They Called Me Heretic

by P. Glenn

They called me heretic.
Not because I cursed the sacred,
but because I followed it into the wilderness
where their maps no longer reached.

I didn’t lose faith —
I lost the frame.
And in that breaking,
the light entered differently.

I don’t claim to know more.
I only refuse to pretend I do not see.
For when the Spirit that breathed life into us
can no longer breathe meaning through myth,
have we not mistaken the limits of our imagination
for the limits of the sacred?

If the heart of Christ’s message was love,
why must curiosity feel like betrayal,
and reverence that questions be treated as rebellion?

And if I’m wrong,
am I wrong for believing the sacred still speaks—
not only in temples or texts,
but in breath, in story,
in the simple wonder of being alive?

I’m not your enemy.
I still seek what’s true,
and still hold love as the measure of that search.

If that’s heresy,
then let it be said
I loved too deeply to stop listening.

If that’s heresy,
then may the heavens be kind to heretics
who remembered what love was for.

They called me heretic.
I call it remembering.