The Choir Boy Parable
I wrote this parable to explore an archetype that I was beginning to see play out in my behaviour and then realised he had been there for a very long time, occasionally driving the bus.
Listen to the audio as you read, if that is helpful.
The Choir Boy Parable
"Hi everyone, this is my friend. He has come to stay."
The host beamed at the table.
"He has no money, but he has brought his trusty ukulele and a fine voice. He has offered to play a song or two before dinner—and maybe one or tw after, if everyone enjoys it."
"Oh, how wonderful!" exclaimed the dinner guests.
"Do you take requests?"
"Of course" the Choir Boy replied.
"What would you like to hear?"
The Choir Boy hid behind his politeness, never expressing what he needed, taking his audience's wants as his highest priority. When he smiled, it was not to express joy, but to appease. He was a professional. If you asked him how he was feeling, he would courteously respond,
“I am fine, how about you?”
As the Choir Boy picked up his ukulele to sing his first song, a heavy lethargy engulfed his arms. He pulled up a chair and listened to the request. He knew hundreds of songs. He knew that when he remembered the right song, it produced a kind of magic that delighted the guests to no end. Fortunately, tonight he knew the request well. If he played it right, he might get more than just a meal; he might get an invite to the next supper.
But inside, he felt alone. The dinner guests were not his friends; they were his providers. He was stuck in an endless loop. The guests changed, but the requests were always similar or the same. And the supper? Sometimes good, sometimes not nearly enough, sometimes poisonous to his system. Yet he still ate. It was comforting. Like an old friend.
Halfway through his second song, the maître d’ yelled,
"Dinner is ready!"
The guests turned their backs and moved to the dining table. It was beautifully laid out with silverware, flowers, and plates of delicious roast meat. The smell was incredible. The Choir Boy put his ukulele down and was about to stand up when a waiter placed a single plate of food on his lap.
The message was clear. He would not be joining the guests at the table. He was to eat here, alone. It was impolite to beg for more, so he hoped it was enough to satiate his hunger. A mild anger briefly arose in him at being treated so poorly—like a slave—but he swallowed it with the food.
As he finished, he heard the dinner guests in full noise—laughing, complaining about the wine, snickering. It was all a blur. He realised his entertainment was done; they had forgotten he was there. If only they would ask, he had so many fantastic stories to tell. But they never asked.
The Choir Boy stood up, his ukulele case in hand, and moved into the empty hall toward the front door. He intended to exit without a fuss
"Where are you going?"
He turned to see one of the guests—a beautiful young woman, radiant, holding a cocktail glass and glistening with jewels.
"I am going home" he lied.
His home was somewhere warm and dry outside. His jacket and pants were his pajamas and his performing clothes—light, velvety, and fragile. A little frayed, but the burgundy was rich to the touch, even if the gold trim was dirty. He did his best, but he knew he looked rough. A kind, generous patron would help, but that was a practice long forgotten by these guests.
"Could you play me a song?" she pleaded.
"Go on, please, before you go. Your voice is so lovely"
He bowed.
"It would be my pleasure. What would you like to hear?"
She clapped her hands in delight.
"Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy" she said. "My daddy was in the war. He was so brave. I loved him so much. This reminds me of him."
A tear fell innocently down her cheek.
The Choir Boy readied his ukulele. He had played this song a thousand times. He began to strum.
Suddenly, everything went blank. A sharp, tearing pain seized his throat. It felt as though he was bleeding out from the inside, his life force draining away with every polite note he tried to sing.
The young woman’s face twisted into worry.
"What is wrong?"
The Choir Boy tried to speak, but the wound in his voice had opened. Live snakes poured out of his mouth, slick and red, licking the air with their tongues. There was no sound, only the slithering of coils.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He was shocked. Most women would scream and run at the sight of snakes. He wanted to scream too, to run from this manic horror spilling out of him. But not wanting to alarm her further, he quickly packed up his ukulele, bowed politely, and mumbled through the blockage.
"I must go." and turned towards the front door.
The young woman looked at him, her innocence replaced by a piercing clarity.
"But where will you go with snakes in your mouth?"
He froze.
"You heard me, young man. Where will you go with snakes in your mouth?"
"Nowhere" he sheepishly replied.
"That is right" she said. "Let that be your lesson for tonight."
As he turned around, the young woman had vanished. In her place stood an old Sovereign Queen, regal and commanding. She looked at him once—seeing the snakes, seeing his confusion, seeing it all—and then disappeared.
Stunned, he stood in the silence, trembling with the horror of what he had just released. He did not run from it. He held his ground. And in that holding, the fear transformed.
He looked up and walked briskly back down the hall toward the dinner party. He could feel the raw redness of his throat transforming. The blockage was gone, replaced by a furnace of molten gold that fueled the breath of dragons.
He kicked the door open. The waiter greeted him with a startled smile, but the Choir Boy walked past him, jumped onto the middle of the dining table, and threw down his ukulele.
"Honoured guests!" he roared.
"Listen to me! I have a tale that will make your children scream and your skin crawl!"
The room fell silent.
"Listen to me if your life is worth a dime, and I will give you some of my precious time."
The guests looked at him in shock and awe.
"He is standing on the table" one husband whispered.
"Be quiet, Freddy" his wife hissed. "Let him speak."
The Choir Boy told his tale. But little did they know, it was his story—the real one that no one had ever heard. He told it like he lived it, because he had.
The dinner guests were crying and comforting one another, unable to look away. At the end, the Choir Boy got down from the table, picked up his ukulele and its case, and left without a word. The dinner party broke into chaos behind him—
"What was that?!"
"Who was that?!"
As he walked down the hall, the Choir Boy laughed to himself.
"No one" he thought "Going nowhere"
The spell of servitude had been broken. The spirit of the Sovereign Queen, regal and commanding, stood by his side.
"Well done, young man."
He realised that was all the applause he would ever need again.
The applause of the Sovereign in him.
