Intergalactic Summit

Brothers and Sisters, Fathers and Mothers in the Faith.

To all the faithful of the true and living God. She who has ears to hear, let her hear.

It is not very difficult to wander from a pure expression of faith in this place and find oneself in a mire of moral morass. Indeed, it seems that the rare conversation indeed does not sink to depravity in a hedonistic rush to the bottom, where the quarrel over who precisely can be the most offensive takes place in true earnest.

All the races should be ashamed. Amarr, you are avatars of our God. It is in you that He struck the diving spark. You, being closer to God the Father, are more to live as beacons of light amongst the darkness, and not indulge in a Gallentean orgy of impropriety and muck. You, Caldari, your calling is to bring precepts of honour and virtue in service to others. Your culture is a rich one and not easily cheapened by foolish lips and coarse jesting. Gallente - you claim freedom. I ask what are you freed to do? Despise decency and indulge base passions, lust, and inuendo in the pursuit of a cheap laugh, a flitting chorus of pleasure drawn forth from the foolish lips of the twittering minds that perch in their own excrement before you. You claim freedom, but you are not free. You are slaves to dissipation; in bondage to dissolution; shackled by the God of your bellies and appetites. As for the Minmatar - you are like the younger brother who despises what the family has done for you. You shame your mothers and fight your brothers. Elder brothers to whom respect should be shown are mocked and ridiculed when the love they have as Amarr for you is plain for all to see. Will you not come home, penitent and contrite that you may demonstrate the truth of the reclaiming - that listening to wisdom is good for all and best brings about a society that pleases God.

If we please God, will He not know us? And He know us, what is shut to us as His beloved?

But His temper will not hold forever. Many sparks must fly as the sword is forged. Much impurity is burned away under the purifying blows of His hammer. We are tempered, we are forged by His hand, we are His workmanship. Will the sword say to the Smith "Who art thou to makest me so?" Would not the smith destroy such an impertient tool made by His own hands to His own glory?

Turn ye, Turn ye. Why wouldst ye die?

Put aside harsh speaking, base talking, corrupt lips. Whatever is noble, or just, or pure, or righteous - these things think ye on.

Perhaps today you think more of your rights than His right to you. Perhaps you insist on your freedom, forgetting it extends only so far as He opens His hand for you. Perhaps you hope to find time later to deal with the things of God. You fool! Who has bewitched you? Do you not know that this very night your life may be claimed from you and you will stand before the Mighty Judge of the living and the dead and an accounting will be made. Come home to God today. Do not say tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow for tomorrow may never come.

Here endeth the lesson.

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TL;DR:

Well I certainly don't want to drive him away. How can we save his soul and convert him to the one true religion of animism if we don't engage him?

"So instructed the Queen to her champion,
‘Beware the righteous who seek truth in spirit alone;
The weak of mind are quick to judge with slightest tempt;
Thus fools go forth to spread false word,
Great misery follows those who heed what only the weak have heard.
Heed me champion, for only you shall know;
Within the blue ring of fire lies the final key of revelation.
Find this ring, my champion, and both mind and spirit shall be strong once more.’"
- The Scriptures, Book of Trials 2:13 - 2:21

Just when you thought it was safe to begin the debauchery...

And not only are you shackled to your god, but you shackle others, both physically and spiritually.

I was actually thinking of abducting him and locking him in Maintenance Closet #6 on Deck 19 of Huggar Station. It's isolated. It's out of the way. No foot or cargo traffic. You can really hear the atmospheric circulator just below you and the sewage reprocessor two decks above you, having their quiet conversation about making sure everyone on the station stays alive. After a couple of days, you can almost make out the words...

Well, sure. Can't expect the poor boy to go mainlining the raw presence of life in all the millions of shapes and spirits it presents on a wind-swept mountain overlook right away, can you?

Besides... planets still freak me out.

Still a planet.

Oh that one's easy.

Some Gallente dude met God.