The Campfire


            They shivered, eyes watering as they squinted into the wind, desperately seeking the Sacred Fire of Their Ancestors.   But no light could be seen on the barren and rocky horizon. 


Suddenly, they stumbled upon a cold campfire. They gathered around the wet and charred wood, now spent. No one spoke as they crouched in a huddle around it. Silence prevailed, until finally one spoke, "I give thanks to God that we finally found the Sacred Fire. Let us bathe in it's warmth." The others stared in momentary confusion. Then they murmured in agreement, no one daring to admit to another that they did not see the flame, nor feel it's warmth.


            Jovial, they regaled each other in false belief as they built their community and rituals around the false flame, and made necessary that all others seeking to join their company must also profess to it's burning splendor.


            As one might imagine, a community built upon such a foundation is inherently and unavoidably filled with deceit and intolerance.  Even so, it is a huge metropolis even today.


            But just one hillside over, a campfire that never expires still brightly blazes. Only seekers who travel alone ever warm themselves by it's fire: Vagabonds who refuse to identify themselves with any tribe; The madmen who mumble the nonsensical message of Truth to themselves, as no one else will listen; The heretics who refuse to adhere to dogmatic doctrine - They alone see the Living Flame.


            Those gathered around a false flame and who have willingly laid their vision aside must learn to see once more. Those who have learned to address cold as hot and hot as cold must modify their reality. Those who seek security in masses must search for courage within themselves, as courage is needed, and rouse themselves from their cold slumber around the dead campfire of their ancestors and go, one by one, over the hill to a destiny only visible from itís pinnacle: There they will see the Living Flame of Truth for themselves.