# Deconstructing the golden narrative



## Jerusalem Blade (Nov 1, 2013)

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Deconstructing the golden narrative*

The trouble with words nowadays is nothing is sacred anymore. I would have said, “Deconstructing the _sacred_ narrative,” but that sounds so religious. Even an originally good word, “religious,” is loaded with negative connotations in many minds, and has lost its usefulness. Even the word, “good”….but you see what I mean. So I am reduced to using figures of speech instead of direct referents. At least getting started.

Of course there are things that are sacred, even to postmodern relativists. A good glass of wine perhaps; the sexual embrace of one’s beloved; a musical score; a work of art; friendship; vistas of nature; the phenomenon of sentient life — one’s own! And so forth. But these are sacred with a small “s”. Uppercase is passé these days.

And yet! Despite the onslaught of deconstruction there is a story — I shall not now uppercase the “s” there lest some have trouble swallowing it — with so great resilience it has proven impervious to such machinations.

I just finished watching _Children of Dune_ last night, and quite enjoyed it. Perhaps four decades ago I read some of the books, and within fairly recent years saw a couple of _Dune_ movies. I like science fiction; sometimes it intuits realities “realistic” works do not. But when I saw _Children._…good as it was, I thought, This is only an attempt to replace “the golden narrative” with an arresting saga, albeit a fantasy. We intuit there is a saga to this life of ours, even if hidden to us.

_The Golden Narrative_. It is a story which has been told, _definitively_, _once_, though it has been retold many times, and the telling of it has circled the globe of Sol’s third planet, reaching millions upon millions of ears, up through the generations for millennia. It does tell of off-world interference with a race of beings, a bringing of vast ruination upon them, and again of off-world rescue, for those who would have it. Yet it is not fiction, and science, so-called, often (not always) strongly opposes it. There is that science which disallows the thought of anything _super-nature_, anything positing an order of being above the natural world. _The Golden Narrative_, although told by men, has indeed originated off-world, and from a realm above the natural order. I needn’t elaborate on that here; it is in the story itself for those who wish to know it.

There are many attempts to “deconstruct” this story; some say it is untrue, itself a fiction; others say it is true insofar as it reflects the best aspirations of humans, that is, it is a “true” reflection of the potential of human imagination and evolution; others say it reflects the belief system of a tribal culture, and may be valid for that culture but not for others, whose perceptions of reality may differ. Others will say _words_ themselves cannot properly signify such actualities, as there are no common — universal — meanings or truths to be signified. Some _add_ to the narrative, either the text, or the sense, thus making it an alloy, its purity corrupted.

_The Golden Narrative_ resides in a book comprised of many smaller books. On this level it is attacked also — the texts. It will be said: the people in the stories never existed; the stories were corrupted during their transmission; the authors were not those attributed; the sayings within the stories are not all authentic. The allegations of varieties of inauthenticity go on and on.

But this is the truth of it: the remarkable stories within the larger narrative are all true — each according to their genre — and all the characters said to be real (those plainly not parabolic) _are_ real, and their words what they said. The foretellings — called prophecies by some — are all genuine; multitudes already fulfilled, and those not yet, will be. The narrative is called “golden” to indicate its great worth, and purity. The beings it tells of, both the human and non-human, are actual. The destinies it bespeaks — concerning humankind — are in the process of being realized even this moment.

The golden narrative itself is intact and finite, comprised of 66 small books in mostly two (sometimes three) original languages, translated into multitudes of tongues, both ancient and modern. There are definitive editions of these books, although this is disputed; it remains that there are such. Yet there are many sub-narratives, both written (as this little narrative itself!) and oral, and even just _lived out_ — _this_ type of “narrative” being the art of a life lived in fidelity to the golden narrative. The main has spawned _millions_ of sub-narratives, touching them all with its glory and power. Some sub-narratives are masterworks of art: _The Divine Commedia_, _Paradise Lost_, _Lord of the Rings_; while the lesser ones are still potent to quicken the dead!

This needs to be said: _the_ narrative is a living story under-girding — and overarching — all other stories, even those which deny it. It is the Story in which all other stories are. Your very reading of this little narrative is an intersecting of narratives — yours and mine. And as mine intersects with — and actually derives from — the golden, so _yours_ is interacting with _it_.

In the narrative, there are _eyes_ upon you you may not be aware of, _many_ eyes, although I refer to a particular set of eyes, those of the Hero of the narrative, the one who effected the rescue spoken of earlier.

It is a narrative, the golden one, essential to the survival of the being past the gates of death (as well this side of them), and it introduces the reader to the Hero, a most remarkable being, who is able to effect wondrous changes in those who learn of and come to him.

But you must read it for yourself. And see him who is in it, to love him or hate him (for many do, oddly). Be assured, _The Golden Narrative_ will endure when even the earth passes away; it is written within it it shall never pass away, and will be a glory of the world it foretells, a never-ending kingdom — a kingdom with _physical_ but _radiant_ bodies — a world of wonders. Those who enter the golden narrative will be born anew, never to die. Little wonder death hates it! And seeks to deconstruct it! But that cannot happen. Its defenders are able. And it itself indestructible.

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The very first humans spoke of this golden thread which would run through the fabric of all generations. There was one to come who would crush the head of the now reigning monster who savagely lorded over the ruined race. And up through the years the story grew, as vision increased. For merely telling it some were killed (it was against the demon’s law). For hearing and taking it to heart some gained that illumination which gave eternal life, laughing in the face of death. It was _the_ bone of contention to the human race. And when the Hero of the story came into the world, the golden one himself, all Hell broke loose, and fell before him in defeat. It is a story of love, and of war, and the dark powers do all they can to suppress it, _to deconstruct it_, for the light pouring from this golden narrative torments them even before the time of their consignment to the burning lake. One of their torments is seeing the story draw men, women, and children into it, into the heart of its Hero, and being born anew in its glory and power, which they shall never share.

The narrative and its offspring are soaked with so many tears a ship could sail them, so much blood it could flood a land — such the price for singing its glories and praises! — but for love of _him_ its tellers continue to sing, and for love of those who suffer the pains of life in this besieged world, that they might hear its healing sweet power and live — they sing. On pain of death they sing, though the words be mingled with tears and blood, of the glory of his heart and of his kingdom they sing. Even this very moment.

In the never-ending kingdom the sub-narratives will all be told (even after ten thousand years we’ll have no less days to hear, and sing, and praise), and we will be knit together as in a glorious tapestry showing scenes of wondrous passion and heartrending courage born of love — our hearts will thrill to see it told, always fresh, new visions of it springing forth. And he himself will speak — will our hearts be able to bear _that_? He will grant it to be so, he who flung forth galaxies, set the hot jewels of suns in the heavens, bore the eternal suffering due all his subjects. What a heart! In this fathomless abyss of glory and joy we will ever soar, with wings as eagles amidst the peaks of majesty. 

_It is a sacred narrative_.

_Limassol, Cyprus_
_Dec 2006 _​


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