Once upon a time the Moon was happily reflecting the light of the Sun when a nearby planet said to her, “Excuse me, Ms. Moon, doesn’t it bother you that you do not shine your own light? I mean, shouldn’t you be trying to develop your own ways of shining?”  The Moon slowly turned her face towards the planet, “Bother me not to shine?  Dear One, there are many ways to shine.  The Creator saw fit to endow me with a silvery complexion, one that does not give off a light of its own.  One could say it just isn’t a talent I have been given.  I used to try, eons ago, to make my face shine, but I simply do not have that skill.  One day, I saw the Sun and asked if He would share His light with me, and of course, he said yes.  Now I am the light of the night sky.  I am an inspiration to generations of poets and singers.  I use what I have been given; I use it in such a way as to honor the gifts of others.  My gift is to reflect, to utilize the light of those around me.  So, you see, I am shining.”  The nearby planet frowned and turned away, feeling secretly green with jealousy.  For she was billions of years of old and still trying to figure out which talents she should develop and which ones she should ask for help with.  Now she spins around and around judging others for what they do and do not do.

Justice.  From the Latin iustus, meaning “upright,” and also from, ious, meaning, “sacred formula.” 

Every morning he would set the breakfast table for his wife.  With all the sanctity and precision of a priest setting out the chalices and cloths, he would arrange her coffee cup, spoon, and napkin.  Then he would brew the coffee and carefully pour milk into the little cream dispenser, and take out the sugar and some extra spoons.  When the coffee was finished brewing he would pour some into her cup and cover it with a little lid to keep it warm until she woke.  To complete this little ritual he would remove her favorite sections of the newspaper (the crossword puzzles) from the bundle and set them by her place.  He did this every morning for the nearly fifty years they were married. 

Once there was a young man who went around saying, “sorry” all the time.  He said it for practically everything he said or did, even good things.  He said “sorry” so much that he would joke with those around him by saying “sorry” for saying “sorry.”  It became such an ingrained thing that he would even find himself saying “sorry” when it didn’t make sense in a conversation.  And of course, he said, “sorry” when he didn’t mean it.  In his efforts to live out this false humility, he annoyed many people, and he became truly sorry when one by one those people stopped hanging around him.  One day, alone, looking in the mirror, he said, “sorry,” and realized he hated who he was, both on the inside and the outside.  “What would happen,” his reflection said, much to his surprise, “if you loved yourself?”  And then the mirror shattered, sending shards of glass whirling around the room.  He tried to duck and shield his face.  He fell to the ground.  When he heard the last of the glass raining down around him, he got up and looked into the mirror again.  The mirror was completely intact.  And the image he saw was an angel.  He wept, and from that day forward, only said “sorry” when he really needed to.

One day I found God sitting on a park bench in Flourtown, Pennsylvania.  He looked depressed as he tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons.  Taking a deep breath, I sat down next to him.  He barely looked up as he moved his bag of bread over to make room for me.  We sat in silence a long time.  I wondered what to say to him.  He looked so sad.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke first.

“Nice weather, eh?”

“Yes, you made a pretty sky,” I said.

“Me?  I didn’t make the sky look pretty.”

“You didn’t?  I thought you made everything.”

“That’s a myth…Well, no, let me use a different word:  “lie.”  “That is a lie.”

“Lie?”  I said surprised, “What do you mean?”

“Why do my children so willingly give their power away?  This sky,” He said, gesturing towards the late afternoon autumn sky, “the people of this town made it.  They’re collectively in a good mood; they’re living right, so the sky is clear, sunlit, full of fluffy white clouds.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, “You’re not suggesting that the collective moods of the citizens effect the weather?”

“Effect?  Make.”

“Make?”

“Make?”

“We make the weather?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you make?”

“Oh, I make the raw ingredients for the weather.  I make you.  I make a lot of things.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“Listen God, You’re telling me some pretty outrageous stuff here.  It’s not that easy for my finite mind to grasp all this.”

“Finite mind?”

“You’re the infinite one.  We’re the finite ones.”

“Says who?”

“You did, didn’t you?  In the bible someplace?”

“Never.”

“OK, so now you’re suggesting I have an infinite mind, like yours.”

“Not suggesting.  Telling.  I gave each of my children a spark of my own mind.  That makes your mind infinite.”

“Yes, but where did I get the idea that my mind was limited and yours unlimited?”

“The people who write that sort of thing are scared of their own divinity.  They can’t handle the responsibility.  Even worse, many can’t handle the joy, the sheer joy of being unlimited.”

“So they put words in your mouth and say you say things that you didn’t just to justify their own beliefs?”

“More or less, yes.  People are always giving me credit for things I didn’t do and devaluing themselves.  They do something great and say, “Wow, look what God did!”  But I didn’t do it.  They did.  They blame me for disasters, wars, abuse, everything—good or bad.  I didn’t create victims.  I created princes and princesses.”

“Is that why you look so sad?”

“Yes.”

I looked out over the growing flock of pigeons as his bag of bread crumbs was never ending.  He handed me a piece of bread to throw to them.

“Is there anything else you need to talk about?” I asked, chucking the bread into the sea of coo’s and glimmering feathers.

“I’m tired,” said God, “tired of people using my most common name, and twisting it to mean such horrible things.  I created people not so they would believe in me, but in themselves.  The sad truth is most people do not truly believe in me.  If they did, they would lead wonderful, unlimited, joyous, creative, compassionate lives.  If they only for a few seconds everyday took the time to remember how powerful they are, how I just want them happy, how I don’t need their praise, how they have it within themselves and the people around them to have everything they ever needed to be happy.”

As He spoke, great tears formed in his eyes and trickled down his face and into his beard of stars and snow.

I put my hand on his.  He broke down completely, sobbing like a baby. 

I held him in my arms for hours; so long the pigeons began landing on us.  He cried all night, and I held him all night, wondering at the mystery of it all.

Imagine your “self” as a treasure lost in a shallow sea.  It went down when your ship of dreams crashed on rocks of doubt.  You didn’t have a hull fortified with the strength of persistence.  Your ship was thin and unprepared for the journey.  You lacked provisions and the life jackets of faith and friends.  You couldn’t take the wheel and steer because you lost focus in a fog of the opinions of others.  And so your dreams sank and the treasure of who you really are went with them.  But you survived; determined to find a way.  You screamed a prayer to the endless sky.  And then a hand reached down as you floated on a piece of drift wood.  It brought you on board a strange ship made of clouds, and after you were rested a Voice said, “It’s time.  We must dive below and find your buried treasure.”  You looked to see who was speaking, but the Light was too dazzling to get a clear vision. So you dove into the water, but you did not go alone.  You had a life line and a guide. Into the dark waters that seemed to stretch forever, where it seemed nothing could be found, you dove, casting your nets.  Sure enough, you found the treasure box.  It was nestled in a reef surrounded by the blank-eyed sharks of shame and the many-toothed barracudas of resentment.  You began pulling it towards you, and with the help of your Guide you brought the treasure box to the surface.  Once safely on board, you brushed away the barnacles of self-criticism and the sea weed of lethargy, and you lifted the lid.  Light poured out.  Inside were your dreams, your talents, and the gifts of your spirit.  Lavish and dripping with riches, your “self” shined in the sun.  As you ran your hands through the gifts you have, you heard a Voice, both strange and familiar.  It said: “You must go. You must find a harbor and make port. You must take these treasures and share them.  A village is waiting.  You must give them away or you will lose them again.  And the next time the doubts come, and the fear, keep moving, let your dreams steer you.  You can trust their course.”  And when you looked up from your treasure box to thank the keeper of the Voice, your eyes adjusted to the light reflecting off the waves, and you saw you were surrounded by an entire crew of angels, each one waiting for your orders, for you were the Captain.  The Voice had streamed into your heart the moment you prayed, and when you dove into the darkness and accepted the gifts of who you really are–Your True Voice surfaced–the Captain of your soul–the song of Your Heart’s Desire.