The Gospel According to Agitation

The Gospel According to Agitation

They gave me a Bible with frayed corners and a cracked spine, the kind you find in a motel drawer or a casket. Told me to swear on it. Swear on my soul. But no one asked if my soul was intact.

It wasn’t.

It bled quietly behind my ribs, like ink from a pen someone sat on. And I thought: If truth is shaped like a courtroom, does it have sharp corners or rounded lies?

They stared at me through glasses too clean for this dirty world. Prosecutors, jurors, self-appointed priests. They wanted confession, not revelation. Wanted my “yes” or “no,” not my why. Not my wound.

So, I said nothing.

And in that silence, I made a different oath, one not bound by dogma, but ash and agitation. An oath that didn't need a book to press into my hand or a gavel to echo its holiness.

That morning, August 8, I woke up like an unfinished sentence. Delirious. A buzz beneath my skin, like hornets in holy robes. My calendar said “7 AM walk,” “8:30 movement,” but by noon I was rage-walking through concrete sermons and rusted prayers. Iron Man blared in my ears. The door slammed behind me like judgment. Five perfect pole bar lifts later, I realized:

Anger isn’t just a fire. It’s clay.

You can sculpt it. You can make gods out of it. Or monsters.

Resurrection… that glitch in the matrix. The man was whipped, mocked, pierced through. But He came back. And we call it love. We call it miracle. I call it a contradiction too bright to stare at. Maybe resurrection isn’t for the dead. Maybe it’s for the broken who dare to stand.

No angel came to whisper wisdom. No dove. Just the vibration of my own confused thoughts, folding inward like origami theology. God, if God speaks, speaks in nudges. Not neon signs. Not YouTube algorithms. Just a shiver in your spine when someone lies to you and you feel it.

They say change the world.

I say: change your marrow first. Scrub your bones. Ask your nerves what they believe. Because revolution doesn’t start with slogans. It starts with someone whispering “no” when the system screams “yes.”

And still, I want God. Not the packaged version with market-tested creeds. I want the wild one. The voice-before-language God. The presence that bends fire and silence into one.

“You shall have no other gods before Me,” they say He said.

But what about after?

What about when God feels absent and everyone pretends He’s not?

What if that line wasn’t about hierarchy but about intimacy? Don’t place Me in line. Don’t itemize Me. But we do. We rank. We inherit belief like debts. Someone hands us a God made from their trauma, and we’re told to love Him.

I don’t know the answers. But I know this:

Purity rusts. Culture infects. Even faith gets scripted if you’re not careful.

And somewhere between the ash of my fury and the agitation in my limbs, I swore an oath.

Not to them.

To truth. The kind that doesn’t play dress-up in courtrooms or pulpits. The kind that trembles, stumbles, weeps, and still walks forward.

Maybe that’s what resurrection really means.

Not triumph.

But motion.