The following is from the book, “Starving the Monkeys” by Tom Baugh:
And so, the most successful barbarian kings soon realized that it was essential to cut the bond between a man and God. This division would leave the man with no authority to which to turn but the king himself. Enter the spiritualist, or shaman, or prophet, or reverend, or saint, or pontiff or any number of names which served the purpose of isolating men from God.
The purpose of a spiritualist was, by inserting himself as a prophet or interpreter of God’s vision, to divert man’s loyalty and attention away from God. Thus each man’s own individual self interest would be diverted toward the spiritualist and, by proxy, the king. This goal of redirected loyalty was achieved by ensuring that the spiritualist’s loyalties to the king was [sic] paid in wealth and power to the extent that they achieved the cementing of that king’s power. The barbarian king thus secured his power by the idea planted in men’s minds that he was due his power as if stemming from God Himself. A judo master would have been proud of this spiritual and intellectual redirection of man’s attention.
But this was a process best taken slow.
At first, the spiritualist might present himself as a wise man that had studied the nature of God more fully than each man might have time to do on his own. Much as a purported mind-reader only needs a few tidbits about his mark to make educated guesses that might seem phenomenally insightful. This technique, known as “cold reading”, is fun when done at a party or out on a date. But, if twisted to manipulate the minds of the unwary to redirect power and loyalty, this trick can be a dangerous weapon.
Now, not everyone will fall for this ruse. But the spiritualist only needs a few committed marks to begin to accumulate real power. Merely by resonating with key issues important to the individual, a shaman can easily appear to speak for God. And these issues can be easily detected by forming a model of that individual’s quality of life matrix factors.
“God told me in a dream last night that you are suffering,” the shaman might say. Most people are, at least in some way. And those more likely to fall under the spiritualist’s influence are probably suffering the most.
If the shaman encounters narrowed-eyes at this point, he knows to excuse himself and beat a hasty retreat to the next mark, having only wasted about twenty seconds. Even so, he has gained valuable information about who to deal with later.
But if he sees the faintest glimmer of hope in the eyes, he digs deeper. “In this dream, a loved one, maybe a wife, … or a child, … or a parent, … “ he pauses imperceptibly, waiting for recognition. Upon seeing a glimmer of response, or better, outright agreement, he knows which way to turn. If not, “… there was an animal, and it was starving, … “ and so on until he hits pay-dirt.
If not, he can blame himself, such as, “Sometimes God sends me to a neighbor of the afflicted to keep me humble. Which one of your neighbors is suffering? I know God wants you to help them, even if you don’t have the means yourself.” This last one is pure gold, and can lead to a wealth of information about gender, age, affliction, and so on, which makes a far greater impact when he approaches the neighbor later.
Sometimes, to break the ice, the shaman needs a miracle. This could be any number of science-based tricks, well-known to alchemists and pre-teen boys before the advent of public school. But simpler tricks work as well. During a drought or a famine, our shaman might run around for a while asking the tribesmen to pray for rain or plenty, and eventually rain or plenty will happen.
But until it does rain or the crops bear fruit, he can start planting the seed that someone is to blame. His best choice for blame is someone who booted him out the door during an earlier visit, “God is telling me that some in His flock are not believing enough.”
The shaman waits for recognition, and then continues, “I visited Ungh the other day, and he didn’t seem to believe. He thinks that man can solve his own problems. I don’t think he really believes in God’s power. What do you think?” There is a great chance that the shaman is not the only boot recipient that Ungh had lost patience with, self-reliant individualist that he is, so this is a great row to plow. If the mark offers another name, that works too. The more the merrier.
With a list of names, now it’s time to get a crowd together. So much the better if he has the barbarian king’s ear to keep the heat away. Ungh, and the others like him, probably aren’t helping the king sleep well anyway, so this is an easy sell.
And out of this crowd of faithful, our shaman probably has a few that really believe.
I mean REALLY believe.
Believe in their souls that they are specially chosen by God for something important.
Because they not only WANT to. They NEED to.
Because their miserable, pitiful lives up unto that point have just been a total waste of genetic material.
The only thing that has kept some of these righteous from putting an axe to their own head is that it would require some insight and hard work. And it would probably hurt.
But insight and hard work have eluded them, of course, by their own choices. But the lack of these led them to circumstances in their own lives to put them squarely in the shaman’s grasp.
The shaman needs at least three willing assistants. In any nefarious deed, one might get cold feet, two might discuss it and get cold feet. But, in a sea of at least three collectivists, no one wants to be the one to speak first. We will call these three The Chosen Ones.
So the shaman starts the soft sell.
“So many good people are suffering, and God doesn’t want us to suffer.”
“God just wants us to worship Him, and understand His Glory.”
“God told me to teach Ungh and the others. But I have failed Him.”
“I prayed heavily about this, and asked for God’s forgiveness. He told me, in His Wisdom that He had already sent me angels in the form of men.”
“The time is near. The angels were already among us, and I have already met them, but I knew them not.”
“The angels have come to deliver God’s wrath.”
Rattle off enough of this nonsense, and even the dimmest of ruffian bulbs, aspiring for angel-hood, will eventually get the message. If not, he can even volunteer some of these morons on-to-one.
“God told me that you are one of His angels, and that, as a test of both our faiths, you would at first be unwilling.”
All he has to do now is pick a time. Some astronomical event, like a full moon, or better, a comet or an eclipse, works great. And so, as the appointed time approaches, he begins to rile the faithful.
“The time nears. God has chosen us to display our faith that He will deliver us on (the next full moon, whatever). We must gather together to pray for Ungh at his hut. If our faith is strong enough, he will fall to his knees with us,” he requests, reasonably enough. “I have also been instructed that we must build a fire with wood from the seven oaks to represent the seven prophets,” he adds, or some similar simple compliance nonsense.
Note, by the way, if it happens to rain or the harvest is bountiful or the herd returns, or whatever, before the appointed hour, the shaman still has a way out.
“God wanted to make sure we would all be willing. Once He saw the strength of our faith, He delivered us, but warns us to not be asleep when He knocks again.”
And in so doing gets to bank that fervor for the next calamity while taking credit for the deliverance.
Eventually, though, the deliverance does not come. And so the plan springs into action.
A crowd, glistening with uplifted faces, forms in front of Ungh’s hut. At the shaman’s urging, they begin a bonfire with the seven oaks, or the three calves, or that shrub or this oil, so that God will see their obedience. Ungh comes out to see what the hell is going on.
“Ungh, will you repent and follow God’s will?”
If Ungh caves, again the shaman has a victory, since the faithful now have had a demonstration of their imagined power. If so, the lot moves down the list a week or so later to the next victim, all entries cleared in advance by the king. Eventually either the rain returns, or someone on the list fails to repent. Unfortunately for Ungh, it’s him.
“Ungh, so many are suffering, and all God wants is for us, all of us, to bow to His will.”
Ungh is in a no-win situation here, and notices that the king’s men, quick to grab him for the slightest disobedience, are strangely absent from the mob. He also lacks a pintle-mounted .50-cal.
The shaman then turns to the crowd, and with a dramatic flourish instructs them:
“Fall to your knees and pray that he will repent.”
The crowd complies, no one wanting to be seen as siding with Ungh, and in their act of the simplest shared compliance, the die is cast. And established the shaman to all who see this act as their leader. [sic]
“Ungh, will you repent and follow God’s will?” he repeats. No answer from the stunned and incredulous Ungh. It couldn’t have been scripted better.
“Children, God has told me that from this multitude will rise avenging angels to strike down the disbeliever. Angels, rise and advance!” he shouts, lifting his arms and staff to the heavens.
Now, at least The Chosen Ones, and perhaps the few plants of the king, rise and approach Ungh, prepared stones in hand. Collective action being what it is, and having already demonstrated their willingness to obey by the simple act of falling to pray, one or more of the others will rise, too. Seeing their neighbor rise beside them, and caught up in advance. The contagion spreads like wildfire.
The Chosen Ones, closing on the startled Ungh, or better, chasing him as he runs, throw their stones. The rest, not asking why those chosen already had stones in their hands, look around for something to throw. In this act of following the tide they take themselves further down the path of collective obedience.
Stones, branches, axes, it doesn’t matter. Eventually, they surround the pummeled body, the shaman at the center.
“Children, you have witnessed a miracle.”
At this point, none dare to speak out to question this nonsense.
“Fall to your knees and join me in prayer.”
Even if repulsed by what they have just done, everyone complies.
“God forgive us for not trusting You. Forgive us for taking so long to understand Your will. Forgive us for doubting our king who You sent to lead us, and who tends to our needs as Your servant.”
Bingo.
“And forgive Ungh, and let his blood wash away our sins.”
“And teach us to trust Your will. And to be swift as Your angels. Amen.”
“Children, please rise.” They obey.
“And cast the disbeliever upon the fire, that his spirit may rise to God for judgment,” he orders, laying the groundwork for associating ritualistic burning and blood sacrifice as necessary conditions for life. The next time, they won’t have to bother killing their victim first, they can just tie him, or her, to the fire and light it up. Kind of like upping the spiritual ante.
A mob boss might require a blood crime for membership. Similarly, each man and woman and child present, even if they didn’t cast a single stone, share the guilt and shame for what they have done. Or, what they failed to stop.
And now they MUST believe in the righteousness of what they have done. To maintain this internal lie they must convince everyone they meet to believe as well. They must pass this belief onto their children, so strongly that they pass it onto theirs, and so on. Because if they don’t, they would come hand-to-face with the blood on their own hands. And being sheep in a collective flock, it was that avoidance of responsibility that led to their rapt attention to the shaman who walked up to them in front of their huts. And it was their longing to belong to the collective that led to their enlistment in the mob that murdered Ungh.
And so the spiritualist contagion gains a permanent foothold. The rain, or whatever precipitating crisis was at hand, no longer matters. If the rain come, the shaman was right. If not, they move to the next victim until it does. The important thing now is that they believe.
Because now they must.
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