Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones:
Paradise, with the Worship of the Holy Lamb
(c. 1875-80)

"…expect to witness him ending worlds."

Eventually, every despot in the history of this world so far has encountered the absolute necessity of EndingAWorld. Despots rely on promises of apocalyptic transformation, something exponentially worse than any actual threat warrants. Such threats encourage a sense of powerfulness like no other stance ever does. If one can end a world, it also demonstrates that essential cavilier nature everyone expects from a despot, seemingly capable of EndingAWorld with all the sangfroid usually reserved for dispatching a gnat. Nothing screams absolute power like such indifference does, a whisper vanquishing a hurricane, a shrug demolishing some ancient civilization.

Worlds end every day, as easily and as often as worlds are born. It’s a normal feature of all existence that it blinks in and out on itself, annihilating and restoring in only slightly differing guises. Generations trade batons while continuing ever forward on. Often, that momentum proves convincing enough that we hardly notice our own world’s demise. They often just seem to slip out of focus and evaporate as if they were never here, but they were. They were once more than merely here; they were dominant and preeminent, yet they all ultimately virtually disappeared. No past can ever be present here with us.

It’s small magic, then, for a despot, when he decides that time has come to set about EndingAWorld, to muster an end. In the early nineteenth century, one apocalyptic religious sect after another encountered this same age-old dilemma. Their prophecies foretold their savior’s return, and they more or less desperately required an apocalypse to be delivered on some specific day, time, and place. The prophet, the sect’s visionary leader, was expected to be able to predict the blessed event, and so they did. The truest believers then sold all their worldly possessions, or, more properly, simply gave them away to less than true believers. They appeared at the appointed hour, naked of worldly possessions, prepared for rapture, sure and certain that their worldly sins would be foregiven and that they would be transported to a forever and ever heaven, Amen. Of course, this cruel world uniformly failed to deliver on that prophet’s promise.

What happened next separated the masters from lowly apprentice prophets. Hasty meetings in the prophet’s tent resulted in an announcement before the disappointed crowd. The best response I know of went something like this: The world actually ended, but our Lord, in his benevolence, protected us from experiencing the cataclysm, leaving us with the illusion that the evil former world didn’t end. Trust me as you trust him, that old world has ended. You have been saved and protected from the pain that EndingAWorld brings. The emperor, then, isn’t as naked as he might feel with a disconcerting breeze whistling between his belly and his knees, but clothed in the finest reward his heavenly father could possibly bestow. Go, then, and thrive, for the long-sought kingdom of Heaven is yours today, forever and ever, Amen.

Now, that was one first-class sermon! Not all the acolytes were convinced, though. Some fled to live with formerly disaffected relatives until they could put their old lives back together and start recovering from their recent fleecing. The rest proceeded with an even more unshakable vision and faith in the future certainly awaiting them. Some of this world’s great religions went through more or less this same experience, and each was curiously stronger for it. So, when our despot declares that he’s ending a civilization on Tuesday, then reneges on that promise because his imaginary enemies suddenly came to their senses, a world disappeared, the one that had so securely held that story he had so abruptly wagered before making it utterly disappear. He’s reborn a savior, at least as far as he’s concerned. The rest of us can either deny or believe, but if we expect to experience entertaining theater, we’ll be wiser to suspend our disbelief.

There will be no end to such stories. If we demand mythical leaders, we should expect to be roughly treated, for the larger and more transformative the myth, the greater the theatrics necessary to manifest it. That it’s essentially all bullshit does nothing to lessen its effect. Expect the tap dancing to continue at least as long as the despot draws breath, for the theatrics seem inseparable from the necessary performance. He might not be much of a showman, but he holds the stage until he doesn’t anymore. Unless or until, expect to witness him ending worlds.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #EndDays, #PureSchmaltz