Missionary

September 16, 2009

A Missionary came down from the Mountain and into the Valley of the City. He brought good news. He brought salvation. He brought change.
He looked around at the farmers and their villages that fed the city. He saw them toiling in their fields. He heard them driving herds to sweeter pastures. He smelled their gardens full of healing flowers swarming with bees. Between his fingers, he felt the rough edges of wood chips from their carving.
Convinced, as he was, in his own intelligence, he surmised what the farmers were up to. “Idols!” he exclaimed and made his prayers to his God. “Not spoons, but idols do they whittle in their spare time.”
So, he systematically began to cut down every oak, every elder, every ash and every pine. Sending the lumber back to the Mission up in the Mountain where the head Missionary sold them all for a tidy profit.
“Now they will convert.”
But the inhabitants of the Valley and the City kept their own counsel and would not adopt the ways of the Missionary. So, he prayed and prayed and prayed for a miracle. And far away, a different mountain exploded in fire and ash. It choked the sky and blanketed the Valley in a gritty snow. For months, the Sun was a pale imitation of himself, ever mantled by clouds of dust.
“It is a sign! My God has heeded my prayers!” Said the Missionary, without once stopping to consider that he may have been wrong. He sat back and watched the citizens of the City wrap themselves up in blankets for a whole year because Summer never arrived.
“Now they will convert.”
But the inhabitants of the City and the Valley kept their rites and their beliefs. So he wrote to his head priest who knew rulers of foreign lands who were envious of the prosperity of the City and her surroundings.
The Missionary prayed and prayed and prayed for another miracle. First emmissaries came to rework ancient negotiations unfavorable to the Valley of the City. They demanded too much for their silks, their spices, their jade, their electronic devices. Inflation crippled the economy, already reeling under the terrible harvests. Again, the Missionary took it as a sign.
Second, armies amassed and marched on the Valley. They demanded tribute. They demanded submission. They demanded that the Valley of the City renounce its own sovreignity and become absorbed in one empire or another. They demanded that every inhabitant listen to the Missionary and convert to his ways of thinking.
The Missionary prayed and prayed and prayed. Out of the walls came a delegation of the City. They asked to speak to the generals, the emmissaries, the representatives of all the foreign powers. They asked to speak — specifically — to the Missionary. Surely, he thought, this must be the last sign from my God that I have won the virtuous fight. I am right and they have come to acknowledge me and mine!
Heading the delegation was the Mayor of the City. When everyone was assembled he spoke loudly, he spoke clearly.
“You have depleted our natural resources. You have charged us outrageous interests rates and exorbitant tarriffs. You have exploited a natural disaster for your own gain. And now you surround us with soldiers hungry for booty. We have read your demands and we have this to reply.”
Everyone held their breath. The only sound was that of the Missionary licking his lips.
The Mayor cleared his throat, held his head up high and said, “Fuck you.”
“We have nurseries to replenish the oak, the elder, the ash and the pine. We have stores of food to feed ourselves until the dust settles and the Sun returns and our harvests are full of fruit and grain again. We have friends and allies who are even now sending us medical supplies and miliraty aid. We have a populace that will defend themselves to the last woman, man and child to ensure that we will never surrender our sovreignity to you or to anyone else for we would never do such a thing to any of our neighbors.
“In short, you will waste millions of gold pieces and thousands of lives to accomplish nothing of honor, of glory, or of wealth. In the long run, you will lose.
“So, why doesn’t everyone just save themselves and us a whole lot of bother and go home. Okay?”
The Mayor turned on his heel, and strode back into the City, amid the cheers of the people of the Valley.
The Missionary could not believe what he was witnessing. The Generals talked amongst themselves. The emmissaries whipped out their cell phones to contact their ministers of defence and commerce. It was agreed that the loss of profits from regular trade with the Valley of the City was causing a recession in the distant empires.
It was agreed that the armies amassed had already gone over budget.
It was agreed that there was no strategic importance to a protracted struggled in the Valley against its inhabitants and her allies.
They all left the Valley of the City and went home. Everyone except the Missionary.
The head priest had sent him a letter. It read:
Dear Missionary:
Because of budget cuts to our Mission, we have had to elimante several dozen positions. Unfortunately, yours is one of the positions that are being outsourced.
We are unable to find a vacancy at this time for you, in light of your poor performance review: You failed in your core objectives and were unable to convert one soul to the true God.
Good luck in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
The Head Priest.
P.S. Budget cuts have also affected benefits. Your health care plan runs out in six months and your are inelligible for unemployment benefits.
He was offered several clerical positions with room for advancement, but the ex-Missionary declined these on principle. Instead, he begs for coins outside the Main Gate, yelling about divine retribution. He prays and prays and prays.
All the while, he fails to see the signs.

A Missionary came down from the Mountain and into the Valley of the City. He brought good news. He brought salvation. He brought change.

He looked around at the farmers and their villages that fed the city. He saw them toiling in their fields. He heard them driving herds to sweeter pastures. He smelled their gardens full of healing flowers swarming with bees. Between his fingers, he felt the rough edges of wood chips from their carving.

Convinced, as he was, in his own intelligence, he surmised what the farmers were up to. “Idols!” he exclaimed and made his prayers to his God. “Not spoons, but idols do they whittle in their spare time.”

So, he systematically began to cut down every oak, every elder, every ash and every pine. Sending the lumber back to the Mission up in the Mountain where the Head Priest sold them all for a tidy profit.

“Now they will convert.”

But the inhabitants of the Valley and the City kept their own counsel and would not adopt the ways of the Missionary. So, he prayed and prayed and prayed for a miracle. And far away, a different mountain exploded in fire and ash. It choked the sky and blanketed the Valley in a gritty snow. For months, the Sun was a pale imitation of himself, ever mantled by clouds of dust.

“It is a sign! My God has heeded my prayers!” Said the Missionary, without once stopping to consider that he may have been wrong. He sat back and watched the citizens of the City wrap themselves up in blankets for a whole year because Summer never arrived.

“Now they will convert.”

But the inhabitants of the City and the Valley kept their rites and their beliefs. So he wrote to his head priest who knew rulers of foreign lands who were envious of the prosperity of the City and her surroundings.

The Missionary prayed and prayed and prayed for another miracle. First emmissaries came to rework ancient negotiations unfavorable to the Valley of the City. They demanded too much for their silks, their spices, their jade, their electronic devices. Inflation crippled the economy, already reeling under the terrible harvests. Again, the Missionary took it as a sign.

Second, armies amassed and marched on the Valley. They demanded tribute. They demanded submission. They demanded that the Valley of the City renounce its own sovreignity and become absorbed in one empire or another. They demanded that every inhabitant listen to the Missionary and accept his ways of thinking.

“Now they will convert!”

The Missionary prayed and prayed and prayed. Out of the walls came a delegation of the City. They asked to speak to the generals, the emmissaries, the representatives of all the foreign powers. They asked to speak — specifically — to the Missionary. Surely, he thought, this must be the last sign from my God that I have won the virtuous fight. I am right and they have come to acknowledge me and mine!

Heading the delegation was the Mayor of the City. When everyone was assembled he spoke loudly, he spoke clearly.

“You have depleted our natural resources. You have charged us outrageous interests rates and exorbitant tarriffs. You have exploited a natural disaster for your own gain. And now you surround us with soldiers hungry for booty. We have read your demands and we have this to reply.”

Everyone held their breath. The only sound was that of the Missionary licking his lips.

“Now they will convert!”

The Mayor cleared his throat, held his head up high and said, “Fuck you.”

“We have nurseries to replenish the oak, the elder, the ash and the pine. We have stores of food to feed ourselves until the dust settles and the Sun returns and our harvests are full of fruit and grain again. We have friends and allies who are even now sending us medical supplies and miliraty aid. We have a populace that will defend themselves to the last woman, man and child to ensure that we will never surrender our sovreignity to you or to anyone else for we would never do such a thing to any of our neighbors.

“In short, you will waste millions of gold pieces and thousands of lives to accomplish nothing of honor, of glory, or of wealth. In the long run, you will lose.

“So, why doesn’t everyone just save themselves and us a whole lot of bother and go home. Okay?”

The Mayor turned on his heel, and strode back into the City, amid the cheers of the people of the Valley.

The Missionary could not believe what he was witnessing. The Generals talked amongst themselves. The emmissaries whipped out their cell phones to contact their ministers of defence and commerce. It was agreed that the loss of profits from regular trade with the Valley of the City was causing a recession in the distant empires.

It was agreed that the armies amassed had already gone over budget.

It was agreed that there was no strategic importance to a protracted struggled in the Valley against its inhabitants and her allies.

They all left the Valley of the City and went home. Everyone except the Missionary.

The head priest had sent him a letter. It read:

Dear Missionary:

Because of budget cuts to our Mission, we have had to elimante several dozen positions. Unfortunately, yours is one of the positions that are being outsourced.

We are unable to find a vacancy at this time for you, in light of your poor performance review: You failed in your core objectives and were unable to convert one soul to the true God.

Good luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

The Head Priest.

P.S. Budget cuts have also affected benefits. Your health care plan runs out in six months and your are inelligible for unemployment benefits.

He was offered several clerical positions with room for advancement, but the ex-Missionary declined these on principle. Instead, he begs for coins outside the Main Gate, yelling about divine retribution. He prays and prays and prays.

All the while, he fails to see the signs.


Posted by Raleigh
Filed in Modern Myths, Religion
2 Comments »

2 Responses to “Missionary”

  1. Starcat Says:

    September 18, 2009 at 3:04 pm

    I like it! We stand strong together, in community, finding our own truths rather than being “converted” to another’s ways…

    Reply
  2. Ananta Androscoggin Says:

    September 26, 2009 at 4:32 pm

    Too bad in the real world the missionaries don’t just stand on a nearby hill and pray.

    Instead, they march into your lands at the heads of armies (on the first approaches — in later centures, they well-know where their nearest soldiers are already posted) and set up shop like they have always been in charge. The sending of religious missionaries is cultural warfare, the desire to eliminate any cultures (designated ‘primitive and superstitious’) with one’s own.

    I find myself thinking, this would have been a far better thing to find in our history books, than what really has been written therein. Too bad the missionaries often got some monarch to foot the bill “for the benefit of his place in heaven” without letting him see the cost on the ground.

    Reply

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