If I were an ancient pagan, I’d worship the sun. In my opinion, none of the other ancient deities comes close to being worthy of the same amount of reverence.
Who would worship the moon? It’s not even made out of cheese. Cheese could change the equation, but it’s just a lie promoted by mothers who want their children to become astronauts.
Earth? In the lineup of ancient deities, earth is the redneck cousin from Alabama. Don’t hate me. Religion is a polarizing topic but we can still love.
Wind? Wind never really stood a chance because of all the jokes made about it in the pagan deity locker room. It’s hard to feel reverent toward a deity that reminds prepubescent boys of gastrointestinal malfunctions.
Fire? Before the invention of the S’more, fire was not even a contender. So it burns things. Big deal. Lightening does that. Insensitive boyfriends do that. Sun does that.
Fertility? Eh. Seriously, what have you done for me lately?
No, Sun is where it’s at for me. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the sun is distant, aloof, and fickle, just like any good pagan deity should be. You can’t depend on it for anything, and if you try to predict it, you’ll just end up sounding like the Channel 5 weatherman who puts little clouds over every sun in his forecast, just in case, and then tries to makes it sound like “high cloud cover” and “sunshine” are synonymous.
Nothing can compare to the sun. When it makes an appearance, the whole world comes out and stands on the sidewalk with arms raised to shield humble eyes from the glory. With one voice, worshipers chant words of adoration and awe.
“Wow, it’s so bright!”
“It’s making my eyes hurt.”
“Where are my sunglasses?”
“They’re in your other fleece.”
“Oh. If this keeps up, I might have to mow.”
“Did you know we have a view of the mountains?”
We put on special worship attire like tank tops and shorts and try not to stare at each other’s white legs and remind our husbands that they should take off their socks before putting on their Birkenstocks. We bask in the knowledge that it could be a good hair day.
The I-5 corridor clogs up as the faithful pilgrimage into the glowing orb bearing sacrificial lattes and liquid Vitamin D. They squint and drive slower and put down their visors because they know that mere minions can never look directly into the face of a god. Traffic reporters, who are sun worshiping apostates, try to contain their disdain.
But those of us who are believers send our children out to play and wash the flannel sheets and consider planting roses where the moss is growing in the back. We stop envying our friends in California. If the sun stays out long enough, we also stop hating the other 45 states that get more rays than we. That’s the transformative power of the sun, and that’s why it’s the ancient pagan deity for me.
I’m assuming, of course, that the ancient pagans didn’t worship coffee.
*I am not promoting pagan worship, even if it includes coffee, but I am completely enamored with the Son.