Suzanne Soybean

The Dinner PartyOutside under God’s blue sky and a canopy of emerald leaves, a table covered in white linen on top of which is an artist's palette of color. The handsome friends and family gathered smile at each other, reach out to hold the hand of their neighbor and bow their heads for a prayer. On the table, the centerpiece, is the skinned and murdered body of a small creature of God who only this morning when losing sight of his mother for just a short moment, shook with fear, an errant curly-que of forelock above bright eyes which his mother found so endearing, a small and trusting young thing who at once after seeing his ever watchful mother, was back at play, kicking up his heels, frolicking and dancing, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. God made the beauty of this day for the dance of his little white lamb. And now this little one, God’s beloved little one, lies murdered and arranged for display and those gathered around the body feel the warmth of the breeze that was meant to warm the little white lamb this very afternoon as he lay down by his mother under the tree for his afternoon nap. Now, as they begin to carve apart what was her beloved, the mother lies alone, the place where her beloved baby used to nestle empty and cold and she lies helpless in an agony we refuse to acknowledge, for that acknowledgement would smash to tiny bits the beautiful scene under the branches of the emerald green shade tree and all the false ‘feasts’ of this world. The sacred body that housed that beautiful spark of life, reflection of God, creation of God, true author of life and death, is now being hacked at and sliced up and ripped apart so that the cheerful humans under Gods watchful eye can feed a savage and brutal appetite which can exist only as long as the lie rules. Acknowledgement of the Truth would set all free.“Thou shalt not kill.”What is the prayer offered up to God as all hold hands and bow heads? That which we raise on a pedestal, that glamorous chic of a verdant country home dinner party… we are the ‘graveyards of murdered beasts’. And we dress it up in the finest clothing, and shiny hennaed hair while exchanging the most amusing and clever of banter, as we eat the murdered body of an innocent life while wondering if we look attractive, if we impress with our wit and expansive vocabulary and profound reflections.What is further from beauty than educated cruelty dressed in the finest of clothes, admired by so many, speaking with a silver tongue, co-participant in the act of brutality? ‘Though I speak with the tongues of angels… and know not love ….’What is more beautiful than that little white lamb and his curly-que of forelock and his bright shining eyes as he dances in the sun?