“You don’t like being referred to as Myth and Ritual, do you?” I asked my friend, Myth and Ritual, as September settled around us.
“Not really,” Myth and Ritual answered. “But people do what they have to do. I do what I have to do. Very little is predetermined, but very little is conscious choice.”
This didn’t surprise me. I want to think people have choices. That God has choices. But it’s never that simple.
Take death, for example. Over 6,000 people will die during the hour I spend writing this morning. Not many of them will have chosen to die, but nonetheless, they will pass gently or violently, awake or asleep, young or old, into what humans call death.
“Yes, choice appears to be a rather limited concept,” I echoed. “So whose calling the shots?”
“Ah, there are so many friends invited to that party. There’s Immune System. She’s an erratic one. And those nasty twins, Greed and Poverty. Genetics is always primping in the nearest mirror, giving Folly and Fate the evil eye. War, Famine, and Pandemics all elbow in on the action. Even the occasional virus or mosquito.”
“Enough!” I shook my head. “Those are just excuses.”
“It’s all the same. When Myth or Ritual fail, we step in as the Mother of all Excuses.”
“I am absolutely not calling you that,” I said.
Myth and Ritual laughed. “Got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Today, I’m going to call you Sparky,” I said. “We’re all just walking tinder boxes. You could fan us into flames with a glance.”
“Sparky,” they said. “We like that.”
“I figured you would,” I said. “People chop you into human size chunks and then try to defend you. It’s volatile.”
“That’s outlandish and dangerous!” Sparky declared. “A true deity needs no defense.”
“But good things seem to need defending,” I said. “And bad things need explaining.”
“Yes.” Sparky looked smug. “A dialectic.”
“So, we’re back to Myth and Ritual,” I said.
Sparky frowned. “Maybe. But the horses are saddled. They know the way.”
“To where?” I asked, disoriented by all the non sequiturs.
“To fruition.” Sparky’s voice had mellowed to water. “To peace.”
“How will I know which one to ride?” I asked.
“Different times, different horses,” Sparky murmured. “They’ll come when you call them by name. Courage. Forgiveness. Compassion. Joy. And. . .” Sparky paused. “You might not like the last one.”
Outside my window, fiery autumn foliage was blowing around.
“It’s Acceptance, isn’t it?” I whispered.
The trees swayed and held their ground even as the wind stripped them bare.
And I loved them for that.
Short visits with an honest God 