Teenage Jesus and the Saints

There’s something absurdly captivating in watching experts circle around their words, the jousting for linguistic territory that borders on ritual. It’s a dance that seems, on the surface, sharp and intellectual, yet beneath, it hums with irony. They play their games with terminology, defending the sanctity of names, debating ownership of thought like it’s the ultimate stake. But my mind is miles away from the ring. I’m less concerned with the names and more with what lives beneath them—the soil, its ancient heartbeat, and the way history has molded and marred it, leaving gaps we rarely talk about.

Let’s cut the lamenting. This isn’t about concern; it’s about clarity, about finding what matters under the noise of academic games and surface-level posturing. The truth is, the soil beneath our feet has a story that’s deeper than any debate or paper can touch. It holds the real art—the unrecorded, raw essence of human progress.

There’s something profoundly meta in observing their debates—the games they play, some knowingly and others blissfully unaware. These are not just games of nomenclature, but battles for intellectual territory, feints and counter-moves in a language war. And yet, what lies beneath that contest? I care less for the labels, the precise positioning of scholarly boundaries. It’s the tilled earth of history that calls to me, with its scars and unseen shifts, the overlooked realities of those who farmed with hands calloused by generations of untold stories.

Farming, at its most elemental, is not just an industry or a backdrop to modern discourse; it is an ancient art, stubbornly alive in its resistance to neat classification. It shaped and was shaped by war, peace, droughts, floods, politics, and trade. And these gaps in its history—where records fail, where voices were drowned out by louder, more “civilized” penmanship—are where the most artful narratives are hidden. These omissions are where history breathes through cracks, raw and unfiltered.

So, while the experts are busy naming, renaming, and staking out their linguistic hills, I find myself compelled to wander the valleys, the under-told stories of soil and survival. They argue over words, as we all do, playing out our intellectual gladiatorial contests, but what of the hands that sowed without a name, without a mention? That’s where the art of history lies, in those silences that shape what we know and what we think we know. In the games of words, we often miss the roots holding the game board together.

In a recent ruling by the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Washington, Judge Stanley Bastian determined that the "Glory" cherry variety, patented by Washington state grower Gordon Goodwin, is genetically identical to the "Staccato" cherry developed by Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada (AAFC).

This decision followed a five-day bench trial in April 2024, where evidence from 13 fact witnesses and five expert witnesses was presented. The court's formal findings, issued on August 22, 2024, confirmed that "Glory" is, in fact, "Staccato.

The "Staccato" cherry, developed by AAFC's Summerland Research and Development Centre in British Columbia, is notable for its late maturation, allowing growers to extend the cherry harvest season.

The court's decision underscores the importance of protecting plant breeders' rights and maintaining the integrity of agricultural patents.

The case continues as the parties address remaining substantive claims. Here I am, a grown-ass man, looking at this mess and wondering why anyone should grow up if this is what it leads to. If “growing up” means stepping into a world where land—the very ground we stand on—is nothing more than a product to trade, where lives are secondary to the deals inked in boardrooms and protected by lawyers with their fine print and cops with their badges, then no, thank you. This is the reality reported, seen, and felt, as covered by local sources like Castanet in Vernon, BC. They shine a light on how this system, with its deep roots in archaic practices, continues to play out today, leaving people as collateral while the powerful shuffle deeds and profits like it’s just another day.

It’s ugly, old, a relic of a society from hundreds of years ago that still clings to life as if progress doesn’t matter. You’d think it would just die already, but no—it drags itself forward, polished up and modernized but still the same. And I’m supposed to want to grow up and play that game? Some days, it feels better to stand outside it, watch it for what it is, and know that Castanet and others are out there capturing the stories that remind us of how deep the rot goes and how the stakes are never just lines on paper but lives entangled in the same old struggle.

The farmers, the toilers, the ones who knew the soil by feel and instinct, they shaped economies long before anyone put numbers to them. They didn’t care for names, for who laid claim to the latest variety of fruit or the most efficient method. They cared for survival, for the rhythm of seasons, for how to make things grow when everything else around them failed. They didn’t waste time defining the game; they played it, adapting to the unrelenting unpredictability of nature.

That’s the truth that cuts through the pretense. The soil doesn’t care about us. It doesn’t care about names, about experts in courtrooms staking claims. It’s there, resilient and indifferent, holding the secrets of those who worked it without leaving behind anything but a story whispered in the way roots entwine or the way the earth crumbles in a dry hand.

We’re here, dissecting, renaming, playing at owning knowledge. But the real legacy? That’s buried deeper, under layers of history and hands that didn’t need acknowledgment. Let them argue over what’s on the surface. I’m here for what’s underneath, for the roots that don’t care if they’re called glory or staccato, as long as they find their way through the dark.

To me, the soil isn’t just an input, a medium through which life springs and economy thrives. It’s a memory bank, a witness to the rise and fall of empires, the quiet resilience of farmers who worked it without ever being written into the story.

History, like an old map, shows clear paths and borders, but it’s the blank spaces—the uncharted corners—where the art lies. The parts where people lived, toiled, and handed down knowledge without a paper trail. This is where our understanding breaks down into a guessing game, an academic blind spot.

In the quiet spaces between stories and scripture, where history, legend, and belief converge, there’s room for a tale about teenage Jesus—rebellious, hungry for knowledge that the scrolls don’t quite capture, and eager to understand the true scope of the divine. To do this, we have to turn to Enoch, the scribe of God, and a time when the world was filled with whispers of many gods, each weaving their part of the cosmic fabric.

Enoch, the seventh patriarch in the line of Adam, stands apart in the Old Testament’s genealogy not for his deeds on earth but for the mysteries surrounding his departure from it. Genesis 5:24 states, Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, because God took him away.” This terse account is deepened by the Book of Enoch, a collection of writings that delve into visions of heavens, angels, and the undercurrents of divine power. This text, known more formally as 1 Enoch, was influential in the Second Temple period and widely read in Jewish and early Christian communities before being largely set aside as religious canon solidified.

The Book of Enoch speaks of watchers—angels who descended to earth, intermingled with humans, and taught them advanced knowledge, from agriculture to astronomy. These revelations, however, came at a cost, introducing strife and hubris among mortals. The story of Enoch is one of cosmic hierarchy and the boundaries between the divine and the profane.

The world Enoch inhabited, or at least the world that informed the stories about him, was one where monotheism was not yet absolute. The civilizations of Mesopotamia—home to Akkadian, Sumerian, and Babylonian cultures—spoke openly of pantheons. Their gods had distinct roles, domains, and temperaments: Ishtar, the fierce goddess of love and war; Enlil, the powerful god of wind and storms; and Sin (Nanna), the serene and enigmatic god of the moon, whose worship stretched across the plains and deserts of the ancient Near East.

These gods were more than figures of myth; they were woven into the governance of cities, the practice of law, and the cyclical nature of agriculture. Moon worship, in particular, was pervasive. The lunar deity was associated with wisdom, measurement of time, and celestial cycles, making the moon not only an object of reverence but a critical part of life. This polytheistic framework underpinned the worldview of early Semitic tribes, including the ancient Hebrews before their shift toward strict monotheism.

When we speak of the transition from polytheism to monotheism, we’re looking at a seismic shift in theological and social landscapes. The worship of one God, Yahweh, became central to the Hebrew people’s identity, distinguishing them from their neighbors. This transition was not sudden but developed over centuries, with monotheism gaining ground as Israel solidified its cultural and spiritual doctrines, eventually shaping the texts that would become the Old Testament.

Monotheism brought with it unity and a powerful, shared identity among the tribes of Israel. The concept of a single, all-encompassing deity fostered cohesion and offered a moral compass that was absolute. However, the dominance of monotheism also meant that the stories of old gods, the plurality of divine beings, and even certain traditions were marginalized, their echoes surviving only in texts like *Enoch* or whispered through cultural practices that were adapted or erased.

The Teenage Jesus and the Saints, i.e. Cat Priests

Now, imagine a young Jesus, raised on stories that straddled both strict monotheistic teachings and the older tales that still breathed through family lore, the trade routes, and the scholarly exchanges in towns like Nazareth. His curiosity isn’t sated by what’s known; it’s piqued by the unknown, the glimpses of past gods and divine watchmen who once roamed freely.

Enter the Akkadian cat priests, keepers of lunar wisdom and oral traditions that date back to the great ziggurats and temples where Sin was worshipped. These priests, adorned in cloaks embroidered with crescent moons and ancient script, have survived into this time as relics of an older world, tucked away in secret enclaves and occasionally stepping into the light to teach those bold enough to seek them out. GJ—our rebellious young Jesus—finds them not because he was told to, but because he feels the pull of a deeper story.

They speak to him not only of Yahweh but of the tapestry of gods that once held sway over the world. They tell him of Enoch, the scribe who walked beyond the veil, and the watchers who defied the divine order to share knowledge with humanity. They speak of how monotheism’s rise eclipsed the old ways, of the unity it brought, but also of the silence it imposed—how it snuffed out the diversity of thought and divine identity that once allowed mortals to see the divine in myriad forms.

And then, in a flash of starlight under the shadow of a crescent moon, the visitors arrive. They are not gods, not angels, but something in between, beings with skin that seems to ripple like the night sky, wearing shirts marked with Xawat—a symbol of cosmic knowledge that GJ cannot yet decipher. They don’t speak down to him, don’t call him chosen or divine. They call him student, a rebel who doesn’t want to grow into the preordained mold of savior, but rather into someone who questions, learns, and evolves.

These beings, like the watchers of Enoch’s tales, come with lessons—not just of power and knowledge but of the consequences of wielding them. They teach him that rebellion, the refusal to accept one path, isn’t a flaw but a necessity when seeking the truth.

GJ, with eyes wide and mind open, tips his hat back—the cowboy in him never fully banished—and grins, ready to learn about the cosmos, the past, and the divine not in a singular, monolithic way, but in the many shades that history, culture, and philosophy have to offer. In this moment, he’s not just a young prince destined for a cross; he’s Enoch’s successor, a student of forgotten gods, ready to bridge the old and the new.

What pulls me isn’t what experts name things, but how they’ve overlooked the lives that shaped them. Economists talk yields, supply and demand, the invisible hand as if it all happens on a chessboard. But step back, peel away the numbers and the jargon, and you find something wilder. An economy that started with hands in the dirt, with seeds exchanged like whispered secrets, with survival bartered long before a ledger ever existed. It wasn’t theories that fed people; it was knowledge passed without fanfare, honed through failure, storm, and sun. That’s the real root of economics, something raw and elemental that philosophies tend to forget.

And philosophy, for all its ivory tower games, circles back to this too, doesn’t it? How we think, why we act, how we justify what we take. There’s a kind of meta-consciousness in recognizing these layers, in watching the word games unfold while knowing they rest on the backs of those who had no time for names, only for work. The soil doesn’t care what we call its fruit, nor does it pause for our arguments. It holds its truths quietly, until a hand digs in deep enough to understand.

The dialogues of experts, sharp with precision and chiseled by years of academic rigor, often orbit around language—definitions, attributions, ownership of the word. It’s an irony so rich that the casual observer may taste it on the surface: that arguments over the names of things, the semantics of knowledge, could be so fierce when the essence, the marrow, lies largely ignored beneath. To take a step back is to witness a game with rules so ingrained that the players forget they’re playing. They play with words, while the true theater of meaning—the soil, the long, gnarled root of history—sits silent.

But to only watch them is not enough. To understand the soil—literally and metaphorically—is to look at the natural sciences, economics, and philosophy as intertwined threads in a fabric much richer than the surface-level discourse suggests. Agriculture, for instance, is not merely a background for economics or the environmental sciences; it is the beating heart that sustains them, sculpting civilization one harvest at a time.

Historically, the economic structures of entire societies were shaped not in boardrooms but in the quiet, arduous labor of the fields. The invention of crop rotation and the development of soil fertility practices were as revolutionary as the printing press or the steam engine, albeit their impact, too, was unceremoniously anonymized in the history books. Farmers, who shaped these practices, lived and died by their hands without titles or acknowledgment. The early whispers of economic thought, long before Smith or Ricardo penned their treatises, lay there in the soil, in the exchange of seeds and yields, in the informal bartering systems, and in the inherent understanding that value is not only harvested but cultivated.

Yet, economics, detached from its source, became a game of abstractions. The soil, in all its nutrient-laden complexity, became just another input. And here’s where philosophy steps in, not to argue semantics but to question the assumptions underpinning these very abstractions. The philosophical thread leads us back to the question: How did the history of farming, with all its unrecorded lessons, shape not just our economies but our consciousness? And conversely, how does our consciousness, armed with its drive for control and categorization, shape what we extract from the soil?

There’s a story in the earth’s layers, one that economic models seldom capture because they focus on yield per acre, market prices, and GDP contributions. Philosophy urges us to look deeper. The soil is not just a medium; it’s a repository of human endeavor and failure, of resilience and adaptation. It holds the echoes of civilizations that rose and fell by their ability to steward, or exhaust, its wealth. The fall of the Fertile Crescent or the Dust Bowl of the 1930s are not just historical footnotes; they are lessons in the philosophy of consequence.

And so, when I hear debates over whether a “Glory” cherry is just a “Staccato” by another name, I wonder about the hands that planted both, about the forgotten cultivators whose sweat embedded itself into the genetic code of those trees. The question is not who owns the patent but who shaped the soil’s patience over generations, who whispered to it in sun and rain. Economically, the debate is a footnote; philosophically, it’s a mirror held up to our obsession with control, taxonomy, and legacy.

The art here, the true game worth playing, is not just about what we call a thing but about what that thing tells us when we are willing to listen past the noise of our own arguments. The soil has a voice—a long, silent history that holds the untold stories of economic power, philosophical humility, and scientific ingenuity. Our job, then, is not just to argue over its fruits but to understand the roots and the reasons they grow as they do. In those roots, in the unseen, we find not just history but the art of humanity itself, ever playing, ever learning.

So, let them argue over cherries and patents, over what’s “Glory” and what’s “Staccato.” I’ll be over here, digging into the gaps, trying to hear what the soil has to say about where we’ve been and where we’re going. Because history, true history, isn’t tidy or linear. It’s full of artful gaps, shaped by hands that left no mark but the one that mattered most: life pushing through, stubborn and unnamed.