It’s not that I don’t believe. Or that I do. It’s not about belief
at all, really. I was a good little Catholic girl, once. Baptized
and blessed and dressed in a white gown for first communion
with pretty flowers and little pearls Mama wove into my curls.
I remember the way the priest stood in front of the door and
told Mama she wasn’t welcome anymore when she divorced
my Daddy. How she cried. 50 years, she said, but those years
didn’t count. The lamb was cast out. Me too, Mama. Me, too.
But that’s not even it, you see? Because those church men with
patriarchal thoughts in their pockets and judgmental words on
their lips, they aren’t Jesus. I know that. It’s not even the state
of the world. It’s not the starving children that make me rebel.
Because some people say that. They say how can there be a God
when so many people are in pain? What kind of God would watch
His children suffer? Once upon a time, I would smile and say the
kind of God who has as much control over His children as I do.
Because if we are His children, who ever said He had control?
Ask any parent if they have control over their children and when
they are done laughing, you will have the answer. Who ever said
making a child and controlling said child were the same thing?
No. You. You are why. How easily you hobble through life using
God and Jesus as your personal crutches. Much easier to say it
was His will than roll up your sleeves and help. I know. Life is
hard and you are busy. Hey, no worries. He has it all covered.
That homeless man? God’s will. That woman who lost her child?
Jesus called His angel home. God will heal, you say, and you don’t
have to listen to her cry and cry as if she cannot remember how not
to cry anymore. And you? Don’t even have to lift a finger to help.
I know. Not all who believe are this way. But too many. Too many,
and it seems to me that no matter how long a man sits in his garage
he isn’t ever going to turn into an automobile if you hear what I’m
saying. So please. Don’t talk to me about your Jesus. Thank you.