The Making of a Prophet

(Having fun with Satire)

                He opened the medicine cabinet door, deposited the toothbrush in its place, closed the door and smiling a toothy grin, examined his pearl-white teeth.  They didn’t sparkle but against the dark brown, neatly trimmed mustache and chin whiskers that encircled his mouth, the teeth seemed whiter than they really were. 

                He turned his head from side to side admiring the counters of his broad forehead and square chin.  He winked with his right eye, then his left – expressing satisfaction in what he saw; a face that resonated indomitable resolve – a Spartan warrior’s face or an Isthmainian athlete, an Adonis by any measure.

                He had the acquired natural ability to manipulate others of lesser acumen with a mere gaze.   The power was in his eyes.  Beneath wrinkled brow, and sculptured eyebrows, when enraged his blue eyes took on a violet hue, during moments of daring they were steel gray, when seducing a woman they were a soft, sky blue, but his most enchanting and magical stare was Christ-like, accentuated by his shoulder length hair – at least this is what the acolytes in his liturgical circle felt.

                His broad shoulders, barrel chest and slender hips he thought were Davidic.  The nimbleness and firmness that his anatomy conveyed was due to the luck of DNA rather than hard work or exercise, for his laurels rest in his brain.  It was his knowledge of scriptures and aptitude in written and spoken syntax that enabled him to confound his antagonists and charm his admirers.  The physique, that is the whiskers, the long hair, intriguing blue eyes, and the ostensible muscles were all a veneer, a cosmetic façade that tended to give credulity to his worshipers.  It was his skill in turning fantasy into reality where his power lay, and he knew it.  He had known it for a long time, and now it was paying off.

                In private he swaggered with confidence, embolden that he exceeded ordinary humans, for he was predestined for great things.   But before his humble subjects his demeanor vacillated between humility and boisterous temerity, depending upon his mood and the message conveyed.  He had the brains to conquer any academic challenge he may chose, a surgeon, an atomic physicist, an international barrister; he could become another Freud or Fromm, but those professions took time, energy and patience.  Of patience he portended much but in reality lacked but a pinch – especially in the face of criticism – especially if he was being mocked.

                Psychology to him meant the ability to manipulate.  In that regard he already considered himself a contemporary with Jung, Skinner and other famous psychologists.   Because of his interest in esoteric religion he had hit upon a profession that did not require years of relentless, concentrated schooling, not that he couldn’t do it.  But why go through all that when all it necessitated to be great is guts, imagination and play acting.  He could be … no, he was omniscient and omnipotent; he is all things, a metaphysical physicist and physician, a prophet, Seer and Revelator – a surrogate God over his nascent flock. There is none greater than God’s sole and personal emissary on Earth.

                Why work when you can manipulate others into providing the necessities of life?  Not charity.  In exchange he gives them something that money can’t buy.  He gives them hope, albeit contingent upon his rich imagination; he will give them an enigmatic belief system that bridges the traditional.  He will hoist and dignify their esteem.  They will be spiritually transformed into loyal, obedient, sycophants joyously dependent upon his lofty status.   They will envy him, love him, and obediently grovel before him, their mentor, craving insatiably the spiritual ambrosia that only he can provide. 

                He was born to be great, but not born into a noble family.  His exalted rank came about by chance, and pouncing upon opportunity.    

                His conventional Mormon religious leader had warned him about the dangers of delving into the mysteries.  It may lead to apostasy, or conversion to a schismatic cult.  But a man of his privileged astuteness doesn’t like someone telling him what to read and talk about.  The mysteries were meat, Sunday school religion was milk.  Milk was for children, meat for grownups.  He craved meat, not to ingest but to use as bait.  For down deep he did not believe in conventional Mormonism, or religion altogether.  He thought they were man-made, and with his imagination and intellect he could invent a superior religion.

                A group of pious men and their wives in his immediate surroundings hungered for answers to the cryptic allegories and metaphors found in the scriptures that stumped theologians – at least they claimed to be stumped.  So under cover of darkness while the hedonists were partying Saturday nights, this exclusive group of truth seekers met.   By combining like mindedness along with mighty prayers and fasting, they sought to solve the elusive mysteries of heaven.  Our hero was invited.

                They numbered 13, for he was without female companionship, at least at the time.  That did not mean he didn’t have an appetite for the soft flesh and sweet nectar of the female half of his species.  On the contrary, for he was a master at seduction and romance.  Women, young and old, found him irresistible.  His conquests were many, their commitment unconditional.  But he was capable of only one love, and that love was irreversible and unchangeable – love of thy self.  For that reason he had gone through many good, easily duped beauties – without a single pang of remorse or guilt.  It was his fortune and fate that demanded the servility of others.  All those mesmerized, splendid ladies whose bed they had shared with him, were but actresses, that is extras in the grand theater of his life.  In fact, all of humanity were extras, men women and children, there to idolize and adore him with reverential respect.  Those extras were expendable when they no longer served his bidding.  Nor was he distressed over the loss of a passionate lover for he knew of surety that he could have most any woman he wanted, when he wanted.

                They opened and closed with prayer.  The wives diligently served punch and cookies.  And except for two wives who  sought to out dazzle their husbands with their piety and erudition, the other four were more comely, dutifully subdued and contrite. 

                His hair coffered into a neat pony tail, the whiskers, casual dress and phlegmatic demeanor was his Christ-like persona, in the beginning, knowing that it aroused a mysterious aura about his being.  And he timed his guru-like comments so as to give the illusion of wisdom.  In this manner he discerned that the dark brunette across from him was intrigued and he pretended not to notice her bemused glances.   He had seen that look before, emptiness in marriage and life.  And that discernment was made certain by her husband’s unconvincing loftiness, pedantry and subtle, punishing remarks.   

                It only took him four weeks and he was dominating the meetings with refulgent rhetoric.  It seemed there was no allegory, parable or metaphor that he could not explain with enigmatic clarity.  Except for the supercilious husband that he had usurped, the tight knit group of incipient true believers, frustrated by stodgy basics and the impersonal imperialism of priesthood, he sensed they were looking for a strong,  bold “radical” leader.  He had seen the wanting before and told himself, “I will be what they want me to be,” and in that respect he could not be faulted. 

                  The recipe for conversion varies with the faith.  The Muslims’, the Catholics’, the Calvinists’, the Lutherists’ recipe are all unique.  The Mormon recipe he had in mind was a polyglot of the forgoing.  The essentials are an unflinching belief in Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon; the power of prophecy; that the mainstream, traditional church has gone astray;  that there are portions of the gospel yet to be restored; that God is no respecter of man’s traditions or ecumenical offices.  The path to God is through a pure heart and unrestrained obedience.  God had turned his backside to the power drunk, money-minded religions that tyrannically dominate Earth.    

                He intentionally missed a meeting knowing that the faithful group would wonder and worry.  They will not know how to contact him for obscurity was part of his mystic.  All they knew is that his means were humble, altruistic and egalitarian towards the pure in heart, and standoffish towards the hedonistic predators and avarice priests, popes and prophets. 

                When he opened the door and walked into the meeting room, the women sighed with relief.  He sat down, his countenance robot-like but his mind pulsated with anticipation of the questions that would surely come.   His body and face penitent and dream-like, he deftly let his acolytes pry out of him what they wanted to hear.  He could see in their eyes, something ethereal had obviously happened.

                He stammered, tears welled, his whiskered chin lifted bravely, eyes gazed into the distance.  “I think I was visited by an angel?” 

                The pretty brunette gasped.  All eyes locked on him.  “What, where?” Asked the brunette, leaning forward in her chair. 

                This was the moment of truth, the moment that one way or the other his life would change, and possibly the life of these stunned true believers.   Very slowly he turned towards the pretty brunette and amazed at the feigned authenticity of his performance, blinked a tear which rolled down his cheek. 

                “It happened the night before last meeting.  I was awakened by a man with snow white hair, robe, slippers, shrouded by a brilliant light.  It took me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the brightness.  At first I mistook him for an intruder until I noticed that he levitated a good 16 inches above the floor.  When he spoke his baritone voice rang like a bell, penetrating my very soul.”

                “He said the Lord had a special work for me.  I asked, why me?  He said that the Lord’s patience had finally reached its end.  He had waited for a heart strong and pure enough to reveal the word.  I replied, surely there is someone more qualified.  He said, it is unwise to contradict the Lord.  And then he disappeared, returning twice more that night with the same message.  The third time he told me I had assimilated with stalwart friends, an elite caste who would assist me in the work.  And then he admonished - prepare thy self for the next visit from the angel of the Lord.”

                Our prophet to be lowered his head, shoulders hunched, waiting for the verdict.  He heard the brunette say, “Who was he, Gabriel?”  “No,” the man said next to her, “It was Moroni.”  And then they all joined in the speculation except for the brunette’s husband who more out of jealousy than disbelief, meekly ventured his skepticism but his weak argument resonated naught. 

                Our hero raised his head, eyes sparkling as he surveyed his excited flock  - he had them!

                The events that followed have been repeated since man first cowered before the thunder god.  The unknown was God, who only conversed with his prophet, portraying him as loving if you obeyed, and angry if you disobeyed, or refused to believe.  He commanded his true believers to sacrifice time, talents and assets in supporting his prophet that he may spread the “good news” home and abroad. 

                This new courageous prophet who was to take up where Joseph Smith left off, like a politician new in office, was moved to leave his particular mark, a radical doctrine or event, a legacy of remembrance, like the wild cur that marks his territory with urine. 

                In searching the works of Joseph, his secret mentor, he hit upon something new, something pseudoscientific that would be uniquely his, and elevate him above Joseph.  He mastered the art of biblical syntax and to the amazement of his flock, there came revelation upon revelation, that his loyal followers published in a Book of Revelations.  And the cream de la crème of the Book was a dissertation of a mutant version of reincarnation that he thought would revolutionize traditional Mormonism.  Exaltation was possible only after a series of existences, births and deaths, until the individual got it right.  He had got it right and the Lord had picked him to help others get it right.  And low and behold, the spirit enabled him to discern who the important members of his flock had been in times past.  There was Doubting Thomas, Peter, Paul and Mary Magdalene – he reserved Isaiah for himself.  And in a moment of insight, he discovered that Adam, the esoteric Mormon God of Earth, had numerous brothers.  This “revelation” had a pronounced impact upon the uneventful and impotent lives of his impressionable flock – that grew by word of mouth.  Without their prophet and his revelations they were just another blade of grass, just another grain of sand on a vast beach.  But within their exclusive illusion, they were important icons who had helped frame Christianity. 

                The pretty brunette out grew her skeptic master and became the prophet’s most loyal and erotic disciple.  As the word spread, single moms of disastrous monogamous marriages, true believers in prophecy and Joseph Smith, sought the security of his indulgence, but only those of exceptional beauty or a worthy dowry were accepted into his harem.

                His cult grew to exceed 300, enough to provide him a comfortable living.  It was not the high priced wine and lobster tails that drove him, it was adoration.  But in order to maintain the symbiotic balance between prophet and flock he must keep them stirred up.  He must give them something or someone to hate, and a doctrine that both enslaves them and raises their esteem.   

                As with all cults there are raised up a valiant few who vow to save the willing, but gullible victims of our tenacious prophet.  To counteract his antagonists, if not by crafty rhetoric, he may threaten and even file slanderous law suits.  For he is clever enough to represent himself pro se.  He knows that the odds of winning are against him, but he also knows and counts on the stress and cost incurred by his antagonists in retaining legal counsel.  He has gone too far to turn back.  And as his boldness masticates, he finds he delights in confrontation, not to mention the attention he captures and the courageous attention he receives from his faithful adherents.  For reality is irrelevant, as is winning and losing, what matters is his ebullience, the adrenaline produced by control.  He is captivated by his own self-importance and will gamble all to protect his domain.