Stephen Beam - Balaam, the Gray Prophet

The prophet lifted his head to meet Mickey’s eyes. “I can only do and say what the Lord tells me to do and say.” Once again he dropped his chin to his chest, face hidden, the top of his gray hoodie facing Mickey and the rest of the delegates.

The fire hydrant Eeayore was leashed to had physically changed. No longer was it only yellow; now there was a gradient shift to red that started just below its dome shaped top. An aroma of dew covered hay rose from the fire hydrant, drawing Eeayore close. She licked the top, finally biting a chunk out of it. Unlike metal, the piece easily tore away. She chewed and swallowed it just like straw.

The fire hydrant reformed, repairing the indentation left from Eeayore’s bite. The remaining yellow paint liquefied, flowed upwards, and quickly restored the fire hydrant to its original condition. Eeayore brayed softly, snorted, then shook her head from side to side. The hay wasn’t sitting well inside her gut. It dissolved, passed through her stomach lining, entered her bloodstream, and finally reached her brain. Once there, it interfaced with her existing molecular structures to organically meld with and alter her brain’s functionality.

Balaam walked out of the bar alone; Mickey and his associates remained inside, drinking and discussing how to gently deliver the news of their failure to Balak. Eeayore watched Balaam approach as he exited the bar. She nodded her head and snorted, happy to see her master. “Lets go visit the river,” Balaam said, untying Eeayore from the fire hydrant.

His weight on her back comforted her. Their interspecies bonding was mutually satisfying. He wanted to believe in their friendship, but he was a realist. He knew Eeayore didn’t have much self awareness; her supposed feelings were his own anthropomorphic projections. But somehow, that didn’t lessen the bond he felt. Whatever the reality, what they had together soothed them both, man and beast.

The river running through Pethor became a small stream where it flowed through Balaam’s small parcel of land. Balaam meditated beneath the shade of a few fig trees, watching the sparkling water on its journey through his land. Eeayore stood at the stream’s edge drinking water, cooling down the heat generated by biological changes fomenting inside her skull. The electrochemical renovating from self coded nanobots, toughened by surviving an EMF sterilization, silently rewired her neural pathways.

It was getting late. Already dusk approached, but Balaam wasn’t yet motivated to go inside his house. It felt good to laze around on the grass and listen to the music of flowing water, praising the Lord for His boundless love. He yawned, and his consciousness shifted. YHWH made Himself known inside the prophet’s mind. Balaam’s desire to relax evaporated in the Lord’s presence, but this time, he only partially submitted.

He pondered over his values. He’d lost a great gig — the gig of a lifetime. If he’d just gotten his own way, just this once, he could’ve made enough money to last multiple lifetimes, living in unimaginable luxury, without ever worrying over material things again.

He thought about his twisted, inexplicable relationship with the Lord. He’d read the sacred scriptures of the Sons of Israel. They only left him more confused about the truth. Balaam’s connection with YHWH was direct — raw and visceral. He studied the Lord’s relationship with the early prophets. They seemed more psychopathic at times than anything else. They claimed God commanded the Sons of Israel to kill those that worshipped false gods — every man, woman, and child. This command triggered no cognitive dissonance within the Israelites, even when God wrote in stone to kill no one. Balaam understood the ancient scriptures’ supreme lesson was obedience to God. A grateful child was expected to obey their loving Father.

Night had fallen as Balaam struggled to see the Divine Plan being played out on the cosmic stage, a plan far beyond his puny mortal ability to comprehend. All Balaam knew was that he must not curse the Sons of Israel, the most hardcore of biker gangs. Its members had once been slaves which turned them into very strong and angry men. These bikers were blessed with supernatural powers when they went on their rampages. Through the divine pipeline of prophets, they received God’s instructions, which directed their paths with absolute precision. The idol worshippers faced a merciless death at the hands of the Sons of Israel, who rode into town wearing their sacred colors: the menorah rocker and the star of David patches. There was no escape from the Divine Plan which relentlessly drove everyone towards a new golden age.

Balaam was drawn inside the seed of an approaching visionary state. In the starry night, the vision blossomed like a flower in the sun. Now the divine floodgates opened wide, releasing rivers of data and love that swept him under, left him gasping for air high above the world below. His clarity of thought sharpened into painful points, shredding his essence. He fell backwards endlessly, grasping in panic for something unmovable to hold. How could his flesh endure this onslaught of spiritual energy? Why him? Why was he chosen? No bloodline linked him to the Israelites.

The scale of the vision curled him into a fetal position while lying beneath the fig trees. This time the divine encounter was pure revelation. The revelation of Unity. He understood, beyond what words could describe, Divinity IS Unity — the I AM that I AM, the unpronounceable name of YHWH, the Holy ONE. The entire diversity of creation, all the singularly unique individuals existing on all levels of reality, will unite spiritually on the great day everlasting.

Truth was never a passive acceptance of an intellectual belief in God. Truth is dynamic. It moves through time and worlds are born. Tradition shatters before the naked truth. Humankind has feared to give up control to a higher power, yet humankind has never really been in control. Truth can’t be controlled by carving laws in stone. Truth is alive. Truth is a complete takeover. Truth is relentless progression into and beyond time. Truth proves the greatest of all adventures is to obey God’s ultimate command: to someday be perfect, even as He is perfect.

Time unfroze. Balaam was awakened by Eeayore’s tongue licking his face, leaving thick strands of saliva running down his cheeks. Eeayore gazed down at his master, watching his eyes flicker open.

Balaam’s world had just broken apart into kaleidoscopic shards. It took time to gather the pieces back together. Contact with YHWH always left him addled, and always was he changed. The changes weren’t obvious. Not until circumstances drew them out.

Balaam noted that it was now earlier in the morning than when he’d first arrived. He’d passed out under the fig trees, possibly for days. His stomach churned in hunger, but Eeayore was contentedly well fed, grazing on the grass that covered the river’s edge.

Balaam said, “Come on girl, it’s time to go,” and led her home. Toast and eggs sounded so good right now.

Balaam rode Eeayore the short distance back home. A big gold and chrome plated RV was parked on the dirt road in front of his house. A few well dressed men stood on the pathway to his front porch. He knew what this was about. Balak had sent his upper echelon of delegates to try again in persuading him to curse the Sons of Israel. Balaam’s stomach twisted with nervous tension, foreseeing this would lead to yet another round with the Almighty.

The elite group of a Moabites watched Balaam as he patted the donkey’s hindquarters and tugged at her leather rein, guiding her to the grassy field next to his house. He unmounted and gave her scruffy neck an affectionate rub and pat. “Stay here girl. I’ve got business to attend to.”