Photo: Aliis Sinisalu/Unsplash
Naming God
God is death, and what death becomes.
God is the pale reverie of morning—
light growing in response to itself.
God is the sobs of the young lover,
the dust flung off by swirling galaxies,
the twinkle in the eye of the aging dreamer.
God is the wonder that aches into you
when you lift your eyes towards the stars;
the contentment welling up inside of you
as you lower your hands into the soil.
The turn of the seasons, the ripening
and the decay, the wild laughter and the frightening tears
and the sorrow that’s kissed by a smile.
God is the hope that you set aside,
nonetheless following you.
God is the dark space in the margins of cathedrals,
the breeze searching the quiet meadow,
the question that’s lurking
beneath an easy answer.
God is the slow motions of grief;
love; its gentle tenacities.
God is the weeping space
where the trees used to be.
God is the anger of the colonised.
God is the dread snarl of reckoning.
God is the long miracle.
God is the artist who almost gave up;
the secret that only disappointment can reveal.
God is the fire
painting great shadows
of our smallness.
God is whatever it is
that made us think we should dance.
God is the purpose of the worm,
the song of the bird that eats it,
the wiry limbs of the fox
that kills the bird the fox
whose body will be taken by the worm.
God is the refusal to be cynical,
the people who decide to help,
the long-buried seed touched
by a whisper of warmth.
God is the unfathomability of meaning;
the knowledge that it means something beautiful
anyway.
God is simplicity itself.
God is what pulls you towards other souls,
the quivering web of existence,
the first and the last gasps
of creation.
Gideon Heugh
Gideon Heugh 