My God

I saw this man standing on the fountain at my school,
He was yelling at passers-by and shaking his bible in the air like a weapon of war.
His imposing, roar of a voice was getting rather heated by the time I passed by in my tie-dye and jeans, my brown eyes met his
and I smiled without thinking, (mistake of the century).
He cried, “Sinner! You need some saving!”
My God, that’s strange, I don’t feel as if I’m drowning, or choking, burning in a pit of hot lava, being trampled to death by a herd of wildebeests. I feel...good.
I said, I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’m simply not sure that I agree.
Because the God you shriek of is all fire and brimstone, spiting and smiting, judgment, deprivation, drip some water on your head and you’re granted salvation...my god.
You preach of exclusions and black and white with no grey in between.
How can that be, sir?
Your God tells you to shun the Jews, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the gays, the gay-supporters, the pro-choice-ers, the feminists, the liberals, the evolutionists, the trans-gendered, the women who work too much, the men who don’t work enough, the divorced, the free-thinkers.
Sir, I don’t mean to sound combative, or at all as though I have this insight into His nature within the scope of my worldly understanding.
All I can convey is my consciousness and the
God that visits me at night.
I’m not saying you’re wrong and I’m right,
because the realities we see are molded by our experiences
and maybe I’ve been more fortunate than you.
But the God I know is all peace and kindness.
Not tolerance, but acceptance with open arms.
He’s warm and natural, greens and blues and purples and reds.
He smells like a baby’s soft skin, and rain and wind,
and the perfume my mother wears only on special occasions.
He tastes like a lovers’ kiss, wild raspberry stains on my fingertips,
and chocolate chip pancakes with whip cream faces.
The God I know records no wrongs on His Blackberry with a petty vengeance, no.
He’s always on love’s side.
I find my God in the strangest places. Not in cathedrals or mosques, or masses or sermons, no. But, on a flight to Miami and the woman next to me is flying to the funeral of her young sister and I hugged mine just last week.
Or in a mother saying good-bye to her son, a Marine, and she’s so damn proud but scared as hell this may be the last time they’ll speak.
You see, sir, your description and mine could not be more disparate,
my God is all tender touch and compassion,
not discrimination and prohibition.
My God is
love,
sir.