Searching for faith in dark times
The God I know is a universal God, infinite as desert stars, boundless as ocean waves. This God doesn't scan bank statements or check immigration papers. Doesn't peer into bedrooms or bathrooms. Doesn't demand loyalty tests or purity pledges.
The God I know doesn't care about the color of your skin, how many coins rest in your pocket, whom you sleep with or how you identify. This God's ledger measures kindness, not net worth. Grace, not social status. Love, not conformity.
The God I know says Do No Harm in thought, speech, or actions. Simple words. Three syllables that should echo in legislative chambers, in corporate boardrooms, in places where men trade morality for power like children swapping baseball cards. But the echoes die against walls padded with privilege.
The God I know says love your neighbor as yourself. Not "only love those who look and act like you." Not "love thy neighbor unless they're seeking asylum." Not "love thy neighbor except when it impacts quarterly earnings." Not "love thy neighbor after you've torn their family apart." Just love. Plain. Simple. Revolutionary in its demands.
The God I know wouldn't destroy the sacred bond of mother and child. Wouldn't rip infants from their mothers' breasts and ship them to the unknown like misdirected parcels. Wouldn't declare that "undocumented" means "unhuman," that papers matter more than parents, that cruelty is acceptable if it feeds our fears. This God knows that every child's cry echoes across borders, that every mother's tears fall on holy ground.
The God I know speaks in the quiet wisdom of Islam: "Whoever kills one soul, it is as if they have killed all of mankind. And whoever saves one soul, it is as if they have saved all of mankind." Words that should shake us awake at night, that should haunt the dreams of those who trade in fear and hatred. But they sleep soundly in gated communities, their consciences muffled by thread counts and security systems.
Greed and power have taken over, twin viruses mutating in America's bloodstream. They divide us and let us fight it out among ourselves while the till is being emptied. Watch the magician's right hand while his left picks your pocket. Marvel at the spectacle of manufactured outrage while your rights disappear like coins in a street hustler's shell game.
They laugh at the 'little people' who buy their scams and vote for their promises. From penthouse suites and private jets, they orchestrate culture wars while counting their profits. They've learned that hatred pays better than harmony, that fear yields higher returns than faith.
The merchants of hate trade in human lives like commodities, each tragedy a transaction, each act of cruelty a dividend. They've discovered that suffering has a excellent profit margin, that despair can be leveraged, that pain compounds interest.
Their phony optics flicker across screens like shadow puppets: prayers before press conferences, Bibles held upside down for photo ops, crosses worn like corporate logos. Their lies flow smooth as honey, sweet poison wrapped in patriotic packaging. Their cruelty is no longer a bug but a feature, carefully calibrated for maximum impact, for optimal engagement.
There is no God here, in these hollow temples of power. Not in the marble halls where they trade votes like poker chips. Not in the televised sermons where prosperity gospel meets political theater. Not in the algorithms that turn outrage into advertising revenue.
Until.
Until I take a breath and watch the sheep grazing peacefully, unburdened by doctrine or dogma. Until I see eagles soaring across a brilliant blue sky, indifferent to our artificial borders. Until I witness a stranger help another stranger, no cameras rolling, no credit expected.
This is the God I know — present in the abundance of all the wonderful things that make up our world. In morning fog rolling through mountain valleys. In the laughter of children at a park where no one checks zip codes. In the quiet courage of those who stand up, speak out, reach out.
And God only asks that we respect it. Respect the delicate balance of nature. Respect the dignity of every human being. Respect the truth, even when it comes wearing rags instead of robes.
And each other. Not just the easy others, the comfortable others, the others who mirror our own image. But the challenging others. The inconvenient others. The others who force us to expand our definition of "us."
And do no harm. Three words that could heal a nation, if only we dared to live them. Three words that echo across faiths and philosophies, that transcend the boundaries we draw around our beliefs.
Simple requirements for a complex time. A universal truth in an age of artificial division. A light that still shines, however dark the hour.
For this God – the God of quiet kindness and inconvenient compassion – still lives. Not in the headlines or the hashtags. Not in the speeches or the spectacles. But in the spaces between our certainties, in the moments when we choose love over fear, in every act of courage that says no to cruelty and yes to our common humanity.
This God lives. Even in America today. Especially in America today. Waiting for us to remember who we are, and who we could be.
Images ©2025 Gael MacLean
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