dear god

Dear God,

Bakit? Why? They say you are a kind God, a loving  God, but my God, why?

A white man comes one day.  He gathers the children and he preaches fear into the depths of their hearts.  He stands up on the stage, all the closer to you dear God, and they sit at his feet where he declares, through a hoarse voice and a fountain of saliva, the sinners belong.  He recklessly swings his sword, slaying all visions of a God that liberates and loves and cares for humanity, without ever opening a page to read the truth. 

“You must fear God.  If you do not repent you will spend eternity in the firery pits of Hell. Do you want that? You know how hot it is right now? Imagine living for eternity in a place 1,000 times hotter without a break.  Is that what you want? That’s what you will get if you don’t follow my path. You are poor, but I bought a $2,000, that’s American dollars, plane ticket to come here and sacrifice my safety in this terrorist country…all to save YOU!”

The fat white man, with a slurred southern English accent and  a lack of breath, continued. He forced the children to stand. He ushered them into a circle, and he demanded they repeat his prayer.

“God, I am a bad person. I am a sinner. I need you.  I want to spend eternity with you.  I am yours.”

He congratulated them for their “big steps” toward you, dear God, and every ounce of his power paraded around the center of the circle to “bless” the new Christians. He patted the children’s heads with his sword and then told them each “Now, with God, you will be able to live a rich life in this place of poverty you call home.” As quickly as he stormed in, his Land Rover fled the school grounds surely taking him back to his life across the sea where you are white and a friend of the rich. Where he doesn’t need to look at or speak to or smell the children. 

Bakit? Why, dear God? 

The children write you letters. Letters of desperation, exposing truths only you and they know, yet your face remains invisible and your hands must be preoccupied in a far off land, where people have money to tithe, because the children are alone. 

“God, I wish you would take my life early. Bring me to heaven where there is food.”

“God, I try to be a good son, but my dad is still angry with me. I don’t know why. I do everything good, but he says I make him drink and when he drinks he hurts me.”

“God, they don’t understand me. They say because I get angry with you that you don’t love me and I will burn. I don’t want to burn, but I don’t see you here.”

“God, my mother is in the city looking for work and I am here as a boarder and they treat me like a slave. I’m so tired God. I hate it here, but my mother says she doesn’t have enough money to take care of me.”

And so the letters go, and the teacher’s responses crumple those pains into little balls to be burned in the night trash, a glimpse of life for the sinners.  “God is giving you these bad things because He is teaching you a lesson. You are meant to live the lives you are living. It’s for a reason, don’t complain about it. You need to be grateful.” And so the children retreat into themselves and I watch their spirits crumble as they internalize their suffering, and realize you are a powerful God who dominates morality and politics and the peace within one’s being.   

These children grow, and the world is stubborn, refusing to change.  After all, the children are told they can’t change anything because it is your world and the injustices that flood the earth are lessons to be learned and punishments to be received.  So, the children grow hopeless and idle and their dreams of change dwindle to flickers of bitterness until there is nothing left to be felt. So like leaves dried by the sun they fall, weak against the mighty forces of time, unable to be revitalized with water.  Trampled by all that life is, they disintegrate into the land without a fight.