In my childhood God was unequivocally male:
He, Him, and His capitalized,
and variously described in superlatives.
He was Lord of Hosts, angels with spears presumably,
usurping vengeance, judgments,
punishments as His prerogative.
He was also Jesus, meek and mild.
All very confusing to a thoughtful child.
The Jews seemed to be the authors and promoters
of monotheism, a great cast of characters,
nuggets of wisdom, entrancing tales,
fine roiling sentences in Shakespearean language.
My mother’s church, Episcopalian, packaged the whole confusion
in splendid ritual, pageantry, and verbiage.
Hellfire smoldered in the background but was not obtrusive,
the smell of sulfur modified by incense, candle wax, and Sunday soap.
At camp I found that worship under the trees was good.
I discovered Bach chorales and Negro spirituals.
After many side trips, in my fifty-fifth year I came home
to group meditation, candle and incense reinforced
by wooden clapper, silvery gong, and drum.
Freedom to begin the long search for my creator.