If Only Faith Would

If only faith would remake the clay

into what we believe instead of what is,

we’d call the cracks “character,”

call the rot “grace,”

call the knife in our ribs

a lesson we had to learn.

We kneel to stories we were handed;

pages dog-eared by fear,

ink smeared with blood and promises,

told, Don’t look too close,

God hates a microscope.

So we close one eye, then both,

swear the dark is holy,

swear the silence speaks,

swear the house isn’t burning

because the walls still stand.

Faith says wait.

Truth says move.

Faith hums lullabies over open wounds,

truth kicks the door in

and demands to know who lit the match.

We pray for mountains to shift

while standing ankle-deep in the evidence,

begging the sky to rewrite gravity

so we don’t have to pick up a shovel

and feel the weight of our own hands.

If belief could sculpt reality,

we’d chisel gods out of comfort,

sand down suffering until it fits the sermon,

frame injustice as “mysterious ways,”

and sleep clean in a dirty world.

But faith, unchecked,

doesn’t heal; it anesthetizes.

It doesn’t guide; it glosses.

It teaches us to love the idea of light

more than opening our eyes.

What’s right in front of us is loud;

children crying through policy,

truth bleeding through talking points,

chains dressed up as tradition,

wolves quoting scripture with perfect posture.

And still we say, I believe.

As if belief were a virtue

when it’s used as a blindfold.

As if conviction were courage

when it refuses to look.

Faith was never meant to replace sight.

It was meant to survive after the seeing.

Not to erase the world’s sharp edges,

but to give us the spine

to touch them anyway.

So if faith is to be saved,

let it break first.

Let it burn off the lies,

let it kneel before reality,

let it learn the difference

between hope

and hiding.

Because truth doesn’t need belief;

it needs witnesses.

And faith, if it’s worth a damn,

should sharpen our vision,

not ask us

to look away.