Flittering through memories, seen but unseen. Saving us. Or betraying us. Do they save us from or betray us to suffering?

We are all damaged. All of us. Even by those closest to perfection, or at least goodness. Our worlds built by those who could not fail but did. And do. And always will. 

As children looking to the gods above us—without error and holding answers to every question. Our boundaries defined from infancy but we not knowing they must someday be broken, worlds shattered with knowledge and experience as we pass from ignorance to greater ignorance to a darkness where we know we know nothing. The gods finally fail us.

Our mouths fed and bodies grown in truth. But whose truth? What of when the watchmen—the gods—can no longer watch over us? Our hands let go of to drift into worlds other than our own, ones we do not recognize because they are not known within our narrowness.

The words and rituals and symbols and practices and prayers and praises that once contained everything become suddenly ambiguous, a post-modern mottle of sounds and letters—meaningless—tied to nothing at all.

Into adulthood our gods become human, and we learn what it means to be failed. Is there a god who cannot? A god untethered to pride and fallibility and frailty?

The highest image of our faith becomes the uncertain face of our disbelief. Our unenlightened gods become human.

Then comes a God good enough to become human though not one who fails us—who comes in place of the god(s) who did.

A God unknown to men but known by all (in God’s humanity); who knows all; known only in our being known.

(I ask God to be failed by my gods—)

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