Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran (22 page)

Jesus was not a bird with broken wings; He was a raging tempest who broke all crooked wings. He feared not His persecutors nor His enemies. He suffered not before His killers. Free and brave and daring He was. He defied all despots and oppressors. He saw the contagious pustules and amputated them…. He muted Evil and He crushed Falsehood and He choked Treachery.

Jesus came not from the heart of the circle of Light to destroy the homes and build upon their ruins the convents and monasteries. He did not persuade the strong man to become a monk or a priest, but He came to send forth upon this earth a new spirit, with power to crumble the foundation of any monarchy built upon human bones and skulls…. He came to demolish the majestic palaces, constructed upon the graves of the weak, and crush the idols, erected upon the bodies of the poor. Jesus was not sent here to teach the people to build magnificent churches and temples amidst the cold wretched huts and dismal hovels…. He came to make the human heart a temple, and the soul an altar, and the mind a priest.

These were the missions of Jesus the Nazarene, and these are the teachings for which He was crucified. And if Humanity were wise, she would stand today and sing in strength the song of conquest and the hymn of triumph.

Oh, Crucified Jesus, Who are looking sorrowfully from Mount Calvary at the sad procession of the Ages, and hearing the clamour of the dark nations, and understanding the dreams of Eternity … Thou art, on the Cross, more glorious and dignified than one thousand kings upon one thousand thrones in one thousand empires….

Thou art, in the agony of death, more powerful than one thousand generals in one thousand wars….

With Thy sorrows, Thou art more joyous than Spring with its flowers….

With Thy suffering, Thou art more bravely silent than the crying angels of heaven….

Before Thy lashers, Thou art more resolute than the mountain of rock….

Thy wreath of thorns is more brilliant and sublime than the crown of Bahram…. The nails piercing Thy hands are more beautiful than the sceptre of Jupiter….

The spatters of blood upon Thy feet are more resplendent than the necklace of Ishtar.

Forgive the weak who lament Thee today, for they do not know how to lament themselves….

Forgive them, for they do not know that Thou hast conquered death with death, and bestowed life upon the dead….

Forgive them, for they do not know that Thy strength still awaits them….

Forgive them, for they do not know that every day is Thy day.

EVENTIDE OF THE FEAST

N
IGHT
had fallen and obscurity engulfed the city while the lights glittered in the palaces and the huts and the shops. The multitudes, wearing their festive raiment, crowded the streets and upon their faces appeared the signs of celebration and contentment.

I avoided the clamour of the throngs and walked alone, contemplating the Man Whose greatness they were honouring, and meditating the Genius of the Ages Who was born in poverty, and lived virtuously, and died on the Cross.

I was pondering the burning torch which was lighted in this humble village in Syria by the Holy Spirit…. The Holy Spirit Who hovers over all the ages, and penetrates one civilization and then another through His truth.

As I reached the public garden, I seated myself on a rustic bench and commenced looking between the naked trees toward the crowded streets; I listened to the hymns and songs of the celebrants.

After an hour of deep thinking, I looked sidewise and was surprised to find a man sitting by me, holding a short branch with which he engraved vague figures on the ground. I was startled, for I had not seen nor heard his approach, but I said within myself, “He is solitary, as I am.” And after looking thoroughly at him, I saw that in spite of his old-fashioned raiment and long hair, he was a dignified man, worthy of attention. It seemed that he detected the thoughts within me, for in a deep and quiet voice he said, “Good evening, my son.”

“Good evening to you,” I responded with respect.

And he resumed his drawing while the strangely soothing sound of his voice was still echoing in my ears. And I spoke to him again, saying, “Are you a stranger in this city?”

“Yes, I am a stranger in this city and every city,” he replied. I consoled him, adding, “A stranger should forget that he is an outsider in these holidays, for there is kindness and generosity in the people.” He replied wearily, “I am more a stranger in these days than in any other.” Having thus spoken, he looked at the clear skies; his eyes probed the stars and his lips quivered as if he had found in the firmament an image of a distant country. His queer statement aroused my interest, and I said, “This is the time of the year when the people are kind to all other people. The rich remember the poor and the strong have compassion for the weak.”

He returned, “Yes, the momentary mercy of the rich upon the poor is bitter, and the sympathy of the strong toward the weak is naught but a reminder of superiority.”

I affirmed, “Your words have merit, but the weak poor do not care to know what transpires in the heart of the rich, and the hungry never think of the method by which the bread he is craving is kneaded and baked.”

And he responded, “The one who receives is not mindful, but the one who gives bears the burden of cautioning himself that it is with a view to brotherly love, and toward friendly aid, and not to self-esteem.”

I was amazed at his wisdom, and again commenced to meditate upon his ancient appearance and strange garments. Then I returned mentally and said, “It appears that you are in need of help; will you accept a few coins from me?” And with a sad smile he answered me, saying, “Yes, I am in desperate need, but not of gold or silver.”

Puzzled, I asked. “What is it that you require?”

“I am in need of shelter. I am in need of a place where I can rest my head and my thoughts.”

“Please accept these two denars and go to the inn for lodging,” I insisted.

Sorrowfully he answered, “I have tried every inn, and knocked at every door, but in vain. I have entered every food shop, but none cared to help me. I am hurt, not hungry; I am disappointed, not tired; I seek not a roof, but human shelter.”

I said within myself, “What a strange person he is! Once he talks like a philosopher and again like a madman!” As I whispered these thoughts into the ears of my inner self, he stared at me, lowered his voice to a sad level, and said, “Yes, I am a madman, but even a madman will find himself a stranger without shelter and hungry without food, for the heart of man is empty.”

I apologized to him, saying, “I regret my unwitting thought. Would you accept my hospitality and take shelter in my quarters?”

“I knocked at your door and all the doors one thousand times, and received no answer,” he answered severely.

Now I was convinced that he was truly a madman, and I suggested, “Let us go now, and proceed to my home.”

He lifted his head slowly and said, “If you were aware of my identity you would not invite me to your home.”

“Who are you?” I inquired, fearfully, slowly.

With a voice that sounded like the roar of the ocean, he thundered, bitterly, “I am the revolution who builds what the nations destroy…. I am the tempest who uproots the plants, grown by the ages…. I am the one who came to spread war on earth and not peace, for man is content only in misery!”

And, with tears coursing down his cheeks, he stood up high, and a mist of light grew about him, and he stretched forth his arms, and I saw the marks of the nails in the palms of his hands; I prostrated myself before him convulsively and cried out, saying, “Oh Jesus, the Nazarene!”

And He continued, in anguish, “The people are celebrating in My honour, pursuing the tradition woven by the ages around My name, but as to Myself, I am a stranger wandering from East to West upon this earth, and no one knows of Me. The foxes have their holes, and the birds of the skies their nests, but the Son of Man has no place to rest His head.”

At that moment, I opened my eyes, lifted my head, and looked around, but found naught except a column of smoke before me, and I heard only the shivering voice of the silence of the night, coming from the depths of Eternity. I collected myself and looked again to the singing throngs in the distance, and a voice within me said, “The very strength that protects the heart from injury is the strength that prevents the heart from enlarging to its intended greatness within. The song of the voice is sweet, but the song of the heart is the pure voice of heaven.”

THE GRAVE DIGGER

I
N THE
terrible silence of the night, as all heavenly things disappeared behind the grasping veil of thick clouds, I walked lonely and afraid in the Valley of the Phantoms of Death.

As midnight came, and the spectres leaped about me with their horrible, ribbed wings, I observed a giant ghost standing before me, fascinating me with his hypnotic ghastliness. In a thundering voice he said, “Your fear is two-fold! You fear being in fear of me! You cannot conceal it, for you are weaker than the thin thread of the spider. What is your earthly name?”

I leaned against a great rock, gathered myself from this sudden shock, and in a sickly, trembling voice replied, “My name is Abdallah, which means ‘slave of God.'” For a few moments he remained silent with a frightening silence. I grew accustomed to his appearance, but was again shaken by his weird thoughts and words, his strange beliefs and contemplations.

He rumbled, “Numerous are the slaves of God, and great are God's woes with His slaves. Why did not your father call you ‘Master of Demons' instead, adding one more disaster to the huge calamity of earth? You cling with terror to the small circle of gifts from your ancestors, and your affliction is caused by your parents' bequest, and you will remain a slave of death until you become one of the dead.

“Your vocations are wasteful and deserted, and your lives are hollow. Real life has never visited you, nor will it; neither will your deceitful self realize your living death. Your illusioned eyes see the people quivering before the tempest of life and you believe them to be alive, while in truth they have been dead since they were born. There were none who would bury them, and the one good career for you is that of grave digger, and as such you may rid the few living of the corpses heaped about the homes, the paths, and the churches.”

I protested, “I cannot pursue such a vocation. My wife and children require my support and companionship.”

He leaned toward me, showing his braided muscles that seemed as the roots of a strong oak tree, abounding with life and energy, and he bellowed, “Give to each a spade and teach them to dig graves; your life is naught but black misery hidden behind walls of white plaster. Join us, for we genii are the only possessors of reality! The digging of graves brings a slow but positive benefit which causes the vanishing of the dead creatures who tremble with the storm and never walk with it.” He mused and then inquired, “What is your religion?”

Bravely I stated, “I believe in God and I honour His prophets; I love virtue and I have faith in eternity.”

With remarkable wisdom and conviction he responded, “These empty words were placed on human lips by past ages and not by knowledge, and you actually believe in yourself only; and you honour none but yourself, and you have faith only in the eternity of your desires. Man has worshipped his own self since the beginning, calling that self by appropriate titles, until now, when he employs the word ‘God' to mean that same self.” Then the giant roared with laughter, the echoes reverberating through the hollows of the caverns, and he taunted, “How strange are those who worship their own selves, their real existence being naught but earthly carcasses!”

He paused, and I contemplated his sayings and meditated their meanings. He possessed a knowledge stranger than life and more terrible than death, and deeper than truth. Timidly, I ventured, “Do you have a religion or a God?”

“My name is The Mad God,” he offered, “and I was born at all times, and I am the god of my own self. I am not wise, for wisdom is a quality of the weak. I am strong, and the earth moves under the steps of my feet, and when I stop, the procession of stars stops with me. I mock at the people…. I accompany the giants of night…. I mingle with the great kings of the genii…. I am in possession of the secrets of existence and non-existence.

“In the morning I blaspheme the sun … at noontide I curse humanity … at eventide I submerge nature … at night I kneel and worship myself. I never sleep, for I am time, the sea, and myself…. I eat human bodies for food, drink their blood to quench my thirst, and use their dying gasps to draw my breath. Although you deceive yourself, you are my brother and you live as I do. Begone … hypocrite! Crawl back to earth and continue to worship your own self amid the living dead!”

I staggered from the rocky, cavernous valley in narcotic bewilderment, scarcely believing what my ears had heard and my eyes had seen! I was torn in pain by some of the truths he had spoken, and wandered trough the fields all that night in melancholy contemplation.

I procured a spade and said within myself, “Dig deeply the graves…. Go, now, and wherever you find one of the living dead, bury him in the earth.”

Since that day I have been digging graves and burying the living dead. But the living dead are numerous and I am alone, having none to aid me….

HONEYED POISON

I
T WAS
a beautiful morn of dizzying brilliance in North Lebanon when the people of the village of Tula gathered around the portico of the small church that stood in the midst of their dwellings. They were discussing busily the sudden and unexplained departure of Farris Rahal, who left behind his bride of but half a year.

Farris Rahal was the Sheik and leader of the village, and he had inherited this honourable status from his ancestors who had ruled over Tula for centuries. Although he was not quite twenty-seven years of age, he possessed an outstanding ability and sincerity that won the admiration, reverence, and respect of all the fellahin. When Farris married Susan, the people commented upon him, saying, “What a fortunate man is Farris Rahal! He has attained all that man can hope for in the bounty of life's happiness, and he is but a youth!”