Credo (I Believe)

Morning prayer.

The chapel hush before the day begins.

Candle flickers,

breath misting in the half-light.

The words come again—

I believe.

I stop.

How many times have I said them?

How many times have I meant them?

Some mornings they rise like birds,

other mornings they drop like stones.

I believe—

help my unbelief.

Not as one who understands,

but as one who clings.

Belief now is not a certificate of certainty,

but a slow turning of the heart,

a leaning toward mercy,

a yes that survives the night.

I believe in God—

but not every god.

Not the one who blesses the sword

and calls it peace.

Not the one who fattens while Lazarus waits.

Not the one who hides behind flags and titles,

demanding praise but never washing feet.

Not the idol of my own control,

the god of safety,

the silent god of reputation.

There are gods I have served

and now repent of.

There is one I still wrestle—

the accuser,

the shadow that knows my name,

whose fingerprints stain systems and hearts alike.

Yet still—

in the rubble of my reasoning,

a whisper comes:

Be still and know.

The Holy One stoops low,

breathes through cracked earth,

waits at the shore with breakfast.

The crucified God—

whose power is made perfect in weakness,

whose throne bleeds forgiveness,

whose kingdom comes quietly through wounds.

So I say it again,

not to convince heaven,

but to remind my own heart:

I believe—

with doubt for a companion,

with questions as prayer,

and hope, small as a mustard seed,

taking root again.

I believe—

because mercy keeps finding me,

because Love refuses to let go,

because even now,

grace is sufficient.

- Rev'd Jon Swales

Part of the Credo collection.