There—I finally said it.
The words left my mouth like startled birds,
a thousand wings battering the rafters.
Since I was nine, I’ve been polishing pews,
scrubbing the scent of old prayers from wood and wax.
Knees on the floor, I mouthed other people’s miracles,
waiting for one to fall in my lap.
Once, lightning split the oak behind the church.
I thought that was an answer.
Once, a car missed me by inches.
I thought that was an answer.
Now I wonder if answers just have good timing.
There’s a strange quiet in unbelief,
a silence that hums like an unplugged organ.
I want to call it peace, but maybe it’s only the air
filling the place where certainty used to live.
Sometimes at night my hands find each other
without meaning to. Sometimes I still listen
for the Voice I said isn’t there.
Maybe faith is just a bruise you keep pressing
to see if it still hurts, to see if you’re still tender.
And here I am, still pressing.
I Don’t Believe in God
I was born into an Italian catholic family and grew up in Brooklyn.ny long ago now. The church saved me and damaged me too. Your poem deeply touches my own hesitation about the one we name God as if anyone truly knows what we are talking about. Much of what we have been taught about god has more to do with our teachers than about the nameless mystery called life. Thank you much!
Thank you so much for sharing your story with me. I’m moved that the poem resonated with your own journey. I grew up in the church as well, my father was both a missionary and a pastor, so faith shaped the landscape of my childhood. For a long time, I never questioned it. I didn’t know how to walk alongside doubt; I was told to believe, and so I did. Over time, though, my understanding shifted. These days, I see God less as something clearly defined and more as the same nameless mystery you describe, something far beyond our language, our doctrines, or our certainty. Thank you for reading, and for responding with such honesty. I truly appreciate your presence and your reflection.