The Song and the Flame

Purify me?

I cannot/will not fix you.

I know that. The root cause is mine to address. All I’m asking is relief from current symptoms, this emotional turmoil that’s got me so torn up tonight.

*pause*

*wordless nod* All right, then, do this right. Clean, head to toe. Shave. Brush your teeth. Comb out your hair — don’t go to bed looking all wild like a maenad. Wash off that Rose Cross you put on earlier and put on some Delphi instead. There is some loose change in your pants pocket; in the morning, drop some of that into the offering dish. While you’re there, pick up some of what’s already there and put it in your purse — it’s time to start dropping it into collection canisters again. Rest. Sleep. Be at peace.

Thank you.

Years ago, one thing I considered an absolute “must” in my religious path was a personal connection to and relationship with deity. I got hit upside the head with one and figured I’d found what I needed.

That sounds like the introduction to a really bitter post about how I was so wrong. It’s not.

As time passed after the initial thwappage, I began to discover that what it meant for me was not what it meant for others. Others spoke of being given tasks to do, assignments, having been tapped for a particular purpose. I didn’t feel I had that. I sort of hung out with Apollo. I talked to Him, and He returned the favor, yes? But no sign of why ever really became apparent. This relationship just… was. Why? Why not?

Over time, the directness of the contact faded. The interaction between us became more formal, less immediate. It was no less meaningful for that, but I couldn’t help but question what the heck was going on anyway. Was I losing the connection? Was I letting personal emotion disappear into the habits of ritual and structure? And, still, where was that assignment? What did Apollo want of me?

The answer occurred to me last night. I have an appreciation for balance, even if it doesn’t play a big part in my religious beliefs or practices; the contrast between the sudden, almost physical impact of the initial thwap and the slow, steady dawning of this revelation makes me happy somehow.

I am called to follow. To worship, to honor, to praise. No more than that is desired of me now.

Let me be clear here, since some of those words hold some fairly negative connotations for some people. I am not called to self-abasement. I am not called to throw my brain in the trash and follow blindly along. I am not called to claim anyone as perfect, flawless, inherently and unwaveringly good, incapable of doing wrong. I am not called to deny my self or my potential in any way, shape or form in the name of religion.

I am called to tend the shrine. I am called to love, along with all that word implies, all the potential for disagreement and heartache and all the commitment to see it through anyway. I am called to honor, to achieve, to be honest and just, to heal, to listen. I am called to know and to remember.

Very warm and fuzzy. The problem, of course, is that I suck at it. My shrine gathers dust, I forget daily observances, I grow lazy and judgemental and too disorganized to make significant headway. Well, so do better. I’m sure I’ve heard some old joke about how there’s a reason it’s called religious practice.

There is one thing, though: I never forget. And with that, I have succeeded in fulfilling my calling, if only imperfectly.