The Apostate's Creed
I wanted to be a good Catholic boy.
I wanted to believe in God the Father Almighty, His Son Our Lord, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit and the communion of saints.
For more than four decades I tried.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, I heard a true story.
A father was drunk at a bowling alley. In between his turns, the playing father tossed his toddler-son, high, high, higher in the air, until his unsteady grip caused a great bloody crash.
Blood, multiple tooth shards and a dead child were spilled on the slick bowling-alley floor like spit or wafer debris swirling in a Eucharistic cup.
The story woke me up tonight.
I long to die to the hold of this sort of love.
I long to play a new game.
I long to find more comforting arms: mine now for a start.
I long for the next wise choice toward kind touch.
You see in looking hard at the story, few choices exist for this toddler. I am not similarly constrained. Outside of my attachment to this twisted game.
If there are but two options: either I get gripped with unmatched ferocity or I fall hard with no life ... then my choice is easy:
beat this God to the drop.
Amen.
