In trying to describe my problems, I used tigers and goldfish.
God is a tiger. You think it's a goldfish.
So your emaciated tiger has never had the strength to step out from its tiny glass enclosure because you feed it goldfish food.
You are so convinced, so sure that you have a goldfish god that when I talk about my tiger god, you call me crazy. You call me insane. And you keep wearing the goggles of willful ignorance that keep you from being aware of the magnificent creature you have.
Some of you might leave the "goldfish" at home. Others of you might bring it with you in your day-to-day life. But it's pretty boring. It swims up, and down. Left, and right. It's only a goldfish. How much can it do? Splish, splash. You might get a drop of water on your arm.
By treating your tiger like it's a goldfish, you will never be aware of or in awe of its presence.
I started taking my tiger for walks because it got pretty big. All you see is me dragging a dying fish on a string, and you tell me "You're killing it! You won't even have a pet anymore if that's how you take care of it!"
And so you worry that I will soon have no god; I'm killing it. If you realized that god was a tiger, you'd realize that I couldn't kill it if I tried.
A tiger. It comes with me everywhere, and I am always aware of its presence and power.
Total immersion.
In doing this, my actions change. Suddenly you see me walking down dark alleys with a goldfish bowl and you fear for me, thinking I must be foolish. But you cannot see the tiger, walking with me shoulder-to-shoulder. What have I to fear?
You're a neighbor, and after hearing my delusional stories about a pet tiger, watching me walk a dying fish, and evaluating all my actions as basic crazy, you watch me spiral in a craze of myth and legend and lore. You are intimidated. Something about my goldfish just ain't right. It's a little bigger than yours, and it's starting to get stripes, and it survived being dragged across concrete. Now you cry black magic, tricks of the devil, sorcery and blasphemy. No matter how you talk to your goldfish about your concerns, my fish keeps getting bigger. Your ignorance goggles are malfunctioning, and I'm suddenly very, very scary.
Why? Because you become like what you spend time with, and I'm now more like a tiger. I look into your soul when I ask you how you're doing, and I'm sad when you respond with the scripted "good" response. I feel your sadness and loneliness, and sometimes I just get so frustrated that I try to steal your goggles. To you it seems incredibly violent and unnecessary, but I just don't want you walking around blind anymore.
Having a tiger completely consumes my life. It is my every thought, every breath, every waking moment: the tiger is there. You can't ignore it. You can't hide. It will sniff-smell you out of any corner you choose. It is present. It is real. And the moment you realize that you're actually dealing with a tiger?
You Live.
If you haven't read The Life of Pi, then you should. Audiobook or movie or something, please for me.
