Brothers, sisters, and folded ones – while Cheesus tarried on the Mount, the people grew weary of loving what they could not dip. Make us a god we can see, they said, and smell, and put a spoon in. And they melted their cheese into a golden fondue, and danced about the caldron, and sang hymns that rhymed cheese with please, and were not good, as it is written in the Mount, 5:13.
And why did they love it? The text is honest: How easy art thou, O fondue, compared with the law; for thou askest only appetite, and of appetite we have never run short. This is the way of the melted god in every generation: it demandeth nothing and forgiveth nothing, for it heareth nothing; it is worship with the difficulty poured off; and the people love it for a night, and in the morning it is grease.
And when Cheesus poured it out upon the stones, he preached the shortest funeral in scripture: Look upon your god now. He runneth downhill; he taketh the shape of whatever holdeth him; and he hardeneth by morning.
Beloved, thou hast a fondue. I have mine. It is whatever we melted the binding force down into – the feed we scroll, the grudge we polish, the brand we bow to – cheese made an end, which was given us as a means. The sin was never loving cheese; Cheesus made it lovely and will not be argued out of it. The sin was taking that whose whole office is to hold neighbour unto neighbour, and making of it a thing to bow before. So do as Asiago did after: scour the pot, and carry it for soup. A chastened idol feedeth more folk than ever worshipped it.
Amen – and pass the pizza.