In a certain city of the East, where the sun cast its golden glow upon domed palaces and the scent of myrrh lingered in the air, there dwelled a sculptor of great renown. His name was Asaph, and he was an artist of the highest order, though, like all great artists, he was profoundly misunderstood.
One evening, as the stars trembled in the sky like drops of molten silver, Asaph was summoned before a group of merchants and noblemen. They stood in a circle, their robes embroidered with gold, their hands heavy with rings that whispered of ancient wealth.
“We desire an idol,” declared one, stroking his beard with an air of magnificent self-satisfaction. “A god of our own making, one that shall gleam brighter than the sun, for we have grown weary of unseen divinities.”
“A calf,” added another, adjusting the folds of his silk robe. “A golden calf, for gold is the measure of all things.”
Now, Asaph, being an artist and thus afflicted with both genius and an unfortunate tendency toward compliance, agreed at once. He was given a chest of gold, melted down from the rings of merchants, the bracelets of their wives, and, if rumor were to be believed, the gilded teeth of their ancestors. With this, he began his work.
For days and nights, he labored. His hammer rang like a bell of prophecy, his chisel sang in the darkness. Slowly, the calf took form—its hooves poised as if to dance, its eyes wide and luminous, reflecting the light of its own perfection. When it was finished, Asaph stepped back and sighed, for even he, though accustomed to beauty, was awed by what he had created.
Word of the idol spread like a perfume-laden breeze. The people gathered in adoration, their lips trembling with prayers of praise—not to the heavens, but to this calf of gold, this miracle of molten wealth. Poets composed verses to its radiance, jewelers sought to adorn it with yet more riches, and even philosophers, who should have known better, declared that surely no unseen deity could compare with such tangible magnificence.
Yet Asaph, standing apart from the revelers, felt a strange emptiness. He watched as the merchants bowed low before the idol, their eyes gleaming with the same hunger that had first led them to commission it. They did not worship its beauty, as he had done, nor did they see in it the soul of an artist’s toil. No, they saw only the reflection of their own wealth, their own power.
One night, as the celebrations swelled to a fevered pitch, Asaph climbed the hill overlooking the city. The golden calf stood in the square, wreathed in garlands, its polished body catching the light of a thousand torches. Below it, the people danced, their laughter ringing through the streets, their voices calling out in exultation.
A strange sadness gripped the sculptor’s heart. He saw that the calf, for all its beauty, was but a mirror, reflecting not divinity, but the folly of men. He had given them art, and they had made it into a god.
And so, with a heart both heavy and resolved, he turned and walked away, leaving behind the golden calf and the city that worshipped it. For he knew, as all true artists must, that beauty is never meant to be adored for its own sake, nor should gold be mistaken for greatness.
The city, of course, continued to bow before its idol, and the merchants counted their wealth beneath its gilded gaze. But the sculptor’s hands would never again touch gold, for he had learned that nothing tarnishes more quickly than that which men hold most dear.
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