The High Price of Desire, Cont.

At first, the different tenant groups seemed well-suited for coexistence. None left even a trace of its activity. But soon the room's bare walls began to fill up with posters of cute animals with cute captions. A kitten with its paws pressed in the gesture of prayer announced, "I'm not purr-fect but God loves me." A lamb, looking sheepish, appeared over the legend, "Even when you're baaaad, you're God's precious lamb." Unicorns - stuffed, ceramic, and wax - lounged on the tables; and then there materialized one night a rather large, blue pyramid frame. It hung from the light fixture in the center of the room from which place it funnelled through its apex the scattered energies of nearby galaxies or so we were told. The following week there appeared in the room's four corners long, ray-collecting, quartz crystals which pointed to the center of the room, deliberately plotting the trajectories of their cosmic payloads to collide with the pyramid's vertical downpour. Despite the danger, chairs were positioned nearby - a bit too insouciantly to suit me - while a star-topped wand of uncertain function stood ready presumably to tap the celestial current and direct it wherever it was needed.

If all this were not enough to open the fontanelles of the most hardheaded sceptic and set his spine into harmonic motion with the firmament, there also appeared plaques and other representations of the zodiacal constellations, a little bust of Cleopatra, an obelisk, some engraved invitations to witness a spirit channel's transmission of the voice of a dead philosopher, and several portraits of White angels who, we were informed, could cause sacred books, epistles, and other instruments of enlightenment to appear on people's coffee tables and credenzas.

When dozens of bright red, paper hearts were taped to walls, doors and mirrors ("to remind people to love"), the Zen Buddhists cried foul and were invited to move out.

To be fair, New Agers are sincere in their beliefs which, after all, are predicated upon seductive, semi-plausible explanations. They are told that pyramids are the most stable of all geometric shapes and who would argue with this? They are offered testimonials by persons with scientific credentials, persons who, having stood inside an Egyp- tian pyramid, were able to describe convincingly the "incredibly strong vibrations" and other effects of interstellar radiation. They hear about Marconi, radio waves, and the receptivity of crystals. It seems to make sense. But something prevents them from subjecting their beliefs to any kind of scrutiny. We wonder how they can be so interested in historical Egypt without giving Egypt's history a thought. How do they not know, as every unconcerned schoolboy does know, that after the Syrians invaded Egypt in the 7th century, B.C., came the Persians in the 6th, the Macedonian Greeks under Alexander in the 4th, (did they forget that Cleopatra was of Macedonian Greek descent?), the Romans at the time of Christ, (did they recall Mark Antony and Julius Caesar?), the Arab invasions in the 7th century A.D., the French, the Turks, and finally the British (didn't they see Lawrence of Arabia?). Not until after WWII under President Nasser was Egypt truly ruled by an Egyptian. How did it happen that Egypt, the absolute center of pyramid power, had to be dragged through two and a half millennia before it found the strength to stand on its own political feet?

As to crystal power, they knew their crystals came from South America. How did they remain unaware that they were mined there by some of the world's most exploited workers - men who died poor, young, and with lungs filled with the wondrous dust. If it were possible to channel beneficial cosmic energy through crystals, surely the men who mined them would live past forty and own the beds they died in.

This New Age group was composed of decent, intelligent people whose spiritual development just happened to be arrested at a comic book level, somewhere between the Trickster and the Superman phase. Animals taught them their ethics, and the lesson was always the same: It's OK to fail. If you're sincere in your desire to improve, you'll be forgiven. (Coyote!) That was their lower bound. Their upper bound was the Superman/Hero evidenced by their reliance upon spirits, magic, astrology, and other pseudoscience to achieve their fuzzy goals.

Caught between the Trickster and Superman phase, a person's consciousness cannot expand sufficiently for him to gauge the true extent of his knowledge. He doesn't know that he doesn't know. He says, "Ahah!" and, like a schoolboy with a hunch, thinks he understands everything. Mere coincidence is easily elevated to divine revelation. He is energized by his 'discovery.' His reason is consumed in an intuitive flash. (This is one of the peculiar side-effects of a genuine meditation experience.) Unfortunately, the ash of this combustion is often the emotional fertilizer which nourishes zealotry... the smug conviction, the need to proselytize.

As all believers have, this New Age group had its dark night of the soul. Terrible days came when the dreaded Vortex effect of planetary alignment interfered with the cosmic flow. Cataclysms were predicted for their Earth Mother. Fortunately, they prayed around the clock and She was saved.

May we sophisticated souls repose sanguine in the knowledge that we are safely above the fray of superstition? Are we sure that we have been permanently inoculated against voodoo's mumbo-jumbo and other paranormal infections? Let us consider the old tale of the lucky bank teller:

One day Mr. Samuel P. Doe receives a strange, unsigned, personal letter:

Dear Sammy,

You don't know me but I know you very well. I never had anything to give you so I always had to stay in the background. But recently something wonderful happened to me.

Sammy, I was given the gift of prophecy. I get glimpses of the future. It is a religious gift so I can't use it to benefit myself. But I can use it to benefit you. All I ask is that you don't tell anyone about it.

Saturday night there is going to be a championship prizefight between Smith and Jones. Sammy, I have seen the future. Smith is going to win. Bet whatever you can on Smith and you will make yourself some money. That will make me very happy.

(signed) Someone Who Cares

Mr. Doe tells himself that he does not believe in such nonsense... but who is this person who has been in the background watching? Why did he send such a letter. There was no solicitation. The writer asked for nothing. Why is he so paternal? Good Grief!

Mr. Doe resists the impulse to toss the letter into the trash. A day or so later he places a bet on Smith. He can hardly contain himself when, on Saturday night, he watches the victorious Smith don the Champion's belt and circle the ring. The money Mr. Doe has made is at the moment relatively unimportant. He feels 'chosen'. Dare he believe that he is close to someone who has an inside track to God?

Early the following week he receives another letter from the same benefactor. This letter informs him that Sunday's big professional football game between the Weasels and the Leopards will be won by the ones with spots. Bet heavily, he is advised. Can Mr. Doe cease salivating when the Leopards win returning him eight dollars for every three he wagered? It would take him months to earn the equivalent amount in salary. More, this is his personal money. He need share it with nobody. And it is tax-free! The gift is cornucopian.

And the week after that sees the deliverance of yet another fortunate epistle. Bet on the Carbuncles to take the Diamondbacks in Sunday's contest! Mr. Doe is delirious as he secretly withdraws his life's savings. He sees himself sailing, without benefit of spouse, to Bora Bora... make that Singapore... No, Monaco.

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