the voice of god

What would a mind feel like

had there never been

a punitive god living inside it?

If there’d never been a voice of judgment,

an obsession with failures and shortcomings,

would I be able to think more clearly?

If I’d known mistakes weren’t proof of my sinfulness

but proof that I was a learning and developing human,

would I have more grace for myself and others?

What would a body feel like

without the heat of brimstone and fire

humming beneath it?

If sin had been defined as a moving away from love instead of a list of bad behaviors

would I still feel disembodied,

separated from the shame of my flesh?

What would a body feel like

that had never been made the enemy?

If it’d never been seen as a victimizer,

blamed for thoughts or indiscretions?

Would clothes drape more easily?

Would ankles and legs and fingers move without caution?

What would lungs feel like

if the weight of perfectionism had never sat on top of them?

Would I have started living sooner,

determined to take hold of every breath

to use it for good,

unafraid to try and fail?

Would I be more prone to love

rather than compete for it,

rather than self-protect from it?

What would the voice of God sound like

if religion hadn’t manufactured it?

Would it sound more like love,

like waterfalls and sunrises and creativity?

Because it would find me, right?

Is God so limited that his voice cannot

be found without a book or a building?

If my mind is his creation and

My body is his creation and

My lungs are his creation,

If he spoke them all into being,

How would his voice be so contained,

Why would his presence be so tamed,

That I’d need anything but love to find it?