This Is An Allegory

Based on Luke 12:13ff and Qoheleth 1 & 2^[2]

The Mandarin and the King

   Once upon a time, in a poor village deep in the heart of China, there lived a powerful Mandarin[3] named Ooo-ee-oo-ah-ah.  He was feared by the peasants because of his ancestors’ brutality, but now the days of golden winds had passed: his fortune and power were dwindling, his palace crumbling, his influence waning.  The next hard rain would take off the roof, and the Mandarin was in constant agitation, considering how he might maintain his estate and appearance of wealth.

   Unexpectedly, a golden rickshaw pulled into the Mandarin’s courtyard.  Official-looking messengers apprised the Mandarin of a very special occasion: an imperial visit to his domain.  “In two weeks,” read the messengers from fine paper scrolls, “his Imperial Majesty Genghis Khan the Sixteenth will visit the venerable Mandarin Ooo-ee-oo-ah-ah to discuss a business proposition.  Said Mandarin is to make all the appropriate preparations immediately.”  There was no discussion.  The messengers left the scroll, retreated into their rickshaw, and returned to the Khan.

  No King had ventured out this far in over a century. As the Mandarin considered what the visit might entail, he recognized that his “palace” wasn’t fit for a man of his own stature, much less a king.  Yet his avaricious mind also considered the possibility that this visit might be an opportunity for the name Ooo-ee-oo-ah-ah to become great again.  After all, didn’t the messenger say the King had business?

 

The Meeting of the Elders

   The Mandarin called his servant for tea; he sent another to summon the six village elders: Mr. Ting, Mr. Tang, two brother with the name, Walla, then Mr. Bing and Mr. Bang.  The seventh man was the witch doctor Mr. Bugchow, surnamed “the Beast.”

   In twenty minutes the council was seated in the once-lavish dining room of the palace.  After tea, the Mandarin announced, “Our village will be blessed by a visit from King Ghengis Khan the Sixteenth two weeks from today.  It’s an embarrassing shame that you elders of my village should’ve allowed your Mandarin’s palace to fall into disrepair.  Now I’m leaving it up to you to see to my palace.  I’m also charging you with providing the ‘feast fit for a king,’ which we haven’t enjoyed in many years.”

   Mr. Ting, the spokesman for the elders, replied, “Sir, we are poor men.  How is it that we’ll pay to complete preparations in such a short span?”  The Mandarin had a ready plan: “I shall lend you my authority to command our peasants be put to labor on the palace.  As for the financing …” the Mandarin reached into his dragon-red vest.  “Here is the last silver wang-ho in our treasury – to be used only for such emergencies.”  The Mandarin presented the gleaming coin to Mr. Ting with much ado.  “After your purchases are made, you shall return this silver wang-ho to my hand!” 

   “B-but,” blurted Ting, “How shall we buy yet return the money?”  Ooo-ee-oo-ah-ah, the powerful Mandarin, pressed forward in his seat, glaring at Ting.  “Mr. Ting, maybe it would be more appropriate for you to interrogate the wise Mr. Bugchow, seated at your left, about the matter.”  The witch doctor, Bugchow the Beast, hearing that this was to be his responsibility, began to sweat.  True, the Mandarin had lost much power, but he still retained a menagerie of henchmen to make his word law.

   With a final glare, the council was dismissed, led out by armed guards, and left outside the broken gate.  As Ting, Tang, Walla, Walla, Bing and Bang walked back to their hovels, they discussed the task set before them.  “Why would the Mandarin give us the silver wang-ho to spend if we must return it?”  Mr. Walla II said, “The silver wang-ho is enough to repair the entire property, yet the Mandarin will only lend it.”  Mr. Bing chimed in, “Friends, we need not spend it on labor anyway, for the villagers must work at their own expense on the palace.  The Mandarin told us we need only make it presentable.”  Mr. Bang said, “You are right, Bing.  The Mandarin’s fortunes may turn as a result of the King’s business.” 

   Walla I added, “Yes, comrades, the villagers must work without pay.  But didn’t the Mandarin command us to provide the ‘feast fit for a king’?  Well, you know what that means!”  Ting interjected, “Yes, we know what it means.  We must acquire a chimpanzee for the feast.  Now where will we get a chimpanzee?”

 

The Feast Fit For a King

   You see, when the Mandarin requested a “feast fit for a king,” he meant an unbroken tradition must be observed by serving the customary royal delicacy – chimpanzee fricassee.  And, of course, the chimp’s carefully stewed head, presented au jus with raisons, cloves and nuts, in a delectable and attractive way, was for the king’s consumption only.  This was what the Mandarin meant when he commanded a “feast fit for a king.”

   Not too long ago, it wasn’t difficult to provide a chimp.  All one had to do was hike to the monkey tree, pick out a juicy specimen, and bring it down with a rifle shot, carefully avoiding the head, lest the guest of honor break his teeth on the bullet.

   But now it was nearly impossible to secure a decent banquet chimp.  The Animal Preservation Treaty of Katmandu outlawed the use of firearms in hunting chimps.  The penalty was hanging.  The only way a chimp could be acquired now was to catch one.  That was impossible – chimps were simply too smart to make themselves available. 

   “Shall we pay a poacher with that silver wang-ho to get us a chimp then steal the wang-ho back later?” asked Mr. Tang rhetorically.  “Certainly not, comrade!” replied Mr. Ting.  “Our lives are at stake!  What did the Mandarin command us?  Do you not remember?” 

   Mr. Bang remembered, “I clearly heard him say we were to consult with the witch Bugchow, who was seated at Mr. Tang’s left.”  Bugchow the Beast finally spoke up.  “Yes, men, the Mandarin said the plan would be my responsibility.  I shall have to consult the Spirit of this World in order that we may get our ‘feast fit for a king.’  In the meantime, you set the villager to work on the palace, and meet me right under the monkey tree at dawn the fourth day.  And, oh, Mr. Ting – bring that silver wang-ho with you.” 

   Then the men dispersed among the villagers to assign duties.  But the witch Bugchow went straight for his laboratory to conjure up the Spirit of this World.  His life, and the lives of the entire council, were at stake.  Bugchow needed big medicine.

 

The Monkey Tree

  Meanwhile, in the jungle, a forest of hemp and nettles surrounded three huge trees.  A great battle was once fought hereabouts, and some remnants of war machines could still be found.  One of the trees was a tall cocoanut that shed leaves and fruit throughout the year.  The second was a thick lychee tree, full of blossoms, nuts and fruit.  The third was the monkey tree – a seventy-foot moringa that encompassed the others. 

   In the canopy of the Moringa lived a family of chimps.  There they had access to all the moringa’s healing properties, plus the fruits, nuts, milk and flesh of the other trees.  The chimpanzees had little reason to leave their leafy paradise, for even their water dropped from the skies daily, and below was only hemp, nettles and debris.  Since the ban on monkey-shooting, the colony had little to fear, though curiosity sometimes carried them down to explore this little thing or that.

 

Beneath the Monkey Tree

   One morning early, Ting, Tang, Walla, Walla, Bing and Bang, having set the villagers to work on the palace in preparation for the Khan, were making their way through the undergrowth to the monkey tree.  It was a hard way to go; Bing had already fallen into a nettle patch and was as red as a yellow man could be – that is, bright orange.  Tang stepped on a rusty nail from an old war wagon.  Walla the First was plum tuckered out as the elders approached the monkey tree in full site of its inhabitants above, staring down in curiosity, recalling that these fellows used to bring guns, but no more.

   The elders sat upon the barrel of a rusty cannon near the monkey tree – they wondered what to do next.  Where was Bugchow the Beast, the witch doctor?  “What will we do without the plan?” cried Mr. Bang as the monkeys above heckled the sextet, pointing their long fingers and cackling like ninnies.  Walla the Second was a man of action, especially after being drained by a thousand biting flies.  “It’s time for battle!” he shouted.  Like a Kamikaze, he fought his way through the nettles to the trunk of the moringa tree and started to shimmy up, cursing, swearing he’d bring down the main course with bare hands if necessary. 

   Bang received an honorable mention, ascending the trunk about seven feet before the being pelted with wet balls of a material not mentionable in decent company.  Down, down descended Bang in the agony of defeat, banging into a nettle patch full of chiggers, brandishing his kerchief like the white flag of surrender, wiping slime from his eyes. 

   Stealing his moment of fame, a more formidable figure approached the old cannon through the hemp – it was the witch doctor, Bugchow, late.  He’d contacted the Spirit of this World, and had a fool-proof plan for providing their Mandarin with meat for a “feast fit for a king.”  

   Bugchow addressed Mr. Ting, “Sir, did you bring the silver wang-ho with you?”  “Yes, I have it right here,” replied the tormented Ting.  As he opened his hand, the wang-ho caught the bright gleam of the sun, projecting a light beam into the monkey tree.  Every chimp saw that.  “Excellent,” said the witch doctor.  “Now let’s get to work.”

 

The Hideous Plan

   While the chimps above were spitting, cackling, squirting and throwing pods down on Ting, Tang, Walla, Walla, Bing, Bang, Bugchow the witch doctor barked orders he’d received from the infernal spirit.  “Mr. Tang – clear away the hemp under the monkey tree; twist it together to make strong twines three meters long.  Mr. Bing – crawl under the tree yonder and find a dry hollow cocoanut – don’t come back without a dry one!  Mr. Walla One – bring an old rifle from the war.”  Walla One knew shooting a chimp would mean execution.  “But Sir Mr. Bugchow,” he spat.  “We haven’t any bullets!”  Bugchow ignored him, “Just find us a rifle, sir.” 

   “Mr. Bang, you climb under that lychee tree and get a bayonet – unless of course you brought your pocket knife.”  “No sir, I did not,” replied Bang.  “Then you find a bayonet.”  Bugchow continued, “Walla Two, you’re too orange right now to do anything but hold my umbrella.”  Bugchow produced a large parasol from his robe, opened it and handed it to Walla.  By this time, pods, putrid liquids, mushy material and rotten cocoanuts hailed down upon these respectable fellows like missiles on Baghdad.  The enemies in the tree felt confident they’d win, since these men had no guns. 

   Mr. Ting shouted over the din of the cackling, “And what shall I do, Sir?”  Bugchow replied, “You just flash that silver wang-ho over your head so our ‘feast fit for a king’ up in the drumstick tree gets a good look.”  So Ting flashed the wang-ho.  The apes in the canopy quieted down; the pelting stopped as the curiosity started.

 

Building a Chimp Trap

   An hour later, Mr. Ting was still flashing the silver wang-ho in the air, and the apes were fixed upon it.  “Can I stop now?” asked Ting.  The hemp beneath the monkey tree had been cleared away and braded into twine.  All parties had returned, successful in their scavenging.  Mr. Bang used the bayonet to bore a two-inch hole in the dry cocoanut provided by Mr. Bing, then he unscrewed the rifle’s strap hinge and screwed the hinge to the cocoanut.  Then Bang ran into the clearing under the monkey tree and beat the bayonet into the ground as far as it’d go with a rock. 

   Mr. Tang tied an end of his hemp twine to the strap hinge on the cocoanut before running out into the clearing and tying the other end to the bayonet.  So now the bung-holed cocoanut was firmly attached to the bayonet stuck fast in the ground by a hemp twine nine feet long.  The chimps were fascinated with the show.

   After testing the strength of the twine, Bugchow the Beast advised Mr. Ting, “You may now stop flashing the silver wang-ho and hand it to me, sir.”  Bugchow took the coin and held it aloft as he walked toward the monkey tree, gathering the cocoanut in the other hand.  He held up the items in his hands like an offering.  Then Bugchow intoned the magic words, “Hoo-ga-boo-gah hic, haec, hoc!” as he dropped the priceless wang-ho into the cocoanut hole.  (It just barely fit).  Bugchow made sure his prey knew the coin was inside the hollow cocoanut by shaking it really well: the rattling of it was heard for a half a mile.  The chimps looked at each other and at the cocoanut, eyes wide in eager perplexity.

  Then Bugchow the Beast gave his last order as he dropped the cocoanut back onto the ground just beneath the monkey tree: “Comrades, sit and wait.”  The seven Chinamen retreated to the rusty cannon, where they sat once again.  Bugchow congratulated them all, “Well done, comrades!”  Mr. Ting passed a canteen of sweet tea, and they waited.

 

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

   One young chimp had personality on top of audacity.  Though he was Chinese, his mother prayed he’d become an English schoolteacher when he grew up, and she named him Mr. Chips by faith.  Chips was the perfect entrée around which to arrange the rest of the “feast fit for a king.”  Lean yet juicy he was, and mother already had him dressed.  (She’d discovered a Japanese sailor suit in one of those old war chests some months earlier.)

   Mr. Chips had everything he needed and more in the spreading canopy.  All the moringa leaves and pods he could eat, all the cocoanuts, and slugs and bugs, and the daily shower, with playmates, a great family, and, most important of all, safety and security way up there.  The law of liberty protected Mr. Chips and his kind from the attacks of beasts with rifles from below.  The law had taken away their guns. 

   But while all the chimps were awed by the gleam of the silver wang-ho, and they’d all witnessed Bugchow the Beast pop it into the hollow shell, and all could see those Chinamen sitting on the cannon like monkeys on a desk, only Mr. Chips had the {clear throat} “ambition” and “business acumen” to go for the glistening, rattling silver wang-ho, his ticket to England and Cambridge University. 

   So with the help of a river of adrenaline, Chips dashes down the trunk of the great moringa, completes a double flip on the lowest branch, drops gracefully to the ground, speeds to the dry cocoanut, thrusts his paw into the bung-hole, grasps the silver wang-ho, then – when he tries to pull his paw out – it won’t pull.  He tries again.  It won’t pull.  Stuck fast.  Chips hasn’t maturity to realize that the only way he’s going to have his paw is to let go of the wang-ho.  So instead, he’ll take the whole cocoanut into the canopy and figure it all out in safety.  As he dives for the lowest limb, the hemp twine yanks him back to the ground with a thump.

   Bing and Bang are off the cannon and after him.  They chase Chips around the moringa three times, the hemp winds about the trunk.  Chips is at the end of his rope.  Unwilling to let go of the wang-ho, he’s apprehended as Mr. Bang casts his shirt over Chip’s head and Mr. Bing grabs his ugly feet.  Mr. Tang pulls loose the bayonet, unwinds the rope, secures Mr. Chips’ paws, and the gang’s off to prepare a “feast fit for a king.”  “Good job, fellows,” cries Mr. Ting in excitement.  And “Goodbye, Mr. Chips.”

 

To Make a Long Story Short

   When I write an allegorical sermon, the story never wants me to quit.  I’m greedy about that ending; I want you to want it as much as Mr. Chips wants the wang-ho.  However, suppose I just  sum it all up right now. 

   The moral of the story:  First, the Mandarin Ooo-ee-oo-ah-ah could’ve spent his silver wang-ho to completely refurbish his palace and aid all the people of the villages he ruled if he wasn’t so grasping and fearful of letting go of his emergency fund.  Instead of doing the right thing, in the end, he didn’t get his wang-ho back nor did he get his “feast fit for a king.”  What he did get was a cheap coat of paint on a palace he couldn’t use anyway, for the Khan came to visit a day early.  When his feast wasn’t awaiting him, he had everybody on the premises, Mandarin and all, beheaded, in the palace meeting room.  As to the greed of Ooo-ee-oo-ah-ah, a quote from Kahlil Gilbran is a most appropriate moral, 

“Cast aside those who liken godliness to whimsy 
and who try to combine their greed for wealth 
with their desire for a happy afterlife.”

   Next, Ghengis Khan the Sixteenth, the King of all Devils, thought it generous to offer a deal for the Mandarin’s property until he arrived to find the appropriate honor wasn’t being given by this thoughtless ingrate, even though Khan was a day early.  A demon should always be prepared for the devil’s visit, no matter what the cost.  The devil can’t be trusted to arrive at an appointed time, and dealing with him will lose you your very SELF.  No better moral could I find for Khan’s avarice than a quote from Top Dollar: 

“Greed’s for amateurs. Disorder, chaos, anarchy: 
now that's real fun!”

   In the chaos of the Khan’s deadly visit, one of his draft horses spooked and careened wildly around the palace, stomping the cage holding a chimp named Chips.  The hooves freed Chips of not only his bamboo cage, but also of the hollow cocoanut locked on his grip for the last ten days.  The good guy broke loose and ran with his valuable coin.  After saying goodbye to mother and family at the monkey tree, Chips was off to Shanghai to catch the Midnight express to Bucharest, then on to Cambridge University.  

   In the years to come, Mr. Chips was to become the Right Reverend Bishop Frederic W. Farrar of the Church of England.  His book of sermons preached at Westminster Abbey entitled The Amelioration of the World, is still read by chumps chimps today.  The moral of Mr. Chips' story comes from Jane Austen:

“Nobody minds having what’s too good for them,” 

even if that nobody is queued to be stewed with raisons, nuts and cloves. But heaven loved Mr. Chips, and he became far better than his mother expected - by the providence of G-d and the authority of the mighty Church of England. 

   Finally, the elders of the village, now subjected to the ruthless son, Ghengis Khan the Seventeenth, were required to present a “feast fit for a king” every Sunday morning forever.  Bing and Bang no longer needed Bugchow the Beast to provide a monkey plan; they caught as many monkeys as they wanted by building many traps, putting an English walnut in the cocoanut – no valuable wang-ho necessary.  The monkeys, including Mr. Chips family, were tricked and carted away in droves.  There was monkey head on Sunday for his Highness the Khan, and monkey meat to spare - the whole village henceforth regularly partook of feasts fit for kings but appropriated by commoners.

   As for Bugchow the Beast – he never cared for monkey anyhow.  Instead, he prefers the flesh, blood and bones of men and women – especially greedy, avaricious ones.  After the escape of Mr. Chips, Bugchow made a meal of Mandarin Mandarin. 

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