God doesn’t care about rap anymore

At least, not like he used to

When I was young, He used to fume at the words and the story and the beat.

But now, He doesn’t stop me when I reach for the knob on the radio.
Maybe He likes the beat these days
Maybe He raps along sometimes.

I think it’s okay for God to use curse words
Hell, if I was Him I sure would.

God was so much stricter when I was younger.

He cared about blessing my food
And He cared about blessing my sleep
He cared about sex and Sundays and marriage and crop tops.

I think He’s just tired.

But last thing I heard, when someone brought up a belly button ring and sleeping in on Sundays,
He just pressed his palms on His eyes and said
“I really don’t care, just try to be a patient person.”

And God had so much more free time when I was younger.

I guess He’s just busy now.

I mean, I get it, I’ve gotten busy too.

But we used to stay up late, really late, and talk about things…wild things and unbelievable things
Like what flavor the stars would be
And what clouds smell like.

We talked about what I could possibly be when I was taller and smarter and got to wear mascara
And if there were, occasionally, situations where humans got to try out wings.

We don’t have those talks anymore.

I think it’s because God is so much more stressed now than He used to be.

I know there were wars and floods and fire and back pain and electric bills back when I was a child,
But He and I never talked about those things back then.

It’s hard to tell if there is more ache these days, or if God is just taking it harder lately
Letting the pain of the Earth sit on His chest like a cold.

It’s heavy when you are empathetic like that
To see broken and not let it get inside your bloodstream.

And your thought process
And your newsfeed
And your text chains
And the stories you tell your babies at night
And your half awake dreams.

Sometimes I wish He felt those things a little less.

Because His mind is too full these days
Because the world is too big these days
And that’s a lot of prayers to answer.

Because from what I understand there’s a million new ways to pray:
You can do it through dancing, I heard
And through art
You can even pray by driving with two hands on the wheel
And by not saying “Sh*t!”
And writing a book
And smiling at someone who didn’t smile at you first
And keeping your eyes closed during yoga.

I don’t know how you answer those types of prayers, I’m glad it’s not my job.

I wouldn’t know what to do if people prayed for things I thought were wrong
Or stupid
Or not well thought out.

Do you say, “Listen, love, I see what you are saying, but that’s not what fits in my schedule just now?”
Or do you not say anything at all, and tell them that maybe the prayer line was down, because you didn’t get the message.

I’m worried God will grow scared to be creative one day.

I’m worried He will wake up from a wild dream of six-antlered elk and rainbow-petaled flowers and overthink what the world will say about new creations.

What if He has a brilliant idea of another moon, or lizards with skin like water and He decides,

“No. Humans hate things that are different. Their hate isn’t worthy of My art.”

Then where will be, huh?

All brown sticks and brown cars and brown roads that lead us to the places we’ve always been.

God, I hope He stays brave.

God, I hope hate doesn’t silence us.

But God’s a lot more tolerant these days
I’ve looked up at the face of most everyone I meet and I have been assured
“Yes, I love that one, too.”

Probably because He sees the good people do when they’re alone.

Probably because He molded their thoughts like that
And who they love like that
And what they want like that
And how they dream like that.

God doesn’t care about rap anymore

And I think I’m starting to agree

He and I aren’t so different, you know.