She went looking for God, but found a business, the church was bright. Too bright.
Not in the holy sense. In the LED, floodlight, stage-production kind of way. Big screens. Bigger egos. The kind of church where the ushers wore earpieces and the pastor wore Gucci. Where the pulpit looked more like a TED Talk set. I hadn't been in months. Maybe a year. But something about last night—the rejection, the hunger, the way silence had wrapped itself around me like a noose—pushed me through those gold-plated doors.
I wasn't hoping for a miracle. I was hoping for… I don't know. A voice. A sign. A pause in the punishment. The choir was already singing. Loud, hyped, choreographed. No space for lament. No room for silence.
God is good!
God is good!!
God is good!!!
I mumbled it with them. I didn't believe it.
The pastor walked in like a celebrity. Everyone stood. Applause. Someone behind me whispered, "Daddy has entered." I wanted to turn and ask her if God also entered, or if He'd been locked out with the sinners. The sermon started with a joke. A woman who prayed for a husband but forgot to pray for his bank account. Laughter. Then testimonies. A man who got promoted after sowing a "dangerous seed." A woman who bought land after tithing double. Someone who got visa approval after fasting for seven days. My stomach growled. Not from hunger—but from anger. Then came the offering.
"Stretch your faith," the pastor said. "Empty your account for your breakthrough. Trust God with your last!" I looked around. People were standing. Reaching for their phones. Whispering bank transfer codes into their screens like it was sacred. I stayed seated.
I thought about my mother. How she used to give till it hurt. How she'd whisper prayers into our pots of soup. How she believed in miracles that never came. And how, when the sickness took her, none of the anointed cloths or prayer oils or daddy's prophecies saved her. Faith killed her, in a way. It fed her false hope when what she needed was health insurance, i stood up and left.
No one stopped me. Not the ushers. Not the stares. Not the God I'd come searching for.
Outside, the sun had risen high. Traffic honked in the distance. A beggar sat by the gate, blind in one eye, holding a Bible and a tin cup. He didn't ask me for money.
He just said, "Sister, God bless you."
I looked at him and replied, "He hasn't yet."
Then I walked away.