Balaam, the Gray Prophet

by Stephen Beam

  Balaam was drawn inside the seed of an approaching visionary state. In the starry night, the vision blossomed like a flower in the sun. Now the divine floodgates opened wide, releasing rivers of data and love that swept him under, left him gasping for air high above the world below. His clarity of thought sharpened into painful points, shredding his essence. He fell backwards endlessly, grasping in panic for something unmovable to hold. How could his flesh endure this onslaught of spiritual energy? Why him? Why was he chosen? No bloodline linked him to the Israelites.

  The scale of the vision curled him into a fetal position while lying beneath the fig trees. This time the divine encounter was pure revelation. The revelation of Unity. He understood, beyond what words could describe, Divinity IS Unity - the I AM that I AM, the unpronounceable name of YHWH, the Holy ONE. The entire diversity of creation, all the singularly unique individuals existing on all levels of reality, will unite spiritually on the great day everlasting.

  Truth was never a passive acceptance of an intellectual belief in God. Truth is dynamic. It moves through time and worlds are born. Tradition shatters before the naked truth. Humankind has feared to give up control to a higher power, yet humankind has never really been in control. Truth can’t be controlled by carving laws in stone. Truth is alive. Truth is a complete takeover. Truth is relentless progression into and beyond time. Truth proves the greatest of all adventures is to obey God’s ultimate command: to someday be perfect, even as He is perfect.

  Time unfroze. Balaam was awakened by Eeayore’s tongue licking his face, leaving thick strands of saliva running down his cheeks. Eeayore gazed down at his master, watching his eyes flicker open.

  Balaam’s world had just broken apart into kaleidoscopic shards. It took time to gather the pieces back together. Contact with YHWH always left him addled, and always was he changed. The changes weren’t obvious. Not until circumstances drew them out.

  Balaam noted that it was now earlier in the morning than when he’d first arrived. He’d passed out under the fig trees, possibly for days. His stomach churned in hunger, but Eeayore was contentedly well fed, grazing on the grass that covered the river’s edge.

  Balaam said, “Come on girl, it’s time to go,” and led her home. Toast and eggs sounded so good right now.

  Chapter 4: Once More With Feeling

  Balaam rode Eeayore the short distance back home. A big gold and chrome plated RV was parked on the dirt road in front of his house. A few well dressed men stood on the pathway to his front porch. He knew what this was about. Balak had sent his upper echelon of delegates to try again in persuading him to curse the Sons of Israel. Balaam’s stomach twisted with nervous tension, foreseeing this would lead to yet another round with the Almighty.

  The elite group of a Moabites watched Balaam as he patted the donkey’s hindquarters and tugged at her leather rein, guiding her to the grassy field next to his house. He unmounted and gave her scruffy neck an affectionate rub and pat. “Stay here girl. I’ve got business to attend to.”

  The men walked over to intercept Balaam as he headed towards the house; this new entourage wasted no time. One of the men stepped away from the others and greeted Balaam with a smile and a handshake. “My name’s Pluto. I have a message to relay from Balak, son of Zippor. These are his words: ‘Don’t let anything hinder you from coming to see me. I will shower you with honors and give you whatever your heart desires. All you need do is curse the Israelites. You’re our only hope to save Moab from certain destruction.’” Pluto finished delivering the message and returned to his associates, a far more dignified bunch than was Mickey’s. Balak had sent his top guns for the job.

  Balaam stared at Pluto questioningly, then shook his head from side to side, deep lines of frustration carved into his face. After a few long minutes, he said, “Balak could give me all of his silver and gold, but it would do no good. I can’t go beyond the word of the Lord my God. I can only suggest to you this: spend the night here in the RV. In the morning I’ll know more what the Lord wants of me. That’s the best I can do.”

  Pluto said, “We understand and will do as you ask. The connection you have with your god is something we don’t take lightly. There is power in it that is hard for us to grasp; we respect that and your wisdom.”

  “Thank you,” Balaam said. He was pale and gaunt, and speaking nearly in a whisper, added, “Right now, I’m hungry. I’ve been absent from my mortal frame for a few days and need to eat, so I’m not a good host right now. I recommend you visit the Pethor Bar if you get bored. That’s all the entertainment Pethor offers. Be cautious of the bar’s renegade nanobots. They can be a nuisance.”

  Balak’s elite representatives looked concerned at the mention of renegade nanobots. They would, of course, stay the night, but the bar was out. Most people shied away from malfunctioning nanobots. Within minutes, the micro-machines could drastically alter you and your environment.

  Donald, Pluto’s closest associate, asked, “Any good restaurants in Pethor?”

  “There’s a Deli that’s not bad. Look for Jeff’s Kosher Sausage.” After Balaam made the suggestion, he quickly walked off, entering his home and shutting the door firmly behind him. That was the signal he desired to be alone, a private time where he could wrestle with himself. Which of his characte traits would come out on top? Walking straight to the kitchen cupboard, he grabbed his last bottle of whiskey. This was the liquid potion that would most likely decide the match.

  Never could he understood why God chose him as His mouthpiece. The world was filled with people morally and spiritually superior to him. Why would the Lord think he’d be any good as a prophet? Everything else in his life ended in disaster. Why should prophesying be any different? His relationships. His failed marriages. His brief, disastrous career as a copywriter. His advertisements were the kiss of death for his clients.

  Words. His life was all about words. Words ultimately came to curse his life, so he found refuge at the bottom of a bottle. He poured two fingers worth of whiskey into a glass and carried it, along with the bottle, to his old faded sofa. He plopped himself down and set the bottle atop the dusty coffee table. He sipped his drink and meditated. He didn’t have the talent for writing clever copy, but when the Lord chose to invade his mind and fill it with visions, it was then his words gained notoriety. He became the prophet with mojo, and depending on YHWH’s will, able to both bless and curse. The outcome from his gigs always kept him humble.

  He didn’t go looking for notoriety. He had no desire to become a famous prophet. When the Almighty grabbed him by the throat and threw him against the spiritual mat, he was both honored and confused. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he’d met the one true God. The Lord’s mental invasion wasn’t a violent overthrow of his personal will; it was an onslaught of love. A torrent of compassion that blinded him with the light of heavenly glory. He sank beneath a sea of infinite love. No matter the amount of love he let in, there was always more in reserve. Balaam didn’t understand what to do with it.

  He heard Eeayore braying in the grassy field next door. Her voice was mysteriously deeper now. Should he go check on her? No. Let it go. Contemplating his life and drinking whiskey were his top priorities at the moment. But she kept on braying. On and on it went, with no indication she was ever going to quit. “Shit,” Balaam said, irritated in being forced to leave the comfortable zone he’d just created.

  With some difficulty, he got up from the sofa and walked outside. The fancy RV had left. Balak’s elite crew probably took off to look for Jeff’s Kosher Sausage, which sounded like a good idea to him right now.

  Eeayore was in the field, but she wasn’t grazing. Instead, she stared at him eerily. Even from his position on the porch, he could see something hanging from her mouth. Balaam muttered to himself, then made his way across the field to stand before her. He held her snout with both hands and tilted her head back to better view the strangeness.

  A glistening oblong bladder hung from Eeayore’s open mout
h. At first, Balaam thought his donkey’s tongue was inflamed, but it wasn’t her tongue. He poked the thing with his finger a few times. Eeayore didn’t move or flinch, oblivious to her master’s prodding. The slimy sack changed color, transforming from burgundy to light purple. It quivered.

  “Whatever this thing is, it’s got to go,” Balaam said. He grabbed hold of the thing’s slick surface, ignoring the urge to vomit. Waves of dizzying nausea nearly brought him to his knees. Clammy and slippery, he held on tightly and yanked the bladder free from Eeayore’s mouth. She immediately lowered her head and started grazing. Balaam still held the slimy sack in his hands.

  The whiskey Balaam drank helped guide his decisions. He normally would have dumped the thing in a garbage can, instead, he carried it inside the house. He brought it to the kitchen and set it in the sink. He took a steak knife from the drawer and gave the bladder a tentative poke, then sliced it open. A hiss of fragrant air was released. The organ flattened out and dissolved into dry purple dust. He turned the faucet on and washed the dust down the drain. “Damn nanobots. What’d they do to my donkey?” He squirted dish soap from a plastic bottle into the sink, then scrubbed the porcelain hard with a rough sponge.

  Balaam, at last, returned to the sofa, refilled his glass of whiskey, and resumed drinking. The alcohol warmed his thoughts and made him feel better about himself. He pondered his supernatural talents that God continued to fine tune after invading his mind. His visions were overwhelming, and within their awesome beauty, the Lord made plain that supernatural powers used for sorcery were wrong. Balaam never hid that truth from his customers. But no matter how many times Balaam explained he could do only that which the Lord said, they wouldn’t listen. Balaam knew his mojo was an illusion; all power in the universe was God’s. The circle of time lay bare before the Lord. When he told his customers of YHWH’s revelations of the future, they believed it was Balaam himself that changed destiny. Whenever he felt depressed, Balaam tried to make himself believe his customers’ hype.

  He could no longer keep his eyes open. When his eyelids shut, a strobe light burst across the darkness. He spasmed, fell to the floor and jerked fitfully about like a beached fish gasping for water. He heard a voice that wasn’t a voice, saying words that weren’t words. A bolt of cosmic lightning to the center of his brain cracked open his reality filter and let the stars come streaming inside. The vision stabilized. Then God said: “If Balak’s men rise first and call on you, go with them; but only the word which I speak to you - that shall you do.” An electrical neuron storm ignited within Balaam, followed by an ocean of love that drowned out any conscious thoughts of rebellion.

  ****

  Balaam wasn’t sure of his own name when he awoke on the floor. The divine encounter was like a lovingly wielded sledgehammer to his mental integrity. It was morning, of that he was certain, but of the day, he wasn’t. He glanced out the front window. The big RV had returned from visiting downtown Pethor, neatly parked on the road in front of his house. How long had it been there?

  Still reeling, he tried to focus on his immediate goal. He’d go to Moab and try to make Balak understand the mojo of blessing and cursing, the limitations the Lord Almighty imposed on him. You don’t bargain with God, or try to twist His spiritual arm. The universe doesn’t work that way. Balaam would give his best shot at helping Balak, but knew deep inside it was futile. God held an unwavering, impenetrable shield of protection over the Sons of Israel.

  Balaam grabbed the open bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, and without pouring a glass, took a deep drink straight from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said to himself, “My mouth tastes like a dirty sock. Shit.” He took one last gulp and set the bottle down. He walked outside to the RV and knocked on the passenger side door. No one answered. He knocked again - harder this time.

  Pluto opened the door, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. He stared at Balaam with a bit of disdain. “You’re up early.”

  “I am?” Balaam asked, not synchronized yet with temporal time. His biological clock was not wound. Half of him wasn’t operational while his other half still floated amongst foreign stars and planets.

  “The meeting with your god must’ve gone well. You woke me up like you can’t wait to get started. Are you coming with us?”

  “I’m riding my donkey. That’s how I roll.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll wake the others and we’re off.” Pluto banged shut the RV’s metal door without any further words. It appeared to Balaam, even with his senses muted, Pluto wasn’t thrilled with this assignment.

  Balaam intended to go and greet Eeayore in the grassy field, but the donkey had already walked over to the front yard. She affectionately nudged his leg. When their eyes met, Eeayore looked at her master with a new awareness. She seemed to give him a wink. It gave him the creeps.

  The RV engine cranked over and fired. Before Balaam realized what was happening, the big vehicle pulled out and took off down the road, leaving behind a cloud of dust. If they wanted to travel ahead, that was fine with him. Why wait on a slow donkey? They’d all end up standing before Balak anyway, and once again - this time in person - he would explain his limitations. The Lord would never allow him to curse the Sons of Israel - now, or anytime in the future.

  Balaam went inside the house and grabbed his old leather bag of traveling supplies. When he spotted the whiskey on the coffee table, he finished it off in one gulp. He exited his house, locked the front door, and mounted Eeayore. He gave Eeayore’s neck an affectionate pat, and the two interspecies friends were on their way to Moab.

  Chapter 5: The Trip to Moab

  The RV was miles ahead of Balaam. That’s fine. It wasn’t a race. Balaam had no desire to press Eeayore to go any faster. It gave him time to plan. His thoughts centered around the one obstacle standing in his way to riches. God. Creator and controller of the universe. The I AM that I AM. Encapsulating the circle of time, God knows the heart of every being in the cosmos: whether mortal, angel, transcendental celestial, or unfathomable eternal. So, how could a lowly, finite mortal like himself get his way with God? Balaam shook his head in frustration. He would go to Moab, offer up all he knew to please YHWH, while knowing deep inside, it was futile.

  Balaam entered his favorite part of the landscape. He most enjoyed riding Eeayore down the dirt road that tunneled through the corn fields. For much of the way, chicken wire fences lined the road, keeping intruders from trespassing through the rows of corn. Corn was Pethor’s main crop, most of which went to the distillery. Pethor bourbon whiskey was noted for its subtle, sweet corn flavor.

  The blue sky, the chilly bite of morning air, the sweet aroma of the corn fields, these things brought a modicum of comfort to Balaam. The trip wouldn’t be wasted if he remained in the moment and counted his blessings. It was best to forget dreams of wealth, not to mention honor. These thoughts were pure fantasy; be thankful for having enough to eat and drink - many in Pethor didn’t. Times were the hardest in known history, but when viewed through thankful eyes, life looked much better. Attitude changed the inner environment, but did nothing for the outer.

  Being chosen as God’s mouthpiece wasn’t an easy job, nor one he even wanted. Nobody understood or sympathized with his predicament. How could they? He was an anomaly, a singularity. He was alone in the world, alone but for his precious Eeayore. He had no friends or lovers, only Eeayore and God. And a few bottles of Pethor’s finest bourbon.

  In reality, there was no cause to bitch about his life. Some might even question his claim of being friendless. How could he be friendless when God Almighty Himself personally spoke to him? God was in his personal contact list, grouped under family. They stayed in touch via the Universal Spiritual Social Network, broadcasting an endless stream of information throughout the universe of universes.

  The Lord of Hosts, the Infinite One whose breath gave him life, was head of a vast family. The loneliness Balaam felt came from this unequally yoked relationship. His fri
ends were not his peers: neither the Lord, nor Eeayore. Sober or drunk, he strained to open his mind to the light, but his capacity was severely limited - a thimble can’t hold an ocean.

  Eeayore began acting skittish. Balaam rubbed his hand along Eeayore’s neck and gave her an affectionate pat. She grew more agitated the farther along the road they went. When they approached a break in the fence to their right, Eeayore made for it, bolting off the road towards the corn fields. “Whoa girl! Where’re you going?”

  Balaam carried a stick velcroed to his saddle. He rarely used it, but now, sadly, he must. Ripping it from the saddle, he whacked Eeayore on the butt, trying to force her back onto the road. She’d never behaved this strangely before. Why now? They were usually so perfectly in sync with one another discipline wasn’t needed, just a tap or two for minor error correction. But this was open rebellion. His blow landed harder and harsher than any he’d ever delivered before.

  Eeayore halted, looked around nervously, and returned to the road through the gap in the fence she’d just run through. She shivered. Her ears stood straight, vibrating like a tuning fork. This disturbed Balaam more than the bladder he’d pulled from her mouth, which he assumed was created by a nanobot infection. Now, the low pitched hum of her fluttering ears harmonically resonated with his spine. He felt energy rising like a serpent up his back, uncoiling to strike, its power suddenly unleashed itself inside his head. His brain deflated, thought escaped through punctures left by the serpent’s fangs.

  The road undulated: repeatedly lifting them up, then setting them down. Eeayore, terrified, bolted against the fence, shoving Balaam’s foot into the thick wire, nearly throwing him from the saddle. Suddenly she was stiff and motionless, staring down the road at a figure visible only to her - an unearthly phantom clothed in golden waves of light.