Forbidden Fruit
The End of an Era
In an attempt to make sense of the past four years, the pastor of a church proposed to his parishioners that Trump was not reëlected because he had displeased God and needed to be taught a lesson (David Brooks, New York Times, 01/14/2021). Such temerity could not go unpunished⏤I’m referring to the pastor, not Trump. Apparently, the pastor’s parishioners disagreed with his prophecy, and laid waste to his standing in the community. I’d have to agree with them, but for a different reason. While I am certain the parishioners felt Trump was the one wronged, that punishment rightly belonged to the American people and the politicians that supported a rogue election process, I differ. I believe the pastor is wrong for waffling on God’s intentions. Specifically, that God would change the course of the universe to elect someone in 2016 and decide to punish the same person in 2020 for unexpected seditious behavior. My god would know what lies ahead of a 2016 candidate. Such a god would not be caught off guard in 2020—or 2021for that matter, with behavior unbecoming a messenger supposedly ordained from on high. The pastor in question harkened back to Old Testament allegories to suggest a god displeased with his subject and correcting him midcourse. You don’t see this in the New Testament, nor do people rely on such situational judgment thereafter. Relying on a god to cast down punishment on a play-by-play timeframe is fraught with inconsistencies. But, if it were to happen, here is how it would look:
It was 2016 and our choices were grim, but I was heady with an unquenchable appetite. I wanted it all, and not with a layer of guilt on top. I wanted what I wanted because I wanted it. Simple. “Don’t tread on me,” was my motto. Along came my prophet who had never let anyone’s values stand in the way of his wants. He had a long record of getting what he wanted, be damned political correctness. If he changed his mind on any given idea to get what he wanted, then it was done⏤in the name of expediency, self-determination and superiority. Hypocrisy? That’s for the other guy to worry about. Our prophet never wavered in his focus… on self.
And so it was that in 2016, I picked the shining savory red apple from the tree that God had prophesied against, the tree of the forbidden fruit. I was happy. The indulgence was fulfilling. The focus on self without recriminations was refreshing. I laughed with giddiness. This was my time in the Sun. I carried my flag and wore my hat to show my allegiance to a newly formed nationality, a nationality of self. And the world turned.
My carefree nature seemed unabated, until one day I rested on a rail, a pause in my reveling, to pass a little gas. It was brief. Not a serious concern. The reveling soon returned. Another year passed and then again, when I least expected it, I needed to stop. I took a chair and breathed deeply. The pain in my gut was recurring. It had not quite gone away. It lingered throughout the year, gnawing at my conscience that something somehow was not right. I ignored it. Some had said to see a professional, that it could all be fixed, that surgery might be needed, but I regained my strength and was able to walk without assistance. I demurred. I remembered the heady days of 2016. I thought it was not that long ago and still felt very real. It must have meant something good, maybe a prophecy had been fulfilled. This must all be preordained, I thought. I must persevere. I ignored all advice and got up and staggered forward.
The end came quickly. Like a thief in the night, before I knew what was happening, it was all done. It was clearly not my fault. I doubled over one day in agonizing pain and was rushed to the hospital. The doctor in charge made a quick diagnosis. She had seen it all before: the fool hardiness, the self-assurance, the failure to follow precedent. The treatment was very clear, an enema was required to clean the poison out of the system. The tubes were readied, the medicine was flushed in and the internal gurgling intensified. I didn’t think I would survive. My eyes turned red, a mix of anger for being in this place, for being lied to, for making a sacrifice in vain. My insides moved like a demon was afoot, trying to hold firm to the confines of my soul. The enema was strong; the doctor knew just what was required. I screamed in pain, I sweat blood and writhed on the gurney. And then I fell back peacefully with my eyes closed. All was silent. My insides were still. A nurse wiped my brow with a cool cloth. As I lay there in my redemption, I felt reborn, save for the foul stench in the air. I looked down at the bedpan beside me and saw it there. The rotting forbidden red apple that I had devoured in my selfishness four years before. I was rid of it.
© Eric Clark, 20 January 2021
Photo: priscilla-du-preez-unsplash.com
