The Gods We Serve

“As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness.” (Psalm 17:15)

I met a wolfman the other day. His name was Phil, and he was playing golf. He had deep set, steely blue eyes tucked under thick, bushy eyebrows and a sloping forehead, topped with vampire hair; black and shiny, and combed strait back. He looked like Little Eddy on the Munsters all grown up.

He had a pointed nose and a wry, sly smile. When he spoke, you got the sense that he thought himself to be clever. He was never more than three minutes without a cigarette dangling coolly from his puckered lips, while his eyes continually scanned the surroundings for any sign of a woman. Any woman.

When he spotted one he froze like a predator sizing up its prey, tongue hanging loosely from his mouth with a string of drool falling in slow motion downward, puddling on the toe of his left shoe.

“Ooooooo-weeee!” he would squeal, “Look at that fine, sweet thing! Um, um, um; my, my, my.” And then, just like that, he would return to whatever activity he had been previously engaged in. On this day it was golf.

Phil’s buddy, a guy named Dale, was but a pup. Nervous laughter over Phil’s incessant crudeness betrayed Dale’s secret voyeurisms. One got the feeling that he hung around for the scraps after the wolfman struck.

I once heard that the gods we serve write their names on our faces. Phil, the wolfman, served the god of lust – and it was written all over his face.

What God do others see when they look at you?