The Man. The God: Ability Explained

Man is a lesser dichotomy. He is a superior paradox. 

par·a·dox

ˈparəˌdäks/

noun

• a situation, person, or thing that combines contradictory features or qualities
• a seemingly absurd or self-contradictory statement or proposition that when investigated or explained may prove to be well founded or true

The creature wears a paradox:

Man as flesh:

An organism bent and fashioned into an intricate fabric of flaws; a bungling animal susceptible to the same trap he set for others, a pathetic animal whose fallacies ensnare him at whim. That coherent totality characterizes his life and life as he sees it. His limitations confine his reach. He does only what he feels he can accomplish.

Man as a ‘god’: 

An indomitable spirit; an unconquerable creature given to resolution and resilience even the most formidable test cannot subjugate. This being is an alpha animal that can survive the most brutal onslaught of life. An irrepressible creature of faith, a divine being he is. The totality of his entire being defines his life and life as he sees it. His reach tames his limitation. He does what he decides to do, even those he feels impossible initially, and does it. He does what he feels only he can accomplish.   

The first is mortal: An orderly, parasite that exists on assurances. 

The second is divine: A wild, self-assured whirlwind of faith, action, and fight.

If you are flesh, you are mortal. If you are man, you are divine. God says mankind is his children. Follow the logic: Lions beget lions. Therefore, if you are a child of God, you are a divine being set in flesh. You are not mortal. You are a demigod.

We are demigods. We are gods in flesh.  

Prometheus in the Universal Neighborhood

The unfathomable chronicles of history, the art and literature of the ages, and the incorruptible lessons the lives of great minds and personalities left us, continue to teach us profoundly about the man. The puny man is a god.

Here is how...

‘Gods’ that walked in the form of minds such as Galileo Galilei, Louis Pasteur, Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawkins, and enumerable others more who explored universes before even fathoming the world in which they had existed.

‘Gods’ that walked in the form of survivalists such as David Livingstone, David Canterbury, and Mykel Hawke and innumerable others more who faced – and survived – some of the most brutal whims and vagaries nature could hurl at them.

There were gods that existed in the form of Michelangelo, Van Gogh and Rembrandt, and Picasso and innumerable other beings that tamed the colors of our beautiful universe and gave her face functionality, and personality. Pablo Neruda, Paulo Coelho, Mary Angelou…

There were gods that walk the way John D Rockefeller, Florence Nightingale, and Mother Teresa, as do Bill Gates and Warren Buffet and innumerable others; they saw the world through the eyes of innovation, prosperity, and purpose, or healing and redemption for the suffering multitude. 

As you see, since life in this universe began, history has continued to preserve the lessons left by personalities who defined cultures, politics, economies, technology, medicine, and education and innumerable other fields of human engagement. They are lessons left by men who planted ideas and innovation to enhance the quality of life; beings that brought healing to the sick or stood for peace and justice. They fashioned philosophies and education that made the world a thinking humanity. They gave humankind a face acceptable to the superior tenets of goodwill, truth, progress. They translated the purpose of man in this life.     

We are demigods, do you not understand. Now do you wonder why the Bible says that in Christ we are all children of God?

Lions beget lions. Tigers beget tigers. Each begets likewise. We are divine because, are we not children of God?

An artwork depicting the 'Captain of the Host', Emmanuel. I took the liberty of using the image from Jeff of Archangelclk. I loved his explanation of angels, and how God walked on earth in the form of a man.

The God Quotient and Birds: Power Explained  

Then, you ask, why are we humans by function, by form, and by purpose? If we were gods – or demigods, for interpretation – we could do anything, right? Maybe even fly? Hunger would not topple us, bullets would fail in stopping us, and our knees would not hurt if the skin tore off them? Scroll to the top of this article, and read ‘Human as a Man’ – especially the last line to it.  

To accomplish something is not by attribution – it is by decision. In other words, my friend, you are who you see yourself as.

Birds can fly because they are not humans as much as birds cannot be as humans and drive cars because the feathered creatures are not humans. Each of us, every organism, in this world has a unique form, function, and purpose. You could fly if the human body came with wings! Birds could drive cars if their bodies came with hands, feet, and analytic intelligence.

Each of us, every organism, in this world has a unique form, function, and purpose that works perfectly with what you can do, and what you choose to accomplish. Never make the mistake of letting conventional definitions of capability deceive you. Remember: Birds could drive cars if their bodies came with hands, feet, and intelligence. Your inability to fly does not make you a lesser being. You cannot fly because your human body does not come with wings!

Your purpose is different. And just because you do not possess the physical ability to fly, does not make you any less a divine being. The purpose of your very self as a creation is decidedly different because you were meant to fulfill something that the winged creatures were not chosen to fulfill. Likewise, birds fulfill a purpose humans do not have approval to fulfill. Hence, some have wings, some have fins, some have arms and legs. And minds.  

Your inability to be the other does not make you any less of whom you are. Just because you cannot fly as a bird does not make you any less a god – it just means you have a different purpose as a god to fulfill in life. Look at the great people of great minds, and great hearts I have listed in this thought – why are they few? Because, they did, engaged, and created things puny humans did not and could not. Scroll to the top of this article and read ‘Man as a god.’ You are who you think you are, and do what you think you can. 

You are who you think you are, flesh or divine. The great people, great minds, and hearts listed in this article were people who created airplanes and spaceships. They were minds that created economies to feed and build nations, created technologies to aid living et al.

The same God that told us we were his children also tells us that we can do everything through Christ. In simple words, we can do what he can do. In interpretation, doing what he can do makes us the same as him.

You can do anything when you have decided you will do something. Look at mathematics-incompetent Albert Einstein. Look at the deaf Beethoven. Look at Christian-turn-Atheist-turned-Christian Robert Browning. Look at Bach; look at Goethe, Look at Kepler, Bob Dylan, Copernicus, Schubert, Wittgenstein, look at Truett Cathy, and look at John D Rockfeller, Norman Miller, Abraham Lincoln, George Foreman, and even path-breaking Human Genome scientist Francis Collins.

All great scientists, philosophers, thinkers, musicians, poets, business tycoons, from technocrats to technologists, physicists to businesspersons from both the ancient and the modern world, show us what it means to believe in what you can do. God promises: we can do anything though Christ who gives us the ability to not only do, but also succeed.  

You can do anything, and succeed in it, if you decide so. That, in translation, means we are more then flesh. We are gods by Faith in Jesus. 

If lions beget lions, we are gods. For, God is our father. We are children of God in Christ. A child of God in Christ. Lions beget lions. We are gods. Lions beget lions. You are indomitable, all conquering, in Christ. 

Do not let your heart be hardened. God will not show you signs and wonders -- he is not predictable. He has already equipped in you all that you would need to fight, to win, to learn, to prosper and bless. Your abilities are spirit. You only have to choose between flight and fight. You only have to choose between whine and win. 

"God said, 'Let us make man in our image, in our likeness'” (Genesis 1:26). 

Lions beget lions. You are a god. In flesh.     

© 2014 Of Gods and Birds Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie 

The Song from the Shadows (Part I)

“Say to those that are broken-hearted

Do not lose your faith…

The Lord your God is strong

With His mighty love

When you call on His Name

He will come and save you

He will come and save you

Say to the weary one

Your God will surely come

He will come and save you…”

When the sadder offerings of life, the wretched dregs of loss, and trials begin arriving, so does the quiet, firm and soothing assurance the verses above offer.

The lyrics you read are from one of American worship leader Bob Fitts’ most beloved songs He Will Come and Save You (Album: Take My Healing of the Nations, 1999).

Normally, my artistic passion is in classical music. I am particular to instrumental guitar music, classical opera or orchestra. My cousin Ren Merry, now a guitar instructor in Colorado, planted in me a love for the genre when I was in school.

Only in my first year in college did I learn that Beethoven and Bach were not guitar players, nor were Schubert, Debussy or Vivaldi. That realization fueled what would become my eternal romance with classical guitar music. Nourishment also came from the likes of Robert de Visée to Mauro Giuliani, Scott Tennant to Andrew York.

The perfect times for the richer forms of music to work are usually the times when you hunger for answers. The ‘answers’ that I like to believe I look for, are not necessarily philosophic conjectures that form the possible reasons why, say, the conditions of humankind are the way they are.

It is not the hunger for clearer perspectives about the higher designs of values, history, or even the future. It is simply a hunger for the sake of it; contemplation motivated by sheer indulgence. Moods provoked by music do appear a clichéd pretext if you really ponder minutes over it.

Yet, I do know that when contemplation walks in – as it does so often to my nature when I am not masquerading to the demands of our sad, cosmetic society. That is when I find myself listening to classical music. It is as if untested ideas were making love with established rationales – but with the quiet suspicion of uncommitted lovers.

There is another facet to my artistic catharsis though. Lovelier, productive days generate positive emotional energies. Such are times when I find satiation for my hunger by more energetic forms of expression: Contemporary rock music is one such appeaser.

That's me, at my brother's old shanty in Dimapur. It's an old photo print. I was in Patkai Christian College then. My brother, Joel Ngullie, was also a guitar player in the college. My cousin Yanren Kikon (CEO of SkyGroup), also a Patkai alumnus, would turn out to be one of the college's best guitar talents during that time (I am told he was offered the job of instructor for the college's guitar section). The guitar in the image is an old Java, one of the first real guitars I played many years before I could afford one.

Where my love for classical music sprouted, there alongside had flowered another passion. However,it was an angrier, more resolute form of art this time – rock music.

I was in school too, when the musical tastes of my elder brother Sandemo Ngullie (Cartoonist and illustrator with The Morung Express) introduced me to classic rock and heavy metal bands in the form of Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath.

All my biggest rock guitar heroes are from the original rock eras. Jimmy Page, Jimi Hendrix, Ritchie Blackmore, Chet Atkins, Rick Emmet, Snowy White, Oz Fox, Bob Hartman, Joe Satriani, Kirk Hammet, Marty Friedman, John Petrucci et al. That was also when I found a piece of my heart in Christian music in the form of American Christian rock pioneers Bloodgood, Stryper, and Petra.

That's me and my first real guitar, about a year after joining the news media! Her name is July, an Ibanez RGDX. My friend Laimen Ozukum, who is a proficient guitarist, and I often played with photoprints for CD covers, artwork or impromptu recordings in his home studio. Although, I'd been writing since the age of 14-15 for various publications in India, I'd always believed I'd become a musician. I used to play with a few heavy metal bands before becoming a journalist, often doing shows in Dimapur and Kohima then. Today, my passion is reporting on policy and developmental matters, but music still offers me creative perspectives when pursuing political news content.   

The college from where I pursued my Bachelor's degree, Patkai Christian College, would buttress my newly found taste in the sub-genre Christian rock as well. The flirtation would lead my musical wanderings onto journeys that had no destination - only endless discoveries.

I have learnt a truth over the years: A truly musical person has no destination, only a journey of discovery. One such discovery that I made was in 2000 – the year I suffered my first, full-fledged measure of what our sad society calls a ‘breakdown’. I believe that two of what could have been my most productive years of youth were lost to it.

I would encounter the ungodly, ugly thing yet again, during the winter of 2007. Thankfully, the second encounter would be in a more merciful measure. In good time, in God’s time, I will tell you stories about the shadows.

For now, I will tell you stories about the light. One of the many tiny lights I found among the shadows. 

© 2014 Songs from The Shadows Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie 

This is My Mother

My father breathed his last a few months after my birth. My dear mother was about 21 years old then. My father left in her young hands a heavy hope – one that would measure the weight of her faith in God for the rest of her turbulent life. She promised on his deathbed that she would never leave us, leave alone remarry, but raise us with her life.

At 21, my mother was jobless, and burdened with 11 of us children including my stepsiblings (How I abhor the prefix ‘step’ to the ‘sibling.’ They are my brothers and sisters). She was an alien living among an alien community, worlds away from the comfort of her own brood.

Life was not yet ready for a young, jobless widow with eleven children. I am the youngest. During his lifetime, my father walked the earth a prosperous, high-ranking government officer whose name was proverbial throughout the lands of the Ao Naga, Kyong Naga, and Sumi Naga people during the ‘70s and ‘80s. He raised his brothers to serve in important administrative positions in the government, nurtured the foundation of his sisters’ futures, and walked with the great chieftains and pioneers of the Naga Hills.

A New, Sad Life: Our Initial Days

Having said and done all, it is mere history, and nothing more. The future looked without feet to stand on when he left to rest. For, in the hands of my mother was a glorious legacy that would eventually fall to the unforgiving winds of test that blew in from the southern regions of life.   

Barely out of her teenage years, burdened with a bleak brood, jobless and living alone among a community that was not her own, my mother could have walked out of her sorrowful legacy. She could have taken any of the many strong hands that reached out, promising a hearth full of virgin fire to cook royal meals for her, secure and untroubled for the rest of her life. She could have chosen to return to the prosperous house of my grandparents, tribal chieftains of a town in Mokokchung district.

She refused. She stayed. She had miles to go and promises to keep. She stayed.

The years that followed were the dark side of the moon – an abstract of human incapacities, a song of human fallacies, and a capricious foible of life. The chronicles have no space for what would follow. Simply put, after years of poverty a relative secured her a job as a peon in the Department of Power in Wokha. Her salary was Rs. 200 (about $ 4.17). A bag of rice charged Rs. 50 (about $ 0.83) then. It was in the late ‘80s.

I remember owning only a pair of brown trousers – both served as my ‘fair’ fare and the choice for the 'rough.’  Meaning, the trousers were my domestic fare as well as the fare for special “social” occasions. I wore it at home, to school on no-uniform days, and when out socializing. My childhood itinerary revolved around friends in the locality and Sunday school.

That's me, and my dear mother. I was about 6 years then, newly-admitted in nursery  Someone fished out this photograph from a stack of  old books. 

I remember having ‘dinner’ that was nothing more than a thin broth; it had only green chilies and salt for flavor. Mom never told us that we did not have money to buy textbooks, or new sweaters for Christmas because those criminal undergrounds had taken a “percentage” of her almost nonexistent salary. Her salary was Rs. 200 per month. The so-called “tax” they imposed ranged anywhere between Rs. 50 to Rs. 150. That was a fortune.

(To this day, I curse the undergrounds and their leaders who live in palatial mansions and ride in expensive cars. If them taking money away from my mother could cause me to spit on their faces with eternal spite, then I cannot imagine the depth of ugliness that cling to the hearts of Nagas whose innocent fathers, sons or relative fell to the tyranny of this sham called “Naga freedom struggle.” There are some honest, God-fearing, and people-conscious cadres. I know some personally. Sadly, the majority are mere thieves who rob, steal and kill in the name of “independence.”)

I remember going to “hahjira” (a daily wage contract) to dig septic pits, or to pound gravel to buy books. The most “experienced” diggers made Rs. 50 a day. The normal payment for pounding gravel corresponding to a full 10-liter metal container was Rs. 15. I remember returning happily with the earnings, only to find my mother weeping and praying in her small bedroom, every evening.

She would wipe her eyes hurriedly, and come out to greet me with the soft, genuine smile, as always. Looking back, I know that whatever was feeding strength to her smile was not human. The strength behind her smile, canceling searing grief, could only be from a source more benevolent than mortal.    

Poverty walked with us for many years, even when I somehow managed to graduate from high school. Even in my pre-university years, we struggled to some extent. Honestly, I never even believed that I would even secure my Bachelor’s degree. All we had those days were what we did not.

Education and the new economic order have given our society a semblance of civilization. However, during those days, widows and orphans were objects of ridicule – I scoff secretly at the stories of “traditional Naga hospitality and kindness” and “chivalry.” Myths are a character of superstitious, pagan savages. The Naga lore is full of sham. People mocked us, and some even called my mother ugly names.

I still remember some of the names. In addition, I still remember the faces of those who even attempted to satiate their ugly intentions on her. For a young, landless widow and her dependents subsisting on Rs. 200-500 a month, Naga society was a terrible taskmaster.

Strange Looks

I see a question in your mind even as I narrate to you this story. That query is so perceptible I might as well touch it with my fingers. I have long been familiar with that question since childhood. ‘So did you not have relatives who could have helped you?’

Simply put, they had their own problems and economic issues. All of them had large families to support – and their share of turmoil, challenges, and quest for redemption. Unlike the commercial possibilities we have today, the older decades were days when family planning was unheard of. Likewise, the economic input demanded by a household’s brood to avail education and domestic living were virtually insurmountable. Agriculture (primarily) and government employment - to some extent - were the only sources of employment then.

Some kind relatives tried to ease our burns in whatever way they could. Nonetheless, I believe they had their own share of tragedies to contend with, own battles to do, both inside their homes and with the world outside. They were struggling in their own problems; we had to contend with ours. Life is a battlefield – to each his sword, to each his opponent.  

The Princess

Through it all, my mother stood firm and tall. After all, was not she a tribal princess, born of a great chief and a prophet of a mother among the people of Mokokchung and Zunheboto? Her life is a lesson. I could never repay her enough for not giving up on us. 

In 2008, when my Associated Content (now Yahoo! Voices, US) colleague Val Ferrar, and Indian Media production strategist Toshimenla Tzudir, composed a Markup* of my columns and articles in The Morung Express. They added a line to it: “Al loves loves and adores his beautifulest mother.” It was sweet, and amusing.  Any person who has ever known me by a word knows well enough that I have offered them sufficient boredom with convoluted (perhaps!) accounts about my mother.

* A ‘Markup’ is the small highlight about you, your achievements, skills, or career that editors give under, say, newspapers articles or columns you wrote. Generally, editors or independent observers who are familiar with your work / career write the markups.

Yet, untruth does not decorate it. I know she is full of love not because all mothers are becoming of love, but because she will love you – genuinely.  Yes, love is the only gift I can ever gift my beautiful mother. Now you know the name of my mom’s name. I have no shame in being a man from the school of desolation yet become a child all over again when with my mother. I will declare her to the world, and before men and God.

In 2011, when the national investigative magazine Tehelka called to write about me, and how they would describe me, I told them, “Write anything about me but make sure you write under my profile ‘Al Ngullie loves his beautifulest mother.’” The Tehelka journalist thought it was “so cute.” She had no idea that I, behind the phone, was sternly serious.

Nothing will ever build a pedestal high enough to stand my mother. There is no eloquence to justify the furtive tales of what darkness she went through. She is not only a mother to me – she is a lifetime of lesson in values, goodwill and faith, love, life and other gracious mysteries.

With my wonderful, beautifulest mom now

My mom and her lessons

Through every pang of hunger, she encouraged us to never complain but thank God, for the love, life and future He promised. Through every ugly name she was called, she responded by praying for them – and encouraged us to bless the naysayers. Through every teardrop that we shed, she forced our protest into submission before the promises of God and the magnificent plans He had for us (Jeremiah 29: 11-14).

To the people who shouted us out of their homes, she readily went to offer them assistance and presence when they were ill, or needed help. To the people who insulted us because we were poor, she encouraged us to befriend them; she taught us how to behave, talk to people, cook and clean the house, socialize with people of ideas and mind. She even keeps telling us to forgive the undergrounds, and to pray for them. And, let God do His job. That is my mom.

To those who did not reach out to us when we cried out to them, she taught us to be there for them if they came seeking our help. She taught us (and still does) to welcome them – not so that we would get a chance to gloat at them how unkindly they had treated us, but because helping people was the right thing to do.

My mother was also the one who taught us never to say ‘stepbrother’ or ‘stepbrother’ – they are your real brothers and sisters, she used to say.

When people mocked us for being poor, she urged us to hope in the riches of God and His reality, not in the words of mortal men. The words of men come from foolishness and emotions; the words of God are reality, she taught me. Even when we had nothing to eat, she never missed giving the Ten Tithe from the meager salary that she earned. When hard times came, so were her soothing words of assurance and quiet faith: "Why do you fear when God is with us? Be strong, God is for us." 

I could read you the lessons from her from here to when the oceans dry up, but I would still have enough to fill even more oceans. If we failed her in any way, it was only because we forgot the lessons her victories wrote. For, she never failed us.

God did not fail us, and will never. My mother is the testimony of what His power can do. Atheists can scoff. There are things only we know in secret. We praise God. He is worthy.

All that you read are why I love my mother with my heart and life.  I love her not only because I love her in that she is my mother. I love her so because she is a lifetime of lesson in values, goodwill and faith, love and life, and other gracious mysteries. This, my friend, is my mother. 

© 2014 This is my Mother Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie 

The Rain and The Child We Forgot

I love the rain, and the clouds that linger. I love the rain not as parched deserts would, or does a flower wilting from the harsh judgement of summer. I love the rain as would a man given to his vulnerabilities, and finding a newer reason to fight on. 

I adore the rain. A bond so fierce, there is no fallen memory that they fail to stand against when protecting me. When life and the world forge an alliance, to gang up upon me, rain and the clouds are my only friends.

I knew that the promise was for forever when I was, perhaps, 10 years old, or was it 11? I was studying in a school called Mt. Sinai School in Wokha town then. We did not have much back then; all we owned was what we did not.

I still remember that icy, sharp, rainy monsoon afternoon. I was reading an English textbook. It was raining heavily then – the roar of shower cascading down our tin-roof was deafening. I looked out the window from our small timber house. I only remember leaping out the window and revelling in the shower.

The sensation of the shower washing down on me, the cool veneer and firm trickles of a hundred tiny rivers running down my face and body are still as vivid as if it happened minutes ago. I remember standing there in my pyjama-and-part-time-important-events-shorts, in the tiny backyard of our house, soaking in the rain.

I stood there in awe only a child could offer; I stood there in peace and calm joy – the next few minutes of standing in the rain were a small, solemn moment of truce: The world and I was no longer at arms against one another. I had laid down my arms, and so did the world. For once, we were at peace, far from the battles we mounted against the other since I began absorbing the life around me.

The truce amid the existential defiance offered us new peace. Our weapons were weary. They needed rest. The rain was gentle, washing away the dregs from our worn sabres, and meticulously cleaning the grimy tips of our jagged spears. For several minutes, we had an eternity of peace.  

I still remember that rainy afternoon in Wokha. The sufferings of life were no more the indomitable burden during those liquid minutes in the rain. There was no more pain. The fire of angst, the torments of rage, and the tenacious questions in my spirit protested vainly as they fizzled out in the face of the shower, doused into submission by the gentle, lovingly, motherly rebuke of my rain. The world and I was at peace that day.

Beautiful rain. My Rain. (Photo: pilgrimspridelawncare.com )

I love the rain. I love the rain, and the clouds that linger. A bond so fierce, there is no fallen memory that they fail to stand against when protecting me. When life and the world forge an alliance, to gang up upon me, rain and the clouds are my only friends.

The world has changed. Rain does not come to visit often anymore the way it used to. People are no more the way they used to be. Life is no more the fairy tale we once believed in. Life is realer now. That is why we must return to the child inside us.

I am no more 10 years. I contemplate the wonderful future God has gifted to me. I am grateful but as life goes, I cradle fears in my arms: Marriage, children, livelihood, economics, et al.

The world has changed, yes it has, and shall ever be in that movement. Rain does not come to visit often anymore the way it used to. People change; love comes and goes, perhaps? There are victories too, but aye, they are as false as defeat. People and stories are no more the way they used to be. Life is no more the fairy tale we once believed in. Life is realer now, yes.

That is why we must return to the child the inside of us, the child we left far behind. The child we forgot. 

I do not remember a joy so pure, a truer freedom, and a lovelier grace than the one I soaked in, on that cool, monsoon afternoon in Wokha. I was a child then. I hope all of us stay a child inside. I hope you remain a child. You will never see miracles if you never become a child. For, the eyes of the child are where miracles live.

 © 2014 The Child in the Rain Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie