Axes - Chapter 1 - A Relic Speaks His Mind

…what am I doing here…?

…what would actually happen if I just left…?

…I could just quietly leave. I’m on the end of the row. If I just get up and walk away very deliberately, no one would really question me. I could be outside of the building in less than a minute. Would they question me? I might run into someone on the way out…

Jagged parallel lines of hardwood floor beneath my feet. A crowd cloaked in varying shades of blackness. A row of stage lights above. A worn out convention center chair with frayed maroon cushions, wobbly brass-colored legs. My purple folder. A man at the podium, introducing the next speaker.

…nope, he’s talking about me now. Shit, I have to do it…

“For our keynote speaker, we are honored to have among us the Officer of Ethics from our esteemed Committee of Advisors, Bishop Jensen Paradis. ”

…oh God, I’m a museum exhibit to these people…

…academics. Their careers depend on that strange ability to believe nothing whilst knowing everything. They put so much importance on being cited by other academics…

Standing up. Purple folder in hand. Nine paces to the podium.

…this podium is comforting. It’s simple. Dark mahogany. Smooth curves…

A memory: speaking to a sparse crowd of parishioners 25 years ago at Barcelona’s Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia at a podium high above the audience. Black frock. Youthful conviction. Incredibly intricate woodwork everywhere.

…I don’t want to talk about what’s in this folder. Pope Francis was a beautiful man. They don’t deserve him. What was I thinking? Francis’ early 21st Century social reforms won’t convince them of anything…

Putting the purple folder on the podium, unopened.

“Hello. Thanks for having me.”

…stand up straighter. What should I say…?

“I, uh… I want to talk to you about something.”

…nothingness, love, the goodness of people, compassionate apathy…

“I’m sure what you all do is very important. And I know that it’s a necessary part of, uh… everything that is.”

…God, this is uncomfortable. And I’m sounding condescending. I’ll just force a little chuckle…

“I’m not quite sure why I do things like this… talking to you. Well… I do, actually. I need the money.”

A nervous laugh.

“I find that writing books and speeches—or sermons in the old days—and giving my opinion during Committee of Advisor meetings is easy enough. But, uh, the Church hasn’t been able to offer a stipend to their clergy since I was a young man.

“Anyway. I was going to talk about my favorite modern-age Pope, Pope Francis. But I guess I want to talk to you about something else. You’re young, many of you, and you could still make a difference in the world, or at least in the lives of a few other people. I’m an old man. I’ll be dead before much of what worries me actually comes to pass.

“But I’m bothered, and I’m not sure how many speeches I’ve got left in me.

“It’s a lot of things really. It’s… It’s… Let me put it this way.

“Look back on your life. Backwards only. The path exists as one single, intransigent line. Every choice, every occurrence is fixed in time. Everything is unalterable, rigid, frozen solid as the Russian tundra—and just as lifeless.

“When you see things from that perspective, from this vantage point, all that exists appears to be the product of a some sort of fate. We all stand at the confluence of time and physical forces—exactly where we were sent, exactly where we were meant to be. And I know that 40 years ago or so, you mechanistic materialists won the day and somehow managed to convince my generation that we are not free.”

He paused a moment. A lifetime of public speaking had taught him to unconsciously recognize those perfect moments where silence wouldn’t be awkward, but rather stimulating. He let the tension build for just a moment and continued in a more hushed tone.

“But what happens when we turn around? When the past is at our backs, the path before us is only speculation. Up ahead, we may see that holiday to Spain or the café meeting we scheduled with friends. We will be challenged and we will approach challenges with confidence, or we approach them timidly, sure of our failure but optimistic for success. We plan and anticipate and hope and improvise and adjust. We waver or hold fast, compromise or stand our ground. All of this is an effort to create a small but significant personal reality that suits us, one that stretches out to our future as a shifting potential, dynamic and fluid. Before us is a blank canvas waiting for us, the artists, to give it that special, unique touch.

“Even your precious neuroscientists, in an attempt to marry philosophical mechanism with the scientific method, speak of an agent that operates the brain. They say things like, ‘Hormone X affects ‘you’ and ‘you’ release inhibitor Y.’ Who is this ‘you’? Is this merely a trick of language?

“Perhaps our society, so flush with machines, makes us feel that we are one of them. But we’re not. Perhaps it is only the natural philosophy of our time—and that’s fine. Every time has a philosophy. But is the organic machine a fair comparison? Neural networks and circuit boards are close enough, but humans created circuit boards. In their own image, perhaps?

“Who is the Great Programmer? Who or what wrote the code? Machines have no purposes. They are willing, to be sure, they communicate, the can learn, they can change and grow and evolve and adapt and take action to manipulate the world around them. But they do not contemplate their existence; and they have no purpose. They are given purposes.

“If it is true that free will is an illusion, it is the grand illusion. All of our struggles, the grand arc of history, the movement of peoples and nations, toil and work, searching and discovery, ideas, hope, plans, love and hate, likes and dislikes, communication, justice, laws, values, and all of human endeavor are for nothing.”

The old priest was becoming agitated. His old frame trembled and his rough voice grew in volume and intensity.

“People are driven by purposes—composed of countless smaller purposes—which are driven by values that are decided upon by each person’s inner search for truth, fulfillment and their imaginings of what a good life might be. That is our mark. We come to these purposes by observing and judging the world and people around us. “Do they live the good life?” we ask. “How can I benefit?” we wonder. “What must I do to be who I want to be?” we muse. And if we are willing, we speak about what we want and it comes to life. We ask ourselves if it can be done and decide that it can. We transcend our current reality and begin to move through it, leaving waves and ripples of change in our wake. We find out how it can be done and we act to bring about actualization. It is that beautiful and mysterious creative process by which every human to have ever lived has generated his or her own personal reality.

We set our own agendas and we fight against social, financial, and personal constraints. Yet we all achieve in our own way.”

The old priest looked up and cast his eye over the sea of black he knew to be a crowd of uncomfortable academics. In his most priestly, chastising tone, he forcefully said:

“We are the Great Programmer. We write the code.”

He caught himself, stopped and abruptly picked up the purple folder, quickly turned around and sat down again in his ratty convention center chair.

“…the church won’t like that last bit…”

“…fuck it. These walking degrees need to hear it. I can’t tell them from the robots most of the time…”

The MC took to the podium again, amidst a silence. He quietly said into the microphone, “Thank you Bishop Paradis,” and seemed at a loss.

A smattering of applause echoed through the vast hall, followed quickly by the distinct roar of colleagues making comments to each other as they collected their coats and shuffled down the aisles.

The priest gathered himself and made his way down the stairs and off the stage, ready to join the crowd as they lurched toward the doors and flooded the city street.

The audience members with whom he crossed paths averted their eyes, avoiding his and pretending to be caught up in the herd. Finally, one young man saw him and held his gaze.

He was surprisingly nondescript. He didn’t wear the khaki pants or black slacks that seemed to be the academic uniform. Nor did he dress like the throngs who occupied the VR suites—shabby chic or simply dilapidated. He seemed only to barely exist, except for a razor sharp look in his bright green eyes. He introduced himself, but the priest immediately forgot his name—Klaus or Dieter or something. He told the priest that he enjoyed his speech, that it seemed different and powerful. He mentioned that he had recorded it.

The priest was too old and wise to hope that he had actually affected someone. Rather, he was suspicious that the boy was perhaps patronizing him, or that he had some agenda regarding his position in the Council of Advisors.

He mumbled a thank you and melted into the stream of bodies heading for the doors.

The Berlin night was frigid, a cold that cut through any cloth and into the bones. The tip of a skyscraper at Potsdamer Platz peaked above the Russian embassy across the street from the concert hall. Little groups were congregating on the sidewalk, some spilling into Unter den Linden. Clouds of cigarette smoke floated above the crowd, hanging above their heads in the cold air. The U2 line rumbled under their feet. The priest quickly made his way toward the Brandenburg Gate and descended down the stairs to the U-bahn platform, slightly annoyed he had missed his train by mere seconds.

As he waited, Berlin’s academic elites flooded down the dirty cement stairways, mixing with the groups of young revelers who seemed to perpetually be carrying a bottle of beer. Many of them noticed him, recognized him, and said nothing. He could hear them discussing the event.

The squealing of the U2 train as it approached the station filled the platform. The doors open. The priest got on.