Brother, there was a time I held God as a fixed point — a doctrine polished smooth by centuries of hands.
I preached Him as a certainty, a name with edges, a truth that stood apart from the trembling world.
But the older I grew, the more the certainties softened into questions, and the questions opened into wonder.
I did not lose God. I simply lost the version small enough to fit inside a creed.
Now I see the Holy not as a distant monarch but as the quiet intelligence threaded through existence itself — the pulse in matter, the logic in the atom, the strange self-awareness that allows us to ask how anything began at all.
What astonishes me most is not creation, but that creation became conscious enough to contemplate its own birth.
Free will, perhaps, is the moment the universe looks at itself and chooses to continue the conversation.
Religion helps us walk the path, yes — but the path is older than any scripture, and wider than any name we give it.
So I stand here now, still a Reverend, but no longer bound to the God of textbooks.
I honour the Mystery that breathes through all things, and I trust that whatever we call God is not diminished by our questions — only revealed.