Do you believe in God? Yes. Yes because I’m afraid of no. Yes because I do not know who asks, or why they ask. Yes because yes keeps relationships intact. Do you believe in God? Yes! Do you take me for a fool who thinks he is the highest power? You’re fucked if you think you can do it alone. I believe in God so you’ll be at ease, so I’m at ease, so we don’t have to talk for long. I believe in God because you can’t handle the depth of my unknowing, my trust.
Do you believe in God? I do not know. Yes and no, and then yes and then no. I do not understand the question, and repeating it won’t help. It is a question for another time, an earlier time, a time when belief was paramount, when God was concrete, male, cisgender.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
These words of the Incarnate One, non-theatrical but guttural, not sympathetic, but utter agony. To face a cross or to carry it on your back is to not know. It is to not know what’s to come, where you stand or what you feel. The cross kills the ego’s belief. God does not die, but you, your icon, your thought, your way. The cross does not crescendo. It falls flat like a missed key or untimely death. It always does this so as to lose the attention of the mass, the masses, the media.
God is a snake shedding her skin, a child turn adolescent, an old man who finds his life. Perhaps God changes, or perhaps God stays the same, but our imago and imagination must change or we’ll stay on the breast and never truly eat.
Are you groping in darkness, lost at sea, free-falling? Have you forgotten how to take care of yourself, or what you need? Pruning comes before intimacy. Relax your grip, let go, be free. God is in the grave, so you must mourn and lose hope. Do this and you will live.