Our gods are the same--
They are the sun, the moon, the flames,
the earth, the seas, all four winds.
Our gods live and die, slain in battles
against us and one another. They bear lightning and plague and reaper's scythe.
Our gods are in quiet moments and our gods
are in silent places. Mostly though, we search for them among the shrapnel and
the corpses; among the wailing widows and wide-eyed, clueless orphans, their
sacred names spoken through sobs and whispered in the lonesome moments.
It’s all a game of hide-and-go-seek. Close your eyes, count, go find them.
They arrive at the end of suffering; they
show so we’ll remember their alters and gilded statues and holy books. Every provision is a gift, oh so gracious, undeserved. Born into sin, all the things we've suffered are consequences earned.
Our gods are love, and in the next breath, hatred.
Our gods in their perfection created things imperfect.
Our gods are impulsive rage. Our gods are
guilt. They shame us in our folly. Our gods are judgment.
They laugh at our simplicity, and strike
us down when we grow uninteresting. Their lamb's-blood mixes with all the
wolves-blood we've spilled, in order to clear our consciences.
Our gods are legends, brought to life by
faith and murdered by disbelief.
Our gods are nothing, just as we are. All a blink to the eyes of history. Graves will devour our flesh and bones. Shallow
ideas, the gods tumble from the clouds.
"Give us purpose, oh God." The
breath you've gifted us with will run out, we will rot forgotten when we
become purposeless.
"Every good thing in your name, oh
God! Every evil thing is the devil's." You are so good, we are your
failures; sort out the just barely acceptable, and toss away the rest? Is this your great forgiveness?
I'd bow to gold things and volcanoes and
clay figures--- If only they would answer.
But it's silent here. And even the Blood
no longer gives me peace. And even the Book's rambling has grown too delusional
for me. The Spirit does not touch me. The sermons fall flat, charismatic
offerings from the oh-so-holy.
With ropes around our necks and empty,
self-starved stomachs and razorblade tallies on our wrists and thighs, we are
the beautiful, hateful creations of your wonderful gods.
Is the shape of the Earth consequential?!
FLAT.
ROUND.
Ashes and dust, we'll all fall down.
