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The incense urn bristles with burning sticks, and the blue-gray smoke curls lazily upwards in the old Chinese temple until a sudden breeze sends it swirling in all directions. The sun shines brightly on the courtyard from a clear blue sky, leaving the interior dimly lit and in shade, cooler there than in the glare; several people sit here and talk, their voices humming, barely heard. The tiled roof and upturned eaves are cleanly outlined; the tall red pillars stand contrasted against the gloom behind; the gilded carvings gather dust and grime; the incense ash sits deep. The painted door guards look on with unseeing eyes, challenging no-one, their job symbolic. The ancient stones are worn still more by soles of many feet; the shrine is well frequented. Lamps and candles burn on altars, ‘mid offerings of fruit and flowers. The statues sit unmoving, unmoved by the prayers and cries of their supplicants. We create the statues and then begin to worship them, and often, become afraid of not doing so, or of displeasing the gods in some way. This tendency’s been with us from primitive times; how strange, how amazing, that it remains till now, when we should have outgrown it long ago! ‘Tis not, as some have said and hold, that God created us, but rather, the other way around. Who, then, are we worshipping, but ourselves? Better to understand than to merely pray!
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