A Prayer

Dear God,

Please fix me. You, who are all-powerful and all-knowing, can see what others cannot. You, loving and merciful God, know the deepest desires of my heart even those that bring you shame. I do not want to love men, but I do. And I desire to be with you in heaven and seek never to meet the devil in hell. Fix me so that I might live a life pleasing to you even if that means I am meant to live a life where I am left unpleased.

If ever there was a prayer that I hoped would save me from the person that I was born to become (a sissy faggot sinner as named by some of your children), I am certain that I have already offered it up enough times to saturate heaven with my cries of desperation. My tears almost daily lined the threshing floor.

But there was no response from you, god. There was no magic, no salvation, no change, no luck to be gained from you. There was no death of lust and lost of love for men. There was no de-sissifying that awaited me on the other side of the many twists and leaps and tears and spit and tongues spoken at the altar. There was silence from you because dead gods don’t speak.

You did not answer me because it wasn’t You that I was speaking too. A collection of others’ fears made to resemble a deity is not alive. Shadows of human self-degradation do not transform. Tyrannical gods made to sustain order do not speak the language of love. You were made into the likeness of the powerful masses. They attempt to turn Spirit into white flesh.They attempt to fashion the transcendent into a restrictive idea. They attempt to name you Father as a means of furthering the patriarchy. Fathers wield power by their property and prowess, money and sex organs. They imagine you as possessing all four. But you are beyond and always resisting human ordering. It is you who models what it might mean to be truly trans and queer, but they refuse your revelation.

I had to kill their god to see and embrace Spirit, otherwise, I would still be seeking the end of my life while longing to begin a new life in your presence, in heaven. None of that was holy. Hell, as fiction, works to set afire our imagination. I was scared straight. Literally. But I decided that if hell would be my lot, for loving myself enough to lean into my desires and practice integrity, than I would enter with my head held high. I refused to lie in order to make it to heaven.

I now know that you have always been speaking. I am your expression. I am who I am, a black gay man a life brought forth by your love. And I am pleasing in your sight.

Thank you for loving me enough to refuse my prayers of self-denial and hatred. I am thankful for the silence that only dead gods can offer and for supplications unanswered. I am thankful to have found Spirit that cannot be contained in 66 books or within 4 walls. There is life in Spirit and too often death in churches. I am alive because you found me.

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