Soul Matters: Book 4, Monocracy Managerie

Phil returned from his Saturday golf date to a house full of young adults. Bobby and Donna were home for the summer, and Betty was once more engaged as den mother to all their friends.

“Hi, Dad,” Donna greeted him as he came through the garage entrance. She continued without hesitation, “Could you lend me your car? I need to take Marcia and Dawn home.”

It seemed the perfect excuse to escape the house and go meditate. “Let me change, and I’ll take them.”

“Dad,” Donna whined, her long blonde hair drifted over one shoulder as she tilted her head in dismay.

Phil paused and frowned at her, “Where’s your car?”

“Bobby has it.”

“Well, where’s his car?”

“I don’t know,” Donna answered with mounting frustration. “One of his dirt-bag friends has it.”

Phil considered his options. Meditate here and Betty would know something was up. He conceded the point meditation was ‘of the Devil’ in order to placate almost everybody. His only option was to get out of the house.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Drop me off at the beach, and you can do what you want for an hour or two.”

“Deal.”

Phil hustled upstairs, changed, and was ready to go in no time. Donna collected her friends, and bidding goodbye to Betty and the other boys and girls awaiting Bobby’s return, they left.

Donna drove, and Phil silently appreciated his daughter. She was a thinner, more intelligent version of her mother. But she carried Phil’s wild streak. She would have been a good hippie, he decided long ago. Blonde, tall, drop-dead gorgeous, Donna possessed not only a striking wit, but she remembered her dreams, noticed the flow of energy in a room, and unlike Phil, could camouflage her psychic talents by fitting into society. In addition, she easily carried a 3.8 grade average in college.

“The bluff?” she asked him.

“Please.”

The girls in the back seat of the Mercedes were busy with their own agenda, and Donna checked them in the mirror before she said, “You’re going to meditate, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Come on, Dad,” Donna rolled her blue eyes at him. “We both know you are a misfit in this world.” She paused for a quick moment and corrected herself, “Well, I know it. You seem to be struggling.”

“I want to do what’s best for the family.”

Donna rolled her eyes again.

“I’m serious.”

They both started laughing.

Donna reached a hand to him, “Dad, you are such a fraud. Luckily, only I can see it.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know,” she frowned. “But whatever it is, I’ll still love you.”

Phil took her hand. For a long moment, they drove in silence.

Then Donna asked, “Is it true Pastor Jones died because of you?”

“Sort of. What he tried to do to me bounced back and zapped him.”

“I thought as much,” Donna muttered and freed her hand to negotiate a right turn.

“He was an arrogant asshole,” she declared.

“Donna!”

“He was,” she said, “and a lecher to boot. He came onto me once. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“He did?”

“Jeez, Dad,” she breathed. “Where have you been? Ever since I grew tits, they’ve been after me.”

Phil slumped back into the leather seat. The giggling girls behind him were oblivious to what was going on in the front seat. Donna turned up the music -- music Phil didn’t recognize.

She noted, “We’ve got more in common than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I began meditating, too. I’ve even been to some Zen retreats. It’s hard work getting your mind to shut up.”

Phil slowly grinned. His daughter may have a clue. Still, he wasn’t about to tell her of his adventures in Spirit. Visiting Hell, warring with archetypes, on a first-name basis with angels and devils -- too much, he decided, for the poor girl to grasp.

“Any results?” he asked instead.

“Not much. It’s a shit-load of work.”

Phil laughed, and then caught himself. Azazel, a desert demon, had told him the same thing once.

“Dad, what happens after you’ve been meditating for decades, like you?”

“Things open up. But not the way you could ever imagine. There’s research that shows it changes the structure of the brain.”

She sighed and pondered his answer. Presently she said, “Is there anything I can do?”

Phil looked out the window at the glaring lights of the beach town cornered by the dark expanse of the ocean. He finally answered, “You could research the Grail legend for me.”

“The Holy Grail? King Arthur and all?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure. But you have to let me in on what you’re doing.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said and wished he could say more. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about these adventures. Someone other than Sandy, anyway. His high school surfing buddy, Sandy, had attended a Jesuit seminary for many years and was a great help for understanding the intricacies of the spiritual journey, but he wasn’t one to commiserate with.

Donna pulled into the parking lot sitting atop the bluff. Below, some 150 feet, was the ocean and one of the premier surfing breaks of Huntington Beach, California.

As she stopped, Donna said, “Our Zen master told us the real battles were all spiritual. Are you fighting those battles?”

Phil smiled and got out of the car.

“Pick me up at eleven, okay?”

“Sure, Dad. Be careful.”

Phil made his way to an alcove about halfway down the bluff. Sitting with his back propped against the dirt wall, he crossed his legs and began to quiet his mind.

Once he achieved a deep meditative state, the singular door appeared before him, and he entered.

Manuel’s garden-patio was festooned with blooming plants of all kinds. A high wall enclosed the patio. Before him was a marble bench, a gurgling fountain to the right of it, and a blank wall to his left. Marble stones formed a pathway through grass to the bench, where the Archangel Manuel was sitting.

Dressed more appropriately in a white robe, the angel’s aura danced through the shifting colors of his mood.

“Welcome back,” Manuel greeted him, but then he added, “I think.”

Phil dressed himself in cut-off jeans and T-shirt, remade his balding hair into a thick mane of brown curls, and approached. It was his habit to dress appropriately for the occasion.

“This better be good,” he stated. “I’m risking everything by talking to you.”

“What risk? You always die in the end -- risk or no risk.”

“You know what I mean,” Phil muttered as he sat next to the angel.

“Truly I don’t. I could never understand the human fixation on the ego. You don’t mourn the loss of a car when it craps out. Why worry about the ego?”

Phil didn’t try to explain. Instead he asked, “When can I see Metatron?”

“Right now,” Manuel answered and stood. “You’re not in a very good mood, Phil.”

“No, I’m not. I wish I could keep these two worlds separate.”

“Hah! Remove Spirit and everything collapses. Quit being stupid.”

The angel put a hand on Phil’s shoulder and they flew out of the patio. The angel compound floated below them. It appeared as a series of spokes meeting at a central hub. In the far distance, a grey wall enclosed this compound, setting it off from other locations on the level of Physically Manifesting Spirits.

Manuel was saying, “I hate to tell you this, but your job as a human is to manifest Spirit on earth.”

Phil didn’t answer.

The angel, after a short pause, added, “Well, I don’t really hate telling you. It’s more like I shouldn’t have to tell you. But, on the other hand, how could you know? You get amnesia every time you incarnate.”

“Manuel, enough.”

“Still in a bad mood?”

In silence they completed the trip to one of the domed buildings at the hub. Flying through the roof, they encountered a busy administration operation. It was a circular room with platforms attached to the wall. Entities flew in and out of the building and attended to the business of the seven heavens. A platform overlooking it all was where they alighted.

Metatron, a tall slightly stooped figure in robes, was looking absently at a hologram of the celestial worlds. He didn’t turn to them, but said in his patient controlled voice, “We all evolve, Phil, and the Bible gives us a template. Did you ever notice the Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament end with apocalyptic books?”

“Never thought about it,” Phil replied. “What does it have to do with me?”

“Evolution for humans,” Metatron continued without answering his own or Phil’s question, “is marked by a lessening of narcissism.”

Manuel let out a bark of a laugh.

Phil glanced his way and the angel lifted his hands as if to say, ‘What?’

Ignoring Manuel’s boorishness, Metatron went on, “With the Patriarchs, logos and mythos differentiated out of the henotheism of the tribes. Yin and yang, mythos and logos: too bad we couldn’t balance them in the West the way the Hindus and Buddhists did.”

Phil tried again, “What has this got to do with me?”

Metatron finally turned and favored Phil with a wan smile, “Probably nothing. Maybe everything.”

“I mean,” Phil frowned, “I appreciate your interest in me, but every time I engage with you people, my life -- my human life on planet Earth -- gets twisted up. You can understand my caution.”

Now Manuel’s laughter was a sustained barrage on Phil’s decorum. Even Metatron’s lined and bearded face cracked into a smile.

“Well, it’s true,” Phil persisted. “Burn marks I had to hide. Haunted radios and mysterious phone calls I had to explain away. Pastor Jones’ death -- what’s next?”

Manuel paused in his laughter long enough to say, “I’m sure I can come up with something.” Then he resumed chuckling, probably considering the possibilities for stirring up trouble in Phil’s life.

Metatron was more forthcoming, “You chose this path, Phil. We didn’t choose it for you.”

“I?” Phil’s frown deepened to include his high forehead. “I didn’t choose this. I’m stuck here.”

“Stupid, Phil,” Manuel cautioned. “There are no victims in Spirit; only volunteers.”

Confused Phil stepped towards Metatron, “I don’t get it. What’s the catch?”

“Did you complete your quest for the Grail?” Metatron asked. “As you promised Jehovah.”

“Not yet.”

“Have you even started?” Manuel probed.

“Yes,” Phil said, which wasn’t really a lie. However, the angel could read his mind.

“So Donna is researching it for you,” Manuel snickered. “She has talent, Phil. She may yet surprise you.”

“Leave her out of this,” Phil commanded as a protective anger rose within him.

“You already brought her into it,” Manuel rejoined.

Metatron raised a hand, “Let her do the research, Phil. You must study the lives of the Patriarchs. You will need knowledge of them before this is over.”

Phil stood in silence for a long moment and wondered what these two planned for him.

Reading his mind again, Manuel told him, “Our plan for you is to help you keep your word, Phil.”

“But what about the other stuff you said to me?” Phil rounded on the angel. “The patriarchy is a key to balance?”

“Still true,” Manuel shrugged. “Now you have a context for all the ‘other stuff’ I said.”

“Why do I always come away from here feeling like I’m being tricked?”

“Because you’re stupid,” Manuel explained. “People who play victim are stupid. It’s that simple.”

Metatron strode forward, and in a more measured voice told him, “Your generation got side-tracked into feeling victimized. It came from not being understood by the older generations. But how could they understand you? You worried about civil rights, women’s liberation, global harmony, and the health of Gaia. They possessed no way of relating to your concerns.”

“They were obvious!” Phil exclaimed -- his hippie-self fully reactivating.

“The Cold War was obvious to them,” Metatron corrected. “The plight of blacks in Alabama was a distant second.”

Phil sulked for a moment before saying, “We couldn’t see it from their point-of-view either.”

“I know,” Metatron commiserated. “It’s the nature of the sensitive-self to be myopic, which is what leads it to the victim stance and narcissism. A thorough understanding of the era of the Patriarchs will offer you a way out.”

“But why? What good will it do me?”

Metatron’s face cracked into an unfamiliar smile. He turned away saying, “You’ll see.”

With the cryptic response hanging in the air, Manuel put his hand on Phil’s shoulder and they flew out of the domed headquarters of the Sarim -- the Ruling Council of Heaven.

As they flew back to Manuel’s patio, the angel said, “The Patriarchs are counted from Abraham to Moses. Read the J version of the Pentateuch. Then research why the ontological argument for God’s existence, although it doesn’t work to prove God exists, is a good argument against idolatry.”

They landed in the patio, and Phil began thinking out loud, “I remember the Bible talking about idolatry emerging during Enoch’s time.”

“It’s why Metatron -- the ascended Enoch -- is taking a special interest in this,” Manuel added. “I think he hopes you can do something about the world’s continuing idolatry. He sure didn’t make a dent in it.”

Once again, Phil felt himself to be a puny human charged with a grandiose task.

Manuel spoke to his thoughts, “Keep your bloated ego in check and you may be able to start a mushrooming in consciousness.”

“Then, again,” Phil smiled, “maybe not.”

“Good response,” the angel replied. “You’re not staying stuck on stupid for as long as you used to.”