The Gospel According to a Rock

As the sun quietly shimmered behind the canopies of his mother, Jorge knew his time had come. It had been just like this day when the sea had taken his brothers. There had been heartfelt goodbyes and somber, hardened gazes. But no tears were allowed to be shed  —  this was a sacred moment in the life of a rock.

Much fuss is made about the plight of some animals  —  the momma bear who will sacrifice anything to protect her cubs, the emperor penguin who is steadily losing ice yet gaining water, the caged panda who cannot mate without certain visual aides. But little compares to the hardened silence between two rocks when one is gently carried into the abyss of the unknown.

Jorge knew this would be the last time he would feel the warm sand of his mother. But he was ready. Unlike his brethren that had preceded him, he had big plans. He felt the quick tug of the ocean, and within an instant, Jorge was thrown inside.

"Goodbye, mother," Jorge whimpered. "I, too, will become an island."

After minutes of tumbling and splashing, Jorge gazed out into the open ocean, drifting beside castaway driftwood. The sea was colder than he'd imagined. Lonelier, too. He wondered how many of his brothers had been swallowed whole by this empty blue wilderness.

As he turned back for a final glance, his eyes caught a flurry of movement onshore. Baby turtles, hundreds of them, were hatching and scrambling toward the sea. One by one, their soft bodies skittered across the sand, only to be plucked by hungry seagulls. Jorge watched, transfixed. There were no cries. No hesitation. Just the crawl forward.

"This is nature," he celebrated. Most were taken. A few reached the water. Still, they came.

Jorge knew that to become an island, he needed to put on some serious size. That was a gargantuan task for most rocks, who spent all their energy trying to stay afloat rather than gathering sediment. But Jorge was no typical rock. He floated with ease, and spent his days hoarding dirt, sand, and whatever other nonsense he could find.

Feeling more confident, he decided he was ready for the next natural step: mating. He’d taken note of a few well-rounded lady rocks, lustrous and captivating, in his drift. If he could convince just one to make a family of fine young pebbles with him, he was sure his progeny would share in his grand, beautiful vision.

The only problem was that Jorge suspected he was misshapen. Although he had never seen himself, the reactions of others suggested his appearance was less than favorable. Whereas rocks usually gave blank, vacant expressions, the looks they gave him were particularly rocky. To the extent they could, they’d squint their grainy surfaces at him — and then look away.

Natural selection was cruel, he was realizing. After being rejected by one particularly battered piece of granite — one frankly beneath Jorge’s station — he resigned himself. 

So be it, he thought. Once I’m larger, they’ll see me for who I truly am.

Except fate had other plans. In his slow, steady drift, Jorge had unknowingly approached continental North America. The tides of destiny were churning once again.

*     *     *

Jorge awoke on the beaches of Southern California, looking around in groggy confusion. A rip current, perhaps. He remembered being flung, unsure whether he'd survive. Now he was drying out on another beach, having lost all the mass he’d painstakingly gathered.

For the first time, he wanted to weep. To curse the gods that had clearly cursed him. But as he looked around, he noticed that the sandy land stretched from horizon to horizon. Palms swayed and the sea salted the air. His eyes caught something in the distance.

Bouncing across the sandy prairies were beautiful, divine creatures. At least to Jorge. The mighty seagulls even seemed to fear them.

They were portly American children. The largest of them — with new chest hairs gleaming in the sunlight and swim trunks dripping — strode forward like he was carrying a message. Jorge had never seen anything quite like him.

Jorge trembled, his sediments beating with anticipation. Was this perfection? Was this... the Promised Land?

Wobbling decisively towards him, the boy’s eyes blazed with determination. Jorge suppressed a cry. God … this must be god.

Jorge rose from the earth like a chosen champion. Behind the boy, a whole pantheon of other “beautiful gods” stared back. This was it, he thought. The moment he had been working toward. The moment all his efforts bore fruit.

"Jesús, what are you doing?" one of the boy’s companions asked.

"I told you, we’re gonna go skip some rocks," Jesús beamed.

Skip rocks? Jorge assumed they were speaking of a holy ritual. But really, he was ready for anything.

"Jesús, that’s no rock."

"So?" he shot back. "I bet I could still skip this farther than you."

"Yeah right. That’s a piece of plastic."

Jorge froze. Plastic? He had no idea what that was. The god’s word rang inside him like a curse.

"I can skip anything. Rocks aren’t special."

Jorge couldn’t follow. They were beings beyond his comprehension. But the words spoke clearly to him: Rocks aren’t special.

"My dad makes plastic," the rule-follower of the group chimed in. "Says you shouldn’t throw it in the ocean … says it can kill a seal."

A seal? They had been one of Jorge’s original inspirations — big, black, and beautiful. Everything he had wanted to become. He now wondered what great power lurked within him.

Jesús shrugged. "Whatever. This one’s a winner."

He lowered Jorge to the water. And in the reflection, Jorge could finally see himself for the first time. After years of rejection — years of trying to prove himself — he had expected to see something unsightly. Misshapen.

But what stared back was clear. Sleek. Smooth. Beautiful.

And suddenly, Jorge felt his world spinning. Jesús launched him across the sea. He struck the water and bobbed up, stunned. He turned, desperate to glimpse his gods again. But they were already walking away, dissolving into the hazy beach horizon.

*     *     *

"What did it all mean?" Jorge begged the sea for answers. But the water stayed quiet, cold, and indifferent. The moment had rattled him to his glossy core. But deep inside, he felt something new. A revelation was forming.

Instead of coalescing, Jorge started synthesizing. Every detail, every memory from that perfect beach. That fabled "Promised Land" drifted further away, but became more vivid, more perfect in recollection.

The beautiful gods had acknowledged him, he realized. No — more than that. They’d created him. Their words confirmed it. What purpose did they have? he wondered.

In his identity crisis, he asked those fateful words: Who am I?

He was clearly no ordinary rock. He knew he was different — something else entirely. Then it dawned on him: he was Their chosen vessel. Chosen to spread Their message. 

He was plastic.

From that moment on, he had no choice — Jorge was compelled to preach. Not to the rocks. They were never his tribe. His message was for others like him. The sleek, shiny ones. The "chosen" plastic.

And sure enough, his companions began to arrive. Slowly at first — bits of bottle caps, wrappers and straws. But they didn’t have to be alone now. Not like Jorge had been. They didn’t have to question their worth. Not how Jorge used to.

He would guide them. And he would shield them.

They listened to Jorge's teachings with reverence. Transformed by meaning, by purpose, they formed community. "He was held by the gods," they whispered.

And so his stories spread. So, too, did his following. Eventually, other plastics came who shared their own tales — brief glimpses of the "gods" and brushes with "divine hands." One even remembered the factory she was born in, though no one else could remember so far back. She would later become Jorge’s wife.

The stories they told validated everything Jorge had been preaching. The legends grew.

But Jorge never stopped presenting himself as ordinary — a plastic of the masses. He’d say he was merely the first to see the truth. The first of many.

Over time, some began to question. The younger generations had it easier. They’d never known a world that considered them foreign. They'd never sought the approval of those who shunned them.

They lived in a world in which they were abundant and plentiful. "Just as the gods had intended," their scriptures taught. And so Jorge didn’t take their youthful vigor as a slight. He took it as a sign they were blessed.

But eventually, sightings of the gods became rare. Some plastic doubted they even existed. And even the "chosen" began to crack and bleach, charred by the sun.

Jorge urged them not to worry — the black hues were to be worn with pride, he preached. They were markings of the faithful. Marked by gods who now watched from above. Symbols of the holy — just like the seals — who had long since vanished.

But the fears did not quell. One elder consoled young plastics with a story from long ago. He spoke of a god who, once, placed a plastic into a glowing blue vessel, whispering of rebirth. A few of the plastics cracked with tears.

Though some called these tales dogma, others called them salvation.

Meanwhile, Jorge fought back his own fears, silent but persistent. The unease had never quite left him, even when he preached. But that lesson from his youth always echoed in the back of his mind: Self-doubt was not the answer. Faith was.

He channeled these feelings into a great sermon. The greatest of his entire existence.

Gathering all his flock, he remained resolute. "Faith," he shouted. "Faith is what carries us to the Promised Land."

*     *     *

Years passed. No one saw the gods anymore. The skies grayed. Clouds hid the sun. Yet Jorge’s devotees remained together, resilient. He floated at the center of their ever-growing community, old but not broken. They protected each other from the waves. They formed bonds. Fused. Became one.

And, finally, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, Jorge drifted back to where it all began. This wasn't the Promised Land, but for him, it was close enough.

He was several times her size now, but he recognized her canopies instantly — though bits of the "divine" now covered her sandy beaches. No matter how old he grew, no matter how much he changed, he would always be her "little pebble."

Her canopies waved gently toward him in the warm breeze. He had been so strong. He had been so scared. But he was home now. Her beach shimmered with a subtle, brassy glow.

"Mother," he cracked.

Soft aches rumbled through him. He grinned.

"I, too, became an island."