I Might Be Willing to Believe in a Creative God

I Might Be Willing to Believe in a Creative God

A single goose honks
like she’s attached to the handle
of an unseen bicycle,
squeezed by the hand
of an unseen God,

who wants you to know
that he’s coming,

wants you to sense
his legs pumping,
spokes flashing,
ribbons streaming,

wants you to feel 
rapture
or brimstone
or something more

imaginative,
popping like a wheelie
as he pedals in. 

Photo by Carol Highsmith's America on Unsplash

The Prompt

I remember a friend telling me once, shortly after we had both left the Mormon church, that he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore, but that to be worthy of his consideration, any potential religious belief would have to, at a minimum, be interesting. I thought of him when I landed on the ending (and title) of this poem. Heaven, hell, celestial rewards for those who are obedient, fiery punishment for those who are not . . . I’ll just go ahead and risk a lightning bolt or two to confess that I don’t find this particularly interesting or imaginative. It sounds like an amped up version of a grade school classroom—or the American penal system, in which the punishments are ostensibly doled out for disobedience but also (and especially) for being born in the “wrong” place, “wrong” body, “wrong” skin. For wearing the wrong collar, carrying the wrong wallet. Surely a divine being can come up with a system that is not only more just but also more creative, more spacious, more beautiful than that? Surely there’s something to be said for not reducing the divine or an afterlife to the lowest hanging fruit of our human imagination—for instead trying to expand that imagination and our hearts along with it? And so I found myself imagining God on a bicycle, goose horn in hand.

If anything I’ve said here is kicking up the beginnings of a poem for you, run/pedal with it (even if it’s a poem entitled Lisa Is a Heretic). If not, then I offer you bicycles as prompts—or any non-motorized, wheeled contraption (roller skates, scooters, wheelchairs, skateboards, unicycles) with which you have a connection.

Do you remember the first bike you ever rode or owned? Can you recall its color? The feel of its seat? The feel of your body cutting (or wobbling) through the air as you rode?

Who taught you to ride? Where did you go? Do you remember falling? Scuffing your knees? Doing tricks? Escaping bullies? Racing friends? What other memories or associations come to mind?

When’s the last time you used a bike/scooter/wheelchair/skateboard/unicycle? How was that different than the first time? If you can, you might go hop on your bike today. Tune into the feeling of your hands on the handlebars, your feet pressing into the pedals, the wind against your face. Give yourself fully to the sensory experience of riding. What do you notice? What emerges?

Let all of this whirl within you like a wheel—or like those cool spoke beads from the 80s. (Are those still a thing?) Amidst all the movement, what sticks? What pulls at your attention? What within you is asking for expression? Write your poem from there. And share in the comments thread! It’s always such a delight to read what you come up with.

Also, this is the last chance to register for this Sunday’s reading and open mic at 12:00 PDT / 3:00 EDT! If you would like to attend, please shoot me an email or DM, and I’ll send the Zoom info your way. I would be so happy to see you there!

P.S. In case you missed it,

Amanda Saint

, who writes the beautiful Substack The Mindful Writer, posted this interview with me a few days ago. I’d love to hear your own answers to any of Amanda’s questions!