If God was a mother she’d be taking today off.
She would take her morning in a garden. She’d find fallen blossoms, throw them in the air by the handful, and walk through them. She would go down to the river and take her shoes off and wade at the edge. Her feet lightly sinking in the silt on each step. She’d spend time with beetles and fish and wonder at them, delighted. She would walk in the cool of the evening.
If God was a mother she’d look for the dissident daughters of the earth. She’d know where to find them and join them throwing shells into the surf, or standing in circles under trees, or marching for non-violence and freedom, or knitting.
If God was a mother she’d call us out of our buildings, our basements, our bunkers. She would interrupt our meetings, our seminars, our conferences and lead us all down to the lake. And we’d play. And we would all ask her to watch as we jumped off the pier into the cool water. And she would laugh, and this would just encourage our splashing.
When God is a mother we’ll do all this and find our love and respect.
When God is a mother we’ll throw away our guns, unlock our doors and open the windows.
Mother God has called for centuries. She waits for us to hear. Hoping at last we’ve spent all our juvenile jealousy, our adolescent energy for conflict, and are finally ready for the play of true adulthood.
Mother God will go on waiting and watching. She’s not one to give up on us. She’s a mom.