Free The Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century by Thom Hartmann

It made a messy slurp that splashed milk on the side of the glass and the tabletop. “Oops,” it said, licking up the milk from the glass tabletop.
    There was a fast rap on the apartment door, and Paul jerked up, alert. The rap repeated, and Paul recognized it as the signature of Rich, from next door. He looked at the coyote, then the door, then back at the coyote. It sneezed, and before the sneeze was finished the coyote had vanished and Noah stood before Paul, this time dressed in a brown tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, dark brown wool slacks, and batteredHush-Puppies shoes. He held an unlitmeerschaum pipe in his right hand; his hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and he looked every bit the role of a professor from the nineteenth century.
    Paul felt his muscles tense, as the image of the street preacher telling him he’d burn in hell sprang to mind, unbidden. “This is truly weird,” he said. “Are you some kind of demon?”
    â€œA matter of definitions,” Noah said, as Rich rapped on the door again. “Can you imagine how your Christian or Muslim or Jewish priest would react if I appeared to him as a talking coyote? To him, no matter what I said or did, I’d be a bad god or under-god. They all have a very specific definition of a very human-like god, and of the good guys who hang out with Him, and they all know that once the era of the institutional church began, the era of the supernatural ended.”
    â€œYou rather contradict that,” Paul said, stepping back towards the door.
    â€œYes. As soon as you try to define the Creator of the Universe, you have missed, like trying to catch radio waves in your hands. When St. Francis met me, he knew I was his friend, that I am working on behalf of the Creator of the Universe and on behalf of humanity. So did Brother Lawrence, and Meister Eckhard, and Saint John of the Cross. A televangelist, of course, would only think well of me if I gave him a big donation.” Noahlooked at his pipe and laughed. “Answer the door. I’m acceptable now.”
    Paul watched him, wild and conflicting emotions rushing through him. Seeing the talking coyote had shocked him so deeply he was wondering if he should grab Rich at the door and run out of the apartment. Noah saw the expression on his face and smiled in a friendly, reassuring way.
    Paul walked to the door and opened it: Rich was standing there, wearing black slacks and an expensive yellow silk shirt. “I just talked with Bob…” he paused in mid-sentence as he glanced past Paul and saw Noah. “Who’s the old guy?”
    â€œJust a friend,” Paul said, standing in the doorway so Rich wouldn’t just walk in, as was his usual habit. He always expected Paul to wait to be invited into his apartment, but always just walked right into Paul’s, as if he knew he was part of the aristocracy and Paul wasn’t.
    â€œHello,” Noah said in a loud voice from the living room.
    Rich pushed past Paul and walked over to Noah, his hand outstretched. Paul closed the door, feeling offended by Rich’s habit of seeing every human in the world as a potential contact who may someday, somehow need a lawyer.
    â€œPleased to meet you,” Rich said to Noah, holdingout his hand. “I’m Rich Whitehead, the attorney. Just dropped by with a job offer for Paul.”
    â€œPleased to meet you,” Noah said.
    â€œAnd you are?” Rich said, letting the last word hang.
    â€œYou may call me ‘Professor.”’
    â€œProfessor? Professor who? And of what?”
    Noah looked out the window for a moment, as if he were searching for an answer, then said, “Faust. Ethics.”
    Rich laughed. “That’s a good one,” he said, but then caught himself when he saw that Noah wasn’t laughing with him. “You serious?”
    Noah replied in a slow, serious voice. “You’re a lawyer. Didn’t you learn about me