by Jerome Phillips

For some twenty years Bobby Shell's routine was much the same. As assistant custodian for the Blue Temple, his duties were defined in our text. He made little eye contact with others as he dutifully cleaned, polished and maintained the temple. At staff meetings he was nearly mute, or offered only a few suggestions when spoken to.

No one could associate him with conflict of any kind. It wasn't that he was lazy or disinterested; his Zen-like dedication set the tempo for much of the work surrounding our community. He blended in well and his focus was astounding.

It was a short walk from the housing pods to the front gate. Serana, the gatekeeper, had seen Bobby check through so frequently that a mere glance, or raised brow could hologram the spirit of his day's activities.

How Bobby ever made it was a miracle. Made it to age fifty. Made it out of the penitentiary. Made it through rehabilitation. Made it. His first ten years were spent unconsciously; a Rube Goldberg maze of dead ends. A life that could have been described as boring if only there had been someone there to observe it. The notion of free-will occurred only when he decided that suicide was just too much effort. Something, eventually, had to happen in his life.

His sister, Doris, looked through the security cage as the guard monitored both of them. Prison life was not so bad. No better or worse than his childhood; a baseline environment, and the only world he had known. But this particular day there was a turning point, something about the familiar lines of Doris' face made him feel love. So he chose to continue living, and continue living with as little hassle to his only living relative.

Grandmother and Grandpa were long gone. Mom was more of an idea than flesh and bones. She visited him a few times in his childhood, and she'd leave him with a quick hug, some stupid advice, and in a haze of cigarette smoke. He recalled having a few friends during his childhood, but it was unclear where they were these days, or their exact names were a bit hazy. In 1963, when his sister Doris came to rescue him from his grandparents, there had been no time to pack what little he had: the stolen Sting Ray bike, his favorite nudie magazine, and his two favorite t-shirts. On that night there was no possibility of phoning schoolmates to tell them he was leaving Collinsville.

In the subsequent years it became clear that he couldn't do a proper job at anything. His crimes were even half-baked failures; so boring and ill conceived that the judges often couldn't entirely track the event. Even a good beating by a gang member seemed out of his reach. Even now he was unclear what infraction sent him to juvenile hall.

But there was one molecule of hope within his skull. And an amazing molecule it was. As he visited with Doris at the corrections facility he felt — for the first time — a sense of loyalty to her. It crawled up his spine and sat behind his eyes. For even if her intervention in his childhood was a mistake, it was a loving mistake. For Doris to nab him in the night required love and courage. Some years later here she was again, and after driving a great distance. She spoke of his unseen nephews, currently in the waiting room; about her own life and about the dreams she had for their future. She was here because of a new twist of fate.

A new opportunity for Bobby had come seemingly from nowhere. Doris said he had been selected as a candidate for a rehabilitation program: it was sponsored by a group of clerics she knew. It made sense for him to enter the program, and it required him to do no more than what he was told to do.

For two years Bobby attended the custodian program. There was more to it than cleaning and maintenance. There were rituals and laws to abide by. The temples he served were sacred. The monks that designed and oversaw these programs were devoted and skillful. Benevolent, to be sure. The premise was that discarded people could change. They could serve a higher cause. The key was to completely separate the inmate from their original environment and the people they had known. Bobby figured it beat confinement.

Bobby went beyond expectations. He awoke at 5am and went straight for the showers; at 5:30 a.m. he was clothed and walking to the dining building. He bussed his plates and was on the workers transport in no time at all. After ten years of this he gained the respect of the supervisors and clerics. While it was impossible for anyone with his past to advance to the administration level, his excellent work record allowed Bobby to skip the uncomfortable evaluations which dogged other trainees. He was left alone to do his work with a degree of dignity, both within himself and among the staff at the Blue Temple. What spare time he had was used to help teach and inspire others.

The Blue Temple was one of the primary Color Temples on the holy island of Ismahi. People frequented the outer rooms of the holy site on a daily basis, praying and meditating. Only the Observer was in the innermost room, the sanctuary where Blue existed. For laity to actually experience a color was a mythical waypoint, like 'going to heaven' is for Christians. People claimed to enter the Godhead, but no one actually believed them.

Blue is more of an idea than a physical place. Like the mythical heaven the Christians speak of, a primary color's main function was as a platonic form. For it was irreligious to actually state that one had seen heaven. I mean really been there. One's life is often ruled by an idea of a place, like the archetypes of hell or heaven. But to claim to have first hand experience of it was another matter – a sure sign of madness, or worse.

Bobby, or Robert — as he is now referred to — had worked among the most notable of our scholars and writers, not originally as a functioning equal, but as an equal nevertheless. In our theology we are all equal... some more than others. But I leave these contemplations to the holy ones and return to Robert's story.

As the politics of the Blue Temple changed, Robert didn't. He was always there in his standard issue taupe uniform; doing what he had always done. Yet, without anyone ordering him to do so, he intuitively moved closer to the center of events. Eventually he provided direct service to the Observer. He provided the food, resources, and cleaning for the Observer; rituals were performed flawlessly.

How it happened is mysterious; perhaps it was because Robert never offended anyone. Some felt it was because he had a personal agenda, that he was single-minded and not distracted. Without any formal training he had come to represent the classic stories the monks teach in our classes: The ideal behavior of a person devoid of distractions. Robert simply served the Blue Temple for twenty years, spoke very little, and affirmed others with his soft and knowing eyes.

That Robert was elected to enter the inner room and become the new Observer is modern legend. And what he must have seen and felt when he sat "In Blue" is central on our minds. This much we do know; all forms need us in the same way we need them. Blue must be seen continuously. Like all gods, they demand sacrifice, not in blood and such. Blue needs to be seen throughout eternity.

Before my life of prayer began I understood that the role of The Observer was the highest of achievements. For to relinquish our family, walk away from our personal history, and dedicate our bones to Blue requires courage few have. But to "envy" Robert? No. And that is what makes him perfect: the perfect balance between divine and mortal.

He can never leave the inner room.

Blue — the color I was born under — shapes every waking moment. We know that the color of the sky, and its many variants, can only be a diluted aspect of primary Blue. She dances with Green in our oceans. Blue finds its way into the eyes of our most lovely women. I am constantly stunned to see it in my everyday life, appearing and receding, as it wishes. And I am humbled to contemplate that I worked with Robert.

When Robert entered the inner room of the Blue Temple we wept openly. He performed every ritual flawlessly, and without being trained to do so. The most sacred was the removal of the expired body of His predecessor, and His placement in the pyre. The event occurred outside of place and time, flowed like water.

So it seems only natural that I now spend the balance of my life contemplating Robert Shell and his sacrifice to The Blue Temple. I am grateful to have worked aside him for those years: Grateful to have seen the story unfold from the beginning, and to report to the counsel as I am doing now. I am left to imagine what he may have felt when he sat down, never to arise again, as he opened the veil and looked directly into our god.

**************

Jerome Phillips was born in East St. Louis. A well-respected musician/singer, as a young teen he backed up Mitch Ryder and Mike McDonald. He left the Midwest for California and received a degree in Philosophy and Transpersonal Psychology in 1976. His professional life was spent in musical instrument product development, restoration and marketing. Much of his later life was spent on boats.

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