‘We don’t deny that,’ answered the wiser among the faithful. ‘It was the sin of the oppressors that they brazenly proclaimed that they alone (and not us) could know the intentions of the divine will. And if they could really do so then it was a double sin to oppress us by appealing to this knowledge. For, as minimal as our knowledge is, yet all the faithful know this one thing, that God doesn’t want oppression. And we were also foolish when we believed that the powerful knew more about divine purposes than did we. That was our fault. We admit it.
‘But at the very least you are guilty of denying something about which you are uncertain — is it there, or isn’t it there? Do you know, for example, from whence man comes and to whence he goes? Do you know what happened before your birth and what will happen after your death? Have you already spoken with someone who is dead or with someone not yet born?’
The sweepers said: ‘Even if we could talk with those who aren’t yet born or those who have died, we wouldn’t do so. We have too much concern about the misery of the living. We don’t have as much time as you do. We follow the maxim: Religion is the opium of the people.’
‘Now,’ said the wiser among the faithful, ‘although you have no time we can wait. For we have time. We have until the end of time.’
And the faithful went to pray.
But they were not left in peace. It was remarkable that exactly those people who had said they had no time to speak with the dead, even if they could do so, still found time to disturb the faithful. They wrote above the image of the Madonna, which was set up before one of the gates of the broom-master’s palace, the phrase of their prophet: Religion is the opium of the people.
What a saying. Foolish like all sayings that have the strength to wheedle their way into the ears of men, as a popular song might. They are as far removed from wisdom as popular tunes are from real music. One could even turn this saying around, just as the verses of a hit song can be sung backwards without changing the musical sense. In this saying the words do not possess their original meaning but rather an applied one. It is the same with the sound of a popular song. One could turn the sense of the song into its opposite and it would sound just as flattering to the frivolous ear. One could, for example, say Unbelief is the opium of the people; or, if one wished, Opium is the religion of the rich; or perhaps The rich are the opium of religion; or maybe Those in power are the opium of the people; or, if one preferred, The powerful — and actually the powerful at any particular time and not religion — are the opium of the people. The words of a philosopher? Not a chance! It is the slogan of a parliamentarian!
This slogan was written above an image of the Madonna. But, regardless, many people prayed before this image each day. And it was as though they were asking the Mother of God for forgiveness for the slogan that had been placed over her image. And as there were no more rich people left in this country, those who came to kneel and pray before the Mother of God were poor. Poor by birth or had become so — whatever the reason, they were poor. And therefore — the people. The Mother of God was dignified in her apparent helplessness against the power of the catchphrase because she was visibly weak, and all that was left to her was the seemingly insignificant ability to attract those who were poor and mocked, in other words — the people! She promised nothing, she performed no miracles, she gave no speeches, she was mocked, and yet there were people who clung to her and allowed themselves to be persecuted for her sake.
They were all poor. And since, for one must be fair, in this country, everything possible was done for the people under the given circumstances, I asked myself why these poor people still prayed. Just what made them drift towards an unknown force, although they could see that the known powers were eager to help them? They must have been so distressed that they could not speak of it to the known and visible powers. One mother’s son was dying, and the doctors in the hospital were powerless against death. The doctors gave him real opium so that he would not suffer, and this was all they could do. A woman wanted to have a child, but enigmatic Nature gave her nothing. Another woman had not wanted to have the child she was carrying, and it pained her that she did not wish to bring it into the world. And there was a man who was weeping over his dead brother, whom the improved conditions of this world could not bring back. Still others were praying simply because their hearts were full. Without any reason. For even though the sweepers had cleared the earth of all kinds of garbage, people’s hearts could not be emptied of the inexplicable sorrow that often filled them. If the sweepers had been able, as was certainly their intention, to quench hunger and thirst, to provide shelter for all who had to sleep under the sky, to supply beds and medicine to the sick, crutches to the lame and guide dogs to the blind, there would still remain hearts that needed more, needed something that could never be provided by earthly powers. There are many who prefer unjust love to loveless justice. And they are not happy unless they are both loved and hurt.
For between that which constitutes man’s predictable happiness and that which constitutes his unpredictable happiness there is a wide gap that we cannot fill with our logical reasoning. We are made of flesh and spirit. A cat is contented simply with milk and butter, but a man is not satisfied for long after having eaten and drunk. And even if he is given books, taken to the theatre and his curiosity about earthly knowledge satisfied, there will always be a moment in which he asks, like the child he has never ceased to be: ‘Why? Why?’
There can be no answer to all of his questions. Not even when he asks: ‘Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?’
The people had previously been kept in blinkers. In this country, however, everyone thought that these questions would stop if only satisfactory replies were given to those questions that could be answered for the time being.
Those questions for which an answer could be found began to be placed before the citizens of the country, even when they had no wish to pose such questions themselves.
So the people were taught to pose questions but only those questions for which there was an answer at the ready.
Those questions that could not be answered, even when they were put into words, were left without an answer.
Because the people of this country were believers by nature, and because they had been forcibly kept in ignorance and blindness for many long years before the Revolution, the equally forceful attempt to grant them knowledge and education succeeded in surpassing through so-called natural wonders the supernatural wonders in which they were accustomed to believing.
The people there were kindly people. One could persuade them that the saints in Heaven concerned themselves about a sick cow and a lame calf.
When veterinarians came to treat the sick cattle, it was proved that an ordinary animal doctor could do more than a saint.
In the villages in the southern portion of this great country the people believe, for example, that the prophet Elijah makes thunder, lightning and rain. And when the fields needed a storm, the people prayed to St Elijah.
On the day of this holy one’s feast the authorities who had swept Heaven empty decided to prove to the peasants in the villages that storms are not caused by saints. They sent experts to the villages on that very day, equipped with a number of scientific apparatus. These experts showed the people the scientific laws of thunder, lightning and storms.
When the poor people now saw that men could produce storms using machines they stopped (although not all at once) believing in the power of St Elijah.