Message, Moo-Cow, Messiah

My cousin’s funeral in November prompted an old memory of him standing near the boundary fence between our farms. Wayland was checking on my wife Jennifer and me as we slathered the tin roof of Papaw’s two-stall milking barn.

Painting the roof was what we could afford on our visit up from Nashville, a teeny ritual of love to support a good cause.

“Y’uns be careful up there,” said Wayland. He and his brother inherited the neighboring farm the same way my dad and his siblings inherited ours — from common ancestors who held paper title on about 600 acres of bottomland, hilly pastures, and wooded hollows. I grew up walking all over that place during weekly escapes from town to Papaw and Mamaw’s farm. Crossing fences, feeling at home.

After the service I learned that my cousin often urged people to be careful, aiming to prevent harm. A vernacular synapse links that trait with my last memory of seeing him alive, how he carefully brought Jennifer and me and my parents soup beans and cornbread at his family’s restaurant, not far off on the other side of the creek bottom. Point A to Point B, salt-of-the-earth protein served with care and camaraderie. Such provisioning still carries cultural cred in the terrain of my people, a persistent counter to name-brand consumption.

From her perspective, Mamaw questioned whether our paint job was practical. She loved us proudly and thanked us for our work. But the ritual didn’t make much sense to her from a material standpoint.

Jennifer and I viewed the project as sort of a civic art ceremony to accompany our letters to the editor. We figured maybe a prayerful dab of beauty might prompt drive-by locals to reflect on rural heritage while pondering plans for development at the edge of town. Roots in the land are integral to wellbeing, for city kids and country-born alike.

“I see,” said Mamaw, “but I wouldn’t want to go back to that time. Farm life was hard.”

Jennifer and I agreed that much about the past needs composting. Yet we’ve also watched leaders sacrifice life to the gods of commerce, over and over. It doesn’t take much learning to know this has been happening since the first city-states were founded. A mortal break with creation afflicts the human trip, from our exit out of Eden to the building of Babel, from the colonization of this continent to our wheeling along the Big Data highway.

That kitchen where we chatted about the status of rural life got to rotting after my folks sold the farm. Soon all the money was spent that wasn’t skimmed off by real estate shenanigans. For decades the elder homestead caved in upon herself, former belongings becoming a lifeless mass of trash. Then finally the remains were demolished, strangely on the same day as my cousin’s funeral. The home, smokehouse, tractor shed, chicken coop and cattle barn – leftovers of a subsistence economy that once rooted community in place – were bulldozed down and hauled to the dump.

Yet here’s another strangely coincident fact. As I slather this page the dairy still stands, testament to kinships that once fed collective conscience. Maybe it’ll be there for a while, like a lone headstone in the pastures. Maybe as y’uns read this there’ll be inklings of greater being, of souls that graze on caring reciprocity.

—

The old roof could use another coat of green. Shall we pause here reader and paint a moment? Many hearts and minds make light work.

Imagine that you and I are waiting for the doors to open at a special art event, one held inside a different barn. We’ve gathered here with other art-lovers to commune with rural culture, our combined breath rising in the December air. The place is gussied up with evergreen garlands and twinkling lights, pretty as a Dolly Parton song. Everything is clean and orderly, yet earthiness abounds.

Finally the time arrives and we’re welcomed into warmth by a man wearing a red and white sweater. He bears a remarkable resemblance to Perry Como. Several of us are keeping that connection to ourselves when we overhear an elder woman whisper to her young companion: “it is Perry Como.” This causes merriment to stir among us. The woman’s companion pats the elder’s hand and asks her to carefully watch her steps going inside.

When the elder walks past holding her daughter’s arm, our red-and-white-sweatered host leans in and says that some people still call him “Mr. C,” but now he mostly goes by “Pier,” which is short for “Pierino.” He says his parents were immigrants and that he didn’t speak English until he entered school.

“‘Wops,’ some folks called us. But we had our papers, by Jove.”

This little exchange prompts our outspoken elder to say to her daughter: “see, I told you!” Which further stimulates our merry respect for the wisdom of age, plus it helps foreshadow the fact that this imaginary event is unfolding in the realm of magical realism.

Pier guides us into the structure safely without anyone falling, then places us in the capable charge of sons and daughters and non-binary offspring dressed in green bib overalls. These youngsters help us get comfortably seated in rows of chairs arranged along three sides of the barn. We’re arranged in a “U” with the center covered in clean pine sawdust, like a show-ring at the fair. The young co-hosts tell us about the porta-potty and exits and say the event will take approximately 40 minutes, after which an assortment of local artisan cheeses will be served along with hot cider at the nearby homestead.

These familiar announcements have a settling effect on our senses, which is good, because at this point the Millenials and Post-Millenials proceed to pass out virtual reality goggles. They invite us to put them on.

“It’s perfectly OK to abstain,” says Pier, who’s standing in middle of the show-ring. “But I wouldn’t miss this if I were you.”

After a tech-gifted youth helps me gear up I find my senses surrounded by one of the most beautiful meadows I’ve ever laid eyes on. I hear what sounds like a large animal moving around, and birds chirping somewhere in the distance. Rich buttery sunlight dances on the grass.

“What you’re looking at, friends, is a wondrous gift of nature,” says Pier. “Good rich topsoil covered with a diverse blend of forage that’s specially cultivated to nourish livestock and store carbon. Managed with careful moderation, pastures like this help temper the earth’s climate. Also included in this green mix are plant species that support pollinators we depend on. We’ve further enriched the habitat for butterflies and bees around the edges of this meadow. And the rain has just washed everything clean, making it even more yummy. Enjoy.”

Immediately my perspective shifts so that I’m pointed directly at the ground. The whole scene moves in little rhythmic nods. There’s a steady leisurely munching noise. It takes a few seconds to adjust to the up-and-down motion, sort of like kayaking. Then I hear a familiar sound and realize what’s going on.

“Indeed,” says Pier, as if reading my thoughts. “You are all cows, doing what cows do best. Specifically, you are officially registered members of the noble dairy breed known as Red Danish, all with papers to verify your pedigree. Your ancestors stepped onto the earth’s stage when wild oxen of northwestern Europe bred with domesticated cattle brought by immigrants to that area around 3000 BCE. You first travelled to America from Jutland in 1915. When life is in balance you help keep the grasslands strong and healthy — storing carbon, providing habitat, and converting sunlight to protein for human nourishment.

My view sweeps from side to side, taking in perhaps twenty other animals, gorgeous roan-red against the verdant landscape. Then my gaze tilts up at the horizon and I hear a loud sound that nearly every person on the planet learns when some caring adult shares the magic of language.

“What does the cow say?” asks Pier. “You say ‘moo!’ — come back here young’un.’ That rascal calf has wandered off again. She’s probably fallen asleep after playing in the sun. Surely your lowing will make your baby wake.”

Now brace yourselves,” says Pier.

My perspective shifts dramatically. It takes a minute to get my bearings. Sunlight and green meadow are replaced by a dark interior, my focus pointed toward a rigid artificial surface covered with a homogenous mix of grain and bits of hay. The whole scene is nodding, only much slower. Strangely I flash back to the feeling of sitting in front of a Jethro-sized bowl of cereal, shoveling big spoonfuls into my mouth while zoning out on the cereal box, stoned at a holiday party.

“Behold the state-of-the-art manger,” says our host. “You are now living a different kind of bovine life, based on your ability to survive entirely inside, sans sunlight. You’re experiencing what modern dairymen refer to as a ‘total confinement system,’ though critics often call it ‘factory farming.’

At which point, reader, you and I may start suspecting this cultural gathering is merely a bit of protest art. Naturally we were hoping for something more suited to our yuletide sensibilities. Yet just as I’m beginning to feel disappointed the scene swings around so that I can see other cattle lounging in the cave-like surrounds. This ain’t so bad, really. Back in the day I liked the luxuriant feeling of acting on the munchies when I was immersed in festive Christmas highs.

“We can resist the parameters of our economy,” says Pier. “Or we can capitalize on a changing market. Consider this:  the mix of haylage and grain you are eating is as delicious to you as Count Chocula. Admittedly, the idea of spending all your days in a sunless box may seem hard to swallow. But…. [and here he drops in a perfect pause as my perspective shifts back to the beautiful meadow] what if we combine the best of both worlds? What if these goggles are adapted for confined cattle-heads so that all your sheltered munching comes with the same golden worldview you are experiencing at this very moment?”

His words adopt a smooth uplifting cadence, like he’s shedding a heavy layer of skin.

“Happy cows give more milk, right? As I speak an enterprising producer is testing a similar brand of headsets outside Moscow.  This promises to be a profitably positive way to increase output. The technology will complement existing devices that collect data on each individual cow, so owners know precisely how to maximize your efficiency.”

“It’s a pastoral internet of things,” he says “our launching pad to regeneration. And what’s more, such ventures herald boss investment opportunities. It should come as no surprise that the word ‘capital’ originated in the word ‘cattle.’”

The scene morphs into a full-blown advertisement. Pier walks through a small group of goggle-clad cattle as they relax in the sun, unbothered by his presence. There’s a voice-over with the same swift-footed cadence, either pre-recorded or pitched in real time from the show ring. He saunters up to a wooden table bedecked with holly, whereupon rests a picture-perfect tray of milk and chocolate-chip cookies.

“Think of the swelling legions of children who offer us such joy,” he says. “What sort of holiday miracle will enable us to keep feeding all that growing future happiness?”

Recognition suddenly hits me when he touches his nose and winks.

—

How did I miss the mythical agent wrapped in such packaging? Thanks to Pier’s performance art it now seems like a no-brainer. He has cleverly channeled Hermes, aka. Mercury – our lord of the marketplace, the jing-a-ling king, messenger for the oligarchs of Olympus. He’s that chap who welcomed us onto his lap down at the cross-roads mall; who still herds us past the warehouses of Black Friday, on through the darkest, most profitable days of the year.

“OK,” says Pier, producing a loud clap then rubbing his hands together. The gusto of this gesture dispels my musing. “Enough of that schtick. If you would, please remove your googles; ho ho, I mean goggles.”

We do so. Now our host is standing in the show-ring next to a Latin-looking fellow dressed in a beige cotton tunic and matching slacks. The latter has his hand on a majestic cow licking a mineral block near their feet. Pier informs us the event is nearly over.

“We appreciate everyone here and want to express our sincere gratitude for your participation. If you would, please turn your headsets over and look underneath. Some lucky soul will see a little red sticker of a smiling cow. Raise your hand if you find the sticker. I’ll explain what this entails after we finish.”

You raise your hand.

“OK. [Again the clap and hand-rubbing.] I’m honored to introduce Si, my friend and colleague. He manages our pasture-based dairy and he grew up in cattle country, specifically the plains of Venezuela. Si comes from a long line of llaneros, folks whose ancestry is deeply integrated with the grasslands.

“Saludos,” says Si, bowing his head to the crowd. “Esta vaca se llama Mariposa. Ella tambien es nuestra amiga y colega.”

Si walks to side of Mariposa, sits down on a stool, and slides a bucket under her udder. Soft instrumentation pours through a sound system. Si begins to milk and sing, prompting deep emotions even though I don’t understand the words of the song. When this brief ritual ends there is a long pause of silence, then murmurs of pleasure and soft clapping.

“People have known for a very long time that music aids in animal husbandry,” says Pier, then adds with arched eyebrows: “in fact observers have noted that cows are especially fond of Christmas songs by Perry Como.”

At these words Si stands again to face the audience. “La magia viene de Dios, en relación con la creación, a traves de la circulacion de creatividad y amabilidad,” he says. “No proviene de la celebridad humana. Por favor traduzca, Sr. C.”

Pier hesitates, seemingly chastened while gazing at the ground. Then he translates in a sober tone.

“The magic comes from God, in relationship with creation, through the circulation of creativity and kindness. It does not come from human celebrity.”

—

Some performers are adept at abruptly shifting gears without attracting much notice. Pier’s a pro.

“Now, regarding our prize-winner — congratulations! You are the proud owner a Red Danish heifer, in fact you’ve won Mariposa’s two-year-old offspring, who has no name that I know of. What happens with her is up to you. Here are several possibilities.”

“If you want we’ll continue to raise her here for you at our farm where she lives outside much of time, grazing on pasture. We’ll breed her with a dependable sire, milk her and sing to her. We’ll give you an equivalent supply of dairy products for a full year.”

“Or, here’s another possibility. One advantage of the Red Danish breed is that they are dual purpose, meaning they can be used for either milk or meat. If you want we will raise her until she’s ready for slaughter, which we will carefully oversee to make sure it is done in the most humane way possible. Kosher or Halal rules can be followed. Then we’ll provide you with a year’s supply of pasture-raised beef that’s full of healthy omega-3 fats.”

“If you’d rather, you can simply donate the meat or milk to a local food pantry. Some family would appreciate the protein, no doubt. As a vegan alternative, we can hand her over to folks who are partnering with ag researchers to determine what happens when domesticated cattle run free on land with minimal management.”

“But….there’s a final option. Listen carefully. This particular red heifer is in fact a rare treasure. Fantastic as it may sound, she meets all the criteria foretold in scriptures that will accompany the Messiah’s second coming (or first-coming, depending on your persuasion).”

“Trust me. I’m an authority on religious texts and an expert on ritual blood sacrifice. Several other professionals have helped me inspect this animal at regularly intervals. Not a single non-red hair taints her unblemished, unyoked, unbred hide. She’s been given special attention throughout her life, from her humble birth in this very barn up until today. So if you want to help welcome the Messiah, we’ll hand her over to people who will sacrifice her on your behalf.”

“And here’s the kicker. As a token of gratitude, you will receive shares in a new corporation owned by Evangelical Christians that provides VR and digital management systems for livestock. As we stand here, brothers and sisters, this company is building a great manufacturing facility in Israel.”

“The choice is yours, friend. Feel free to take exactly three days to think about it.”

“Now, [clap] who’s hungry?”

—

And so we’re done. Christmas is over. Once again the world has commemorated the Word-born-babe in that fabled stable. Santa has delivered his hoof-driven freight to nice families, at least those with enough finances. The earth’s parents now carry a bit more debt, and corporations are keeping track of all the data.

I worked on this writing since Thanksgiving and published it on Boxing Day, an extension of Christmas that keeps spirits stirring in parts of the former British Empire. In certain quarters this is a day when stores attract crowds with deals, much like Black Friday in the U.S. Recently some retailers have extended promotions to “Boxing Week.”

Our lord of the big box has shed his red-and-white packaging. But Hermes never sleeps. He and his Roman counterpart are projections of a force that’s driven culture for centuries. The words “market,” “merchant,” and “merchandise” are all rooted in the Latin mercari, “to trade.”

Boxing Day holds fond memories for many Brits who’ve grown weary of the consequences of trade. Many fear local traditions are threatened by immigrants who’ve fled hardships and are willing to work in menial warehouse jobs. They resent the ways of strange cousins who come from afar and don’t look or talk like proper beefeaters.

This is happening all over the world as oligarchs adjust to new urban heights of power. These rulers and their strongmen promise rural small-town fans a return to the order that was displaced by greed posing as progress. Who better to oversee that promise than the master of greed himself? The sovereign of possessions welcomes everyone into his grip. Is any other entity better prepared to guard us from hell than Hades?

A name does spring to mind, though it may sound too simple. How about the person who showed us the way to circulate grace, make our daily lives into love offerings?

It seems absurd on the surface that anyone who brandishes the word “Christ” would feel more affinity for the cravings of plutocrats than the teachings of our compassionate rabbi. Yet it’s a common reflex for humans to fixate on the box more than the contents. After the Word became flesh many of us valued the medium over the Message, forgot the Moo as we capitalized on the cow.

When asked by authorities to boil it down, Jesus instructed his brothers and sisters to love our Creator and care for our fellow creatures. “Love” and “care” are best used as verbs, applied year-round to all our relations. For me the Message is the Messiah, often spread in strange ways by folks we’ve just met, as well as family members and friends we’re still getting to know.

Every day, every moment, every particle of creation is Holy. God’s grace will sweep the earth like wildfire when humanity lives the Message of Christ. Just my view, mind you.

Now I’m handing this off for Jennifer to read as I head to the barn. What a blessing to milk on a Tillamook County morning.

—

“So, let me get this straight,” says Jennifer, upon my return. “Jesus is like a cow. You can sacrifice the cow or you can be nice to the cow.”

References:

New American Standard Bible (Cambridge University Press, 1977)

Becker, Raymond B.  Dairy Cattle Breeds: Origin and Development (University of Florida Press, 1973)

McLuhan, Marshall.  Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1966)

Hyde, Lewis.  Trickster Makes This World: Mischief, Myth, and Art (North Point Press, 1999)