Pilgrim's Progression: The Rebuttal to Pilgrim’s Progress

By Benjamin David

Pilgrim's Progress was written in 1678 by John Bunyan (no relationship to Paul). As a Christian allegory of the world to come, it's considered one of the most significant religious works of English literature. But finally, it's time for the rebuttal.

Pilgrim's Progression rescues our human story, wresting it away from dependence upon a capricious deity. The allegory follows Pilgrim as he learns to find his way in a new world without dogma and superstition.

Pilgrim stumbles upon a Book of Knowledge, a simple volume which reveals that Pilgrim's beloved home, the City of Dogma, is not the stable fortress he had been taught to believe. His attempts to verify the veracity of the book only leaves him ostracized by family and friends, forcing Pilgrim to take a Hero's Journey.

This books is a must read for all those who find themselves on their own Hero's Journey, challenged by old beliefs and on a quest to understand a world without the dogma that once held them captive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Tousey
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781530617173

Book preview

Also published by Yhabbut Publishing

Benjamin David

Left Out: What to do if You’re Left Behind or Left Below

My Egypt: Why I Left the Ex-Gay Movement

Ben Tousey

The Haunting of Holden Castle

The Warrior

To Brendan

You were the best thing that ever happened to my little sister. You loved her, looked after her, and took care of her. You meant more to our family than you could ever know. You were more than a brother-in-law; you were a brother, and saying goodbye was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I am grateful for your generosity, your patience, and your endurance. They have meant so much to me over the years. I miss that sardonic wit and almost caustic playfulness you exhibited in times of difficulty.

Cheers!

I would like to give a very special thanks to those who have meant so much to me over the years and inspired me.

To my mom, Sharon, for her support, encouragement, and perspective.

To my sister, Anna, for her encouragement and willingness to kick me in the tukkus and motivate me to get out there and do the work.

And finally, most of this book was written at a coffee shop, and there were people here who served me... above and beyond what they were required to do. They were friendly, listened to my stories, and went out of their way to make me feel at home.

You’ve been wonderful: Josh, Chlorissa, Kristine, Lindsay, Hilary (both Hilaries), Deborah, both Danielles, Christopher, Marlene, Michelle, Amanda, Donna (aka Dwanna-Dwalingk), Mikey, Jessica (aka Grandma) Paul, Sarah, Christian, and Gwen.

Thank you all so much for how wonderful you have been.

Foreword

As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted upon a certain landmark, which was a Den of Iniquity. As there was no room at the inn, I laid me down in that place to sleep, and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man. He was an ordinary man in almost every way. He wore conservative clothes, his hair was carefully coiffed, his heart was staid and certain, and his mind was attentively closed.

He lived in a metropolis, the City of Dogma, or as its residents called it: Church. Its streets were laid out neatly, and the grid was formal. Streets ran North and South, and avenues ran East and West. If ever there was an obstacle, it was removed so that the streets continued in their strict course unabated.

The architecture that made up downtown was ancient, pious, rigid, and unyielding—but elegant. Cathedrals, pained with stained glass set about the loci with austere prominence. Buildings with elegant façades reached high into the sky, covered with gray stone and ivy, creating the appearance of a scholarly yet urban center.

At the heart of the city stood the library, a formidable building on the outside, but on the inside, it contained only a few books. This building was their most venerable edifice to the city's residents, the pinnacle of their fine culture. The floors were covered with faux marble, and stained glass lined the walls—floor to ceiling. Behind them, lights were hung which feigned perpetual sunlight, since there were no windows.

The shelves were sparse for the size of the structure. Not one single shelf held its capacity of books. The tomes were mostly law books, picture books, and rewritings of the city's history bearing the official stamp of approval of the Dogma City Council. The Council monitored the Library closely, ensuring all books were certified before being allowed into the aggregation. And once an opus made its way to the shelves, it could never be checked out. All books must be read inside the library under a certified librarian's supervision.

Each librarian received official certification and was then recertified every subsequent year so that they never strayed from the official canon. The librarians looked after each book to guarantee proper treatment—and that every hand that touched them was properly cleansed.

In my dream, I watched young Pilgrim hurry up the streets of the city center, approaching the library. He had learned to carefully navigate this section of the sidewalk, as it often buckled under him. Some days, it was so unsteady that he felt like a toddler learning to walk. One day he saw a crack forming in this spot, but the next day, it was gone, as if by magic. He reported it once but was reprimanded by the library staff, so he never said anything further and instead learned to tread carefully.

As Pilgrim stepped carefully over this section of pavement, a piece of it broke off and fell into a hole several feet below him, taking with it a significant piece of the library's façade. He had to react quickly and jump back to avoid plummeting into the hole, and then he had to jump off the sidewalk and into the street to avoid a falling brick.

After recovering from the shock, he surveyed the area. There was now a breach in the sidewalk that revealed a deep hole. Amid the debris, fallen bricks, chunks of concrete, and clots of soil, Pilgrim found what looked like a small chamber hidden within the Library wall... now exposed. Inside the hollow, a small book, the size that could fit comfortably in his pocket, peered up at him. He eyed the chamber carefully before daring to stick his hand inside where he fumbled momentarily until the book loosed from its hiding place and into Pilgrim’s hand: a simple and unassuming compendium.

The cover of the book read simply: A Book of Knowledge.

Act I

At first, Pilgrim dismissed the book since it was not intended to be included in the library's official catalog. However, the word knowledge stirred in him. What did that mean, knowledge? It was such a simple book with such a simple title. If it truly was knowledge, why wasn't it on the Library's shelves? Maybe they didn’t know about it? Had the Library banned it? If they had, then simply holding it meant that he was breaking the law and entertaining heresy.

While he considered this, city workers and men in hardhats approached him with serious expressions. They looked angry... maybe even with him. He carefully stowed the book in his back pocket so nobody would see it.

Forman: What happened here?

Pilgrim: I do not know.

Forman: What have you done to the sidewalk?

Pilgrim: I haven’t done anything. I was walking to the Library, and it gave way.

Forman: You shouldn’t be walking here.

Pilgrim: To the Library? On the sidewalk? What is wrong with walking on the sidewalk?

Forman: If you do not mention this to anyone, you will not be prosecuted for this infraction.

Pilgrim: What infraction?

But rather than answer, they brusquely shoved him aside and evicted him from the area. They then posted centuries to ensure that they fixed the hole unobserved.

Pilgrim wandered the streets until he came upon a small tract of recreation land where he could be alone. His heart raced as he pulled the book from his pocket and carefully turned it in his hands, eying it from every angle but hardly daring to open it.

Again, he read the title out loud but quietly so that nobody would hear.

Pilgrim: A Book of Knowledge...

Something about this book thrilled and frightened. It was powerful, maybe even dangerous.

Pilgrim: A Book of Knowledge...

He read it again.

Eventually, he found the courage and gingerly opened the cover.

The first page consisted mostly of squiggly lines, which made no sense to him at all until he moved it a distance from his face. When he did, those lines were segments of a map: the layout of the City of Dogma in minute detail. Each page was clear—see-through so that the page underneath could be read in conjunction with the page above it. When the top page, which was an overview, was flipped over, it revealed a deeper level, the topography underneath the city. Underneath that page was another map—the ground underneath the topsoil. This continued until the bottom page, which showed the bottom of a chasm running underneath the city.

The map terrified him.

The top level looked like the official maps in the sole atlas on the Library shelves. The Library’s atlas showed a city built upon solid ground, carefully leveled so that the streets could run freely, disencumbered by obstacles. But each new page of his book revealed something quite disturbing that the atlas in the Library didn't show. If the maps in this Book of Knowledge were correct, the city was unstable and dangerous. According to the book in his hands, his city sat atop a landfill. Where holes or the ground was too deep to cover, they paved it over to make it appear level.

The next turn of the page made Pilgrim’s heart stop. Only inches behind where he had lost his footing and stepped into the sinkhole, according to this book, was a cavern: so deep that Pilgrim had to turn several pages until the map revealed the bottom. The Library itself, the center of The City of Dogma, sat upon a large column of limestone that, according to the map, had been steadily crumbling, and it was only a matter of time before it collapsed. All around were busy streets spanning large and potentially dangerous caverns, not at all as the atlas portrayed them. The atlas showed these as streets; his Book of Knowledge showed them as bridges, spanning deep caverns, and there was nothing to indicate their adequacy to bear the heavy traffic. He had traveled many of those roads and never considered what lay underneath.

Layer upon layer, each page revealed one hazard after another, sitting just underneath his feet. His Library was full of books about dark chasms, sinkholes, and dangerous craters waiting to swallow the hapless. However, the literature placed these death traps outside of the city. The Library’s official documents averred that one would be exposed to such threats only by leaving the city.

This discovery overwhelmed and frightened him. So much so that he decided that the book must be lying. It was setting a trap to mislead any unfortunate dupe who happened upon it... and he would not allow himself to be misled.

Again, he carefully pocketed the book he now feared and even hated. But the information was so disturbing that he also feared losing it. His mind considered, probably for the first time, the word truth: what was truth, and who was telling him the truth? This was the first time in Pilgrim's life that something purported to tell the truth and do so without any moral judgment.

Carefully, because he didn’t want to alarm anyone, Pilgrim inquired about the ground underneath him. Did anyone know about potholes in the streets? Had anyone come across a rut or fissure? He queried about the city's history and what the ground looked like when the city was first built.

However, his inquiries were met with derision and ridicule. His friends and family demanded that he stop questioning. They warned him how the Council frowned upon such queries and proclaimed they would not come to his defense should he be brought up on trial. When the worried look on Pilgrim's face refused to erode, they tried to console him by calling upon the wisdom of the City Founders and the early City Planners. They assured him—as often as they could that there was no place on earth more stable or better planned out. It was for this very reason that they all chose to live here.

Out of fear of being discarded, Pilgrim stopped questioning and kept his concerns to himself. Yet his friends abandoned him anyway. That he had even broached the subject signified that he could no longer be trusted as one of them. Even those who insisted their love was pure and ran deeper than any indiscretion turned cold and revoked their affections.

Pilgrim was alone in the city he called home.

Despair opened up a hole in Pilgrim’s heart, so large that he had no choice but to look deep into it. With this chasm now opened, he was face to face with his most cherished beliefs, all exposed to the light of this Book of Knowledge. The book questioned each of them, one by one. Did they align with the maps? If not, then what did that mean?

All the while, a terrifying thought nagged at him. If the Book of Knowledge was correct, then all the dangers he had been warned about from childhood weren’t ‘out there...’ they were just underneath his feet. The death traps cataloged in the Library's volumes may—in fact—be the city itself. He found this thought repugnant, but it had now occupied his mind and could not be evicted.

These heavy thoughts and dark fears isolated him, and he grew quiet and distant. His family and the few friends who still chose to acknowledge him grew concerned, convinced that he had abandoned his heritage and that his silence suggested he had lost faith and succumbed to doubt. In desperation, hoping to prevent him from backsliding, they chided further.

Pilgrim took their accusations to heart, but he could not talk to anyone about it since every time he spoke, they shut him down and, instead, insisted that he listen to them.

In his isolation, Pilgrim had little else to do but read. As disconcerting as this Book of Knowledge was, it soon began to comfort him. Something deep within had opened up and demanded answers—answers the books in the Library could not provide. Unfortunately, his Book of Knowledge had precious few answers, only information. He secretly wished that something in the book would reveal itself as the work of the Enemy of the Soul so that he could find fault with it and throw it away. But it was hard to pick a fight with information: maps, the layout of the city, topography, and factoids.

New awareness now burned within him. While walking down any street, he couldn’t help but look beyond the pavement to the street’s history, background, and the stability of the ground underneath it. This was a huge burden to carry, for at every turn, the landscape he once found comforting now looked sinister and treacherous. The cornerstone that once held his foundation solidly in place now revealed itself as mere limestone.

His worldview had, almost without his notice, changed radically, as if the world he inhabited had been removed—and everything in his life replaced with a cheap replica. Only this time, fakes were replaced with their real versions—and the real versions were in complete disarray.

A new, existential depression weighed on him like the weight of the Library sitting atop the limestone, not strong enough to endure for very long. Unbeknownst to him at first, deep within his mind, a seed of knowing had taken root. Its roots secured themselves within days, and he could no longer pretend it wasn't there. The roots were digging deep into his closed mind and his stone heart, forcing them open at the weakest points in a way that only roots could, invading those very places where his heart and mind were most vulnerable.

Had the seed grown more slowly, Pilgrim may have experienced less discomfort, but this also might have made it easier to destroy the budding. Instead, it grew rapidly, pushing deep, tearing up the fallow ground until it had all but taken over. It expressed itself as hunger for knowing... deep, gnawing, yearning, so strong that it overpowered his fear of knowledge.

The seed was at work—physically—within his body.

His head hurt, and his heart ached. His dreams grew vast and mysterious. His thoughts became expansive and outside of his informational template. His feet were now so jumpy that he could not sit still. When he walked, he quickened his pace, afraid to stop. With every new moment—every half-second, he fell—further—under the influence of this new awareness.

As the scorn from friends and family heaped higher, Pilgrim now considered himself an outsider, a stranger in the place he once called home: alone, rejected, and unwanted. He resigned himself that he could not remain in a place where he was no longer welcome, so he spent his days in a field outside the city. Early in the morning, he would wander into the green grass, press upon the ground to test it, and nestle in where the grass would hide him. Safe from prying eyes, he stared at the only book he now accepted and took comfort in the solitude.

While he kept this book with him always, he refused to read it. The revelations were too excruciating. He wished every day as he fondled it that he had thrown it away when it first crossed his mind to do so; but it was far too late now. This book had taken everything from him: family, friends, security, and comforting beliefs. If only there were some way to put this new-found knowledge aside and murder the seed flourishing within him: then maybe, just maybe... but the violence he would have to impose upon himself to accomplish such a feat was beyond anything he was willing to do to himself.

Pilgrim wept.

Something profound was taking place inside of him, and he could not explain it. Even if he could talk about it, nobody would let him. He was alone... so alone.

One day, while wandering through the field, Pilgrim came across EvangaLeihThiest. He was an odd man with a wizened face. His hair seemed to fly in a breeze that wasn’t there, as if he were moving on top of the Earth as it cruised through space, but outside of