The Poorest Man in Zion: Wealth Beyond the Riches of Babylon

By David Benson

 

LO, HAPPINESS IS ABIDING

FOR THOSE WHO APPRECIATE

THE BASIC LAWS OF ITS ATTAINMENT

 

Unveil the secrets of the venerable City of Zion in the style and tone of the already classic work, Th

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Benson Coaching
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733771108

David Benson

David Benson is a Senior Lecturer based in the Environment and Sustainability Institute (ESI) at the University of Exeter, Penryn, Cornwall. His research encompasses a range of issue areas at the interface between political and environmental sciences, most notably EU environmental and energy policy, comparative environmental governance and public participation in environmental decision-making

Book preview

Introduction

Behind each of us, stretching back through the past like a potholed road, lies the ruin of bad judgement, the sadness inherent in poor choices. Mistakes great and small, regrets hot and cold, offenses, fears, and doubts all fade from sight in our rearview mirror. Whether the traveled distance is short or long, none of us may avoid the challenges and stumblings of human existence. Some see wide holes, deep and many. Others see mere pockmarks, shallow and few. Every broken road extracts its distinctive, sorrowful toll.

Ahead of us, stretching into the future through tinted glass, rolls the road not yet taken, lying fresh and level, shimmering with hope for a smoother ride. Along this highway appear the unmade decisions that will determine how we fill our remaining miles, the stations storing fuel that will drive us forward, and the signposts that will steer our most earnest efforts. The manner of our travel will govern the landmarks we expect to experience and the garage where we finally park when our tanks run dry. We are cruising carriages, crowded with potential bliss.

For us to be successful in life, our purpose must extend beyond the vain attempt to survive it. We must learn to thrive, regardless of our circumstances. We must transcend. Let us profit from the enduring behavioral principles recounted in the pages that follow. Allow them to lead us away from the sterility of passing pleasure and towards the fruitfulness of lasting happiness. Like the laws of motion, they are as manifest as they are practical. May they prove for us, as they have proven for others, a steadfast means to personal progress, and a reliable route to discovering joy.

LO, HAPPINESS IS ABIDING

FOR THOSE WHO APPRECIATE

THE BASIC LAWS OF ITS ATTAINMENT

Happiness is our deepest desire

Freedom empowers choice

Mutual vision unites people

Promising goals drive action

Mighty labor yields abundance

Surplus creates shared savings

Prudent welfare enriches all

Preparation promotes security

Advocates welcome the aspiring

Outreach expands influence

1

The Man Who Desired Happiness

Jubal was exhausted. The once-popular musician of Haner exhaled deeply as he lowered his distinctive flute from his lips to his lap, then set it aside to rest atop the low, stone wall upon which he sat. The desert sun beat upon his limp but muscular frame. His indifferent hand flopped aimlessly at his side, raising a cloud of dust that would slowly settle, unnoticed, back onto his thigh. Hanging above the dreary street, his lower legs dangled haphazardly, not long enough to reach the sandy grains below, not interested enough to make the effort. Another day had dawned, another week had begun, but he barely noticed their passing. It mattered little to the musician. It mattered not at all.

Despite his appearance, it was not Jubal’s body that was weary, still strong and vibrant with barely thirty-eight years of life. Neither was it his mind that needed repose, for his thoughts and reasoning were as sharp as the fine copper knife that had fashioned his now-famous flute of nine pipes. No, notwithstanding the unrelenting attacks of hardship and torment he had suffered over the course of these last years, his mind and body were both healthy and sound. It was his soul that was drained, worn-out from the thudding sorrow that had crashed against his once-happy humanity. It had beaten down his will to continue and, like the black drums of recent war, its echoes still tormented him day and night. It was his heart that was exhausted.

Practically bent in half, Jubal reached down and lifted his instrument once more from the stubborn wall, only raising it as far as his chin before giving up and returning it to the dusty ledge. He had sat slouched on his miserable perch for nearly two hours, but had not been able to bring himself to play any music. His curly, unkempt hair—still radiant red beneath layers of grime—fell into his empty, brown eyes. His bare head bowed as his hands collapsed back into his lap, this time not bothering to replace his instrument on its shelf.

He looked at his fingers, stiff and cracked from excessive contact with the elements. He remembered how they used to be quick and nimble, back when he would play his flute for the pleasure of his listeners and for the welcome gift of their gold. His sole garment, a torn and pale cloak of fine workmanship, had been purchased with those bygone riches. Now, its sturdy threads were ripped and its vibrant colors were faded, as were his hopes for returning to the good life he had lost. He wondered if that life had ever been as good as he remembered.

Ho there young lad, called a deep voice, gentle with age and sorrow of its own. Could this ghost sitting before me in the morning sunlight possibly be my friend Jubal? Your uncovered head looks to be his, but I cannot see your face to be sure, my eyes as dim as they are in my long years. You must play me a tune so I can discern your true identity. Deceivers are all too common in our streets these days, but none can match my friend’s skill on his flute of nine pipes. By your music, I will know if you are truly him.

Good morning, Mahijah, Jubal whispered, his parched throat finding no energy to equal even the puny attempt at enthusiasm from this passerby. What brings you past my crumbling wall this wretched day?

Jubal forced a reply without raising his eyes, recognizing the old man’s voice as that of the temperate optimist who had become, within only the last five months, a reliable friend. With his head still lowered, Jubal could just make out the long, thin legs and swollen feet of the shepherd of Sharon who had recently taken up residence outside the southern walls of his new city in a small, rocky house with thatched roof. His sandals were covered in the distinctive, dried droppings of the small flock of sheep he tended there and which, like the house, he had claimed for himself, they both having been abandoned by their previous owners.

"Good morning? Mahijah countered with feigned surprise. Why, the day cannot be as gloomy as you claim if you have the heart to wish me good in it. As usual, I come to trade in the market with our fellow sojourners round the land of Haner. I carry with me the scant spun cloth and the limited sewn cloaks that remain in my inventory. Before they start to decay, I need to convert them into a set of copper shears, or at least into copper coins for my empty purse. I have not seen you on the wall for at least a week. I feared that you had given up on your music entirely."

I well-nigh did, and may yet still, the musician complained to his one and only friend, the sole person who would listen to him. I have only played to myself, sitting in the dirt next to the ruins of my father’s dwelling, and not more than three times since we last met. Today is the second day in seven I have tried to play in public, but again could not manage it. Yesterday, I could barely lift myself to sit on this rocky hedge, and then not even to pull myself erect. I suppose being here at all is progress.

Yes, indeed it is. I am pleased to see you once more. Will you play a melody for me before I enter the square—some luck to speed shekels into my lonely sack? asked Mahijah, patting the worn and grayed cloak at his hip, presumably where a slim stash of currency was securely fastened. But his tapping was the only indication of a purse at all, for no bulge could be seen beneath his robes, and not even the tinkling of two measly coins could be heard.

Jubal could not stop a tiny, involuntary smile from forming at his lips, but he made an effort to hide it from his friend. He had become so attached to the plentiful pain his past had supplied that he was loathe to let it go completely, though he reluctantly recognized the earliest hints of it starting to fade. He raised the pan flute to his lips and mustered a doleful tune from the instrument. The liveliness he had usually felt when playing a song welled up inside him, and he started to remember more cheerful days. But after just a few dozen notes, he stopped short and lowered the pipes, succumbing to overwhelming gloom once more.

So mournful, Jubal, Mahijah sighed with his eyes closed, shaking his gray head back and forth. And yet, so beautiful. My ears can understand why you were once the most preferred musical artist in all of the city. Those remaining few who buy cloth and cloak from me still speak of your skill with your custom-made flute. Your fame throughout Haner persists, and they are sad that you have not played in so long. I only wish I could have heard your songs back when you piped for huge crowds, moving them to sing and dance in the lanes and the marketplace, forgetting their troubles for a moment to bask in the splendor of your music. That must have been a sight to see! My weak heart thrills whenever I think of it. Is it likely that something more than tears over past agonies has led you to give it up? Perhaps you have lost your gift from the gods.

"Gift? Gods?" Jubal cried in disbelief, abruptly finding his voice and startling the old herdsman so much that he almost fell backwards, nearly dropping the last of the cloaks he had managed to sew from his meager harvest of wool. Jubal himself was shocked by the venom that flew from his lips, and his mood instantly softened.

Gift? he offered tenderly in self-reproval, realizing the dread he must have caused the shepherd. Jubal tightly grasped his pan flute between strong fingers, slowly shaking it for emphasis. "No, this is no gift, but skill hard-earned through relentless practice. I have labored long and with great effort to train these fingers—these lips—to produce music praised by all who hear it. It is what earned me silver and gold to fill many chests. Nor did the gods make my struggles any easier. A hundred times no. It was my sweat and sleepless nights that created the music you hear flowing from my flute. The love of my parents and of my dear wife: those were gifts, gifts lost forever. There was no mercy from the gods to save any of them from the outrages of war. But you know my story as well as I. Please, let us not slog through the muck and the mire of those woeful tales. I do not have the heart to tell them again."

With this the musician leaned forward, retaining his flute in the one hand while stretching out the other and resting it on his friend’s shoulder, using it to cushion his small hop down from the wall. He drew close so that the herdsman could more easily see him. Jubal was done with music for the day, but maybe tomorrow or a more distant dawn when he could summon the strength, he would try again. With a smirk of frank reflection, he admitted to himself that his intentions were insincere—that he was unlikely to make another attempt. At least he could be honest.

Meanwhile, Mahijah gathered himself from the jolt of Jubal’s outburst and found his friend’s taut face with his hand, offering his thoughtful and conciliatory reply. You are right, my dear artist. I have no doubt your craft is one earned after years of personal exertion and sacrifice. I meant no insult. And your history of sorrow, I know it well, as well as you know mine.

Jubal closed his eyes, trance-like, forcing himself to remember. From a young age, he had learned to play the pan flute of many pipes, an instrument his father had fashioned while relaxing between constructing the carpentry items he sold to provide a living for his small family: his wife, his son, and two daughters. When Jubal was not completing chores or helping his father build a piece of furniture, he relished dancing about their small house, which was situated against the outer southern wall within the mighty fortifications of Haner. He would blow on his beloved flute as he blissfully swayed to the music, his mother smiling and cheering, his baby sisters twirling in circles and squealing with delight.

It was a happy childhood. His mother taught him to care for his younger siblings and to develop a gentle demeanor. His father trained him to work hard and to be honest with friends and strangers alike. They both encouraged him to develop his musical talents, as long as they did not interfere with his household responsibilities. The developing artist loved skipping without a care through the dusty streets on the outskirts of the city’s center, making music to gratify his heart and to delight the friends, neighbors, and strangers he met along the way.

As Jubal grew in stature and knowledge, his skill at the flute blossomed. He quickly found that he could earn extra money for his parents by sitting in the gates of the city playing for travelers and traders as they passed by. Though grateful for his contribution, his parents preferred that he help with his father’s woodwork and develop carpentry as his formal trade. They scolded him often for avoiding those duties, but he held no passion for working with timber. He continued to sneak away from the house each day to find a place to play his songs.

The maturing musician soon became so good at his hobby that wealthy families of the city would seek him out to play at weddings and at parties, for audiences small and large. As rapidly as his talent grew, so did the contents of his purse. Unfortunately, so too grew his indignant pride, and his impatience with his mother and father. As he approached the age of independence from his parents, he became more and more vicious towards them and increasingly angry at their demands. Following a particularly violent argument in the workshop, he forsook his father’s trade and stormed from his childhood dwelling, committed to pursue his music and to find a residence of his own. He then rushed headlong into marriage with a young, native woman named Hannah whom he had known from adolescence, but for whom he felt only the beginnings of true love.

Taking the wealth that Jubal had previously accumulated, the couple immediately purchased a grandiose house and began spending his silver and gold on a lavish standard of living. Uninhibited parties, unwise purchases, and scarce self-restraint became routine, wasting any surplus they may have once owned. The husband and wife became enthralled with empty praise from false friends who were intent on taking advantage of any generosity they could pull from the couple. Soon, they were spending more time with their money and with impostors than they were with each other, and Jubal’s fame only served to aggravate the problem. Envy and suspicion crept into their relationship, magnified by insecurities characteristic of keeping up appearances. Their love withered.

Sadness became commonplace in their household. Although the couple had been loyal friends as older youth, the selfishness demonstrated by their lifestyle led to the inevitable souring of their marriage. Jubal spent his days out of their house and away from her, applying his art towards increasingly frantic commitments to deliver performances. Hannah spent her days alone with resentment and gossiping neighbors, unable to bear any children to give her solace. Granted that the partners had possessed plenty of resources at the start of their joint life, their outlays simply could not keep pace with their earnings, and any savings stored against calamity were steadily depleted.

Despite the remnants of sincere love for his spouse, things only worsened for the young man. He focused his energies on regaining his fortune, thinking that more gold would resolve the conflicts with his wife, and hoping that they might renew their dedication towards each other. Towards that end, he did enjoy some initial success. But with the temporary return of riches came the reoccurrence of sadness, the betrayal of untrue companions, the constant danger of theft, and the insidious comparing and coveting of riches. Conspiring voices—whispers in back passages—were always threatening to take away for naught what he had built with his energy and dedication. It appeared as if nothing could be done to reverse the course of their distressed lives.

Then, greater tragedy struck. Although the walls of Haner were a formidable defense, war with nearby kingdoms was common in the region, and its ravages ever just one angry noble away from the city doors. One inevitable day, messengers rushed through Haner’s avenues clamoring that an army of Heni was invading the land. Jubal’s fame by this time had grown so grand that he earned the notice of the king. He was called away from his wife and residence to the inner keep of his lord, to soothe him with music during preparations for war. But the army of Heni was too swift for Haner’s forces to make ready a defense. Before adequate resources could be placed in store, the enemy handily cut the city off from its farmlands and laid siege to its occupants. Jubal was forced to stand by the king in his innermost fortifications, forbidden to return to his wife or failing riches.

By the fortieth day of the siege, a tenth of the city had starved and another tenth had fallen prey to disease. Heni’s army eventually crashed through a portion of the southern outer wall, pillaging the inhabitants in brutal fashion and forcing the war-weary residents and their defenders to take flight. With Haner’s forces in panicky retreat, and with their broken king at the head of the evacuation, Jubal could no longer be kept against his will. He used his tenuous freedom to run to his house in a desperate search for Hannah, only to learn from neighbors that she had been carried away by the invaders, apparently lost forever. His heart broke, but there was no time to grieve properly. Hastening to his parent’s residence, he hoped to find at least some of his family alive. Instead, he found the house covered with rocky debris from the broken wall, felled by the war machines of the enemy, with his parents and sisters crushed inside. His heart broke again, and he sank to the ground in tears.

The entire city was lost. Jubal’s only choice was to flee for his life as the terrors of war raged about him, but he was captured like the majority of his remaining neighbors. Heni’s victory was complete, but the enemy did not wish to occupy the city for itself. Rather, it desired a perpetual source of tribute from the survivors who were allowed to return to their city—with a severe condition. They were forced to pledge a fifth of their possessions in perpetuity to the king of Heni, a grievous burden to be sure. With no relief from despair forthcoming, Jubal’s broken heart turned cold.

That was two years ago, and since then Haner’s subjugated people had mostly returned to their city to rebuild, a gradual process due to the overwhelming taxes imposed upon them. While the population slowly increased, it was to never fully be replenished, and the spirit within the city turned noticeably more somber and discouraging than before the attack. Jubal’s heart refused to mend. He gave up on being happy. He abandoned his music, declining to perform any other work. As a consequence, he was reduced to begging in the byways and avenues, which was where Mahijah first encountered him.

Come, join me in the square, requested the old man, not surrendering to the artist’s obvious melancholy. I could use a strong arm to carry my load, and a comforting voice to remind me of happier times.

Jubal started from his reverie. Today was the first day of the week, a designated trading day at the marketplace for the occupants of Haner. Despite the city being devastated by the most recent war, market days were becoming more and more hectic, packed with shoppers. Mahijah did not do well in crowds, so a helping hand was most welcome.

Jubal took his friend’s bundle of cloaks and cloth from him, laid it on his own shoulder, and began to walk with him towards the center of the city. The musician admired the cloak maker’s expert work out loud. I see that you are still able to spin cloth into fine garments. They remind me of the clothes I used to wear when I was a wealthy man, though they are not as brazen. Your colors are more subdued, more elegant. I imagine it took you many years to master your dexterity with a needle.

Mahijah reflected on the events that had brought him to this day. He was the son of a shepherd of Sharon, the land of green pastures and plentiful streams. The youngest of seven children, his mother died giving him birth, and his father and older siblings unfairly held him responsible for her passing, emotionally shunning and physically bruising him. His childhood was full of the hard work and suffering so common to most people of the time. Toil never seemed to end, and food never seemed sufficient. Not only did he tend the flocks near his lowly village with his brothers, but out of necessity, he also labored alongside his lone sister to perform the chores of the house: fetching water, mending clothes, cooking meals, refreshing bedding, and a whole host of related chores. Regardless of his hardships, he still found snippets of joy as he could, playing among the sheep, swimming in a nearby