Mayok Media

Category: Spirituality

  • The Museum of Gods

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    A Lament for the Stolen Sacred

    They came with ships and sermons,
    crosses in one hand,
    guns in the other.
    They found altars we had made from stone and spirit,
    and called them blasphemy.

    They did not bow.
    They did not ask.
    They took.

    What they called idols
    were our elders in wood.
    Our prayers in bronze.
    Our wisdom braided into clay.

    They shattered the shrines
    and stole the statues.
    Said, “You are savages,”
    as they wrapped our gods in linen
    and mailed them to Europe.

    Then they built museums—
    temples of theft—
    where people now stand in quiet awe
    before the very things we were beaten for loving.

    And they say:

    “Look at the craftsmanship.”
    “Such primitive elegance.”
    “How valuable this is.”

    But what they mean is:

    “It only became sacred once we took it.”

    They bow now—
    but only to the plaque,
    to the frame,
    to the price tag.

    We see the altars behind glass.
    We are told to be grateful.
    That they were “preserved.”

    But what they mean is:

    “You were never meant to be trusted with your own holiness.”

    So we light candles in our lungs.
    We whisper prayers in hidden tongues.
    We touch soil and remember its name.
    We bow—not to stone,
    but to spirit.

    Because we know—

    A god behind glass
    is still a god.
    And the stolen sacred
    still sings.

  • Sisyphus in Heaven: Revolt, Eternity, and the Divine Dilemma

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    The Conversation

    Last night, my son Ude and I found ourselves in a spirited conversation about immortality. His philosophy class had just discussed Socrates—calmly facing his death, curious rather than afraid. Would it be oblivion? Or a new life? We paused, weighing the gravity of those possibilities. But then our conversation took a turn: toward eternity. Toward heaven. Toward hell. Toward Sisyphus.

    I told him I found beauty in Camus’ vision—that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Not because he has found meaning in the absurd task of rolling a boulder uphill forever, but because he chooses to embrace it anyway. That, I told my son, is my rebellion too.

    Death as Curiosity

    Socrates saw death not as a tragedy, but as the ultimate question mark. He imagined it as either the most peaceful sleep or a doorway to another kind of existence. His serenity came from detachment—but mine comes from immersion.

    I am not afraid of death because I refuse to let fear dictate how I live. I want to live boldly, consciously, even when I am broke, tired, or uncertain.

    The Joy in the Revolt – Camus and Sisyphus

    In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus gives us a man condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill forever. But Camus flips the script: “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” The absurd does not break us—it offers us the chance to revolt.

    Sisyphus is not a symbol of despair but of joyful defiance. His refusal to succumb to hopelessness is a model for all of us navigating the daily weight of survival in an existence that often appears meaningless.

    What is the meaning of life when it’s filled with suffering, repetition, and banality? Should we still be happy living it? But isn’t that what heaven—or hell—might feel like too?

    What If Sisyphus Went to Heaven?

    Here’s where my son and I diverged. He believes that in eternity, God will grant us divine knowledge. I asked—then what? If we all possess divine wisdom, are we truly equal, or does a hierarchy still linger? Will we know in full or only in part? Will questions remain? Will desires?

    Would some still long for drama, for choice, for something more than the endless praise of the one who sits on the throne? Will we still have free will?

    Sisyphus exercised his free will—and was punished for it. His revolt stopped people from dying, disrupting the cycle of life. In the cosmos of order, rebellion is often mistaken for chaos.

    In Revelation, the heavenly realm is filled with creatures covered in eyes, day and night proclaiming, “Holy, holy, holy.” It is an eternity of glory—but also of eternal surveillance, eternal memory, and eternal praise.

    And what happens when we remember pain? Earthly joys? Desires unmet? Might eternity itself begin to unravel under the weight of our memory?

    Jared M. August asks a similar question in his theological reflection: “What shall we remember?” He proposes that Revelation depicts the believer’s memory as preserved in eternity, reinforcing the importance of memory in all its forms—not just joy, but also pain, longing, and identity (The Gospel Coalition).

    Memory, Worship Fatigue, and Monotony. Is Heaven another Absurd Existence?

    Revelation promises that “they will serve him day and night in his temple” (Rev. 7:15). But what if service becomes suffocating?

    If we cannot imagine Sisyphus happy in his earthly absurdity, how can we prepare ourselves to embrace eternity? What if, like Sisyphus, a soul wakes up one eternal morning and says, “There must be more than this”?

    What if rebellion in eternity is not born of pride—but of boredom?
    What would happen to diversity, to desire, to difference?

    Maybe eternity, like the boulder, is heavy. Maybe the truest revolt is to find joy—even there.

    My Own Rebellion

    I told my son that I am Sisyphus already. I rise each day under the weight of bills, deadlines, longing, and fatigue. And still—I revolt.

    I choose life. I choose joy.
    Not because my situation is easy, but because my refusal to give up is sacred.

    I am not waiting for eternity to be handed to me.
    I am making eternity now, each moment I resist despair.
    I do not look forward to a heaven or hell as a place—
    But I live them as states of being. One cannot exist without the other.

    Questions for Eternity

    So I ask:

    What if Sisyphus reached heaven and still found the boulder there?
    Would he kneel in eternal worship, or would he smile, pick it up, and roll again—just because he could?

    Can we imagine an eternity that includes rebellion,
    Not as sin,
    But as spirit?

  • Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: Real Monsters, Political Horror, Fear, and the Fight for Truth

    Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: Real Monsters, Political Horror, Fear, and the Fight for Truth

    By Mary Mba, Ph.D.

    Scary Stories, Real Monsters: Political

    When Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark hit theaters in 2019, I remember walking out of the theatre with chills—not just from the film’s haunted monsters, but from the eerie resonance it had with real life. I quickly bought the entire three volumes of the book – because, I am that much of a book lover! Set in 1968 America—a time of war, protest, and political fear—the movie felt like a mirror reflecting our present, especially under Donald Trump’s administration. Watching it again now, in 2025, the mirror feels even sharper.

    Directed by André Øvredal and produced by Guillermo del Toro, the film is based on the cult-classic book series by Alvin Schwartz, notorious for its eerie tales and unforgettable illustrations. Set in 1968, the movie follows a group of teenagers who stumble upon a haunted book that begins writing new horror stories—stories that come true and target them one by one. But what begins as supernatural terror quickly reveals deeper truths: the danger of silence, the violence of misinformation, and the haunting power of stories told to protect the powerful and punish the marginalized.

    This is more than a horror movie. It’s a metaphor. A warning. A map of how fear, when turned into story, becomes power.

    Now, in 2025, with the resurgence of policies and rhetoric built on exclusion and fear, the film feels frighteningly prophetic.

    Haunted Books and Presidential Narratives

    In the film, a haunted book writes people into their deaths. The monster isn’t just Sarah Bellows, the ghost writing these tales—it’s the story itself. That’s where I saw the clearest parallel. During Trump’s first presidency, and now again, we’ve witnessed a flood of false, fear-driven narratives: immigrants as invaders, cities as war zones, the “other” as threat. These aren’t just political strategies—they are scary stories.

    And like in the film, the stories became real. Families were separated. ICE raids terrorized neighborhoods. DEI programs are now being banned. Schools are being forced to erase truth to protect power. At Haskell Indian Nations University, students lost teachers, coaches, and access to classes because of federally imposed cuts. Even some of Trump’s supporters are now losing their jobs. The stories don’t spare anyone in the end.

    Spiders Under the Skin: COVID, Contagion, and the Fear of Infestation

    One of the most disturbing scenes in the film is when a girl’s red spot explodes with spiders—an infestation no one saw coming. It’s a perfect metaphor for COVID-19. During the pandemic, fear of infection turned into racial hatred, especially against Asian Americans. Trump’s use of the term “China Virus” fueled hate crimes and conspiracy theories. The fear wasn’t just of the virus—it was of people. That’s how horror works: it dehumanizes first, then attacks.

    Monsters and Moral Panic

    The Jangly Man. Harold the Scarecrow. The Pale Lady. These monsters represent institutional violence, bureaucratic horror, and systemic fear. But the real monster? The book. The story. Because once a lie is told often enough, it writes itself into law.

    The monsters today wear new faces: “voter fraud,” “CRT,” “wokeness,” “illegals,” “replacement theory.” All scary stories written to justify real harm. And just like in the film, these monsters keep reappearing until we rewrite the story.

    The Gospel of Fear: Evangelical Narratives and Political Mythmaking

    Here’s where things get even deeper—and scarier.

    In The Plague by Albert Camus, Father Paneloux, a devout priest, tells his congregation that the deadly epidemic is a punishment from God for their sins. He preaches certainty. Judgment. But after witnessing the slow, agonizing death of a child, his theology begins to fracture. He offers a second sermon, filled not with answers, but with anguish. “We must love what we cannot understand,” he says, no longer able to justify suffering with spiritual logic.

    Now, think of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. The town of Mill Valley casts Sarah Bellows as a witch, a monster, a vessel of evil. Her story becomes gospel—passed down, accepted, unchallenged. But the truth? Sarah was a scapegoat, silenced by her powerful family to protect their reputation. The town believed the lie because it was easier than facing the truth.

    This is the same pattern we see in American evangelical narratives around Trump. For years, prominent religious leaders declared him a divine instrument—a flawed but chosen vessel sent by God to save the nation. His policies, no matter how harmful, were spiritualized. Wrapped in prophecy. Justified with scripture.

    But now, as cuts to global health programs, aid organizations, and basic humanitarian services take effect—even those who once defended him are starting to feel the fallout. The suffering can no longer be hidden. Just like Father Paneloux. Just like the people of Mill Valley. The story is cracking.

    And here’s the hard truth: when fear becomes theology, monsters are born. When the gospel is used to silence, scapegoat, and justify cruelty—it stops being gospel at all. It becomes horror.

    So we must ask:

    • What kind of savior harms those he claims to protect?
    • What kind of story makes monsters of the innocent?

    It’s time to stop reading the same haunted script. It’s time to write something better.

    Rewriting the Story

    In the end, Stella doesn’t kill Sarah Bellows. She listens. She writes a new story—one based on truth. That’s what we’re being asked to do now.

    Camus called it “common decency.” I call it courageous storytelling. We have to tell the truth, especially when it’s uncomfortable. We have to protect our most vulnerable, especially when they’re being erased. And we have to remember: narratives are not neutral. They can kill. But they can also heal.

    The monsters aren’t just on screen. They’re in headlines, laws, policies, pulpits. But so is the pen.

    And we’re still holding it.

    💬 Share Your Thoughts

    Have you seen Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark? Did you see the parallels too? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Leave a comment or share this with someone who needs to read it.

    #Storytelling #HorrorAsMetaphor #EquityInEducation #Camus #AcademicLeadership #ScaryStoriesToTellInTheDark #AntiRacism #DEI #LinkedInThoughtLeadership