The Angels' Song

The Angels’ Song

    There was a bright flicker, then darkness. A few moments later, the thunder rolled in the distance. Rain began to fall, pelting the small windows, softly at first, then stronger. But the coming storm went unheeded, as Heinrich von Engel was leaned over his desk, writing furiously. He was oblivious to anything besides his own thoughts, his pen, and the paper in front of him.
    Shadows danced around the room. Only a small candle on the desk provided any light, slowly moving about as the howling wind outside was slipping in under the door. It was the third candle that evening. Now it, too, had run out. Total darkness seized the room. Heinrich grunted with frustration, as he was in the middle of a sentence and did not wish to lose his thought. However, as he had little choice, he got up and went to the drawer where he kept the candles. He sparked a match and lit the new candle, which began to burn brightly. It would give him a few more hours to write. It should be enough for what he wanted to say this night.
    Yet the late nights took their toll, and Heinrich was very tired indeed. But he was determined to get his thoughts down on paper, and he had many thoughts. Not that many people would read his ideas: despite all of his students and colleagues at the university, only a few of his closest friends had ever shown any true understanding or appreciation for his work. Of course, his writings were unorthodox among the masses. No matter; some day he would be famous for his genius, even if he was misunderstood.
    However, that misunderstanding came with a price: Heinrich now had almost no one whom he called a true friend. He was quite often alone. Ill health had caused him to quit teaching some time ago, but he had made enough money to live on comfortably for some time. Yet, other than his servant who attended him twice a day, he rarely spoke with another human being. It was best that way; he could never write his brilliant books if others distracted him. He needed the silence. Further, he had become so accustomed to living this way that it rarely troubled him.
    The furious scratching of Heinrich’s pen paused: he had concluded this section of his work. He remained motionless at his desk for a moment to think carefully what he should write next. 
    Again lighting flashed outside, briefly illuminating the small room, then dropping it back into shadows. The thunder came a little sooner this time; the storm was getting closer. Heinrich saw the shadows darkening his sparse bedroom; his bed, a small dresser, a bedside table and four bookshelves, lined with books, were his only furniture. Further, there were several portraits upon the walls, his heroes, men who had inspired him to think great ideas and write them down. Yet Heinrich had the strange impression that they were staring at him now, threatening him, as if to warn him against not finishing his book. He returned to the paper on his desk and began to write again. Certainly, this would be his best work yet. This is what he wrote:

    Modern man: he thinks he knows, but we know that most men know nothing! Socrates showed us this many years ago. For if they do not know what they mean when they say ‘good’ or ‘bad’, how can they know when they speak of ‘gods’? Show me a man who knows what he says and I will show you many wonders – the wonders of a man who has grown up.
    Modern man: he is a relic of an ancient time, when man in his childhood told myths to explain his world. But now we have grown up; we are creatures of reason. We who have grown up – we know that Apollo does not dwell in the sun; surely Zeus does not still throw the thunderbolt upon Olympus? Do I invoke the Muses in my work? No, no, a thousand times no! Now the light of science gives us light to see by; now we can see how God has ‘spoken’ in the past, like a child who once thought that his toys spoke to him: but now he understands the workings of gears and whistles.
    Modern man: he is a contradiction! Can I count the ways to show the futility of his beliefs? He says, ‘O my God’ every day, but does not know the word ‘piety’; he builds churches on every street corner, but for what? The more churches, the more hypocrisy; they build them because that is ‘where God dwells’. Of course – they cannot find God anywhere else, so they must build him a home. Perhaps he wanders like an orphan? No, these people, like children, play make-believe. A child pretends there are faeries; grown men believe in God! No, these churches are but the result of our child-like imagination, museums for our children. Yes, even I adore the great art in the old cathedrals – but does God paint too? No, only man. O praise the greatness of Man!
    And if this were not enough, these ‘shepherds’, these leaders of the flock as they call themselves, they only deceive. They only wish for power: they could not have the power to rule over nations, so they seized power over their ‘flocks’. But beware, little flock, for without their power these men are wolves, and would gladly devour you. ‘I had a vision of God!’ they say. Yes, they had a vision, and God spoke. He told them, ‘go amongst my people and tell them lies. I do not wish them yet to be full-grown’.
    These shepherds pride themselves on saving lives, but they are murderers! These murderers – for that is who they are, bringing death rather than life – then tell their followers about better life, a life to come. But the only better life they care about is their own - and that is now! For a man who wishes only for a ‘better life’ will languish in this one, much to his sorrow. He is like a child who cannot wait to grow up, but when he does, he laments that he has lost his childhood! Such are they who hope for another life. No, the grown man knows that his life is now, and he must live it proudly. 
    Modern man: he says that it is noble to renounce marriage for God. But I have heard many whispers; I have seen the pigeons in flight. These men cannot conquer their passions. No! They are like children who see the glory of a king and declare that some day they, too, shall be king of their land. But they grow up and the king’s men trample them in their poverty. Thus is the man who would conquer his passions and resist a woman’s charms. For they only know what they have been told. They have only heard their shepherds’ words - those great liars! The truth is painfully clear: nature in her wisdom wishes to perpetuate herself. Man is part of nature and so is compelled to the same. This force of nature is a mystery – the clearest mystery I have ever known! Man is a slave to begetting. He can no more cease to beget than he can cease to think, for thinking is begetting of the mind as union with a woman that of the body. Only a dead man does not beget. Thus has nature decreed, and she saw that it was good. The celibate man: he fights with nature and cannot hope to win.
    Modern man: he preaches the value of life while he teaches them death. He says, ‘all men are equal in God’s eyes; therefore, let us love all men as brothers.’ Then he speaks thus to himself, ‘I rejoice that I was not born there; what a retched people!’ Yes, all men have worth – they are slaves to those more powerful than they! I have known many to weep at the death of a mother, a brother, or a close friend. But who weeps for those they’ve never known? I shed no tears when a lion kills a man in Africa, to eat him, or when a great storm drowns many on some far-off coast. Nature did not favor them – but she has favored me. Why should I question her judgment? Yes, life has great value – to the one speaking those words! Indeed, my life has great value!
    Who then, has life? None but the strong! Only he who is strong lives as Nature means him to. This is man at his greatest: a strong body and strong mind. He needs no lies of a better world; he does not need friends or lovers, no, he only wants to live life passionately, and follow his desires. But the weak, the needy, the humble, must perish. They talk of care for the weak – no! The weak make the whole world weak. Pity, compassion, mercy: these are values of weakness and death. They are slaves – and willing slaves! Right, wrong, good and evil. They do not know of what they speak. I am strong, and thus I am good. My neighbor is weak, and he is bad. This is Nature’s first commandment: to love strength with all your heart.
    Am I not also a teacher? Have I not also been baptized? Do I not also have a divine task? Those who are my disciples, this teacher says, will gain passionate life. For I am the new way, my truth is the new truth, this life is indeed true life. No one comes to life but through my words. I am truly great! Yes, and more. I am full of pride, the pride of life! But blessed are the proud, for they shall live a true life.

    Heinrich looked up, exultant in his work. He was nearly to the end. Outside, the pouring rain continued. The sky flashed and thunder immediately shook the house; the storm was now very near. He returned to his pen, prepared for the final piece.

    Am I a madman? Do I ramble? Do I not speak truth? But no, what is this? I was wrong! I hear it clearly; a voice comes to me from beyond the world. I hear angels singing, and they say, ‘There is no doubt, no fog or mist, for on your words, we don’t exist.’
    Even angels rhyme! But let us no longer speak madness. We have grown up; we need no more hand to hold, for we can walk upright! We have no more need for churches, for God is no more. My house is a church, for there dwells a god – me! I have seen the coffin of God, and I buried it deep. Let the true paradise draw near; it is dark, but I am not afraid! I need no superior mind! For am I not greater than…

    Just at that moment lighting struck a tall pine tree outside of Wilhelm’s house. The tree burst into flames, despite the rain. The thunder was tremendous, violently shaking the small house. Then the winds blew with great force and the pine came up by its roots, falling with a great crash onto Wilhelm’s bedroom. The massive trunk crushed the writing desk into splinters. Fire spread quickly through the wooden house and into the surrounding mountainside, lighting up the moonless night. The next morning the ashes still sent their smoke into the sky.

    They looked down in pity and sorrow.
    “Why must man rebel against God? Why does he hate Him so?”
    In heaven, Ithiel looked at his companions with sadness on his face, then turned and began to sing, “Just and true are your judgments, O God; great and merciful are your ways. Though you wish none to perish, you will not suffer man’s insolence forever. You are not deceived, for you know the hearts of men, and you know that they are wicked. Who among the wise will not fear you, O Lord? Who will not sing your praises for all eternity?”
    And when he had finished, he looked again towards the earth, and saw Heinrich’s spirit leave his body. A deep blackness quickly surrounded it, and these shadows, clutching and grabbing, dragged his soul to hell.