The high priest had a good idea for a new god
So a ray of light pierced the bruise-purple clouds
And the god was born
Crashing, screaming, onto the temple floor through an old hole in the ceiling
The high priest drew his sword
The least ornate object in the building
A simple and utilitarian tool
Heavy and sharp
Distinguished only by the caked-on blood of the divine
Which still glowed in the dark
A different color for each god in the pantheon
And with this sword
He cut the massive umbilical chord
Which was thicker than his torso
And there was a sound like thunder
As the severed umbilical chord was slurped
Bleeding
Back into the sky
Higher and higher
Disappearing from sight
And the elephantine infant cried on the stone floor
Adding to the floor’s cracks with its squirming
Its screams punctuated by plumes of smoke
Erupting from its smoldering throat
The high priest lay down his sword
And then
Carefully
Respectful of the newborn’s strength
He approached it
And rested a weathered hand on its massive head
And carefully stroked its scalp
His touch leaving fading, luminous afterimages on its strange skin
And he whispered to it
Calmly and soothingly
“All is fine, child, all is fine”
And slowly
Its crying slowed to whimpers
And its glowing eyes opened
To see its world for the first time
Its limbs growing longer
Its chest deeper
It rolled onto its stomach
And staggered to its feet
Growing taller as it stood
An adult by the time it was fully upright
The high priest knelt before the new god
The god bid him rise
No need for formalities
As golden light wreathed its form
And it asked its name and station
The high priest answered
The god smiled
Satisfied with its lot
And took the grand stairs
Each step taller than a house
Into the clouds
To reign with its peers
While the high priest returned to his chambers
Tired
To ponder priestly matters
Applied theology is a messy field.