Once upon a time, there lived a man. A normal man by most normal standards, he nevertheless had one major peculiar characteristic.
He had wings. It was the the most beautiful, white, large, feathered wings you have ever seen.
People considered him an angel, and gave him everything a man could possibly want – food, money, women, Nike shoes, game consoles, season tickets to the Kop, etc.
He was asked repeatedly about his mission on Earth, and he simply replied he was here on God’s will. A simple reply indeed.
Slowly, people began doubting him. Some openly told him to start flying if he was to convince them he was an angel.
So he went up to a mountain. He stood on the edge of a cliff. He spread his wings. And he jumped.
His body was found the next day by rescuers combing the mountainside. It was twisted and horribly mangled, with bits of him already being carried away by vultures.
But of his wings, there were no trace. Not a feather was to be found anywhere.
A new legend was then born on a wave of whispers. It is said that God had sent an angel to Earth, to be His messenger, to teach the people to love and care and accept and tolerate. But the people refused, and drove away the angel, who in a final show of faith, leapt from the highest mountain in the village to the end of his earthly existence.
And yet more whispers say, the angel was but a mortal of unsound mind. A mortal, born to a swindler who was handy with feathers and glue. His suicide was seen as an opportunity by the local religious authorities to convince the doubting Thomases in the village of God’s power.
And, if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear it whispered that, located in the private chambers of the town’s most revered religious scholar, underneath a pile of old and tattered clothing, inside a large wooden chest, is a pair of the most beautiful, white, large feathered wings you have ever seen.