Operation Rescue God

If God truly existed inside churches, I would have begged him to turn me into a wooden plank and nail me to the floor so all his worshippers would step on me in His name.

If He existed inside mosques, I would have begged him to turn me into a mat and glue me to the floor, so the foreheads of the believers, their palms, knees, and toes would find me there, waiting for their prayers.

If God existed inside synagogues, I would have begged him to turn me into oil so I would forever burn in the sockets of candles, mingling with the tears and supplications of His chosen people.

 If He existed inside a Buddhist temple, I would have begged him to turn me into miles of  red cloth and wrap me on the shoulders of monks sashaying at His feet, endless in His capacity.

 

I looked for God there, but I didn’t find Him.

 I found Him in the eyes of a laborer, hiding from the August midday sun in Dubai, stealthily sipping water from a plastic container in Ramadan.

The fear-stricken look of a desperate God. A terrified God, emaciated, abused, nameless.

 I found Him in a lock of hair escaping from under the headscarf of an 8-year-old girl in Yemen, dead in childbirth. Ripped. Bereaved. Silenced.

 I found Him in the limps littering the streets of Bagdad. Severed. Decaying. Rotting.

 I found Him in the clenched fists of a jailed black boy, holding on to the bars, waiting to be executed. Unkempt. Forsaken. Forgotten.

 Rescue me, God pleaded.

Rescue me from the mullahs and priests and rabbis and swamis. Set me free.