Soul Matters: Book Three: Towering Confusion

The next day at work was easier for Phil. Whatever integration needed to happen seemed to be happening all by itself. He was still seeing people as somewhat transparent, but he was getting used to it. He was still sensing the presence of angels everywhere, but he was getting used to that also. What was beginning to happen now, he noticed, was a lessening in his drive to succeed.

Selling insurance, meeting quarterly quotas, even customer service was losing its appeal. The pointlessness of it was beginning to penetrate. ‘What does it profit a man to own the whole world and lose his soul?’ was the phrase haunting his mind.

On the other hand, what good was he to himself and those who depended on him if he was not financially stable? It was a paradox he felt he should avoid, but that was his old thinking prompting the head-in-the-sand survival tactic he perfected over the years.

In addition to that, he seemed to be more empathetic. He was picking up what others were feeling, and he didn’t know how to shield himself from that information.

The intercom sounded, and his secretary said Ron Dobson wanted Phil in his office soonest.

Phil hustled upstairs to Ron’s office and was immediately waved through by his executive secretary. Phil opened the oak door and entered.

Ron abruptly ended the phone call he was on and motioned Phil to one of the plush, dark blue chairs facing his desk. Phil sat and reflexively put on his subservient smile.

Ron’s fleshy face grimaced, as if he just swallowed the martini olive. He coughed and said, “What do you know about it?”

“About what, Ron?” Phil asked, continuing to smile his fake smile. He perfected this ingratiating manner long ago as a way to disarm the pointed attacks men in power used to assert their authority.

“The phone call to my wife about Ginger.”

Now Phil grimaced, but from confusion, “I don’t understand. Ginger-who?”

“Don’t be coy,” Ron snarled, and his mood was definitely souring. “The call was on my private line, and there aren’t many people who have the number.”

Then Phil remembered who Ginger was, and he also remembered Manuel was going to ‘pop Ronnie-boy’s balloon.’ With some difficulty Phil maintained an innocent curiosity about Ron’s plight.

“I don’t remember ever calling you at home,” Phil said cautiously. “I’m not even sure I know where Betty keeps your number.”

“It’s in your study,” Ron told him. “And you have spent hours, lately, meditating in there.”

Phil’s eyebrows rose in response. Obviously, Ron talked to Betty. And he now recalled, their important phone numbers were in a Rolodex on his desk at home. Betty organized the job herself. Not trusting computer technology, she had hand-written scores of names, addresses and phone numbers, then alphabetized them onto a cut-glass Rolodex file. It sat, gathering dust, on his desk. He never used it.

“What are you saying, Mr. Dobson?” Phil began his defense. “I had some reason to call Edith and pass on information you told me was a vicious rumor?”

Ron leaned forwards, hands on his desk, “I don’t know what to think. You piss off the pastor of our church. You somehow sent our counselor, Dr. Loreen, over the edge. You have knowledge about me no one else has. Betty is worried about you.” He raised his hands and extended his palms, “So, Phil, you tell me what to believe, because from where I sit, this stunt is something you may be fully capable of.”

Phil was quick on his feet when it came to protecting himself -- for oldest children it was a necessary skill. He was about to respond when Manuel flew into the room and asked, “How did you piss off the pastor?”

Adjusting his verbal strategies, Phil said, “All I did with Pastor Jones was ask him the same question I asked you -- the one about the evolving sense of heaven, hell, punishment, and so on. I may be in a crisis of faith, but I’m not out to get anybody.”

Manuel interjected, “He’s trying to blame you for my phone call. Is that it?”

Phil nodded an affirmative without looking at the angel.

Ron let out a heavy sigh and stood to stare out the window of his corner office. After a long dramatic pause, he said, “I thought not. But all the evidence leads to you, Phil. I can clean up the mess about Ginger, but you have got some serious problems with credibility. Everybody here has noticed the changes in you, and were it not for the fact your section is showing good numbers, you would be in the Big Man’s office right now instead of here with me. Get your act together.”

Manuel started laughing about then, and Phil wanted to join him. But it would never do. Instead Phil said, “I’ve been trying out some new management techniques -- treating the crew more like people -- it seems to be working.”

Ron turned from the window, “It’s not what I’m talking about. Treat them however you want. I don’t care. It’s more your attitude has changed for the worse. Do something about it.”

Manuel laughed again and said, “Like what? Kiss your ass more reverently?”

Phil hazarded a glance at Manuel, then wished he hadn’t. The angel was dancing a little jig on the Berber carpet.

The smile forcing its way onto Phil’s face twisted into another grimace as he said, “I’ll do my best, Ron. You know I take this job seriously. You know I work as hard as I can. My numbers do reflect it. Maybe my current uplifted attitude is just my way of being happy with myself for my current successes.”

“Maybe,” Ron allowed.

Manuel, on the other hand, retorted, “Nah. Sorry, Phil, your change in attitude is a direct result of Raphael’s healing. Now you’re really a threat to the status quo. You might as well quit while there’s still time.”

“Is that all?” Phil asked the VP.

“Yes,” Ron replied. “Just remember what I’ve said.”

“Bla-bla-bla,” Manuel replied. Then he smiled and added, “I guess it’s time to take the gloves off.”

Phil made a hasty exit and didn’t stop until he reached the elevator. Manuel danced alongside him, and they both climbed into the empty car.

“What are you doing here?” Phil whispered.

“More problems in Neverland,” Manuel sighed dramatically.

“You need me back there?”

“It can wait until tonight,” Manuel answered. “I just thought I’d stop by and see how Ron was doing with his crisis. And now there’s Pastor Jones to help along. Will my labors never cease?”

The door opened and people were waiting to get on the elevator. Phil exited and hurried to his office. Manuel continued to follow.

Once his office door was shut, Phil continued in a soft voice, “Just what are your ‘labors’ anyway? Other than messing with people’s lives.”

“Messing with people’s lives?” Manuel shot Phil a piercing look. “I wouldn’t call it that. As I told you long ago, archangels are in charge of synchronicities. We get things to happen to help people get out of their addiction to the Flesh. It’s a great job.”

“Well, the job you’ve done on me is starting to pay dividends,” was Phil’s sarcastic response. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain all this to Betty. You know, she and Ron are cousins. And she’s very protective of her family.”

“Yeah,” Manuel shrugged, “and what a dysfunctional lot they are. You’d be better off without them, you know.”

Phil shook his head. How could he explain the real needs of being in a body, looking at life from the perspective of it being half over, and dealing with an uncertain future wherein it was his responsibility to provide for his family? How could he explain it to an angel who had eternity to get his job done?

Apparently reading his mind, the angel said in response, “Yep. Once you get out of the confusion about who you really are -- human-nature and Divine-nature; ego and Atman -- balancing the needs of the two can get real tricky.”

Phil looked at the blond-haired angel and said, “I wasn’t confused at all until I met you.”

“Oh, you were confused alright,” Manuel rejoined. “Just as confused as the folks at the Tower of Babel. You denied your own Divine-nature and allowed your ego to run the show all alone. And we know what happens when that happens -- immortality projects, ethnocentricity, black-and-white thinking, demanding sky-gods like Jehovah, and all that comes with it. But now, thanks to my help, you are only confused about your pre-existing confusion.”

“I’ve got work to do,” Phil said and moved to his desk.

“So do I,” Manuel laughed; then he disappeared.

After work, Phil’s drive home consisted of noticing his mounting dread at facing Betty. He hoped she was not there. Maybe she had some kind of meeting tonight, but he couldn’t remember her schedule.

Her Mercedes was in the carport. Phil steeled himself to whatever might be coming and entered the double-doors to his two-story manor house.

“I’m home,” he called out. Then he went to his study and deposited his briefcase, loosened his tie, and checked his email account. Other than the glowing opportunities available for penis enlargement, there wasn’t much. The Rolodex was also on his desk, and its presence was like a neon sign blinking guilt at him.

Betty strode into the room. She wore a bright spring dress, which softened her chubby body, but her face was wrinkled with concern.

“What happened with Ron?” she wanted to know.

“Nothing,” was his nonchalant answer. “He just needed to clarify something with me.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Betty went on. “Poor Edith was beside herself. Even if it was true, who would be so cruel to tell Edith?”

“I’m sure I don’t know how to answer the question, Betty,” Phil said, showcasing his remarkable ability to equivocate and give the impression he knew nothing at all. It was another trait or skill he picked up as a child and developed it into a high art form.

Betty’s chubby face writhed into a changing pattern of concern, disbelief, and confusion. She finally said, “You’ve been acting strange for months, Phil. What is going on with you?”

Phil permitted his eyebrows to rise in answer, “I don’t know. It must be the absence of the kids. I miss them a lot. It may have put my stress factor a bit higher than normal, but all in all, I think I’m doing fine.”

Betty shrugged, “Well, nobody else seems to agree. You are slipping back to the wild creature you were in your youth. Are you having an affair?”

Phil laughed out loud. The spontaneity of the outburst was its own verification. Betty smiled a response, “Well, I’m glad. It wouldn’t do for you to hook up with some twenty-something as part of a mid-life crisis.”

If she only knew, Phil thought. During his ‘coke-years’ it was all he did do -- ride the merry-go-round of affairs with twenty-somethings. These days the thought of it was less than exciting.

He reassured her with, “If it is a mid-life crisis, it’s because I’m adjusting to our ‘empty nest.’ Didn’t you get a self-help book on the topic a while ago?”

“I did,” she answered. “But I didn’t know you read it.”

“I didn’t,” Phil said. “But just the title got me to thinking. I need to fill those vacancies in my life. Surfing has helped. But being more productive at work seems to have been the major change in me. I think everybody there is having trouble with my new attitude.”

“If you say so,” she said in a doubtful tone and turned to leave. “Dinner will be ready in about 45 minutes.”

Feeling as though he dodged another bullet, Phil went upstairs, showered, and came down for dinner. As usual, he received a briefing on Betty’s active life of volunteering and the latest politics in the various clubs she was a member of.

Gladly, then, he retreated to his study later in the evening to meditate.

“Jehovah’s escape thoroughly stirred up the Christian Hell,” Manuel told him after Phil entered the angel’s patio.

The angel went on, “The Devil figured out Jehovah is no better than he is, since they both serve the same project in a similar way.”

“I don’t follow,” Phil said as he seated himself on the marble bench next to the angel. Phil was wearing shorts and tank top. “Jehovah serves Good; the Devil serves Evil. They are diametrically opposed.”

“True enough if you believe it’s a closed-ended project.” Then Manuel elaborated, “You’re right, only if the goal of human existence is to be a camp follower in one of those two camps. However, if the goal is to transcend both, then each of them does serve the same purpose -- provide a challenge or a block to transcendence.”

“That’s a disturbing thought.”

“It’s why fundamentalists don’t, indeed cannot, concede the fact of an immanent Divine nature in man,” Manuel pointed out. “If they allowed the idea to prevail, the whole notion of Good versus Evil loses its dominance. In short, they would have no way to raise money, wage wars, exploit the masses, and all the rest. It would destroy their whole game plan.”

“God winning the final war is thereby cancelled,” Phil said in realization of Manuel’s point. The ramifications of it would topple church bureaucracies worldwide.

“Marx was right about this,” Manuel said as he arranged himself on the bench. It was a mannerism Phil came to link with Manuel adopting a pedantic posture. “After the debacle at the Tower of Babel, the final distortion was religion became the opiate of the masses. The people manufactured their visible god in the Divine King. And his priests were the first bankers.”

“But Marxism is a failed policy.”

“Yep,” Manuel agreed. “Dirt cannot turn itself into Adam. Marx’s error was to reduce everything to material forces.”

“Okay,” Phil sighed. “What’s the Devil up to?”

“Let’s go see,” Manuel said and stood.

They flew out of Manuel’s patio, through the gray cloud barrier, to the desert plain where the Compound of Evil was located. Around the Compound was the Wall -- the huge, black structure where living scenes of debauchery were constantly playing. Phil found his reflection in the Wall during his first adventure, and, during his second adventure, dealt with someone he was in a past-life who was stuck in the Wall. Manuel told him all humans had a part of themselves stuck there. It was so because only humans could balance within themselves the Dark and the Light.

Phil declared for the Light during the first trip, which made both the Light and the Dark within him available for transcendence. This, Manuel said, was the purest form of transcendence. Collapse both Good and Evil into the Source. He also suggested that Phil had a long way to go before he accomplished it.

Today, however, they flew to a massive gate in the Wall. Manuel waved to the gatekeepers who allowed them passage into the Compound.

Phil didn’t recognize most of what they flew over. It could have been the seven hells of Buddhism, or Sheol, or the Muslim version of perdition. It was a blur of human souls enduring various forms of punishment administered by other souls. Dark angels looked like they were referees containing the process.

Soon, though, the landscape below changed into something more recognizable -- a busy city. Phil had visited this city before. In one of its Gothic buildings, he endured torture at the hands of Gog Sheklah.

They flew into a penthouse suite of the tallest building. It was the Devil’s office. The Devil stood at his polished desk. Dressed in an expensive silk suit, he possessed a dark beauty, and he viewed their arrival with vacant black eyes. He let them land on the shag carpet before he spoke.

“Phil,” the Devil smiled in welcome. “You’re back. Tell me you’re ready to take me up on my offer.”

“Sorry,” Phil answered. “Just came to see what you’re up to these days.”

“Bucking for a promotion,” the Devil said and motioned his two servants out of the room. The two were stout bullet-headed goons whom Phil also remembered as Gog Sheklah’s henchmen.

The Devil went on, “Haven’t been able to shake Angel Fubar, I see. No matter, I have to make do with incompetent help myself. Please, have a seat.”

“We won’t be staying long,” Manuel told him. “I just wanted Phil to get a feel for your current pretensions.”

“Pretensions?” the Devil smiled again. “Is that what they call it at the Sarim headquarters?”

“Yep,” Manuel answered.

The Devil refocused on Phil, “You got it right the other day. Calling Jehovah the God of Lust. I don’t know why we hadn’t seen it earlier. And since you were right, why does he get all those souls who should be mine? Lust is our bailiwick.”

Phil glanced at Manuel, “He’s got a point.”

It was Manuel’s turn to laugh, “Can you imagine the mess we’d have if the Islamic suicide bombers didn’t end up in their Paradise? If they ended up here instead? With a bunch of greed-crazed yuppies?”

Phil frowned, “The Muslims don’t pray to Jehovah. Do they?”

“It’s a semantic thing,” the Devil answered. “The Aramaic root is El or Al. Both mean ‘God.’ Elohim and Allah are equivalents in Hebrew and Arabic. But Jehovah has become the ruling archetype for all fundamentalists -- Jewish, Christian, and Muslim.”

Although this point was made earlier, Phil realized he hadn’t considered its significance. All fundamentalists did operate from the same basic drive -- lust for conquest over their enemies. Their lust made them all blood brothers and sisters.

Luckily the Devil didn’t have mind-reading capabilities, but Manuel did.

The angel remarked, “Now you begin to see.”

Phil looked at the Devil, his figure framed by the dull sky showing through the wraparound window, and said, “Everybody is supposed to go to the heaven, hell, bardo, purgatory, or buddha-land they think they deserve. You can’t co-opt souls because you think you deserve them.”

“Why not?” the Devil countered. “The Sarim made up those rules a long time ago. En Sof didn’t. In fact, the Aramaic for ‘heaven’ just means the ‘whole Universe.’ The Sarim arbitrarily set up the current distinctions of heaven, hell, and whatever. They could, if they wanted, arbitrarily set up a different structure. You need to do that, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else Jehovah and I are going to have it out,” the Devil said with menace in his voice. “And I’ll win. Hands down, I’ll win.”

Phil looked to Manuel for clarification.

“Angels can’t have it out,” Manuel said. “But archetypes can.”

“If he wins?”

“Jehovah goes into retirement, at best,” Manuel answered. “Into non-existence, at worst.”

“What would it do to the balance of Creation?”

“Throws it radically off.”

“That’s not a good thing, is it?”

The Devil butted in, “It’s beside the point. Balance -- smalance. I deserve those souls. Lust is a cardinal sin. They did it. I get them. End of story.”

“When?” Phil asked him. “When will you do battle?”

“After I get the meddling angels taken care of,” the Devil answered. “I don’t seem to have the authority Jehovah does, but I soon will.”

Manuel put his hand on Phil’s shoulder to initiate flight. The angel’s parting shot was, “We’ll be there for the show.”

The Devil laughed as they exited. After a quick flight, they entered Sarim headquarters and landed on the raised platform where Metatron and one angel were examining the hologram of the PMS level.

“He’s got his briefing?” Metatron asked without turning around to look at the pair.

“Yep,” Manuel answered.

“Phil,” Metatron’s flat voice spoke. “Look here. The Devil’s multitudes are beginning to mass at Hell’s gate. Sammael and his angels are trying to disperse them, but they are hopelessly outnumbered. Once the Devil marches, he can arrive at Jehovah’s heaven in about two of your days. We’ve got that long to come up with a solution.”

“What kind of solution?”

“We’re not sure,” Metatron droned. “It’s why you’re here. Besides, this situation is a direct result of your actions.”

“Wait a minute,” Phil said as he advanced on Metatron. “You’re not going to blame me for this.”

“Blame is not the word I would use,” Metatron mused. “It’s merely a fact. You set something in motion; this is the current consequence. The spiritual laws we live by require you take responsibility for the consequences of your actions.”

“Even if they were unintended?”

“Especially if they were unintended,” Metatron confirmed. “When a shaman changes the weather, he’s responsible for everything the new weather pattern does. True power is a heavy responsibility.”

Manuel stepped alongside Phil and said, “It’s why I’m still working to undo the mess at the Tower of Babel.”

Phil smiled, “I guess you couldn’t write it off as an Act of God, could you?”

Metatron frowned at Phil’s comment, but Manuel laughed and explained to heaven’s chancellor, “He’s an insurance salesman.”

Both Metatron and the other angel chuckled politely at Phil’s attempt at humor.

Then Metatron introduced the angel, “You will be working with Michael on this operation. We are fairly certain the Christian Devil is secretly in league with the forces of Chaos. Michael has had dealings with them before.”

Phil glanced at the blond-haired angel. His robe was green, and his aura was pale saffron. He had the same boyish beauty as all angels, but his jaw was more angular. He had the look of a fighter.

Michael stepped forward, out of what seemed to Phil a timeless cocoon of patience, “Chaos is what we’ve always called it. Your science names it ‘entropy.’ As a force in the Universe, then, it has those who attend to it.”

“I thought fallen angels had dominion over Chaos,” Phil remarked.

“Not dominion,” Michael’s strong voice replied. “They have influence. However, Chaos is such an elemental force, it lacks true intelligence. And, like demons, Chaos flows to where it can. It now flows to the Devil.”

Still intrigued by the alliance between Chaos and the fallen angels, Phil asked, “Can’t you aid Sammael’s angels somehow and corral Chaos?”

Metatron sighed, “It’s Belial who has the most influence over Chaos, not Sammael. And right now Belial is staging another of his revolts. This time, he has enlisted Asmodeus, who is the patron-devil of Lust, to his cause.”

“The plot thickens,” Phil murmured to himself.