God, Stop Being Stupid

I’ve been doing a writing project for which I am asking the people I know who have left the faith, “Why did you leave the faith?” And in the hearing of those answers I have been reminded of my own objections to Christianity. Here is a poem modeled after honest and angry prayers I think God instructed us to pray to Him, like Psalm 74.


The cussing was written out in my journal but I cens@red it here. I think the honesty is what He wants. “Be honest with your full heart, my children, and then when you have poured out all your anger, come to me and let me love you again.” (Make sure you read to the bottom.)


God, Stop Being stupid


God, sometimes I just can’t believe how stupid you are. When I try to seek you, you just tell me things like, Women cannot speak in church and are saved by childbirth. If you can’t see the absurdity in that We can’t talk.

You tell Moses you will kill all of your own people When they made a golden calf. How can you call yourself a good father? Even bad fathers don’t do that.

You say unless I sell all my possessions And choose not to go to my own father’s funeral I cannot follow you.

You say that for those who have little, Even what they have will be taken away. And you have hidden your wisdom from the wise So they will not be saved.

You play favorites with your children, When Cain was only trying to give you what he had!

How can you say “Slow to anger”? And abounding in love, you say? Justice? JUSTICE!? How can you call yourself a loving God? . . . You say you are the only way. All others will go to hell. The road is narrow and you’re fu@&ing going to cast the goats and the rich and the pastors and the lukewarm and all the rest that aren’t your favorites into GO@ DA%%ED MOTHER FU@&ING HE##.

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[breath]

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Why have you done this?

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[breath]

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And what do I have to hope in If I do not have you? . . [breath] . . How could have things come together without you, To bring me home to be with my dad for this month? Through two dreams and a couple Serendipitous circumstances. And then after I bought my ticket home, I let my Bible fall open and the first words I saw were “Let the sons come home to their fathers.” I think you are guiding me. I think you’ve always been guiding me. And it’s so beautiful here; My dad and I are becoming friends. . . . And I have never gone hungry. Or been without bed. . . . [breath] . . . I lost my job last year, and freelance work never stopped coming in at just the right time. And I had time to follow my dreams To write, and travel. And come visit my dad. . . How could I question the wind or the coming night. Who am I to say your ways or words are wrong. You are the one making every beat of my heart. I have no voice box worthy to declare That you are anything other than God, And my first Father. You have always provided for me. I am a mouse. Which of my small words could hurt you? I am a querulous child; forgive my foolish tantrums. And you are ever greater than I. You have always been faithful to me. Despite my fiery objections. Praises to your name. You are ever my God. Amen. Praises. Amen forever more, Praise to you, Jesus, my God, And Amen.


Raw Spoon



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