I carried a myth
for many years,
handed to a little boy
sitting in a church pew
every Sunday morning.
This world
was not to be trusted.
This body
was an open door for the Devil
to walk through.
These hands
were only good
for turning
the pages of a holy book.
Those black-robed
preachers shook
their fingers
at us sinners
and I did as I was told.
But I could never find God in the places where
the preachers said He lived.
Not in the stained glass
houses we built for Him.
Not in communion wafers and small sips of wine.
Not on my knees,
in fear.
Instead, I found God
everywhere else.
In the cathedrals of forests
untouched by
human hands.
In the rhythmic
roar of breaking
waves.
In the sweet union
of our bodies
under moonlight.
If I could stand at the pulpit
just one Sunday morning, I would tell the whole
congregation:
The Kingdom of God
is right beneath our feet.
It’s the air we breathe.
It’s the red-blooded beat of every human heart.
It’s the sun
slowly breaking its light
over the blue haze
of mountains each morning.
It’s the same light reaching
my bedroom window
at dawn,
making her hair
glow like fire beside me.
I have all the heaven
I’ll ever need,
right here.
Meanwhile,
the holy books sit closed
on my desk,
silent.
I do not need
their myths
this morning.
Today,
all I can see
is God greeting me from every face
and every flower,
everywhere I go.