Only Fairy Dust and Tiny Specks of LightPhoto by Joshua Woroniecki on UnsplashI don’t believe in god,
anymore.
Don’t believe in a Big Man
in a Big Sky
who tells me what not
to do. I don’t believe in holy things
as something apart from
Everything
or a creator who makes such sep-
arations. I only believe in fairy dust
and tiny specks of light
floating through Space,
telling of a hidden world within our own,
which some ancient prophet dared to call
a kingdom.
The only holy water here
I want to taste
is what’s dripping from your lips,
Love. I want to curse every book that pretends
to know where life began
or that six days of creation could ever be enough.
I don’t believe in “In the beginning”
because I am always starting over
and I know it takes a hell of a lot longer
than that
to get the swing of things. When I look to the sky,
I don’t see answers in Genesis,
only clouds that keep changing,
stars standing still whose only language
is mystery.
I’ve never seen angel wings descending
or heard a voice calling from above.
But I know the sounds of silence
Better than Paul
or Simon
and I can recount every psalm needed
to get you through a dark wood,
all alone. Sometimes, I still
hear whispers in the dark
and wonder why our wonder has been replaced with reason,
scrubbed like the decks on a ship
that will never reach a new world. You want to know if I am a christian
as if that is something anyone could
ever say about themselves.
I want to know what it is in you
that causes your heart to beat
and your lungs to breathe,
what makes your soul ache for childhood—
and why you ever thought you could pronounce
that name. I want you to paint me a picture
of what can never be seen.
Tell me how long it takes to make an ancient
of days.
Point me, please, to the page in our hymnals
where it tells what happens tomorrow
or what the weather will be a minute
from now.
Show me how to spell the sound of surrender,
the kind that makes mothers give away their sanity
for nothing
but baby’s breath. Tonight, you are Wendy
and I am Peter freed from flight.
These children our lost boys,
sitting in rapt attention
as you read another story.
How different this is (or is it?)
from a cold night in Palestine:
gathered ‘round a fire,
eleven of our closest friends,
and a traitor—
all trying to stay warm,
yearning for the bread that does not come down from heaven
but the loaf we baked last night,
still sitting on the counter. Aren’t we all just mice and men, trying
to find a way back to Eden,
only to discover the good earth here?
I don’t believe in God anymore.
Or do I? Thank you for reading The Ghost. This post is public so feel free to share it. Share © 2024 Jeff Goins
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