The Son Who Lived in the Tower of Gold

A modern day parable

Image by Vicki Hamilton from Pixabay

In the city of towers, lived a boy on top of the tallest one. His father was a great man, like a king among men, and many men would come and ask his father for favors. The boy looked up to his father.

But the father rarely saw the boy, even when the boy sat in the same room. And when the boy would plead for his father’s attention, all he would receive was a gold coin.

“Go and buy yourself something.” And the father would return to his affairs.

And the boy amassed bags of gold coins.

One day, as he grew older, the son walked from a merchant holding the goods he had bought, and some larger boys stopped him, knowing of his gold. They threw him to the ground and took from him all he had.

He stood before his father, bloodied and bruised, and told of the assault. The father looked at him.

“You need bigger friends than those who want to throw you down.” And he gave his son a bag of gold.

The son began to find ones bigger than those who had taken from him and would slip them a gold coin or two. When word of his generosity spread, many would come to his circle, and if they said the right things and had what he wanted, they would feel the coins in their hands. And if one of the circle members did or said something to upset the son, then the others would cast out the offender.

When the son told his father one day of his golden circle, the father smiled for the first time.

“You, too, will build a great tower in your day.” And gave him more gold.

And the son did. He not only built one, but many. And his circle grew and grew as did the number of those outside the circle, cast out and now looking back with hate, or those who crawled on knees to win the grace and the gold of the son.

And he became ruler of the land. Many of the people shouted their fealty to the son, hoping that some of the gold would come their way, while others shouted their derision. Yet with more hatred thrown his way, the more he surrounded himself with those who told him of his greatness, and they were given gold to quiet the sounds of dissent.

And the land suffered as the gold mines kept tearing into the earth. And the people who had nothing to offer did what they could to survive.

Then, one night, the son had a dream. He dreamt he was on an enormous pile of gold coins, all given by his father. He played with the coins, tossing them in the air and listening to the loud clanging of metal. Then the coins began to melt, casting the son into a river of molten gold, then transforming into murky waters. He struggled to keep afloat in this river as it rushed on. Soon, the sound of a waterfall roared up ahead.

And from somewhere deep, somewhere long forgotten, he called out.

“Please, help me!”

“Take my hand,” came a voice, soft and strong.

He looked up and there stood a man with a proffered hand. For a moment, he had thought it was his father, who had long gone to his grave. No, it was not he. But this man seemed more familiar.

Then shame overcame the son.

“I cannot. I have no gold to offer you.”

And the man laughed a gentle laugh.

“It is not gold that I seek from you. For I seek nothing but you.”

As the son was ready to rush past the man, pushed by the waters, and to meet his fate at the falls, he reached out and grabbed the hand.

Upon the ground, the son coughed on his knees. As he looked up, the man lifted him to his feet, the touch giving him strength and drying his clothes.

“Who are you?”

“I am a friend of such an ancient time, before towers were made and gold was ever mined. We walked together under a sun so kind that it shed light upon our every footstep.”

“But I don’t remember that.”

“You will once again. And when you do, you will no longer drown in all you have accrued.”

“But how?”

“You will know. For I will still be standing by your side as I have always done. That day will come when you will hear the whispering of my guidance over the clanging of coins and the flattery of lies.”

The dream ended.

And upon the morrow, the son rose. The memory of the dream faded. Yet as he went about his usual affairs, something did not feel right. All around him were the smiles of his golden circle. Yet his stomach turned. He wanted to rush to the toilet and to spew out the smiles, the flattery, the hands flapping for gold. Yeah, even the gold itself.

“Out! Out! Out of my sight!”

When all had rushed away, he walked to a window in the tower and looked out over the land. For the first time, he saw the endless holes where gold had been mined and the squalor where the people lived.

And he then remembered the dream and the hand. And with tears never seen before the tossing of his father’s first coin, he descended the stairs, listening to the whispering of one who walked beside.

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“Wealth is the slave of a wise man. The master of a fool.” — Seneca

Yesterday, during meditation, this story started to download with images and words. Then I went to the computer and began to write, often weeping as I did. It is easy to cast our brothers and sisters into roles of being villains when they sit in their towers or mansions on the hills. But those who seek the heights and to tower over the lesser ones, have forgotten who they are, and their desperate need to rise higher, only conversely sends them lower into forgetfulness of their divine essence.

Those who have the most, suffer the most, because they can’t understand why they are still unhappy, despite having acquired everything that the world could offer. And in acquiring that wealth, unless gained by the upliftment of humanity, one cuts oneself off from the whole.

“As human beings we each have a responsibility to care for humanity. Expressing concern for others brings inner strength and deep satisfaction. As social animals, human beings need friendship, but friendship doesn't come from wealth and power, but from showing compassion and concern for others.”—Dalai Lama