12 - Who's In Your Club?

Once upon a time there was a Great White Hunter, in pith hat and safari suit, exploring the jungles of Africa. Ahead of him were his jungle boys, slashing a path with their machetes and, behind were his porters, carrying all his necessary supplies. He had been exploring thus for many months - no white man had ever been so deep into the jungle - when, suddenly, they came upon a clearing. In the middle of this clearing was a massive bull elephant, lying on its side, recently killed. Beside it was a little native man, arms akimbo, one foot on the elephant, obviously proud of his kill.

"My gosh, did you kill this elephant?" asked the Great White Hunter, astonished.

"Yep," said the little native man, smiling hugely.

"But how did you do it?" asked the Great White Hunter, no less astonished.

"With my club," said the little native man.

"Might I see this club?" asked the Great White Hunter, intrigued.

"Oh, there's about twelve of us," said the little native man.

Nothing we ever achieve is done alone. No statesman, no Olympic athlete, no successful businessman, no great artist ever did it alone.

Most of us are waiting for that "moment", that flash of enlightenment that transforms our being, as occurred with Jesus after 40 days in the desert and with Buddha after 49 days under the Bodhi tree. However, that moment of enlightenment, that abiding peace of God, eludes us, no matter what we do - we become vegetarian, give up smoking and alcohol, meditate, think happy thoughts, do nice deeds, say positive affirmations and become as "good" as we can ever be. That moment still eludes us and we feel disappointed, let down, by an uncaring (spiteful, even) God.

However, as Jesus says, "I trust my brothers who are one with me."

It is not done, he would suggest, by being good but by being one … by realising our oneness and that none of us becomes enlightened alone. Only when we see the peace of God shining in every person we encounter, will we realise it in ourselves. Only when we see the peace (not spite) of God shining in God, will we realise it in ourselves. As Jesus says, every encounter with another is a holy encounter with ourselves.

So, as an exercise, perhaps we could start with seeing the Christ in Raoul Moat, the "Northumberland killer", and also seeing it in his parents, his victims, their families, the police and everyone else involved. When we see the holiness in everyone - perpetrator, victim, bystander, fixer - equally, we may just begin to realise it in ourselves.

Then we can make the exercise more difficult, more personal. We can attempt to see the Christ in everyone we meet - our lover, the postman, the boss who fires us, the hairdresser who makes us glamorous, the neighbour who runs over our cat, the other neighbour who saves our cat. We don't actually do anything - we just see them differently.

What we often forget is that none of it is about us (our smallness) but it's all about Us (our grandness) which is so because of our oneness, our connection with all that is. When we see our path to enlightenment (however we define enlightenment) as a path along which we help our fellow humans find their enlightenment (however they define theirs), we might just … unexpectedly, accidentally … have the moment we've been waiting for … seeing in others that which we wish to experience for ourselves.

And now Arthur Bayly's story continues from previous blogs ...

Arthur thought he was unfazed by the Australian incident, as he called it, but when the busyness stopped, that queezy, hollow feeling returned to his stomach. It just sat there mocking him while he worried about who might be watching them. He went over to the drawn curtains and peered out at the deepening gloom. 'Deepening gloom,' he thought to himself, 'it's everywhere - outside and right here inside.'

"Are you OK, Arthur?" asked Joan. "You look nervous."

"Oh, ah, yes, I'm fine dear," he said, unable to look her in the eye.

"Well, stop pacing - you look like you're being stalked," she said.

"Well, if you must know, that Australian chappie has me quite rattled," Arthur said. "I just can't shake the feeling of … of …"

"Of being followed," said Joan, finishing off.

"Yes, yes, of being followed," he said, not really wanting to say it but feeling fractionally better now that he had. "I don't know why and I don't know what it might mean for us. I mean, what is it, exactly, that we're not to do? I just don't understand," he said as a shudder coursed up his spine.

"Oh, Arthur, my dear," said Joan embracing him in a bear hug. "I'm worried too … no, I'm frightened, I'm frightened. Let's be honest about it. We're both frightened and we don't know what to do about it."

"Oh Joan," said Arthur, feeling the warmth of her body and lost for any more words. He didn't want to let her go, it felt so safe and comforting … like a little boy needing his mother's hugs. Quite pathetic, really, he surmised. He went to pull away.

"Don't go now, Arthur," said Joan quietly. "I feel like a little girl needing a really big hug from Daddy. Bit pathetic, really, but there you are."

Arthur smiled and relaxed into her again. Then an idea struck him. "You know, Joan, I daresay the more we stay in here, the more we'll feel trapped. You know, not seeing or facing the enemy," he said, pulling back a little and looking into her tear-stained face. "Why don't we go for a walk, face the rotten sods … I don't know, maybe just prove to ourselves we're safe and we can do normal things."

"Brilliant, Arthur, brilliant!" said Joan, brightening. "Let's do it now!" She strode off and returned with coats and keys.

-------------------

After the deepest sleep he could remember, his body woke him up with a jolt at his habitual time of 6.30 am. He struggled out of bed, feeling his usual oppression and sense of futility at a life less lived. As he opened his wardrobe to pick out one of his several grey suits, he stopped, embarrassed. Uncertainly. Smiling childishly to himself. A hazy glow of light began to penetrate his usual cloud of foreboding, evaporating it with a lightness he was unused to. His overwhelming sense of duty to march off to work, grim and stolid, evaporated with that shaft of gentle light. He plumped down on the edge of the bed.

If today had been any previous day, he would have obeyed the soldier's call, reluctantly. He would have wearily saluted that insanely barking sergeant-major - red-faced and veins swelling - in his head, and gone to war against an enemy that was not his own. His overriding sense of duty to that crazy and fearful man in the parade ground of his mind, bellowing at him to shoulder arms and march off to vanquish an invisible enemy for the sake of work and family.

Only now, work didn't care, he'd discovered, and family expected no pound of flesh at all … never had and never will. That monstrous and grotesque parade ground screamer slowly shrank before his mind's eye and became a silly little man, mouthing senseless nothings. Arthur realised that the soldiers of war and work killed no one but themselves as they pompously strutted their loyalty to a country or a company that cared not a jot. Afraid of being seen as weak, they bowed in mute compliance to the insane rantings of a stamping, storming authority that was more afraid of them … than him.

Such strange thoughts had never entered his mind before and he wondered where his inner poet had turned up from.

As he pondered a lifetime of obedience and fear, to such insane demands - illusory demands, even - he saw the silly side of his own drivenness, his own blindness and his plodding forever onward on a mission that could never be accomplished. He saw the whole futility of generations of dumb cattle being herded to the milking shed every day, rain or shine, in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, till death do us part. And, in these dark economic times, the death was usually of the employer rather than the employed, as in previous centuries. Chewing on their meagre cud, the doe-eyed cows knew that no amount of milk would ever be enough to satisfy the appetites of those who had more than they needed. As these bizarre thoughts zipped round his mind, he realised - without knowing how he knew this as he'd never tasted power or affluence - that the more he had, the more he had to fear … and that fear fuelled the desperate need for more power, money and toys. With surprising clarity he realised just how lucky he was, never having risen to the exalted position of fear of those beneath him - those who had nothing to lose but the odd night's sleep … those beneath him who he would have constantly pretended to be all-knowing while hiding the shame of his all-consuming fear and sense of separation.
He had become reunited with Joan, a person and a reason that felt more real than anything else he had known. As he felt himself plugging back into his marriage, that huge welded plug into his work began to melt and drop away.

He sat on the corner of their bed, not sure whether to laugh or cry and he found himself humming an old tune:
Ringa ringa rosy, a pocketful of posy
Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down ...

"Darling, you're singing!" said Joan, smiling from under the bedclothes.

"Oh, I didn't know you were awake!" he said swinging around, startled out of his reverie.

"Oh, I've been watching you for some time," she said. "What's going through that busy head of yours?"

"Mmm," he said, not quite knowing where to start. "We just seem to go round and round and have nothing more to show for it than a pocketful of posies … then we all fall down … whatever that means!" He smiled at her and at his own nonsense.

"Gosh, that's a bit deep for this early!" Joan said. "You're not going to work are you?"

"No, no, I was just realising that I don't have to today and feeling a trifle odd about that," he said, "and I know I don't have to but I seem to be a bit guilty about it all. My duty, you know."

"Your duty?"

"Well, yes, I was just thinking that there are so many duties one is raised to honour," Arthur said hesitantly, "and I realised, for the first time, you are my first duty … my first concern and work just doesn't have the hold it had before. I'm not sure what's happened."

"So what is your momentous decision, dear?" she asked, "to flee or not to flee?"

"Not to flee it is," he said smiling, "although, if it wasn't today, the decision would have been different - I'd be off to work, unquestionably but, somehow, I've been unplugged from that ... not sure what's happened."

"Well, why don't you plug yourself back into bed, here, and I'll bring the master up some breakfast," said Joan, throwing back the bedclothes on his side.

"But, I ... I ... should, we should ..."

"We should be getting ready for the funeral on Thursday and doing all sorts of other things but it's not even seven o'clock," said Joan firmly, "so get into this maiden's bed and we could perhaps plug into each other, somehow ..."

"Oh, ah," said Arthur, feeling a tingle rising within. "Gosh yes, well, if you insist!" He gingerly crept back into bed feeling as if he was slightly to the side of himself, watching a strange little play he didn't know the script for ... yet he was also the writer, happily unsure of what to write next. As they snuggled together he had a deep and warm feeling of coming home.

"This, my dear ... why didn't we do this more often?" he asked, brushing a stray hair back from her face. "It's ... it's just, well, so comfortable."

"Comfortable? Comfortable!" said Joan in mock horror. "So you think I'm fat?"

"No, no dear, not at all," said Arthur trying to recover lost ground. "I didn't mean physical comfortable. It just feels, well, comfortable like, oh, I don't know. All I can say is it's like coming home. It just feels right, so right."

"Yes darling, I know what you mean," said Joan quietly as her free hand moved down his body.