My grandson, recently turned seven, is a multi-tasking whiz kid, as probably all kids are at that age nowadays. Or at least they seem so, to a technologically challenged old-school type like me who does one thing at a time — slowly. Uni-tasking is what we are famous for. Now, this grandson of mine solves the Rubik’s cube in three minutes in an offhand and negligent way, without even looking at the thing, while talking about something else. He beats me at chess regularly, can rattle off the names of celebrities and sports stars, knows the location of tiny countries on the world map, and can (and will) explain random items from the encyclopedia. Whenever we get together, his one-upmanship is complete. I don’t let on that I’m looking for his Achilles’ heel which I have yet to locate.
Though he does not see me as competition on earthly and technical matters, I manage to earn his respect by confusing him on abstract, mystical matters — the why of why, so to speak. For instance, he knows gravity pulls everything down, but when I ask him why gravity pulls everything down, he is stumped. He knows the speed of light, but when I ask him why light has to keep moving at that speed, and can't just sit in one place, he is clueless. I'm good at asking such questions, and also at providing simple answers. “Because,” I say, and pat him gently on the head, as though it is a complete answer. “Because what?” he asks. “Well, because it’s the law of nature.” He could have cornered me with, “Why is it the law of nature?”, but doesn’t. There is a point beyond which the seven-year-old mind boggles.
So far, so good. This is the Christmas season, and during yet another get-together, our talk turned to gifts and such, and about the joy of surprise gifts. Then the talk drifted off.
My grandson looked about to see that no one else was around. Then he asked me in a hushed whisper, “Grandpa, is Santa Claus real?” He was not joking, I could tell from his unblinking goggle-eyed look. It seemed that he had asked his parents the same question, and had got no satisfactory answer. They may have ignored his question or shooed him off.
I did a double-take. This guy, the seven-year-old whiz-kid on earthly matters, is clueless about mystical people appearing on Christmas eve and wants to know if Santa Claus is real. I was the authority he was going to depend on.
“Yes, Calvin,” I said, not batting an eyelid. “Santa is real. I saw him last Christmas when he climbed down the pipe outside our balcony. It was midnight, so I couldn’t see him properly. He left you the gift which you got the next day. This time I will wait for him and bring him to you if you are awake.”
Impressing kids is easy. All you have to do is not blink when you tell them the tale; nod sagely and deliver inscrutable pronouncements indicating deep knowledge, but appear reluctant to part with all your wisdom. That impresses kids quite a bit.
Come to think of it, impressing adults is no big deal either. Use the same technique as applicable to kids. You feed them any story, and as long as it is complicated and unverifiable they will believe you. The concept of divinity is one of those things. There has to be an elaborate structure of divinity, there has to be mystery, incomprehensibility, and unpredictability of ‘divine’ behaviour, and a confident-looking crew of interpreters to explain random occurrences attributable to the divinity’s mysterious whims.
Unlike my grandson’s case, you cannot ask why divinity’s behaviour is mysterious. The answer is “because”.
Tell people there is only one God, or that there is an elaborate hierarchy of Gods; both will find takers. Kids will accept it passively and go about their lives, but adults will obsess over it, produce lyrics of rapturous praise, construct architectural wonders to house the divinity, divide and fragment and slaughter errant populations over codes of behaviour. I wish God was more like Santa Claus.
sagitex@gmail.com
