Which is Worse?

Boldly you stand, and gaze around you confidently. Before a smile can crease your face a gorgeous woman draws near. Grasping your arm she steals your attention, and your gaze drifts to her eyes, riveting pools of azul. All I am, I will give to you; she speaks earnestly, and you know she would gladly give herself to you. She slides her hand down your arm and links her fingers with your own. "Come," she says.

Your eyes are now lackluster stones, as of onyx. Lying, one shoulder up against a stone, the other cloaked in mid-morning chill, resting in the shade of an unknown tree. The hunger you feel has seeped all strength you once had. A bag of bones is what remains, awaiting death. Your stomach growls, desiring food as fiercely as a ravenous lion. The tree above you blossoms, sprouting fruit before your very eyes. And then birds of the air fly to its branches, a plump pheasant falls before your face. Your intestines grind against each other like a mill stone on flour, saliva drips from your mouth, wetting the parched earth, and whetting your desire for food. An apple, luscious, ripe to the fullest extent of the word falls in front of your outstretched hand. "Devour," your stomach bids you.

After a journey through barren lands you arrive at a heavenly oasis. Palms sway in the breeze, the songs of exotic birds lilt through the aromatic air. You stand on the last inch of barren ground and look down into the unrivaled paradise before you. It could all be yours- a little force and surely the peaceful citizens would bow before you like the palms before a sandstorm. Or with a small amount of groveling service surely you could weasel your way into the courts of the king. Easily you could usurp his power and claim it for yourself. "Serve," your heart coaxes you, telling you this would be but brief lip-service to the king.

Swords clash and arrows scream through the blood-red sky, a battle is waged around, and within, you. You know that you could leave the safety of you shield, you could drop your sword, boldly enter the fray of the battle. All your soldiers would give their lives to protect you; laying them down like cloaks for a king walking a dusty road. You would need to do nothing but step forward, unprotected, to test the depth of their service, their devotion to you.

You go to the temple, you greet the smiling faces with a mask of your own. Hugs abound, as do compliments, easily contrived. All move together into a time of worship. You raise your voice in song, inside only admiring yourself. The music crescendoes, you close your eyes, thrust your head back, and lift your hands, swaying with the music all the while. The songs come to and end, the offering plate is passed. You pause the procession, retrieve cash from your wallet, insert into an envelope, lick it, and haughtily drop it into the plate. The pastor stands up and spouts his own words like Mt. Vesuvius, you chime in with an amen and hallelujah chorus at all the appropriate times. The end draws near, the pastor calls all the broken to the altar, the emotion is high, many come. Now he bids, "thou who art spiritual, come, restore the fallen". You rise, nobly walking to the front where a young man is on his face weeping. You lay your hand on his head and pray loudly, voice carrying throughout the church. Your mouth moves, on and on, though your mind moves onto thoughts of how wretched this fellow must be. You condemn him with your own thoughts. When your eternal prayer finally comes to a close, so has his sobbing, you wait for him to stand, and then pat him on the back. Patronizingly and condescendingly you speak, "believe in the Lord and thou shalt be saved". Proper King James English and all, your duty is done for the day. You hasten out of the sanctuary and jockey for position in the cars fleeing the parking lot. Pulling out in front of a mother attending to a crying child in the back seat, you drive on the wide road leading to your home.