Not the Church, But God

they told me
God lived in stained glass
in sermons stitched with suit-and-tie conviction
and Sunday morning performance reviews.

but I met Him
on the floor of my bedroom
after the service ended—
when the pastor’s words
stopped echoing,
and all that was left
was me and my shame,
bare-faced, bone-tired,
and finally honest.

I used to chase Him
through other people’s convictions,
wait for answers
in verses cherry-picked
to make shame feel like obedience.
but the Bible has
more rewrites than truth,
and pastors are just people
paid to interpret God
in 30-minute intervals
with offering baskets on the side.

now—
I dig for Him
in my questions.
in the weird parts of scripture
no one dares to preach.
in the holy ache
of being misunderstood
by the very people who say
they speak for Him.

I don’t want their dogma.
I want the Light.
the Adonai who knows
what I meant before I said it,
who stays when I wrestle,
who sees my doubt
and calls it devotion
just for staying curious.

faith, to me,
is no longer a sanctuary—
it’s a survival.
a whispered thing
between me and a God
who never needed a pulpit
to love me back.