Dear God,

I’m tired of listening to man-kind make up sorry ass excuses for the vast lack of proof of your existence. Why can’t you give me something concrete?

The game Telephone taught me not to trust everything I heard when I was growing up. So your word— which has passed through centuries of people— must be immensely more of a mockery than ‘purple-monkey-dishwasher’ by now.

I want to believe in you, but not the man-made scrambled version. I don’t need the money crazed Christmas incarnation. I don’t want to believe for fear of hell nor for the promise of paradise. I want to avoid the ideas of people who print you in any ethnic or regional variety that sells allegiance.

I want to know that the truth is greater than myself and my world— and for that knowledge… I guess I can wait until I shed them.

Until then
I won’t pretend
To have thusly
Pretentiously
Known why we begin
Or the meaning of our end

Love,
Tad