Faced with direct queries from his disciples, our chosen god shuffled his feet, coughed, and evaded answering. Pleading from all directions went unheeded. Years had passed and he hadn't moved from the spot we'd found him. His feet seemed melded to the ground, but upon closer inspection, they were not; he was as mobile as we were. He said he was with us, that our cause was his, yet we found ourselves pushing, pulling, dragging, straining, hoping our efforts would generate some momentum in him. Exhausted, we looked down to see what progress had been made: barely an inch. We tried again. He said he was helping, yet he dug his feet further into the ground. Again, the progress was minute. Are you in this or not?, we asked. Yes, yes, of course, he said, but we were rapidly losing faith, his words growing emptier in the face of his inertia. Despite our doubts, we pressed on. We continued our efforts til we were broken and weary, the favored disciple all but destroyed. He said he was trying to please all of his followers, yet no one was happy. Have faith, he said, but we found it hard to believe any longer, for we'd suffered too long, and while we had struggled, the grail we sought had come to us: it was now only a short step away. Yet still, he did not move.