The Yahweh Gene

0-0. Stories

A shaky voice echoes in a small space.

"The greatest of stories happen all of the time. They're all around us. Sometimes we catch them, and sometimes we don't, but this is one that I hope you catch."

A man walks into a brightly lit room, with a ceiling, walls, and a hard marble floor that are all completely white. His shoes tap on the floor and reverberate throughout the tiny area. He sits down on a wooden stool that's in the center of the room. He's anguished-looking, as if he's endured the hardest life imaginable. Perhaps this hardness has lasted much longer than a single lifetime, in fact.

He has an untidy beard growing from his face in patches. His hair is wild, with gray strands here and there like small clusters of weeds in a garden. He wears an all-black suit, white shirt, black tie, and shiny black shoes. He crosses his arms and takes a deep breath.

"I won't tell you my name, or who I am just yet; that's not all that important for now. Maybe we will get to that sometime—later, before it's too late. What matters is the story that I must tell you. A story unlike any that you've ever heard..."

He looks down and notices that one of his shoes has a bit of ash on the toe. He stoops down to wipe it off, then sits back up and continues to speak.

"You know, a lot of people throw this word belief around. Belief. It's a term that you're probably familiar with to some degree. You've got three types of people in this world: those who believe, those who don't know, and those who know."

He smirks.

"Anything outside of the last two is just fantasy, right? Santa Claus. Bigfoot. Demons. Angels. The Creator..."

He pauses.

"You get the idea, I'm sure. Yes, yes. Things for children and for the ignorant; the blind sheep of the world, right? Humph..."

He gazes off toward one of the white walls, temporarily losing himself in thought.

"I thought so too..."

After another long pause, he refocuses and continues.

"But what is belief, exactly? You know? What is it...really?"

He lifts his foot onto one of the rungs of the stool, places his elbow on his knee, and props his fist under his chin in a pensive stance.

"Well, I know a story about a young man who had all of the same questions that you and I have probably had at some point or another. The real questions. The deep questions. The ones that people typically try to avoid."

He rubs his chin and his beard makes a scratching noise.

"It happened at the oddest of times. So much unrest, turmoil, and tension. And all of those factors brought him to the very brink of his sanity—and his life..."

He pauses again, this time picking at the back of his hand with his finger nail. He looks behind himself toward the back wall. His mannerisms are those of someone who is undoubtedly nervous; it's obviously difficult for him to remain still.

"I want you to pay attention to his story. Perhaps you'll question this idea of belief and the possibilities that may be out there; possibilities that extend far beyond our wildest dreams. Or, maybe nothing will change. I doubt it, but it's possible. You may even
find yourself somewhere in the story..."

He curls his lips into a devious grin.

"Ultimately, I'll let you decide for yourself whether or not you believe what I'm about to tell you. The choice is yours, really. We always have a choice, don't we?"

He looks behind himself again as a faint yell can be heard echoing in the room.

"Yes, we always have a choice..."

He turns forward, adjusts his weight on the stool, and then smiles nervously.

"Well, let's get started..."