By Geoffrey Wallace Brown, Ph.D.
We had a perfectly beautiful dawn this morning.
It's about 0ļ out.
A foot of snow.
And Venus, the Morning Star, was up and radiant.
When that old Sun begins to come up, and turns the sky from black to the first tinges of pink and blue, on the Prairie, in the frozen wilderness....that's what I call home.
Well then, let's return to our discussion of evil for a moment.
Yesterday I went to the Post Office.
To get the mail.
And, I got my latest issue of the Saturday Review.
With a Great Big Indian on the Cover.
In full headdress.
I was thrilled beyond belief.
There he was.
The American Indian.
As done by The Saturday Review.
I figured that, as long as I was going to shit all over the Intellectuals of this Country, I might as well buy their product, to see what's current.
Intellectuals are babes in the woods.
Completely victimized by their own arrogance.
And lust for power.
And taste for the "something special," that nobody else can have.
Well, Saturday Review in its immense, and well-documented Wisdom, hatched these stories about the Indians, stories that went well with the picture of the Indian on the Cover.
The guy on the Cover looked about as much like an Indian as Victor Mature.
They were discussing whether Congress should abolish Indian Reservations.
I was thinking about that on my way to the dump.
You know, the one where it gets increasingly hard to approach as the Indians dump their garbage at intervals increasingly farther away from it.
So that, eventually, you can't even get to the dump.
You have to dump your garbage alongside of the road, the way they do.
Yesterday I went in, and there was a new event: a car body, burned, blocking the road.
On the way up, I went by the house that the guy had burned down, after leaving his wife.
I drove past to some of the brand-new cars and pickups, some of which featured bumper stickers, like "Indian Powower".
About how proud they all were to be "Indians."
Whatever the fuck an "Indian" is.
Another make-believe category, invented by some imaginative Anthropologist, creating new fictions and fantasies about the mythical "human race," justifying his undying hypothesis that we are really modern aboriginals, masturbating in our own cages.
We find it an amusing pastime.
And support it.
I talked to Welch on the phone last night.
Jim Welch, the guy that the articles in Saturday Review said was like an early Hemmingway or Steinbeck in his writing.
Welch and I go way back, before he had the faintest notion that he was going to be a "Writer."
Back to when he had nothing but a glimmer in his eye for nothing but his wife, Lois, whom I also covet.
Lois is a Full Professor on the staff at the English Department at the University of Montana.
The Department my dad retired from a few years ago.
Lois was just on the Committee responsible for recommending which heads were going to roll, because the State Legislature had decided to cut back the budget, by cutting back the faculty.
Sixty heads worth.
So the President said.
A tough break for the guys without tenure.
Of course the good teachers were the ones with tenure.
They are the ones who know exactly how to unzip someone's, the right one's, pants.
And kneel down.
I watched Saturday Night Live last Weekend.
And then I saw Jerry the next morning.
You know--the Preacher.
"Old Time Gospel Hour."
Thomas Rhodes Baptist Church.
20,000 people attending services last Sunday.
1/3 of the town.
$55,000,000 dollars expected to be collected for the Kitty this year.
Jerry was interviewed by Morley Safer, for 60 Minutes.
Jerry was talking about his "Christian University".
They are shooting for a student body of 50,000.
There on "Liberty Mountain," where the campus is located.
Jerry said, he actually said, in this interview: "We donít care if the students think our rules are within the Bible: we only care that they obey them.
You have to learn to be a good follower before you can be a good leader."
Morley also had Pat Robertson from CBN.
The Christian Broadcasting Network!
It's here folks!
It has arrived!
Jesus Christ on television.
When I stayed with my dad last summer, in the little apartment adjacent to his house, I watched the CBN all summer.
I made my dad watch some of these religious programs.
I tried to.
I got ten minutes into one; and he exploded: "I won't have that garbage in my house."
Margo, my stepmother and I shrank in fear.
Good work, Dad.
I'm glad I grew up with you.
Well then, enough of this silliness; let's get down to substance: sailing in the San Juan Islands.
With Dr. William Jaquette.
Dr. William Alderman Jaguette III.
My old college (Fraternity) buddy.
The House Manager.
Or House Mouse, as we called him.
Jaquette distinguished himself in college, at Whitman, by singing "Old Man River" in the play, Showboat.
Jaquette did a brilliant, beautiful, job.
He was known for his dignity. And Pride. The good kind; that comes from a deep and sincere self-respect.
Well, Jaquette went out to get a Ph.D. in Philosophy after College, like I did.
He went to the University of Missouri, about a hundred miles from St. Louis; so we could keep in touch.
During the summers I used to be able to go over from Montana and see Jaquette in Mercer Island, a wealthy suburb of Seattle where his Daddy, William Alderman Jaquette II, was specializing in "Diseases of the Rich," as MacLean was later to point out. They had a house and a sailboat right down on the shorefront of Lake Washington, which had interlocking canals and locks to Puget Sound.
The San Juan Islands!
I used to take old "Indian Jim" Welch, and MacCleanest, my two favorite drinking chums from Missoula, over to see Jaquette, and go for a cruise during the summers of those Graduate School years.
We had a blast.
I mean this was an annual drunk that we all looked forward to, all year.
We were in our mid-twenties.
Welch was a little older.
Welch didn't know he was a Writer yet.
At that point he was just an Indian. A drunk Indian. Whenever he could get away with it.
We would go down to Eddy's.
At this point in time--the late sixties--Eddy's was probably the best known drug dealing Center in the Mountain Northwest.
All the junkies, from all over the World would stop in at Eddy's, check in, as it were, before going off into the Mountains for a summer with Nature.
It was a great place to go down and get boozed up every night.
Which Jim and Bill and I, separately, did, whenever we felt the spirit so move.
Welch was after Conversation.
Cleanest was after Women.
And I was after something I never found: the perfect high.
But I tried.
We all tried.
And each found the limits of that sort of access to reality.
(What the hell else are the twenties good for...?)
Kitty-corner from Eddy's was the Ox.
The Oxford Bar and Grill.
The Ox was where you went after a night on the town, or your girl, whichever you happened to be into that evening.
It was a mandatory stop on the way home.
You tried to get there before 2:00 AM. So that you could have a beer with your "Stretch One! With Hash Browns!" as they put it.
Or an "Adam and Eve on a Raft. Wreck it!" If you were going to have scrambled eggs and Ham.
Or, "He needs 'em!" For brains and eggs.
There were spittoons on the floor by the bar rail. Functional spittoons. That got emptied every day.
But what the Ox was distinguished for was the Poker Game in the Back. (Liquor in the front; Poker in the rear.)
That hadn't quit since the early 1890's.
It was famous, throughout the Northwest.
MacLean's uncle had been the Sheriff in Missoula. And it was clear that this activity was in no way a secret. Even though it was strictly illegal.
Thousands and thousands of dollars changed hands. Every night.
But I couldn't bring myself to get into it.
He had balls.
He really did.
Delores, his wife, used to tell me about how he would come home, from one of those all-nighters at the Ox, and you could hear his heart pounding, all the way across the room!
Well, Cleanest and Indian Jim and I would pile into my 1968 Volvo, which is the finest car ever made in the history of the World, and we would drive the five hundred miles to Jaguette's in about six hours.
MacLean dubbed me "Pit Stop Brown."
I was so eager to get there.
I wouldn't stop for anything but gas.
It got so that I would make food, to eat on the way.
I was the Cook. In fact.
On the boat.
Because I was so drunk, all the time, and stoned, on grass, that it was all I could manage.
"Butt-Fuck The Cook," was the name they finally settled on for me.
Universally settled on.
This was the only thing everybody agreed on.
Was that name for me.
I was so drunk--I took along a bunch of Old Crows (the kind with handles on them)--that Jaguette (whom we aptly named "Captain Pissgums," after that Zap Comic Book character who got his dick whacked off) tried to stomp me into the Black Shimmering Waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
He tried to stomp me.
I was hanging over the edge of the boat, out in the middle of these Giant Pacific Swells, hanging onto the guy wire for dear life, having fallen over the edge of the boat. And Jaquette, Captain Pissgums, was stomping my fingers, trying to get me to let go.
The essence of the origin of the belief in evil is the belief that there is life in matter: as so much of the New Testament (as written by Paul) stands to testify.
I have already pointed out the degree of sensuality prevalent in Paul's time, which explains his having emphasis on sexuality, loose sexuality, as a prime determinant of evil.
Loose sexuality leads to an intense kind of belief that there is life in matter, i.e., that God is not the Only Power.
When you see, with your eyes, that succulent breast, or that throbbing you-know-what, something mental happens: you anticipate the promise of great pleasure.
Matter of the "dirtiest" sort.
What formulates the basis, or the meaning, or the feeling, of its "dirtiness?"
Just this: the belief in matter in any form, catapults you into a hypnotic dream.
That is: the belief that people are animals, seeking pleasure in a source (matter), that is the origin of all of the unhappiness, misery, and despair of human life, implies that God made something that is both good and evil, which a Good God, an omnipotent God would never do. Ever.
As long as you believe in the false god of there being pleasure (or pain) in matter, whether in the manner of sensuality (lust) or any other form, that false belief and the consequences of believing it will manifest themselves in your experience.
That is why it is wrong to be sexually promiscuous.
And, because that is why, and because that is sensed, there is the nauseating sense of "dirtiness" associated with it.
What you sense, or feel, or intuit, as you sink into the "pit" or the quicksand of sexual promiscuity is that the Love of God "leaves," you as you devote your thought, your heart, your mind, and your soul, to this other god.
Of course, all of this is a dream.
Since at no time, and in no place, and in no way can you ever remove yourself one little breath from the absolute Love that is God.
All there is to you is the Love that is God.
And we are simply finding that out.
That is all that is happening.
See Paul, (Romans 8. vs. 38-9.)
And the Psalmist, (Psalms 139. vs. 7-10.)
The Great Whore, that is mentioned by John in Revelation (Chapter 17) is exactly this: the first lie (the only lie, really) is the lie that we can be separated from the Love that is God.
From this false belief (a belief, by the way, that most of Christianity is hell-bent on instilling in our thought as a fact of life) originates what Paul calls "the carnal mind."
The belief that we are separate beings, on our own, with minds of our own, which we use to sin against God.
And all the delightful consequences of accepting that belief.
And making it our own.
As all the Churches would have us do.
No wonder the World Council of Churches won't accept the Christian Science Church into its membership.
The Christian Science Church stands in the same kind of relationship to Orthodox Religion--Jewish, Catholic, and Protestant--that Luther had toward the Catholic Church, in all of its fat and fraud at the time of the Reformation.
But for a different reason: The Christian Science Church does not admit the reality of sin. Or matter. Or evil.
All of those things are just figments of human fantasy.
That's all they are.
Together with the results of believing in them.
Until they are burned out.
And thrown away.
And, all that needs to happen, with a lie, in order to destroy it, is expose it!
A lie, when it is self-seen, and exposed to the light of conscious thought is, by definition, and actuality, no longer a lie!
It can no longer hide.
Which is exactly what a lie must do; to survive.
So, all you have to do to destroy it is expose it.
Can ya dig it?
I can dig it.
Farm fuckin out.
Like cool man; really cool.
Who's got a roach clip?
Suck it in. Take a deep breath. And hold it...
O.K. now don't let your breath out.
Hold it man.
Now keep it in.
There you go.
Now this stuff won't get you off the ground for a couple of minutes. So sit tight and enjoy the music.
That's what it's all about.
I can groove on it baby.
Farm fuckin out.
Did you say you grew this yourself?
Fuck no, man, this is Columbian.
The straight shit.
My brother-in-law says that in Vietnam opium soaked joints were the best!
Listen to the muuuuusick.
Farm fuckin out.
Can you dig it?
I can dig it.
Farm fuckin out, man.
Farm fuckin out.
I was watching a miniseries on the Box last night, called Greatest Heroes of the Bible.
I wasn't inspired at all with the way those guys, on the Box, prayed.
They kept "looking to heaven," upward; and talking, out loud.
You silence, everything.
The silent word that comes back to you is best expressed in Psalms 46. vs. 10. "Be still and know that I am God."
Or in I Kings 19. vs. 12. "And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."
The earthquake is not the answer.
The fire is not the answer.
After the storms of material sense have done their best, and failed to get your attention, then, and only then, do you hear the Voice of the Almighty, saying, silently, "I AM THAT I AM." Exodus 4. vs. 14.
Or, "I am the Almighty God; walk before me, and be thou perfect." Genesis 17. vs. 1.
I was going to Wolf Point, yesterday. Listening to CHAB, on the Radio. I always listen to the Radio. For the music.
Last summer, I couldn't afford a good radio; so I bought a $35 clunker, tube type, and a 100 foot aerial. And put it up outside.
That way I can reach Saskatchewan.
The only good music around here.
We are so far north, here, that one of the clearest stations comes in in French.
Well, what I want to talk about today is Christian Scientists.
I have saved this section on evil for last.
So it turns out.
Why do you suppose that the people and humor of Saturday Night Live have received the support of the people in this country, and of the Entertainment Industry; while Christian Scientists do well if they can put enough people in a Congregation to make it look like something more than a Sunday Morning Social for the local Geriatric Society?
Do you think that the American Public is so stupid?
Do you think that they are not looking for what is genuinely and truly religious and spiritual?
It is obvious, to anyone with a fourth grade education, that if what the Bible says is true, then the Power Interests in The World are patently full of shit.
Christian Science is the Second Coming of the Christ.
You (Christian Scientists) know that.
I know that.
The Age is ready for it.
Why are the seats in your Churches not filled to overflowing with eager, bright, young, curious minds?
Why are your Reading Rooms not filled to capacity with intense, determined seekers of truth?
Do you think that the World is so filled with seduction that you are no competition for it?
Or, as one of your members told me last summer, is it rather because people don't have the willpower for the discipline it requires?
People, everybody--the guy painting my dad's house last summer--has the guts to get off a Troop Carrier and walk, through the water, right up Omaha Beach, straight into the face of machine gun fire that would tear him to pieces.
It has been demonstrated that people have the guts to do that!
Why do you suppose you can't get them to walk into a little old Christian Science Church?
Whose only threat is maybe to be a little dry and dusty and boring.
Which it usually is.
Because the people are.
The "Reverend" Jim Jones and his kind make history by persuading hundreds of people to kill themselves.
And you cannot persuade any but the geriatric cases, and the near terminally ill, who see that they have nothing left to lose, to come and even so much as investigate what you have to offer.
Is it not because of exactly what the Master, the teacher, said about your own awesome hypocrisy: "...these (things) ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone."? (Matthew 23. vs. 23.)
Is it not because of the intense preoccupation you have with the cleanliness of the outside of the platter? Or the cleanliness and whiteness of the outside of the sepulcher. Forgetting the rotten bodies and bones of the people within?
Do you think any sensible, sane, intelligent, or even halfway awake person is going to allow himself to be trapped into that kind of hypocrisy?
Christian Science has been around for a hundred years.
One hundred years.
Why do you think it has taken so long for even a Philosophy Professor, presumably the most intellectually adventurous of all the academics, to "discover" that what is in Science and Health is what everybody, whether sick or well, whether intellectually passive or active, whether frightened or bold, is looking for?
Why do you think that jokes are routinely made about the boredom of your Church Services and Reading Rooms?
Which are supposed to be located in downtown metropolitan areas, for the purpose of attracting people at the center of the Nation's Commerce, both intellectual and material.
Why do you think that nobody, unless he has been literally forced, on bended knee, in search of dramatic healing, that he could find nowhere else, would be caught dead walking into your Church?
Why do you suppose that thousands and thousands of people, every day, would rather die, in hospitals, at the hands of doctors, than even think about trying your healing system, which you know and I know works beyond all comparison with any of the so-called "physical" healing arts?
Why, in the course of one hundred years, has not Christian Science totally revolutionized the entire planet we live on?
Iíll tell you why.
Because, as my dearly beloved wife, Kathee Gerde Brown, the purest woman I have ever known says: "You have a stick up your ass."
You suffer from exactly what all these other religions do, that keeps away the honest and faithful and sincere seekers of love and truth: you think there is something special about yourselves.
Well, let me tell you what Bob Gerde, reformed alcoholic, used to say to his kids, all the time, when they would see or hear about a victim of boozing. Quietly, under his breath, he would whisper, "There, but for the grace of God, goes me."