As Thomas stood at the mountain’s peak, in the warmth of sunshine he was yet confronted with a cold breeze that sharpened his eyes and his mind. Looking out over the vast range he was filled at once with an expansive joy of power, looking down on lesser mountains, and with a nearly overwhelming sense of humility, knowing that two human feet had brought him to such a place of awe.
As he stood contemplating these seemingly competing feelings that somehow wove together in a seamless whole, Thomas was occupied by a Voice. It was a curious Voice: it filled the universe but was as quiet as the hills’ roots, it did not come from without but existed within yet he knew that it was not his own, it was curiously neither male nor female though he could never describe it any more accurately than this. It was richer than uncut humus, sweeter than mead, more lyrical than the greatest bard, and at once the most serious and the most lightly intentioned tone he had yet known. It was the most profound infinity that Thomas had ever experienced.
“Before you stands all the earth and its inhabitants,” the Voice began, and in inviting command bade him, “look upon it pure.”
Thomas looked out, beyond the mountains into the valleys and across the plains, and he saw all of his countrymen, indeed, all peoples of all nations, as though they stood just before him. He was gratified to see so many people gracefully treating others well; conversely he saw all manner of people treating others poorly.
“It saddens me,” he said silently in communion with the Voice, and feeling the regret more keenly than ever, “that we are such lowly creatures to treat each other so. I feel the weight of all meanness, of all misunderstanding and mistreatment, with which we conduct our daily lives. Why were we created such loathsome creatures?”
“It had to be so,” spake the Voice, “to give unto humankind the ability and will to choose, else no man or woman could come to love me but that it would be artificial.”
“And in the choosing,” Thomas meditated, “one could choose to deny You. In failing to know You one would not come to know the vast gravity and freedom of loving, and could not treat others in loving ways because they were unknown.”
“It is so.”
Thomas was enveloped in the depth of loving with which this quality was given, the amazing sense of warmth that was contained in its realization, the amazing pain brought about by its denial. He doubted that any human could love so completely, to freely give others the choice to believe in himself.
“And we are able,” Thomas continued in realization, “to forget, to ignore, to choose another path of strength which is less substantial, which is only an image of strength. Selfishness and meanness make us less than we are always able.”
“It is so.”
“What am I to do?” Thomas asked, feeling more humble than he knew possible.
“Do not forget,” the Voice bade him kindly, “all those who know how to love. They are companions to your journey, your salvation. See the error of humankind but do not dwell in it more than it exists. Hear me, and act in all ways pleasing to me, not as a zealot given to command but as a lover given to invitation. Those who do not know me will not hear your words; you must instead show them what you have here learned.”
The commission was serious but not grave and, without knowing how, the only right thing to do which would send continuous ripples into humanity that could not be predicted. A cold breath of wind chuffing up the mountainside ruffled Thomas’ hair, and he felt a sense of aliveness that he had not known before.
(To be continued)
