Candles burning before dawn. Prayers
and incense rising like early dough
in the convent kitchen: nearness
to eternity, transcendence, grace. This
was the God I learned about and loved,
a God of compassion and light, listening
to prayers, speaking in silences, in miracles.
You have no right to take my God from me.
You who deny a rest to the weary, a land
to the refugee, a meal to the homeless, a hand
to the poor—all in the name of some smug
self-absorbed interpretation of a holy scripture
you never even bothered to read. The deity
you created promises wealth and power,
assures you he always agrees with you: it’s
bumper-sticker religion. You have no right
to take my God from me. How easily have
all Muslims been condemned for terrorism
committed by a few, and I wonder
how others look at me—when my faith
is represented by white-nationalist egos filled
with fear and hatred, yet professing a religion
steeped in agape, friendship, community:
you have no right to take my God from me.
Call yours by its real name instead.