Yahweh was the god of a small blue green earth planet, orbiting an unspectacular star towards the outer rim of a relatively typical galaxy.
He was mightily proud of the beauty and wonder of his creation: the landscapes and lifeforms and evolving patterns. Indeed it was a wondrous place, but he took a fancy to a species he created in his own image: man he called it. And to this man he gave great power over other lifeforms, and most particularly to his enforcers: those who ruled in his name.
To enhance his splendour and magnify his glory, and reward his adherents, Yahweh created a heaven. It truly was illustrious, a wonder to behold: infused with ethereal music, abounding in magnificent fruits beyond all imagination. A citadel for his servants, popes and princes, presidents and pharisees: as sweet dessert for administering their God-given rights.
Yahweh sat upon golden throne as adherents and underlings gulped wine and sung his praises. Earth as plaything, crisis followed drama followed crisis while laughter and merriment rung through celestial spires. In all creation none held even a flickering ember to the brilliance of Yahweh: as ever more power infused his ravenous servant.
Unto this heaven one day comes a strange but beautiful blue-black boy. Thrusting aside the golden gates the boy enters Yahweh’s magnificent court.
“What brings you here little boy?” Demands Yahweh.
“Well,” says the boy, “I have heard that you have built a wondrous heaven, like no other Yahweh before you ever built.”
“Yahwehs before me,” Rumbles an agitated Yahweh, bringing a nervous, expectant hush through the court: as popes and dancing girls suspend their proclivities. “Little boy, what are you talking about?”
To which the boy responds, “Yahwehs before you, I have seen them come and go. Imagine, Vishnu sleeps in the cosmic ocean, and the lotus of the universe grows from his navel. On this lotus sits Brahma, the creator. Brahma opens his eyes, and a world comes into being, governed by a Yahweh. Brahma closes his eyes and a world goes out of being. The life of a Brahma is four hundred and thirty two thousand years. When he dies the lotus fades and another lotus forms, and another Brahma. Then think of the galaxies beyond galaxies into infinite space, each a lotus, with a Brahma sitting on it, opening his eyes, closing his eyes. And the Yahwehs? There may be ingratiates in your court who would volunteer to count the drops of water in the oceans of the world or the grains of sand on the beaches, but no one would count those Brahmin – let alone those Yahwehs.”
While the boy is talking, an army of ants parades across the floor. The boy laughs when he sees them, and Yahweh’s hackles begin to rise.
“Why do you laugh?” fumes Yahweh.
“Do not ask unless you are willing to be hurt.” The boy answers.
“I ask,” growls Yahweh.
And so the boy points to the ants and says, “Former Yahwehs all. Through many, many lifetimes they rise from the lowest depths to highest illumination. Then they administer there own world, surround themselves with sycophants and think what a great lord am I: and down they go again.”
At this moment a dishevelled old yogi enters with a banana leaf parasol. He is naked except for a hempen loin cloth, and on his chest is a disk of hair, of which half have fallen out.
The boy greets him and just as Yahweh opens his mouth, the boy asks all the questions forming on Yahweh’s tongue:
“Old man, what is your name? Where do you come from? Where is your family? Where is your house? And what is the meaning of this curious constellation of hair on your chest?”
“Well,” says the yogi, “my name is Hairy. I don’t have a house, life is too short: I just have this parasol. I don’t have a family. I just meditate on Vishnu’s feet, and think of eternity, and how passing time is. You know, every time a Yahweh dies, a world disappears: these things flash by like that. Every time a Yahweh dies, one of the hairs falls out of this circle on my chest. Half are gone now, pretty soon they will all be gone. Life is short: why build a house?”
Yahweh slumps horrified in his throne, speechless.
“Time to re-establish some equilibrium methinks Vishnu.” Says Hairy to the blue-black boy.
“Undoubtedly so Shiva.” Responds the blue-black boy.
“Yahweh!” calls Hairy, “prise that somewhat more enlightened son of yours away from washing feet for a moment will you: and have him dust off his sword. The time has come to reshape the order of things.”
Adapted from, ‘The Humbling of Indra’ from the Upanishads
(with many words, phrases and sentences nicked wholesale from the legendary Joe Campbell)