in this age.

The scholar Josephus wrote about a siege Titus waged against those who denied his divinity. The Emperor surrounded the three walls of Jerusalem with his Roman army. The whole population was punished. The Roman army stopped food and water from entering the city. And to exasperate the deprivation, Titus let pilgrims enter the starving chaos Jerusalem had become so that they could celebrate Passover then never leave. No one was let outside the walls.

Josephus wrote the captured population turned against itself. Hungry gangs roamed inside their prison looking for food and treasure. They are written to have found a wealthy widow with her newborn child. Her name was Mary of Bethezuba. She became perpetually robbed. Thieves took her food until Passover came. The beleaguered woman then snapped. Mary went crazy.

The woman slaughtered her son, baked his corpse and started eating him after the ritual fast ended and the day was done. Thieves smelled the roasted meat, followed a sickly-sweet aroma through the dark and found the source.

Discovered, Mary presented to her habitual robbers the uneaten portions of her child. “He is a myth to the world,” Josephus stated she claimed. He said the woman’s revolted oppressors fled. People for centuries have remembered for themselves what happened at the siege. Nobody needed to read what a Roman scholar wrote.

I feel inclined to believe the tale is repeated today. Here is the origin of Transubstantiation, its symbols carry vague and needling and unshakable meaning. And it is the muddled story of Mary and the sacrifice of her son at Passover that makes the Last Supper unforgettable. We remember vicariously the bread is the flesh of her infant child. The blood is his. The woman’s convoluted damnation possibly made the Liturgy memorable.

The constant controversy involves dates. The tedious piece of this research in summary testifies Rome sacked Jerusalem and destroyed the temple a second time in 70 CE. The Gospel of Mark, in which whose author first records the events of the Last Supper, was also written about 70 CE. Scholars think 70 CE is more precise because the author of Mark mentions the destruction of the Temple Jerusalem. The dates of both these events incriminate themselves in conspiracy because their proximity.

The authors of the Gospels had certainly overheard something about the infamous Mary of Bethezuba. If they were Jewish, Gnostic or freshly Christian, I imagine news from Jerusalem would have been the priority of his day. Atrocities in the Promised Land would have most certainly overshadowed reports from a besieged of Masada. I think much of the struggle was incorporated into their books. Scholars have even stated the conflicts with Rome are what the Book of Revelation is about.

Christian apologists argue the Gospels have been preached by word-of-mouth since about 40 CE. The possibility may have merit, but there is no proof. The Apostle Paul never talked about the Last Supper, nor the birth of Jesus nor His life on Earth. Before the Gospels, we sinners only heard about what He had done for us and what we needed to do to show Him our appreciation. The First Apostle Paul wrote down as much. We can’t know what people said then to each other in conversation. Technically, we can’t even really know what Paul said was not made-up.

And you, reader, have no reason to believe me until you see for yourself. Read, just go ahead and read. Even then, people believe what they want to believe.

 

– Matthew Sawyer

 

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A Last Song for Supper

July 26, 2014

You might think twice about this little tale. If you know me and especially Mr. Binger, you will read exactly as you expect… but it’s the melody that keeps a true reader reading, not so the story. Of course, I say that and I’m accused of tricking readers into putting things they don’t want in their heads. There I repeat myself, if you know me and especially Mr. Binger, you will read exactly as you expect! I’m not saying I’m sorry.

 

A Last Song for Supper
Mr. Binger

 

The howls are loud and so constant they change into colored rays split from a prism sat in forgotten sunlight. Truly, all sensations turn into visible hues. The pain in this dungeon and radiant ripples caused by the torture here, torment burned into flesh, they are bright and they overwhelm an all-around bloody glow of hot coals. And after intense days, living prisoners pray for the relief of dark silence. Todd, the King’s warden, the scourge of the Lord, he is driven by another need.

“I’m hungry,” Todd shouts above sobs and wails. “It’s feeding time for this lot, too.”

The large warden talks to his three naked slaves and he is sure he is overheard by everyone who still has ears. “Now, what are we going to do?”

Gazing about the underground prison, Todd lifts a leather apron off and over his head. He wears this medieval garment when he smelts human limbs and skulls into bubbling globs of calcium and fat. Dead prisoners and those who will yet die have witnessed this terrible atrocity.

“Who will sing for our suppers?” chuckles the merry warden. He encourages his slaves to snicker with slaps and fierce pinches to their buttocks and balls.

After no prisoner replies, Todd shouts, “Come now, no one will hurt you when you’re singing. Everyone will relax and listen to your song. Come now. We will all finally eat in peace.”

Nobody laughs now. Todd stands grinning while his bruised slaves let their faces slip back into grimaces. Since the torture has stopped and the anguish has diminished to invisible whimpers and mewls, a famished prisoner wonders aloud, “You will feed us?”

The young man’s Eastern accent makes him sound to have said only “Feet” and “Ut.”

Todd happily rubs his own hirsute belly. He’s worn nothing beneath the apron all week except a soiled loin clothe and tall leather boots. Rubbed then itched, his digestive tract also seems to handle translations. “Yes.”

“Just sing?” asks a young woman very clearly on the floor and in shackles like everyone else.

Todd opens his mouth and smiles. The man has all his teeth and his canines are especially pointed. “Yes.”

“And you’ll feed us?” the starving youth verifies once more.

The warden makes an innocent request. “One pretty song.”

Todd then bats his eyes.

The young woman volunteers. “I’ll sing you a song. If you will feed us and let us go.”

“Go where?” Todd asks astonished. “Back to the Ottoman Empire?”

Nobody is given a chance to express an idea. Todd reminds the prisoners, “No, you are captives of our King Birger Magnusson. Truly, you are infidels.”

“We had no choice,” begs an old man. His Aramaic tongue smothers any comprehension of his words.

Todd starts telling his prisoner, “Shut up,” then stops himself. He believes they do not speak the same language. So instead, the warden knocks his knuckles against the bound man’s forehead. The hard clunk drowns everything else, even the weeping.

Only a sudden memory pulls Todd away from doing anything more grievous to the old fool. No one speaks to Todd unbidden. There is no appeal to the scourge of the Lord. Judgment has been passed and these weak traitors are made examples. This is where life ends and these sorrowful souls discover what language they need to use and please the one, true God.

“I know your name,” Todd tells the woman. “Penelope. You’re the atheist from Crete. You said you will sing us a song, a song for supper.”

“I did,” the girl affirms. She is smart and knows no one here may ask for more than what mercy Todd offers. “I’ll sing a pretty song if you give us a little peace.”

“Oh, yes.”

The young woman sings. Her voice cracks, she mumbles and forgets words most everyone else remember only once heard copied from the Book of Psalms. Todd feels offended. His tongue rolls into the back of mouth as he grabs an ax then lops off Penelope’s head.

Stepping away from a pulsing geyser, the warden addresses his surprised audience.“What did you think would happen?”

“It’s the same old song,” he tells this day’s surviving prisoners. “You’re all hear just to listen to the music.”

Todd amuses himself while he hacks off the hands and feet of the decapitated woman. He says aloud, “If King Birger is our Lord, down here I’m Lucifer. I’m never full.”

He lifts the corpse and allows metal cuffs to slip off the stumps at its wrists and ankles. The amputated limbs are left on the floor in heaps of limp chains and wet manacles. “I knew Penelope,” Todd says then proceeds with butchering the bleeding carcass.

“I remember she said she was a vegetarian. She didn’t eat meat. Now, she joins us for supper this eve.”

The devil chuckles more. “I hope for all your sakes, the woman tastes better than she sang.”

The barebacked warden cannot stop orating and end his drama. “There is why you are all hungrier than me. It’s why you are all so thin. You need to store some fat.”

The young man with his mangling accent truly replies for his last time, “I think you still would make us eat her first.”

–End–

 

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