Hunting for Faith in a Divided World

I hunt the Almighty through the briars

of Sunday morning sermons

where salvation wears campaign buttons

and holy water tastes of bile.

The pulpit has become a podium

the altar draped in flags

and I the hunter of the ancient balm

find only poison in the chalice.

My target once lived in the margins

of scripture gentle as a doe

stepping through cathedral shadows.

Now it flees the spotlight's glare

the megaphone's harsh decree.

I track hoofprints in fresh snow

beyond the sanctuary walls

past billboards promising heaven

for the right price, the proper vote.

My bow stays drawn my breathing steady.

In the mountains of uncertainty

I pause beside a frozen stream.

The ice reflects my hollow face

a seeker grown thin with wanting.

What manner of creature am I pursuing?

The ministers have traded robes

for armor, their voices loud

partisan prayers that shake the rafters

while the meek inherit nothing

save the bitter taste of abandonment.

Still, I walk deeper into the woods

where no congregation gathers

where the only witnesses are stars

and the scripture is written in snow.

Here, perhaps, the thing I seek

might pause to drink, might show itself.

I have learned to hunt in silence

since the loudest proclamations

drove my faith into hiding.

It moves like a small bird between the branches

visible only from the corner

of an eye that has stopped looking

for grand gestures, miracles on demand.

The trail grows fainter with each mile.

My arrows remain in their quiver.

This hunt requires different weapons

patience sharp as any blade

hope stretched taut as any string.

When darkness falls, I make my camp

and listen for the sound of breathing

that might be wind or might be wings

or might be the very thing

I have been hunting all along

circling back to find me sleeping

vulnerable beneath the stars.