the old Gods are dead

I know God
and She is not who You think She is.
She is not omnipresent,
and neither is She all knowing.
She has not the solutions to all Your problems,
nor the answers to all Your questions;
for She is still searching for some to Her own.

God is that little girl in the pink frock–
the one You saw
on the corner of 54th & 3rd three days ago.
skin as dark as cocoa,
curly brown ringlets
falling down the side of Her little face-
a face that shone with otherworldly innocence
taken away from Her within seconds;
and then,
confusion aflame in Her big bright eyes,
trembling lips that only moments ago
had been pulled back in a toothy grin.
Her mother hurried Her along, but She still asked–
“mommy, why did they call us those mean names?”

God is that eleven year old who lives two houses away from You,
body speckled with shades of light and dark brown.
You watch Her walk to school every morning,
sad as the sun on a rainy day;
You watch Her walk back home too.
She looks sadder still.
Her daddy tells Her She’s pretty as a flower;
why then, do the kids at school call Her ugly?
is it Her fault?
is daddy wrong?
every day She wonders
and wonders,
and wonders,
and wonders.
but the chain never breaks.

God is that girl You met in the pub last night.
the one with red on Her lips
and silver in Her hair.
the one with the dangerous eyes.
She preached about women
and about anarchy,
about love
and about rebellion,
and She cheered the loudest when ‘Her song’ came on.
She danced with You all night
and when it was time for You to go,
She kissed Your cheek
and called You a taxi
and made You promise that You would get home safe.

God is Your game theory professor.
quiet yet quick witted, She dresses in leather
and rides a Harley to campus every morning.
You have heard all sorts of stories about Her–
about how She got a colleague fired,
for he was of ill intent.
about how She had once been a trained fighter.
about how She might just be descended from
the ancient deities of Egypt themselves.
all the stories are true,
You believe.

God is Your grandma,
with Her freshly baked cookies,
with Her home that smells of lavenders and firewood,
and above all, with Her tales of Her youth
about how She fought alongside grandpa in the War
all those decades ago.
She does not understand
why the world is still such a bitter place,
and to Her questions,
You have no answers.

I know God,
and She is not who You think She is.
She is You.
She is Me.
and She might not have the solutions to all your problems,
nor the answers to all Your questions.
but She is here.