“Come now, Father, you can’t be serious. What technology are you talking about? The Internet? That infantile mode of communication that man has just barely gotten off the ground? Why, I find it one of the most laughable and primitive things he’s ever invented.”
“That’s because you’re witnessing it in its infancy, Son, in its genesis. Just you wait. You haven’t seen anything yet. Wait another fifteen years or so for YouTube, for Facebook and Twitter. Just wait for iPods and iPads and iPhones to rule and dominate every aspect of man’s life.”
“iPads, iPods, and iPhones? YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter? What language are you speaking, Father? What foreign words have you just uttered?”
“The language of technology, Son. A one-world language of terror that will connect man to his universal doom.”
Son looked at Father in disbelief, not knowing whether to regard this as some latent prophecy, or what it really sounded like: paranoia, some implausible conspiracy theory. He tried his best to decipher the Creator’s inscrutable countenance, but to no avail.
“See how you keep things from me, Father! See what I was saying earlier. What in the world are these ominous-sounding things?”
“Not what are they Son, but what will they be. They haven’t even been conceived yet, but I can assure you they will be, and that Satan will utilize them as his last tool against man. It will be Satan’s final way of tempting and distracting man. Most of the gadgets will even bear the mark of the beast: an apple, an apple with a bite in it, to commemorate man’s disobedience and fall from grace, when man first ate of the fruit.”
As much as the Son of Man hated to admit it, these sinister forebodings were arousing alarm and concern in him. The cold winds of the Heavens caused him to shiver and tingle as they moved through him and within him.
“I still don’t get it, Father, what all these things will actually do.”
“You’ll see, Son, you’ll see in due time, the way Satan will utilize graphics and visuals to bring about the destruction of Man. How these gadgets will employ images and sounds to defile the temple by actually rewiring man’s brain. It’s just Satan being true to himself. Isn’t that what he’s about, Son? The image? Especially when that image is a false one, when it deceives and misleads.”
“Come now, Father. This is all too much, even for you.”
“No, Son! Why do you think Satan has always steered clear of words and only utilized images? Why? There’s clearly no disputing the written word, but images can take whatever form one wants, especially for enacting misdeeds.”
As the Son of Man contemplated the Creator’s apocalyptic warnings, he took a moment to fixate on a quaint and quietly shining quasar. Of all the heavenly bodies, quasars were his favorite: the most distant but luminous objects in the universe, the very last remnants of early existence. In some respects quasars seemed the outcasts of the universe, the dinosaurs of outer space. This one was particularly beautiful, a perfectly white sphere enshrouded in hazy mists of glowing energy and swirls of faint violet lights.
“Now, hold on a second, Father. There seems to be a slight contradiction going on here.”
“Don’t be silly, Son. There’s no contradiction in anything I say.”
“But there is, Father. On the one hand, you’re all about the word. And you’ve just finished condemning what will be man’s ultimate downfall: his obsession and worship of the image. Yet what did you do when you created man? You fashioned him in your own image!”
“Of course I did, Son. I had to fashion him from something, didn’t I? Don’t forget that man has never actually seen my image. Don’t forget that the images of spiritual beings cannot be captured. That’s because an image is not the least bit relevant when it comes to the essence of being. What does it matter what I look like? Of what possible importance are my looks? None! Man has yet to accept this, so I’m debating whether he’ll ever be allowed to see my image—ever!”
The Son of Man desperately needed a breather. This was way too much to handle, way too much information to digest all at once. He focused his attention back on the sheerness of that primal quasar, on all its pulsating force, trying to draw insight from it even as he suspected the Creator’s true motives in all this: simply trying to divert attention from the matter at hand.
“Listen, Father, I may have no clue as to what you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this much: you need to stop pinning man’s flaws on someone other than man. Why can’t you accept that? Whether man decides to be ruled by false images or not, it’s all his own doing and nobody else’s. Man loves temptation, Father. He loves giving into it. It’s just his nature, and he can’t escape it. I should know, Father. I lived among man, I was man.”
“No, Son! I won’t accept that line of thinking. It’s Satan. It’s that felonious fiend down there. It’s the Great Defacer himself! That’s what all these gadgets and technology will ultimately prove to be: Satan’s final way of enticing man, of entrapping man. You’ll see!”
The Son of Man attempted to stay respectful, but he rolled his eyes in an orbit of speculation.
“Well, Father, you obviously have your way of seeing things, but I will continue to disagree with you. Man was a mistake, an experiment gone terribly wrong. I have no idea what Facebook and Twitter and all these strange-sounding names mean, but the only reason you keep investing in man is to save face yourself.”
No mistaking or misreading the expression on the Creator’s usually inscrutable face this time, no diffusing the constellation of fury that flared across his outraged countenance.
“No, Son! I do not need to save face! And man is not an experiment gone wrong. He just strays off course; he just needs to be reeled back in.”
“Well, Father, you can be the one to reel him back in. And maybe you can get this new offspring of yours to assist you, but I’ll have no part of it. And good luck, by the way. You know how accepting man is of woman.”
“Son, I already told you. She’s not going to be part of any grand scheme. I just want to be a parent again. And I’ll remind you that this offspring of mine, as you refer to her, will be your sister soon enough, so please show some respect.”
“No grand scheme, huh? Why Cuba then, Father? If you have no ulterior motives, why Cuba of all places?”
“Why not Cuba, Son?”
“You said you wanted to relax, Father, that you wanted to take it easy. Yet you know that Cuba is always a lightning rod of controversy, a hotbed of turmoil. Why Cuba if all you want is to take it easy?”
“I said I wanted to relax, Son. I didn’t say I wanted to be bored stiff.”
The Creator deflected this inquisition quite easily, but the Son of Man wasn’t buying it. Despite the insistent denials, this whole Cuba angle wasn’t adding up. The Son of Man employed his innate gifts of calculating and theorizing and computating when it finally occurred to him why Cuba.
“I know why Cuba, Father. I know why. Because Cubans have been praying to you for the last forty years to liberate them from Fidel, and you’ve ignored them.”
“No, Son, that’s not why.”
“Because their patron saint has been petitioning you for the last forty years and you’ve ignored her.”
“No, Son that’s not why either.”
“Because the exiles have been begging you for the last forty years to liberate their homeland from Communism, and you’ve ignored them.”
“No, Son, not at all.”
“Then why Cuba, Father? Tell me why.”
“All right, Son. I’ll tell you why Cuba. Isn’t it obvious? Just look at it down there. Cuba is wild and exciting. Cuba is bold and untamed. Surely you can feel its restless energy, all its raw exhilaration. It’s like that raggedy and tattered quasar over there that refuses to collapse, refuses to die. I mean, look at all those Cubans risking their lives by taking to the water. That’s what I like to see, Son, people willing to take risks.”
Father and Son looked down for a moment, taking note of the alligator
island and how almost fragile it looked; how its patch-quilt of rolling greenness rose gently from a blanket of burning blue; how the soft sultry slopes of its tropical terrain peeked bashfully from behind a crown of shining clouds.
“They’re cutting their losses, Father, that’s all they’re doing.”
“They’re fighting for their lives, Son, and that’s what I like to see: a good fight. Just look at all those homemade vessels and all the rickety contraptions. You have to admit that some of them are pretty ingenious Son, especially the water taxis. Cubans do have a knack for contrivances, don’t they?”
“It’s a mess, Father, that’s all it is—one enormous mess.”
“It reminds me of the Exodus, Son. It reminds me of the parting of the Red Sea. And you know how fond of the sea I am. It was the first thing I formed out of the great abyss.”
“Yes, Father, I know you love the sea. I love the sea too.”
“I know you do, Son, I know you do. Oh, how I miss the days you used to teach along the shores of Galilee. It was mesmerizing to watch you, intoxicating. Nobody’s ever held a crowd captive the way you have, Son.”
“You mean that, Father? You really mean
it?”
“Of course I mean it, Son. And just like your Middle Eastern ancestors, Cubans are attached to the sea. It’s in their blood.”
“Is that what you’re planning on having her do, Father? Teach along the shores of Varadero?”
“Don’t be silly, Son. I hope she never goes anywhere near Varadero and all those tourists.”
The Son of Man didn’t know what to think. He almost felt convinced by the seeming rationale of this all, but an infernal iota of doubt still plagued him.
“I don’t know, Father. It seems to me you’re still up to something and now I suspect it involves the sea. Wait a minute! Isn’t their patron saint enjoined to the water somehow? Didn’t she appear in a vision at sea herself? Don’t tell me she crawled out of the depths?”
The Creator of the Universe adopted a perfect Cuban accent for his reply.
“No, Son. La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre was found floating at sea by three Cuba fisherman, remember?”
“That’s right!” declared the Son of Man. “Cubans are definitely tied to the sea. But why are you insisting that girl not take off on that dangerous contraption tomorrow? Why?”
“You just said it yourself, Son. I don’t want her on that dangerous contraption because she’s with child, because she’s conceived.”
“So, Father? You had my mother carry me into Egypt on an ass right after I was born; that didn’t bother you any.”
“Please, Son. Is it going to be tit-for-tat from now on? Is it? Your mother whisked you into Egypt to keep you safe, to spare you from the massacre that Herod had ordered; you know that. I’m keeping your sister in Cuba for much the same reason.”
“Cuba is safe, Father? Is that what you’re saying? The same Cuba that’s under constant threat of invasion by its neighbor to the north? The same Cuba with a foreign naval base that the Cubans bitterly resent and can be used against them at any moment? I wouldn’t exactly call that safe, Father.”
“True, Son, but that’s not the type of safe I’m talking about. You see, Cuba may be a Communist dictatorship, it may be under the rule of tyranny, but there’s more faith in Cuba than in most parts of the world, and to be surrounded by all that faith will keep her safe.”
“Not to mention she’ll be on an island, which means she’ll be surrounded by water. Is that part of her safety?”
“No, Son, that’s just for my enjoyment. I really needed a change of scenery after all the dryness and dustiness of Judea and Palestine. This time I want water, Son, plenty and plenty of water.”
The Son of Man reacted with mild indifference. “I know you love the sea, Father, but when did you become so obsessed with it?”
“I’ve always been at one with the water, Son, always, ever since the very dawn of Creation. Don’t forget that before I created light, my spirit moved upon the face of the waters. Why do you think three-fourths of the Earth is covered by it? I made water for my sake, for my inspiration. The water is mine, Son. I gave man dominion over the land and deserts and mountains so he’d leave the oceans alone, so he’d leave the skies alone. If I wanted man to have dominion of the seas, I would have given him gills. If I’d wanted man to have dominion of the skies, I would have given him wings. Those are my realms, Son, mine and mine alone. But look at what man has slowly been doing to them: infiltrating them, trashing them.”
The Son of Man nodded eagerly in agreement, the persuasiveness of the Creator’s words lighting the flames of his smoldering resentment.
“That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you, Father. Give man enough time and he’ll ruin anything he touches. You know that. You’ve seen it happen time and time again. But don’t be fooled by the Cubans, Father. They’re no different. Look at what a catastrophe they’ve made of their island. Look at the disaster they’ve made of both land and water.”
Again, both Father and Son stopped to glance down at the alligator island. There it was—hidden and inconspicuous but stirring in the chaos of its turbulent beauty. Sure, it had its flaws, but nowhere near as many as the rest of the planet.
“And to think I gave them the loveliest land ever beheld by human eyes…just to think.”
“It’s a betrayal, Father, a complete slap to your inscrutable face.”
“To think it was a veritable Garden of Eden. That’s what the island was, Son: a second Garden.”
Just then, the Son of Man felt the stirrings of another turbulence: a mental one, an inward one, the rays and waves and pulsations of analysis and conclusion shooting across the universe of his mind in a speed faster than light and only made possible by He who had actually created light.
“Wait a minute, Father! Now I get it. Now I understand why Cuba. Yes, it all makes sense now!”
“What makes sense, Son? Pray, tell me.”
“Well,” he began excitedly. “Isn’t it obvious, Father? This is your way of finally getting back at…” The Son of Man stopped himself; he’d almost done it again, called the enemy by name. “Your way of getting back at Satan.”
“I’m not following you, Son. How so?”
“It’s very simple, Father. You just said it yourself. Cuba was a second Garden of Eden. Well, what did Satan do in the first Garden of Eden? He tempted man. He brought about damnation. Satan invoked the contamination of Man’s own soul. Well, hasn’t the leader of your precious Cuba done the same thing with his own people? Isn’t he like someone else we both know? The way he tempted his fellow Cuban and deceived him? The way he ushered in the ruination of the Cuban soul. You’ve found the perfect way of getting back at Satan, Father, and I must admit it’s quite clever.”
For a Being that was all about the word, and always kept His word, and also cherished the word because He was the Word, the Creator of the Universe suddenly found himself in a position He rarely ever did: at a loss for words, a complete loss. When He finally summoned some words, He said: “Well, Son, I will admit that’s quite an interesting theory of yours, but that’s not why.”
“Of course it is, Father, of course it is! I don’t even think you’re aware of your own motives. It’s too much a part of your cosmic unconsciousness, but it all makes sense. Doubly fascinating is that, Fidel is not only like the Serpent, he’s like man himself. He’s man giving in to his own temptation, man relishing in the delights of the forbidden but turning around and shifting culpability. Doesn’t Fidel love to blame the embargo for all his country’s ills and woes? We both know he does, Father. And we both know the problem is not the embargo. The problem is him.”
“Son, where do you come up with this stuff? Really!”
“You know I’m right, Father, you know it. Before you banished man from the Garden, or should I say ‘embargoed’ in this case, didn’t he try to blame it on the Serpent’s deception? Didn’t he even try to pin it on Eve? He
did, Father! He did! But we both know it was only his lust for disobedience that brought about his downfall and led to your ‘embargoing’ him from the Garden, if you will. It was only Man himself.”
The Creator of the Universe had to admit that, on a certain level, He was quite impressed by the Son of Man’s sharp insight and His keen abilities to make such abstract connections, no matter how radical the thoughts or how unorthodox the views. In the infinitely eternal span of all Creation, only once before had the Creator encountered such radical thinking, only once—by he whose name remained unmentionable.
“Listen, Son, you may find this hard to believe, but Fidel is an angel compared to that demon, a veritable saint. I understand where this is all coming from: he got to you. During the three days before your ascension, he injected you with his venom. Tell me what he said to you, Son. What idea did that Satan plant in your head?”
The Son of Man hardened his stance now.
“What did you do with the scrolls, Father? Where did you hide them?”
But the Creator of the Universe had finally had enough. He didn’t need to be questioned or harassed about anything by anybody, especially his own Son, to whom He owed no explanations.
“Which scrolls, Son? Which scrolls do you keep referring to? The ones that Gabriel just mentioned? The ones that cover your childhood and adolescence?”
“No, Father, not those. You know exactly which scrolls I’m talking about, the ones that should have been found with the Dead Sea Scrolls, the ones I personally dictated and come after the Book of Revelation. Those scrolls.”
The Creator shrugged His unshakable shoulders nonchalantly.
“I don’t know what happened to them, Son. But shouldn’t you know? Didn’t you just say you dictated them?”
“You’re toying with me, Father, and you know it. How can you not know where the scrolls are when you know everything. You’re the Creator of the Universe, for…well…you know for whose sake.”
Again with the inappropriate language, again with the flippant outbursts; almost taking his own name in vain just now, or…had he actually implied the Creator’s name?
Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) Page 16