If only the gods were different

Okay so this story comes from my amazing story-teller friend. I doubt that it is true, being set in 2202 BC. But it is probably one of the saddest things I've heard in a while. It's such a sad story because the family is doing so much to make their gods happy. All of their suffering comes from trying to please their gods. It breaks my heart to know that people are still living like this today in countries or religions that worship several gods or false gods.

If only their gods were different....if only their gods were the one true God. If only they could find the peace and love that Jesus brings His believers. It's so sad to me to hear about people who are denied joy and freedom in their religion because they are constantly trying to work their way up to their gods.

Here's the story:

In the year 2202 BC in the town of Makor, lived a man named Urbaal, his two wives and 5 children. In an age of violent change, when the super-empires were trying to establish themselves, Makor was allowed to exist only because it was a minor settlement off to one side of the major thoroughfare connecting Egypt and Mesopotamia. Primarily an agricultural center whose fields produced surplus for trade. In this age of uncertainty, only one thing was certain; the confusion about religion had been permanently settled. It was now known the world was governed by a multitude of gods, one being the god Melak. Melak was imported from the coastal cities, but the citizens of Makor were eager to adopt him, partly because his demands on them were severe, as if this proved his power. Equally acceptable was the progression whereby Melak’s appetite had expanded from the blood of pigeons & sheep to the immolation of living children, which made him even more powerful in the eyes of the people.

Urbaal and his second wife Timna had their first son, after 3 years being childless and the target of contempt from his first wife Matred. However this happy occasion was now devastated by the arrival of the priest of Melak at their door. “I will not surrender my son” cried Timna. However, this was what Urbaal had expected, it was bound to come. He wished he knew something that would console his gentle wife, but he had learned in these matters nothing could be done. “We’ll have other children”, he promised, “Melak is our protector in war, he does much for us and all he asks in return… our first-born sons.”

Urbaal spent that night by himself in the room of his god statues, and there he entered in full conflict of life and death, for in a cradle in a corner slept his son with red marked wrists, but above him was the newly acquired statue of the god of fertility. She had already brought new life into the house, the olive groves had produced their greatest after her arrival and most importantly would bring him the tall slave girl for which he had cried out day & night. As part of the harvest rituals, which immediately followed the sacrifice of sons, a man was picked whose crops had produced the most for that year. He would win a young and beautiful slave girl. This ritual celebrated the god of fertility and Urbaal, to his shame, was overcome with lust and desire. He had watched this young girl, being more desirable & provocative than the others, all year and had cried with clinched fists, “let it be me!, let it be me who is picked”. Even to his own amazement this desire over shadowed the event to come, the burning of his son in the offering to Melak.

Timna screamed as the priests took her only son, but Urbaal covered her mouth which was met with approval from the priest. With an aching pain in his chest, he led his wife to the temple square. “Let us be brave” he whispered, “for many will be watching.” The mothers of the 8 boys, numb with pain, were moved into position, and although they must have longed to flee that place and grieve in silence, they were required as patronesses who had pleased the god with their first born to remain in locations of honor. They were permitted neither to comment nor to look away, for this was the tradition of their society and would be forever.

Months had passed since that horrible night and the day of harvest approached. It was obvious Urbaal and his crops had been blessed, which only encouraged his cry to the gods that he would be the chosen one. The day of the feast arrived, for which the entire town congregated at the temple, where appetites were wetted by having one of the prettiest of the older temple prostitutes dance, followed by even more erotic dancing. Finally the presentation for which they all waited, especially Urbaal, the presenting of the young priestess. She was indeed exquisite, and promptly ceremoniously undressed by the priests. A hush fell over the crowd, and the men who might be chosen leaned forward as the enchanting girl began her final dance of the year. The priests assembled and their leader cried out, “Urbaal is the man!”

Timna still grieving for her son, watched the performance dispassionately and muttered, “What folly!” While others celebrated she walked slowly homeward, seeing life in a new and painful clarity:

… if only the gods had been different!