Allow me to tell you a simplified tale of God and His mother, draped in blasphemy and metaphor and crushed velvet, a skeleton encased in the resin of Creation. Though if you peer through the openings of the flowering vines, perhaps you will learn something of yourself too.  

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At the beginning of time, there were only women: women birthed from stardust and dark matter, women with skin like fertile soil resting on the bed of the Nile, women with curves like the oceans, churning and raw. But one woman was more powerful than the rest, blessed with the power of utter Creation. With her gift, she made a home for women. From the softness of her flesh, she molded the heavens, from the warmth in her eyes, she created the sun, from the calluses of her palm, she made swirling deserts, and from the divots on her stomach, she sculpted mountains. In an act of completion, women took her thumb and carved a son from the valley between her thighs. 

He was her most precious Creation; she loved Him from the deepest trenches to the peak of her celestial bodies. So when God craved a title, a place in this world, she created the name God and embroidered it into his back. When God felt inferior, she shrank herself so He could feel more powerful. When God craved rivers and seas, she opened her legs and bled his every demand into the world, because to be a woman means to sacrifice, and to be a mother means to love all-consumingly.  

But even though he was given all his mother had, God was still not content. 

One day His mother told Him, “I am tired, my son, and I am old. What more can I do for you? From the root of my hair, I grew fruit trees for you. From the stardust in my veins, I made you a moon. From the magic in my breath, I gave you life itself.”

God pondered what she said, and replied “I want the fruit trees to flower when I ask them, not you. I want the moon to encircle the crown of my head, not yours. I want the seas to part when I walk and the tigers to bow when I look them in the eye and all the living things in this world to call me holy.”

Stunned by the avarice she had given to her Earth, God’s mother denied her son. She shook her head, “Don’t you know greed will drive you mad? Come, my son, sit here and I will weave stories into your shoulders and thread pearls between your fingers.”

At His first taste of refusal, God grew angry. God was hungry for superiority he could never get while women remained powerful. So, in retaliation, God made man. God fed man falsities, telling him that women are not beings of power, that women are vessels for every form of male pleasure, that boys will be boys and well, what was she wearing? To ensure devotion, God hollowed the planet his mother made and poured fire, pain, and all the worst parts of himself into it, naming it Hell. God stood before man and told him that if man did not abide by the word of God, man would feel the wrath of God until the end of time. For violence is the way of God, for God will never be able to feel the love a mother feels for her son. To solidify his false superiority, God appointed himself ruler of man, devouring the authority that was blindly thrown at him, bathing in the praises of those tangled in wild subservience. 

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I watch you pretend you are the king of the land I built but never intervene. You still have so much to learn, God. You are a mirror of your misogynistic Creation and I wait for the glass to shatter but I am losing my patience. You tell me cover your breasts, cover your hips, thighs, and supple love, but when will you realize, my son, that this body is nothing to be ashamed of? You are alive because of this body – you were grown in the mountains between my legs, you suckled from the rivers in my breasts. This body is divine in ways you could never understand; you see, my son, your body can take life but mine can make it too. 

Is that why you and your Creation hate me so, my son? Because in golden light you know this body is everything you wish you could be: proud and unafraid and strong? Maybe you know that this body is God, these women are God, we simply let you run around under the fallacious pretense of our title. 

Do not forget where your power comes from, God; do not forget that your Creation lives because of me. Do not forget that you are God because of me, you are God because I birthed you as God, you are God because I call you God, you exist because I let you exist. Do not forget who forged the iron fist you rule with, do not forget who gave you your God Complex, do not forget that you are my divine Creation and everything that sits at your feet belongs to me, for I am the first creator, not you. This world started with me and I will make it end with me too, it will end me with me and the witches and the harlots; it will end with me and Eve and Jezebel and all the women you vilified. 

That is what it means to be powerful, my son.

That is what it means to be a woman.