The Cult of Gratitude

 

Barreling into the Thanksgiving Season the chorus of gratitude begins.  Lord, thank you for not making me homeless, shoeless, sickly, foodless, stupid, uppity, short, misinformed, ugly, or fat. The list is endless.  

Although I don’t like to reference the Bible, not being an expert on its contents nor a subscriber to its Santa Claus boss, I do occasionally peruse it to see what my fellows are up to and there it is: Luke 18:10. A Pharisee thanking gawd for making him superior (he’s the bad guy in this story) and a Normie (the good guy) begging for mercy because he’s a sinner. Whatever the hell that is.

Sometimes bible subscribers ask me – for my own good -- what I’m going to do about my original sin. 

Say what?

If I was born with a defect, how is that my fault? Sounds like propaganda from a ruling class that wants to keep me in check. Ask the Manufacturer how I got through quality control with faulty brakes. Don’t ask me.

But I’m not godless and I resent the casting of me as an atheist, a disbeliever in accepted myths. I’m a fiction writer. I very much believe in the power of myths and mythical figures. Stories. I just don’t believe these mythical figures are sitting on my mantlepiece monitoring my behavior and reporting back to headquarters.

I’m reading a giant book of fairytales right now, and I think they should be required reading in third grade. Fairytales are myth-like lessons in wisdom passed down through generations and they illuminate truths about human nature. 

Like, everyone wants a beautiful mate and will often wait through several permutations (frog, beast, somnambulant princess) to get one.

Like, greed propels people to do cruel things which are often their undoing.

Like, the scullery maid knows a lot, a LOT, of shit and will save the day and wed the prince.

These are mythical figures and I pay attention to their truths because they have weathered the storm of time. They aren’t gods.  

But, as I say, I am not godless. What I call god is the energy force that powers me. And you. The energy force that powers my cats, the giant oak in the back yard, the grass, the creek, the fox that scavenges the neighborhood on garbage night. We are all propelled by the same life force and I am highly respectful of that force. 

And I can live with grace as long as I respect the rule it plays by, which is this: there is a time to eat and a time to be eaten. Trying to force its hand by supplication and flattery and false modesty won’t get you anywhere—if by anywhere you mean immortality, a free pass at death.

So Happy Thanksgiving to those who observe. Be glad you don't gobble. And be careful with that wishbone.