The Tower Of Babel

The Tower Of Babel

The tower rose from the fertile plains of Shinar to stand above mankind and draw their eyes upward, forever upward, toward heaven.

In the early morning hours, before the sun was strong enough to consume the mists that rose from the earth, the old man made his way down the mountainside, his donkey, laden with goods, following close behind.

His two companions walked behind the donkey, staffs in hand, robes billowing in the hot breeze that came up from the valley floor, but he led the way. It would only be a few hours more and they would arrive at the center of the earth.

This great endeavor was the thinking of Nimrod, who was a mighty warrior and a builder of cities. Now he was gone and Sargon, his firstborn, was in charge. He was a man who got things done. It seemed that everyone was working and toiling on the tower and the city surrounding it. According to legend, this was the site of the original holy place in the heart of Mesopotamia. It was the perfect place to create a gateway to heaven.

*****

The old man and his two companions walked through the throngs of people in the city as they busied themselves with their comings and goings.  The marketplace seemed to be thriving, hawkers selling their wares, little children darting through the crowds, color and excitement in the air.

The city seemed to be celebrating something.  The tower was almost finished.  Soon the ceremony to open the gateway to heaven would take place and the people were convinced of divine blessing.  It was cause to celebrate, to sing and dance and enjoy life.

The tower stood beside a temple.  It was a low, squat building, appearing even smaller by the size of the tower next to it.  Temple worship was a source of power for these people, a way to manage the mysterious forces of evil and good in a world that was not always friendly.

The old man understood well enough what was going on.  He was of the old school, a belief in El Shaddai, the Creator God.  He believed that mankind should worship in humility before him as he directs and obey his loving authority.  There was little of humility in the tower or the temple, much less the city.  This was a monument to the unity of man, the power of mankind to bring people together by force or by greed, to work together to become the masters of their own lives.

It was to be expected.  They spoke one common language and they had one common dream – to recreate paradise by their own power on the very spot where paradise once existed, or so legend would have it.  They wanted no outside interference.  They have discovered the power of unity in a common purpose, whether forced or willingly, and have begun to build an empire.

This desire to re-create paradise was normal, and perhaps even good under the right conditions, but the old man knew that without God it would not be paradise but rather hell on earth.

History had proved it often enough.

*****

“Where can we find the high priest?”

The old man spoke to a wizened old hag, ancient eyes opaque and sightless, sitting against the wall beside a stall selling pottery wares.

She had a pipe and was smoking some ill smelling brew, no doubt homemade, powerful enough to bring tears to the eyes if you got caught in one of her hacking exhalations of smoke.

“Who wants to know?” she said, spitting a stream of dark liquid into the dirt beside him.  “You got a reason to talk to him?  He’s a busy man.”

The old man made no reply.  One of his companions indicated the temple and said, “Let’s go and ask someone in there.”

“He ain’t in there,” the old woman said, then indicated with her head at the tower.  “He’s way up there.  Nigh unto heaven.  Seems they all getting ready for a big event tonight.”