4. Chesed

Chesed must be looked at along side Geburah because, like the relationship of Chokmah and Binah, one can not exist without the other. They are the equal opposites, the reverse of each other. These two are both represented by “Kings”.  Chesed, otherwise known as Gedulah, is the fours; love, mercy, rest from strife.

The chaos of the war provided opportunity and obscurity. When it was over, when London was re-built, I left for America. The Mason’s Great Experiment had roots deeper than any suspected. The blood of its natives cried out for vengeance… an echo reflected in the eyes of its colored youth. Such crimes cannot go ignored; their resonance lives on long after the criminals are gone. Those who wonder at America’s violence need only look at its past. Ripples in the pond. In the blood.

It is 1951. The first atomic explosion is shown on television, and the first long distance phone call is placed, and the first ground-to-air missile successfully grounds an airplane. Long distance destruction has ushered in the door for a new kind of war. Meanwhile, the North Koreans capture Seoul.

Surrounded by the new mythology, a land of symbols without religion, I find a kind of peace, a kind of solace. While others strive to conquer the land for their blood, I am content in the aura of my own. Men who understand the importance of rite and symbol. This is a holy land. Stolen from its native peoples for the power it possesses. A new Empire to last a thousand years. I can feel its energies. I will be a part of it.

I am home.

For a decade, I soak in the energies of this most grand construction. My brothers have done well here. Men live free from the tyranny of faith and monarchy. They choose their leaders. They live and learn free. Free to choose. Free to be.

I do not. My choices died back under Cleopatra’s shadow. But, I am content to see the freedom of my fellow men. Of my brothers.

On a whim, I attend a Lodge meeting. They shake my hand and call me “brother.” They offer me food and conversation. They listen to my words, debate points, and we argue with laughter. All the things she tried to steal from me come back. The warmth of their hands. The warmth of their laughter. The beauty of the rites. They call me back. Here, in the land we built.

I am home.

 

3. Binah

Binah is the third Sephiroth, the Three Fates, represented by the threes, (established strength, abundance, sorrow, material works) and is static energy. Binah sits at the head of the pillar of Severity, not due to any destructive or subtractive type of force, but it is labeled at the head of severity because it provides the vehicle that transforms force into form, of which it is emanated from Chokmah, the cosmic stimulus.

 

It is November 22, 1963. Dallas, Texas. The city is named after George Mifflin Dallas, Vice President of the United States from 1845-49. He is Polk’s Vice President. His greatest achievement, the one that will dwarf his four years in office, is introducing the right of privacy to British Common Law.

There are 22 cards in the Major Arcana. The first is the Magician. The ninth is the Hermit. The sixth is the Lovers. The third is the Empress. November is the tenth month of the year. The tenth card is the Wheel of Fortune.

The Magician watches over the same electronic device that showed him the nuclear blast. The meaning of the act transmitted for all the world to see. The Emperor meets the Hermit. The Lovers inverted, spirit tempted by flesh. The Emperor’s sword is dulled by fleshy indulgence. The Wheel turns and those who do not pay attention to its movement are caught under its weight. The Empress catches the Emperor’s brains in her face. She rushes to the back of the car to escape.

Years later, the Warren Commission’s report is branded by skeptics as “the magic bullet theory.” The irony of the statement resonates with me. The young, handsome Freemason King surrounded by the power of his symbols. Yes, it would have to be a magic bullet. One branded by blood. A magic bullet to kill the Masonic Emperor. Nothing else would do.

Only later would I discover the most accepted contrary theory involves three men.

The authority holding the power of this land is in check. It scrambles. Before anything can be done, a mundane and vulgar brute is given the reigns of authority. He is sworn in with our symbols and words, even though he has taken no Oath, made no Promise. Before we know it, the Great Experiment is no longer in our hands. In less than ten years, another assassination further soils the office of our symbolic King. An assassination of ideas. The gate is open. The watershed washes away all we’ve accomplished.

We have lost. Our King is dead and we have entered the Wastelands.

 

 

2. Chokmah

Chokmah’s energy is dynamic and flows freely, but without the anchoring characteristic of Binah would flow out into the universe without any direction and would probably dissipate into nothing. Chokmah is represented by the twos: duality and choice. The High Priestess. Partnership. Conflict. Opposites. A fork in the road.

 

It is December 10, 1974. I am in the chantry, looking into a mirror. A million faces and voices look back at me. The faces are so young. The voices just boys and girls. Where are the elders of my Clan? Where is their wisdom? Who is guiding us?

I look into the mirror and T.S. Elliot sings to me:

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,

Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

Later, James Jesus Angleton, the CIA chief counter-intelligence officer is testifying before Congress. He is the son of James Hugh Angleton, an NCR executive who had once participated in General Pershing’s pursuit in Mexico of Pancho Villa. He uses the phrase “wilderness of mirrors” to describe the world of modern espionage.

He was quoting Elliot.

The chantry is cold, the Lodge is warmer, but initiations decline every year. The power of our symbols is fading. In the Lodge, the language of old men echoes off the walls. We do not know the vernacular of youth. We are dying Kings, trapped in our throne rooms. We do not taste the wine. We do not remember the scents of spring air. There are no women to console our loneliness. The staff and pentacle and sword… all masculine symbols present. But there is no Empress. There is no Queen. There is no cup.

There is no cup.

In the late 1166, Wolfram von Escenbach is writing his masterpiece, Parzival. The tale of the simple knight who finds the grail and heals the Fisher King. It is filled with alchemical wisdom and symbolism, made into a simple adventure story by more modern storytellers. As with so many stories. Their mystical truths replaced with bawdy and tawdry details to titillate the uneducated. We are lost.

Dates almost cease to have meaning in this modern age. Decades pass like fads. I lose touch with the modern world. Newspapers are replaced with bright, handsome images of dull, ugly persons who do not understand the words they utter. The world passes me by… and I do not care.

Within our own ranks, we Embrace those who have the most shallow understanding of the deep mysteries. They use words like “craft” and “magick,” shout “blessed be!” and worship a Goddess with no name or identity. Canned mythology.

I am briefly intrigued with a marriage in London. I watch the women worship the bride and I feel a sense of déjà vu. I have seen this before. I have heard their voices. She steps up to St. Paul’s cathedral, and they praise her name in worship.

Diana… Diana…

I know this moment means something… then, the moment is gone. I slip back into the warm cloak of lethargy.

The world rushes by.

 Books are our truest friends. For a short while, we are utterly devoted to them. Then, when we are done, we put them away. But they wait for us. Wait for us to discover them again.

I stumble through my library, looking at old books from dead friends. There’s Machon. Once a force of alchemical power, now a barely remembered name. There’s Crowley, who’s reputation finally exceeded himself. Now, they call him a Satanist. He’s a hero to long-haired rock stars who cannot even begin to fathom the truths he discovered.

And here is one. An old book. The spine barely keeps the pages together. I read the cover. Recognize the name. I turn the yellow pages. The fragile pages.

The words are familiar to me… the turns of phrase clever, but youthful. It has all the enthusiasm and naiveté of youth. I feel my old lips smile as I read it. It is the opposite of everything I see these days. An alchemical allegory dressed up in the clothes of adventure. I read on.

Each page turns a little quicker. The story means little. I am fascinated by the symbols, the metaphors. The truths. The lies. Invisible forces moving against the protagonist. I laugh at the thought. Invisible…

Invisibles.

I look again at the cover. And I recognize the name.

Edward Richard Nichols.

Stuck between the pages is a faded photograph. Just another soul captured by John Wesley Hyatt’s celluloid. I look at the face. I touch the photo. I can almost feel the warmth of his cheek on my fingertips. I remember his dreams. I remember his passion.

I remember… I remember my mother.

My old eyes find tears. I feel them drip down my cheeks. I taste the salt…

I rush to the mirror, nearly shattering it with my haste. There is no blood in my eyes. Only tears. My tears.

Something trembles in my chest. For a moment…

… a moment…

… and then it’s gone. My eyes well up like open wounds. Whatever stirred in my chest rests again.

I fall to the floor, the pages of the old book falling around me like leaves. Like snow. The photo falls before me, tilted up on the cusp of my shoe. Upside down, he looks at me. I look at me. He looks back.

And I remember…

 

 

1. Kether

Kether, the Divine energy, top of “Consciousness”, the virtue of attainment and completion of the Great Work. We cannot define Kether, we can only indicate it. It is at the crown of the middle pillar, or the pillar of equilibrium, also known as the pillar of consciousness. It is the first in the supernal triangle, this being all that has not yet been manifested.

July 1, 2004. I am in Los Angeles, standing on the corner of Rosecranz and Santa Monica. One was an alchemist who taught men to heal themselves with their own innate divine grace. The other is the saint Catholics pray to when their children misbehave. Call upon yourself; call upon God. I stand at the corner of these two warring angels and I smile.

This city, this magical city, who writes the names of its dead in the streets. I see the ghosts of the once-mighty and they guard their totems with jealous rage. Illusions are made here. The perceptions of truth distorted and the perceptions of illusion made sharp. The line between both wiped away and made immortal on Hyatt’s alchemical invention. Crowley has a place here, too. He would be proud of his legacy.

I am here because this is the time of youth. This is their age. Old men like me – our age is gone. It is our duty to see that those who follow us are wise enough to avoid our mistakes. Did we leave clear markers? Only time will tell.

I have purchased a home here. The Clan wishes to establish a chantry. I may do that. I may allow another to do so. I am an old man and my Clan is filled with angry young men who have much to prove. I have nothing more to prove. I have walked those paths. Stepped through the limbs of the Tree of Life and dined on the fruits. Some were sweet. Some were bitter. Some I did not have the courage to taste.

But I am here now. In this city that celebrates youth and ignorance, and makes villains out of age and wisdom. I am here because… because… something called me here. An invisible hand, perhaps. I don’t know.

It is July 1, 2004. The day Sir Thomas Moore, the man who wrote Utopia, and became the first Christian philosopher, was put on trial for treason. The day the Protestants won their freedom in the Battle of Orange and the seventh day of the Seven Day Battle of Malvern Hill.

It is the day Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders ran up San Juan Hill. The Gideons placed their first Bible in the first hotel this day and Arthur Conan Doyle published the first part of his great masterpiece “The Disappearance of Lady Carfax.”

The first x-ray is shot on July 1, 1934 and the people of Ghana became an independent Republic. Elvis Presley made his first appearance on the Steve Allan show, showing off his overactive pelvis and the very last dollar is paid on the debt of the Golden Gate Bridge.

 It is a day auspicious for beginnings. I did not choose it. It chose me.

And so, it is on this day, that I begin.

 

epilogue

I began this on June 22, 2004. Twenty-oh-four.

The twentieth card in the Tarot is Judgment. The fourth card is the Emperor. The “zeroeth” card is The Fool. Two Fools stand in judgment over the Emperor.

June 21 is the summer solstice. June 23 is Midsummer’s Eve, known to Catholics as “St. John’s Night.”

There are 22 letters in the Jewish alphabet and 22 paths on the Tree of Life.

The ten Sefirot are:

1. Kether / Crown – the overall source
2. Chochma / Wisdom – pure thought (active)
3. Binah / Understanding – thought in context (receptive)
4. Chesed / Mercy – abundant giving
5. Gevurah / Judgment – complete withholding
6. Tiphareth / Beauty – perfect balance
7. Netzach / Victory – dominance
8. Hod / Glory – submission
9. Yesod / Foundation – the transition to physicality
10. Malkuth / Kingdom – the physical world.

This document is 22 pages.

That sentence was 22 characters long.