The Nature of God
and the Sun
Melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show’st the darkness thou canst not dispel …
Lord Byron,
“Sun of the Sleepless”
Cad handed me a cup of herbal tea with a few bright leaves floating on its surface. “Lemon balm,” he said. “It will relax you and take care of any aches the night may have brought. I added a little honey too.”
I smiled inwardly. Lemon balm—what else would it be? A tallish plant, growing to about four feet, its leaves have a beautifully refreshing scent somewhere between lemon and mint, and at the end of summer it produces small white flowers that are full of sweet nectar. These botanical facts were not what amused me, however, but rather its genus name: Melissa, after the Greek for “honey bee”—the tiny flying dragons that are drawn to its flowers and aroma.
I had long ago stopped being surprised at “coincidences” like these because they seemed to arise so frequently in the presence of sin eaters and shamans. Years before, Adam had set me a dreaming task in which I was to find a plant ally, an essence or spirit of nature that I could turn to for guidance and counsel. In my dreams, I had met a female spirit who said that her name was Rachel and who had given me a rose as an ally. Minutes later, I woke up and went into Adam’s cottage to find a woman there, whom he introduced to me as Rachel Rose. After that, nothing shocked me anymore.
I sipped the tea Cad had given me and ate the bread and honey he prepared while the fire took the chill from my bones. The sun helped too. It was rising now, and it looked like the day would be fine.
“Is there anything you wish to say about the events of the night?” he finally asked.
I had resolved the day before to be more open with him, and so, over the next several minutes, I went fully into my experience, telling him about the light that had flooded my grave like a new sun and that seemed in some way to expand it, creating a tunnel below my feet and above me instead of a hole with walls of soil. I told him about my encounter with the deer as well, and, holding up my cup to emphasize the point, of meeting the woman, Melissa. Cad sat silently, nodding occasionally, and listened. Finally, I told him about the strange tree, the mark of Adam upon it, and the herbs that Melissa had used on me.
“You received a lot of information,” he said when I had finished. “It is interesting that you describe the light as ‘a new sun.’ Many travelers beneath the earth have also returned to talk of such a sun, though I have never seen it myself. I imagine I have not gone deep enough.”
While I doubt now that this is exactly what Cad meant, it is true that there is a long history of scientific and other writing proposing what has come to be called the theory of a hollow Earth, with tunnels that run beneath it and a second sun that illuminates its core.
In 1692, Edmund Halley (after whom the famous comet is named) suggested in a scientific paper that the Earth we know might, in fact, be only a shell (800 km thick, to be precise), which contains inner spheres inhabited by other life. Leonhard Euler proposed a similar theory of an Earth with a small sun at its hidden center, 1,000 km across, providing light for civilizations at the middle of the world.
Science has suggested quirky ideas before, and neither of these proposals is therefore remarkable in itself—except for the tales of lost travelers who claim to have entered this inner world and met its inhabitants. One such account is given by Marshall Gardner in his 1920 book A Journey to the Earth’s Interior, in which he included a diagram of the hollow world with an entrance at the North Pole.
But even this might not trouble our imaginations too much were it not for the strange case of Admiral Richard Byrd who, in 1926, became the first person to successfully fly over the North Pole. In 1929, he repeated his journey, this time over the South Pole, an expedition which did not go so well. During it, it is claimed, he went off-course, making a detour of 4,000 miles—into Earth’s interior.
Perhaps there really are other worlds beneath us, lit by another sun and inhabited by beings who are like and unlike us, similar but radically different. That, however, is conjecture for another day.
“The herbs the woman used on you are also interesting,” Cad continued, directing me back to a world more knowable.
“Those she placed in your heart have been used for magic and healing since at least the Middle Ages. Pliny wrote of chicory that people who anoint themselves with it ‘become more popular and obtain their requests more easily.’ Of rue, he said that the person who carried it would never be bitten by venomous creatures—whether snakes and reptiles or people who emulate their behavior. ‘When about to fight with serpents,’ he wrote, ‘eat rue.’
“Garlic, as you know, is still regarded as one of our finest protections against plague, witchcraft, vampires, and scorpions, and increases courage and resolve. Marshmallow will keep the poisons of bees and snakes at bay, while fennel is a guardian of visions and sight.
“Of the herbs she rubbed into your dreaming and visionary center, here,” he said, tapping my forehead lightly, “juniper has been used by sorcerers since medieval times to prevent fairies from spiriting infants away and to repel bad energies. Today we might say that its principal action is to safeguard us from becoming lost in the world and unable to find our purposeful ways.
“Mugwort was also used to protect travelers, and if wrapped around them, it would keep them safe from wild beasts and fatigue. Pepper carried by a soldier ensured his safety on the battlefield and brought him home unharmed, so it has a similar purpose.
“Good Saint John—St. John’s wort—is, of course, a favorite of the Celts, and to us it represents the sun and its life-giving properties of health and happiness, direction, and growth.
“All of these are good omens for your journey, then, and more significant still since they were given to you by a ‘bee woman’—the embodiment of a dragon—and beneath Adam’s sign. I think we can conclude, therefore, that your old friend has conferred on you his blessing.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes as I digested the information Cad had given me and his interpretation of events. I thought, too, about the herbal gifts that Adam had, through Melissa, imparted, and it occurred to me that, with Cad here, I had a perfect opportunity to learn more about Adam and his friendship with Cad.
“How long had you known him?” I asked—aware as soon as I said it that I had used the past tense: had, as if he was gone forever. I corrected myself and rephrased the question. “What was he like when he was younger?”
“It is difficult to find a single word,” said Cad, after a moment’s reflection. “But if I had to, I suppose it would be stubborn. Bloody-minded might be even better.”
I almost dropped my tea. I had only known Adam when he was older, not as a young man, but I had spent years in his company, and stubborn was not a word I would have used to describe him. Irreverent, intelligent, and amusing might be terms I would have chosen, but never stubborn or bloody-minded. Yet Cad knew him better than I did, and those were his words. I was intrigued.
“Men change over time,” he continued, “but there are themes that run through all of our lives, and I would say that an unwillingness to conform in thought or deed was a theme of Adam’s. When he was a young man, of course, he was also angry—as most young men are.
“His biggest failing—if it is a failing—is that he had no time for fools or people who had not thought through their positions but repeated the words of others, especially when they concerned what Adam considered the most important of all subjects: the soul and our provisions for it. His biggest issue was with the church.
“He had, you see, come from quite a religious background—but what I would call an intelligent religious background rather than one peopled by some of faith’s blind followers, like we so often see today. His father read the Bible to him from an early age, but even though he was a simple man, his father understood the difference between a fable, a metaphor, a literal truth, and a lie in a way that even many priests did not, do not, or refuse yet to do.
“The Bible, you see—and as you may well know—is a collection of stories written by men, not God, and unlike gods, men are fallible, have their own agendas, and are filled with their own pomposity.
“As a book, the Bible is full of contradictions—as well it might be, since it was created over hundreds of years by many different authors as part of its colorful past. As a consequence, if you read it cover to cover, you will find it plotless and confused and lacking in both inspiration and guidance. God alone knows why it has been a bestseller for so many years—although which god is itself a mystery.
“It purports, for example, to tell the story of Jesus’s birth—a story we are all familiar with. Mary, a magically pregnant virgin, gives birth to a son in a stable (or, in other versions, a cave) on December 25, an event that is announced by a star in the east and witnessed by three wise men. The ruler of the times, Herod, tries to have the baby killed, but he lives and is baptized by John, the good saint who is later beheaded.
“Jesus grows up to be a special man with supernatural powers: he walks on water, casts out demons, heals the sick, restores sight to the blind, and stills the sea with his power. He raises Lazarus from the dead and resurrects himself in Bethany.
“He has twelve disciples and comes to be known as the Lamb of God: the Good Shepherd carrying a lamb on his shoulders. All of this we know.
“What is less well known is that Jesus was not the only—or even the first—son of God. There was another who preceded him by a thousand years. This first son of God was Horus. He was conceived by supernatural means as well and born to Meri, the virgin who gave birth to him in a cave on December 25, a labor announced by the star Sirius and witnessed by three solar deities. The ruler of the times, Herut, also tried to have him killed, but he lived and was later baptized by Anup, who was subsequently beheaded.
“Horus had powers, too, that sound strangely like those of Jesus: he could walk on water, cast out demons, heal the sick, restore sight to the blind, and calm the sea. He raised Asar from the dead[1] and later resurrected himself in the city of Anu.[2] He had twelve disciples and was known as the Lamb, depicted with a shepherd’s crook on his shoulders.
“Now, the thing about Horus is that he was not really the ‘son of God’ at all but the god of the sun. His birthday, December 25, is the first day after the winter solstice that is measurably longer. Hence the Bible, with all its twists and turns, misses the very point. It is the sun—not any one person—that is the Light of the World, and through it we gain life, growth, warmth, and all of the things we need for our survival. The sun, then, is the very emblem of nature, and this is our One True God.
“I might add that the Bible misses the point deliberately—mainly for political reasons and largely as a result of one man’s actions: Constantine.
“Caesar Constantine, a lifelong believer in the powers of nature, had the misfortune to take over the Roman Empire in ad 306. Christianity was on the rise, although its doctrine was muddled and confused. Still, it had the attention of a powerful few who rejected the old ways and favoured the idea of a new, more distant god.
“I don’t think Constantine was too concerned about that, however. What worried him more as a politician was the violence, disorder, and open conflict between Christians and believers in spirit. And so, in the summer of 325, he invited bishops from across the empire to the town of Nicea to decide on a common new religion. It was the first worldwide gathering of the church, and it was here that modern Christianity was invented.
“Among other things, the bishops took a vote on the nature of Jesus—if you can believe such a thing! One group thought Jesus to be divine and immortal, another that he was a remarkable healer but just a man, not divine at all, and this is what they voted on. The divine side won, and with that single political maneuver, the good bishops removed all power from nature and from ordinary people to determine their fates and take responsibility for their own lives, because Jesus the man could now no longer provide an example or an inspiration for people to aspire to. In the blink of an eye, all he had once represented was devoured instead by a god who could never be known.
“The good bishops cooked up a few other things at that meeting, too, including which gospels would go into the Bible. Then, as a final point of business, they ordered the burning of several books that they deemed heretical because they didn’t support the vote they’d just taken and that, therefore—we can only assume—had a more sensible slant to them.
“Now, I would not want to suggest that Adam knew much about this as a young man. The truth of religion—that it is wholly invented—is, after all, still hidden knowledge to most people, and unlike me, Adam was never really a scholar. But he had an intuitive understanding all the same, and I have seen him storm out of churches muttering curses under his breath at what he regarded as the hypocrisy of preachers!
“One infamous occasion—which almost got him banned from the town—was when a preacher came to the church to lecture us about sobriety. Adam—and many others present—knew that the man himself was a drunk, but unlike the sheep in that preacher’s flock, Adam would not just sit there and listen. He got to his feet and left.
“‘He will be answering to God as well one day,’ he said later, ‘and if his God, by some horrible accident of fate, turns out to be the true God—one who condones lies and the condemnation of others—I want no part of Him and will take my chances with the other fellow!’
“He could be very outspoken at times and, as I said, bloody-minded. But he had a point. If the preacher had turned up and, from a place of honesty and personal experience, talked about ‘the demon of drink,’ I imagine that Adam would have been the first to applaud and give comfort. But he chose to address his problems instead by railing against others, which is a common and unfortunate solution that many choose in the face of their own illness.
“I think Adam would have liked to have been a fighter, actually, for a cause he truly believed in. But he was too young for the first war, too old for the second, [3] and by the end of those two great conflicts he had, I think, come to the conclusion anyway that all wars are abhorrent and entered into by dictators, no matter what their political colors. It was when he was in his twenties that things began to change for Adam and he started to find peace with himself. It was then that chance and destiny brought us a stranger.”
The word stranger reminded me of something I had read in Adam’s journal: “I remember the words of a stranger from long ago,” he had written, “that we are food for the moon unless we lead a life of purpose.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
Cad shook his head. “It is too long ago now for me to remember his name,” he said, “or perhaps I never knew it. We spent only a fleeting time together, but I recall much of what he said because it was familiar to us from the traditions we already knew. If you wish, I can share it with you.”
I nodded, and Cad began to speak.
[1] Asar, as a mark of respect, was often referred to as “The Asar.” In Hebrew, this is El-Asar. The Romans added the suffix -us to indicate a male name, resulting in El-Asar-us, or Elasarus. Over time, the E was dropped and the S became Z; hence, El-Asar became Lazarus.
[2] Hebrews added the prefix beth (meaning “house”) to the name Anu to produce Beth-Anu (“the house of Anu”) as a description of a place and a lineage. Y and U were interchangeable in those days, and so Bethanu became Bethany.
[3] At the beginning of the First World War (1914–1918), Adam would have been about thirteen; at the outbreak of the Second World War (1939–1945), he would already have been in his late thirties.