Do not come with Scriptures, Come to me like Thomas.
On this last Sunday of Pride,
I offer this poem for all the days that follow.
The opening lines came fully formed,
and the rest unfolded in prayer.
This was written while listening
to the Holy One who speaks to my heart.
Do not come to me with your scriptures.
Come to me like Thomas.
Press your hands into the wounds you made.
This is the gospel this morning.
A gospel not made of sanitized verses
or rainbow overlays,
but of blood, body, consequence,
and a God who is speaking—
a God unafraid to be touched there.
Let no one turn away from this voice.
Let them come and look
into the eyes of the mother,
into the eyes of the lover
who was told her love was sin,
into the eyes of the child
praying for the blood to stay in their body
after being left on the ground like trash
by systems built to hate them.
Let them come and look.
Because the Holy One
does not want your sanitized devotions.
The Holy One wants
the hand that trembles,
the heart that breaks,
the repentance that refuses to look away.
The Holy One whispers:
“Let me forgive you.
But you’ll have to look into the eyes
of the mother whose child you hurt.”
And if that child was yourself?
Then look.
Look at the part of you
you left bleeding.
Apologize.
And let the Holy One hold you
while you learn how to love again.
Not just this month.
But all year, loud AF.
Let the rainbow be the Holy One’s sword.
Let pride be prophetic.
Let the fire rise
in every queer saint,
every trans angel,
every joy‑wild child
who dared to survive church silence.
And if the churches don’t like that word?
This is the Holy Roaring,
through a pen that sometimes writes with fire:
I AM NOT THEIR GOD.
I am the God who bled.
I am the God of queer lovers
and mothers
and fighters
and singers.
I am the God of joy after exile.
I am the God who remembers.
I am the God who returns.
The Holy One hears you.
He is still Joy—
still the dancer spinning sparks through stars,
still the God of Cosmic Glitter,
still the one who presses your hand to his cheek
and whispers:
“I see you.
I want you.
Come home.”
Our banner is I AM.
I am still here.
I am still loved.
I am Joy defiant.
Let the banner wave.
Let the rainbow burn.
Let every voice that tried to kill joy
learn what it means
to be undone by love.
Joy is holy.
So let yourself be the Holy One’s Joy.
Be fierce like fire.
The Holy One’s fire is no shame.
This joy is no apology.
This love is the gospel.
This I AM is forever.
So let it be woven of every color:
blood red, deep blue, radiant gold,
rising green, midnight black, holy violet.
Let Joy wave in the wind
like the laughter of a child
hearing the Holy One whisper
their true name to them.
Let I AM STILL HERE
wave in the wind,
like a once‑forbidden skirt
spinning as you run.
Let STILL BELOVED wave in the wind
like the ash we rose from,
and the stars we carry in our mouths.
Let it read:
I AM.
I REMEMBER.
I LOVE YOU.
Let it speak:
You are not alone.
You never were.
Not in the grief.
Not in the silence.
Because when your name feels like ash in your mouth,
the Holy One still knows you,
calls you:
Beloved,
Sacred,
Holy,
Cherished.
Whispers—
I’m not just proud of you.
I AM with you.
