In a kingdom long ago, there lived a king who loved to give. He ordered that great offerings be made all across his land, and the people obeyed gladly.

By the river, priests poured ghee into the fire and called out to the rain god. In the temples, garlands and fruit were laid before a dozen different deities. On the hilltops, offerings of milk and honey were left for the spirits of the place. Smoke and song and the smell of flowers rose from every corner of the kingdom. Each group was sure it was feeding its own special god, and each god, surely, would send its own special reward.

But there was a Guest at every one of these offerings whom no one saw.

He stood unnoticed by the river fire, and the ghee that the priests poured came, in truth, to Him. He sat unseen in every temple, and the fruit laid before the carved stones was, in truth, received by Him. He waited quietly on every hilltop, and the milk and honey left for the spirits was, in truth, tasted by Him. He was the real Receiver of all of it — every offering in the whole kingdom, made to every name — for He was the Lord of all sacrifice, and there was no other.

Yet because no one knew Him, no one called Him by His own name. They thanked the rain god, the temple gods, the hill spirits. They never looked past the carved stone and the flickering fire to see the One who stood behind them all.

And so, when their offerings were spent and their rewards used up, they drifted back into the world of birth and death, to be born again, to offer again, to forget again. The Guest had been right there, close enough to touch. Their love had reached Him truly. But they had not known Him, and what you do not know, you cannot stay with.

Had even one of them looked up and said, "It is You — it was always You" — that one would never have had to fall again.