Mr. Aran’s primary contribution is the exposure he provides those concepts, exposure increased by the claims others have made that he is a new messiah. While the people he angers were angry already, and in these volatile and angry times, he may actually be a calming influence. Meanwhile his teachings touch far more people than those who write outraged letters to newspapers, and fume or thunder on the Web, or on right-wing radio and television.
Far less sensational than Mr. Aran’s theology, and his powerful if low-key charisma, are the accessibility and promotion he has provided two other creations not primarily his own: the Abilities Release procedures developed by Dr. Peter Verbeek, and the so-called Millennium Procedures which are outgrowths of them. They too are basically Verbeek’s, with Mr. Aran contributing to their development. Verbeek, a practicing psychiatrist and eclectic, had in his turn borrowed, modified, and expanded on ideas from sources as diverse as Carl Jung and Edgar Cayce.
This is not to belittle Verbeek’s work, or Aran’s contributions to it. Virtually all useful developments in anything have roots in the research and experience of earlier workers.
In the long run, Mr. Aran’s promotion of these demonstrably valuable therapies may prove to be his most important contribution to our tomorrows.
Dr. G.S.M. Venkatanarayana
Associate Professor of Philosophy
Oberlin College
Oberlin, Ohio
37
Luther Koskela felt ill at ease in Denver’s McNichols Sports Arena. He’d been more comfortable snooping the Ranch, 170 miles south. But he needed a feel for arenas and crowds as an operating environment.
A pregame hockey or basketball crowd, he told himself, would be louder. Presumably most of the waiting 15,000 or so believed in Ngunda, and were there to hear him in person. The simply interested or curious could watch and listen from their living rooms. Given the hard times, the admission wasn’t all that low—two dollars for the cheap seats, and three where he sat in the second tier. Those at floor level were $10 each; $25 for the five front rows. Presumably they paid for the proximity to the speaker; he did not doubt he’d hear perfectly well from where he sat. And he had a better overall view of the arena, which gave him a better idea of how events like this were managed.
He hadn’t tried to bring a gun in. He was simply scouting. The Arena Authority had manned security screening gates at the entrances, and if he’d brought a gun inside earlier in the week, it would have had to survive the inevitable pre-event shakedown, complete with dogs. And the odds of getting off an aimed shot, then getting out alive and uncaptured . . . Uh-uh!
Lute’s continued interest in killing Ngunda wasn’t driven by professional pride, and certainly not by religious obsession. It was guilt that drove him now, guilt for escaping the fates of his teammates. The feeling surfaced only now and then, but somewhere beneath that surface it was continuously operative. Actually it was Sarge he felt guilty about; Sarge, who’d kept his mouth shut. Sarge in Leavenworth Penitentiary, under the Anti-Terrorism Act.
Lute rationalized that being free, he could still gun down Ngunda and complete the mission, which would make things right.
He’d already learned some things. Ngunda Aran didn’t use a ClearScreen, which to Koskela meant he was either reckless or trying for martyrdom. He also used a slender lectern, instead of the broad variety with veneer over steel plate, popular with politicians in these times. And Ngunda had just two bodyguards with him, walking a stride behind and to the sides. Neither sat close to him on the speakers’ platform. The only people physically near him were dignitaries, identified on the program as the mayor, the lieutenant governor, a professor of ethics from Denver University, and the woman who’d sing the national anthem.
When the scoreboard clock showed 8:00 p.m., the mayor stepped to the microphone and greeted the crowd, then introduced the singer. The crowd stood, Koskela included. The organist played some introductory chords, then the singer began and the flag was raised.
Luther stood with hand over heart, thinking about neither country nor anthem. His lips moved—he might even have sung if he’d had any kind of singing voice—but his thoughts were on more important matters. At an outdoor event, he told himself, the hit should be more doable. Not easy, but doable. But there’d be no outdoor speeches till deep spring. Maybe March or April in places like Florida or the desert southwest. But sometime along the line, a spring and summer speaking schedule would be published. Then he could make specific plans.