Tag: Fable

Beyond the seven towns, beyond the seven parishes, there was a community that served God and the people by playing and singing. The most important man in the community, the first musician and at the same time the conductor of all the musicians, was the worship leader. The story begins when the old leader announced his departure and a new one was appointed in his place. His name was Barnabas.

Barnaba had every predisposition for this position. He had undergone many years of musical training, but he also had innate talent and an expensive, excellent instrument which he cared for according to luthier recommendations. He also worked regularly on his voice. He practised songs that the community knew, sought out new songs and arranged them, and even composed his own. He took regular lessons to improve his already virtuosic skills. There was no one better to fulfil the task entrusted to him – of this everyone in the community was certain, as was the local parish priest, who was proud of him. What is more, Barnabas’ wife Barbara could also sing beautifully. Her clear mezzo-soprano was something that everyone in the community couldn’t help admiring, unless they themselves were deaf as a stump. She was also a major influence on the overall music of the ensemble. At every worship, she embellished the melodic line of the songs with fine ornaments. Her gently ascending glissando lifted the listeners up to the heavens, and her concluding vibrato left the listeners trembling for a long time. Barbara and Barnabas thus make a unique couple, but even so, they did not become worship leaders together, which may have been significant in its implications for the story as a whole, but let’s keep quiet about that in the meantime by putting a pause here.

Although everything favoured Barnabas to make the worships stand at the highest level it was not that easy. It is well known, the musicians were not a perfectly harmonised orchestra. As some came into the ensemble, others left for personal reasons. Some showed up for rehearsals and some did not. Some had musical knowledge, others were amateurs. Some instruments were too quiet, others too loud. Some had a lot of enthusiasm for playing and others had… too much enthusiasm and it was difficult to control them without disturbing the other musicians. It’s just the way it is, between players, that the less skilled they are, the louder they want to show off. There were therefore plenty of problems. In a word, being the concert master of this assemblage was not an easily digestible porridge, but rather a heavy piece of the band leader’s daily dry bread. However, all this did not deter Barnaba until certain events in the life of the group he led.

Well, once someone heard a false sound while playing, but kept it to themselves. Then someone else heard it and looked around significantly. When the false sounds started to appear more frequently, the musicians could no longer keep quiet. At first among themselves, and later on in the community, there was more and more talk about the fact that a musician was not playing cleanly. The matter also reached Barnabas, who tried to listen more closely to what was actually being heard. The situation was becoming increasingly tense, as despite their efforts, they could not find the source of the disturbing disharmonic tones. In private, one of the artists warned another not to get involved, because there was supposedly something wrong with the band. Someone else ostentatiously withdrew from playing first fiddle. Everyone got caught up in a web of suspicion, accusation, manipulation, hurt and forgiveness and apologies for wrongly made insinuations. One musician, offended to the core by an innocent remark, walked away slamming the door in the process. The others thought that this would solve the problem definitively, but in the meantime they started to play more quietly and carefully. They lost the content of playing con spirito (with spirit), con passione (with passion), vigoroso (with vigour), risoluto (resolutely), piena voce (in full voice). Gone were the magnificent solos that happened to be played con fuoco (with fire) under the influence of the Holy Spirit, which, after all, you don’t get in studio controlled conditions.

The band’s music was fading away regardless of all the efforts made by Barnaba, and perhaps these efforts even accelerated the process. Barnaba himself no longer knew where dissonance was played and where the right note was. He had already lost all spontaneity and joy. He could not cooperate with the rest of the performers. At the musicians’ meetings, he kept asking what could be done so that this sepulchral murmur would not appear again. For his ostinato doloroso, for this persistent and painful chatter his interlocutors plugged their ears. Complicating matters was the fact that Barnaba’s wife was a member of the band. Barbara was quietly or even outright accused of being a sing falsely, and yet she was the leading voice in the line-up.

In the end, it came to a situation where all the artists realised that they were faced with only two choices. They could watch as more players left for other bands and the desire to play completely died down in those who remained. Or they could have suggested to Barnaba that he should resign if he can’t get the team back together. After all, he himself has not found out for so long what is really the cause of this cacophonous impotence that has reached the band. The precise mechanism that he once was has become, over the last few years, a disorderly, shapeless, gelatinous musical mass – a cold and bitter sonic jelly. The people of the parish no longer wanted to listen to it and stopped coming to the masses for worship.

After another – it seemed – falsehood, after another argument about this seemingly false sound, after another fermenting allusions, suspicions, accusations, manipulations and forgiveness… Barnaba announced his resignation. He sensed that if he didn’t then the other musicians would leave on their own. Officially, of course, he did not hold a grudge against anyone, but after all, he announced it in the context of recent events which sounded unconvincing. He hid a grudge in his heart that he was not supported by the others, a grudge that was quite justified, but was it their fault that their hands were already fainting from the chronic exhaustion of this tension of nerves they felt over controlling themselves? It was impossible to breathe in such an atmosphere, let alone act fraternally. It would appear, therefore, that the blame was shared. The simplest and perhaps fairest thing to do with this statement would be to write Fine and end there. After all, who or what was the cause of this collapse of the band? We can raise questions, we can float hypotheses, we can carry out an entire investigation, but is it possible to find an answer to this question?

Perhaps the root cause of the problems was the decision for Barnaba to be the leader himself, as I mentioned at the beginning. If Barbara had been co-leader of the ensemble with him her situation would have been clear, and so many of the other soloists looked on with an envious eye as Barbara was singled out by Barnaba, for on more than one occasion he entrusted her with the most beautiful songs. Many have claimed that he is downright deaf to her lapse and bravura over-interpretations. To make matters worse, Barbara, indeed somewhat barbaric in her character, was not liked at all in the ensemble. There was no denying that she did not have at least one single friend from the heart. But was this somehow her fault? After all, everyone has some vices.

Perhaps the explanation for the whole conundrum is not in the people. Maybe it was simply a faulty piece of equipment, not for the first time, a damaged cable or a faulty dibox socket? Or was it external interference from the devil that tore into this infernally complicated mixer? Many raised the spectator’s voice that this was all part of a spiritual battle and called on everyone to pray more together. To this, others argued that it was a convenient excuse for failing to see their own laziness and the shortcomings of the workshop by not turning up for the communal supplication dates set by Barnabas.

Another hypothesis was that perhaps the worship harmony had changed over the years, the way they played had changed. Music, like any other art, is subject to change, to new fashions to follow or to accept being left behind. It is difficult to explain this to someone not familiar with the principles of consonances and intervals, but I will try no less. It is possible that while some musicians were playing the old-fashioned triads, others – without even knowing what they were doing – were already playing septim, non or augmented chords. In a word, they were playing richer sets of notes – composed of four or five different notes – or of notes shifted in relation to each other. It was impossible to look at everyone’s hands, and inevitably the riddle of dissonant tones must have remained unsolved.

There is also a completely different explanation, which many readers will probably scornfully describe as the deux ex machina of the whole story: Perhaps it was God’s will! It all happened in order to fulfil some divine intention that no one could know or understand. So man, the devil or God was the author of the false notes – it does not matter in the least! All that matters is the result. The only thing that matters is the spiritual path that, it is to be trusted, all were led in an unknown direction. For if it were not for the Logos, it would all make no sense at all. It would only be a mutual enjoyment of playing pretty notes in the key of minor or major – creating music that is apparently only authentic, but in fact spiritually false, because it is empty.

So the question to which this story leads us is not: who played dissonantly? This is not a detective story but a spiritual story. This most important question is: can we play… con amore? Are we able to play with love? If there is no love in us then there can be no Unity either. Without it, each of us becomes just a clanging copper, a dead cymbal – yes, an instrument perfectly tuned according to an equal temperament, but one that does not stir any deep values in those who listen. They listen to this cymbal when it sounds, but when its reverberation dies down nothing remains in the listeners afterwards.

So it is not musical skill that is the issue here, but the art of loving in which we all need to exercise ourselves. Especially for those who want to lead others on gospel paths. One can possess almost everything – talents, skills, commitment, equipment – but without love we are nothing. And one cannot love God without loving people. Some of us seem to be beginners in this art, others seem to be masters, but why judge anyone? And how are we supposed to do that? Each of us has to find out for himself how much of his inner self is still humming impurely, how many strings he has to tune in order not to let the sound of love in him be drowned out by anything.

The inquisitive reader will ask: What happened to the band after this leader’s resignation severed that Gordian knot emotionally entangling all the musicians? Did Barnabas and Barbara’s departure heal the ensemble and did it return to its former normalcy, unfettered by suspicion of falsehood? Or, without such great leadership, did the orchestra disintegrate completely and the musicians scatter to the surrounding Renewal in Spirit communities? Possibly, on the contrary, new, hitherto dormant talents were born in the place of Barnabas and Barbara, and the band was rewarded with even more adoring applause than in the old days? Who knows, after all, Barnabas and Barbara themselves in a different place may have found new tasks and experiences they had not even dared to dream of before?

So that we can hear the answer to the above questions I, the author of this tale, now put down my pen and hand it over to someone more clever. He’s an author with a capital ‘A’. A creator like no one else, experienced and professional in his craft. Whatever one may say about him – for he is reticent and secretive, and likes to put off his work until it is too late, so that he can be reminded of his most famous number, his magnum opus, which would have been impossible without the resurrection of the protagonist – one must nevertheless admit that imperfection is an alien trait to him. So whatever the continuation of the story may be, it cannot be poorly composed. So let us arm ourselves with patience and give Him a free hand. Unlike us, He knows. He knows everything.

Chorzów, 10.03.2024 The Third Sunday of Advent: Joy to the World

A Fable

I

The Stone

High on a mountainside lay a stone. No, it was not some precious or sacred stone such as for example, the Hajar – the black meteorite to which all Muslims make pilgrimage because they believe it was brought by the Archangel Gabriel himself. No, our stone is the most ordinary, in no way different from others, worthless grey boulder. Simply, on the steep slope of a high mountain next to dozens of other similar stones lay a certain stone.
There was nothing strange or extraordinary about this stone’s life. It lived a solitary life. Like all stones, it expected nothing from others and gave nothing to others. This is, after all, a matter of course among stones and, were it not for something that happened, which I am about to describe, it would have unconsciously remained in this stone’s fate for all time.

It happened once that a man was climbing up this slope. Unintentionally, a small stone broke free from under the man’s foot. This pebble hit another. These in turn hit yet another. And finally a whole stone avalanche came tumbling down. Various pieces of rock and gravel rolled like mad, and the stronger stones smashed the weaker ones to pieces.
In the avalanche there was also our stone. He was afraid of being smashed or injured. It wanted very much to escape this mad pursuit and return to its former, dreamy existence. So when the right opportunity arose, he bounced hard off a springy clump of moss and soared far ahead. Just like that, he fell with a loud splash into the river.

II

The River

The river is the other protagonist of this story. No, it was not some special or sacred river, such as the Ganges River flowing out of an ice cave in the Himalayas, to which all Hindus make a pilgrimage because they believe it is the embodiment of the goddess Ganga. No, our river is the most ordinary mountain stream. Simply, a certain river flowed at the foot of the mountain from which a stone rolled down.
The stone was previously unfamiliar with the river and now that he found himself at the bottom of it, it seemed like a completely new and unusual world to him. He could not marvel at the fact that the river was prodigiously giving away the best it had to everyone – itself. Animals came to its banks every day whenever they wanted and happily drank the invigorating water. The river never skimped on its gifts and expected nothing in exchange.
What’s more, animals and even people could wash in it, as it happily took the dirt and dust from everyone. Stone was full of amazement. He could not comprehend the river’s behaviour, because he had never offered anything to anyone. Nor did he ever ask anyone for anything. Occasionally, only an animal would stumble over him and it cut itself, but he himself, after all, did not want to maliciously injure anyone. These similar feelings were completely alien to him. He just wanted to be stuck in his solitude. His only silent prayer was the desire for ‘holy peace’.
This is how the stone and the river lived together from then on. Completely different. Two opposites, one might say, but could one say that one was good and the other evil? No, that is not the right thing to say.

III

The Stone or the River

This is the end of the story of the stone who fell into the clear river and was surprised to see that she was able to live very differently from him – without selfishness and fear, but with love and boundless generosity. Yes, that’s the end of this simple story, but I’ll add a little warning from me.
Many people and many religions try to convince us that in ourselves good fights against evil, but in my opinion it is otherwise. See for yourself. Look carefully inside yourself, and instead of good and evil, you might just see this joyfully murmuring river with a stone resting motionlessly in its current.
You will then find that half of you wants to be like this river. It wants to selflessly impart what is benevolent and wash others of what is harmful. This part of you does not want to be separated from the world. On the contrary, full of love and compassion, it hopes to dissolve in the world – to be One with everything. But in contrast, another part of you is like a stone. And it is just as strong. This other half of you tries very hard to keep its own distinct shape, its own independent, even dead, stone life.
This river flowing within you, wise people used to call the soul or true self. The fossilised part of you people call the ego or little self. But that is not what is important what is wisely called. What is important is that the stone is strenuously trying to convince you that you are just that – a stone. Similarly, the i river would like you to believe that you are just it – the river. Be careful, because whoever you allow yourself to be convinced by, that is who you will become… a stone or a river.

A Fable

During the Han Dynasty, in a small village located in U Province, there lived two boys who were extraordinary friends. Their names were Fan Yan and Pin Szy. Fan and Pin spent their days exclusively in each other’s company, and although they usually had nothing to say to each other, they were never bored. They did not fight or quarrel, as is common among children. They shared an extremely strong bond of friendship and a secret, wordless understanding. This was because they shared a common fascination – butterflies. From dawn to dusk, they could run after them in the meadows or lie on the grass and watch in awe at their graceful, aerial twirls. They were not perturbed by the mocking smiles of the villagers, the mischievous jokes of their peers or the complaints of their parents that fate had dealt them a child without brains. Without a doubt, they were the best friends in the world. However, this was not always the case…

Once upon a time, a boy called Pin had the idea to make a butterfly net and catch a few for himself. He was very pleased by the thought, so he immediately shared it with his friend. Fan thought the idea was silly, which caused the boys to have their first disagreement. From that day on, they avoided each other, as neither of them wanted to admit the other was right. Pin, as he thought of it, made a net and increased his collection day by day. He was now not happy with the butterflies that flew around the meadow. He only rejoiced in the ones he caught himself. Fan also could not enjoy the sight of flying butterflies as he used to. He often sat by the lake and gazed for hours at its unmoving surface. As he sat there motionless, almost lifeless, he was thinking of his friend, who at that time was carelessly catching butterflies.

One day his gaze, sunk in the watery depths, suddenly brightened. He realised what he should do. Soon he went to visit a friend. Pin, seeing him on the doorstep of his house, was very happy, forgetting the dispute that had separated them. He was happy because they were together again, but also because he could finally show his friend his collection.

– ‘This is a yuan ben de butterfly,’ said Pin, not containing himself with joy, pointing his finger at one of the multi-coloured butterflies pinned to the mat, ‘and this one is a ge ren de,’ he continued proudly with his collection.

Fan did not share his feverish joy. He knew his friend as well as he knew himself, so he immediately noticed that Pin’s joy had a different colour. His eyes had changed their gentle expression to a cold and hard one; they were now cloudy, impenetrable… He himself, in turn, was behaving differently from before. But Pin seemed to know nothing of the changes that had taken place in himself. Fan, in spite of the fact that the friend so close to him before now seemed like a stranger, acted according to his own idea.

– I see your finger and I see the pins pinned into the mat, but I don’t see any butterfly here,’ he replied calmly.

– It is a butterfly! – Replied the amused Pin – And this is a butterfly, and this too … How can you not see them?

– So they are butterflies? – Asked Fan – If so, show me how these butterflies fly.

Fan Yan’s words puzzled Pin. Perplexed, he replied that his request made no sense, as these butterflies could not fly, and that… But Fan did not listen fully to his friend’s answer. He silently walked out of his house. As he looked at the departing boy, Pin was overwhelmed by a chill-piercing feeling of inner emptiness and loss.

Once again, the days of separation between the two friends had come to pass. But now Pin was not concerned with the butterflies, for he no longer enjoyed any of them – either the free ones or the ones caught. He wondered about his friend’s strange words. He did this constantly. Day and night, awake and dreaming, he was immersed in his meditations, as if his life depended on understanding the content of these words. For their friendship was more precious to each of them than their own lives.

Finally, one day, Pin understood what Fan wanted to convey to him, and in doing so he had the feeling as if he had woken up from a dream. He gently unhooked the butterflies he had caught from the mat and, having lit a small bonfire not far from his home, arranged them on the shoulders of the flames. Without hesitating, he went to the lake. Fan was waiting for him, but did not ask anything when Pin arrived. The boys looked into each other’s clear and sparkling eyes like a sky full of stars, laughed and, as before, without a word, ran to the meadow to admire the butterflies.