There was once a tribe of primitive people that lived by a great river.
They harvested fish for food from the river, they would build huts out of reeds from the riverbank, they made baskets out of their fibers.
In the summer time, when the gentle river would giggle past them, they would play with it; lying on the rocks afterwards, drying in the sun.
When one of them would die the others would take the body and float it downstream to farther then any of them had ever traveled...to paradise.
Sometimes, the river was not so patient and it would grasp at one of them. Usually, a child or a very old person. Many seasons ago, after the heavy rains, it swelled hungerly and pulled six of them into its shimmery embrace.
There was a wise man among them. He was the keeper of sayings and the “one that talks for/with the river”. He would sit everyday on the riverbank and gaze upon it with homesick eyes. He knew the secrets of the river and he was the only one who could tell the story about the beginings of time, the world, and themselves.
Every Spring there would be a celebration. Those who had prospered would give offerings of food and weavings to the river. The less fortunate who had had a bad year and, therefore, nothing to offer, would meekly kneel and sing songs of thanks for life and beg for a turn of fortune.
The wise man would go into a deep trance and give the village fortune and late that night, when they were all asleep; full of food and tired from dancing, praying, and loving, the river would roll by.
It didn’t need their worship.
It wasn’t aware of their offerings.
It wasn’t even aware of itself.