Holy Fuck; A Good Friday Homily Left Without Deliveranc

Holy Fuck.

Sacred and profane so near one another they kiss, they cannot be distinguished. Death and life, giver and taker, embraced in one. Holy Fuck! Holy. Fuck.

Holy

A word that means “set apart,” that means wonder and awe and beauty. Holiness is body seeking Spirit, seeking communion, seeking God.

Being, breathing, basking, beautiful.

Fuck

A word that means nothing, that means emptiness, sterility, that means stripped of meaning, stripped of clothes, stripped of beauty and spirit. Body totally and utterly alone beside body totally and utterly alone.

Cocks, cunts, sweating, suffocating.

Holy Fuck

The words escaped my lips on a summer day one decade ago, perched atop an observation post in the desert of Babylon. Binoculars dropping from my hand, I saw… I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see. The impact area was supposed to be clear, it was supposed to be desolate, empty, safe. But I saw a body. I saw a body, something, someone crawl out of that hut, crying out in the wilderness. I looked anxiously around; had anyone seen what happened? Holy fuck, what have I done?

Holy Fuck

The words left Peter’s mouth at the very moment the cock cried out and the stranger was silenced. He was right. Whatever or whoever he was, he was right. But he’s dead, he is hanging from a cross there on the hill, the hill of the skull where I did not follow him, with the cross I did not pick up and carry. He was supposed to be God, here, among us, to save us from those fucks that killed him! He’s dead! How wrong I am and how right he was… Has anyone else seen me?

Holy Fuck

The words crossed Jesus’ mind, losing strength, unable pull his naked chest high enough to breathe, rusty nails scraping against bare nerve sending shock waves of pain through his arms and into his stuttering heart. Suffocating, bleeding out, breaking down, he was utterly alone. Was his cousin right, he who lost faith at the last, his head upon the chopping block, just as Jesus was losing his breath and his hope and his Father? Does God see what they have done? Where, to hell, has God gone?

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Holy Fuck.

The words escaped the soldier’s lips as the blood and water spattered his face and he withdrew his spear. As the earth shook and the wind blew, there he stood: startled, scared, alone. Motionless, breathless, shocked. His judgment clouded by the enveloping darkness overtaking the land, he began wondering if he had indeed just killed their God. The sacred criminal there, upon the cross, without deliverance: no help, no hope, no holiness in this moment for him, for either of them. There is only death. Only fucking death, and the spear in his hands. Has anyone else looked upon the body I have pierced?

Holy Fuck

Sacred profanity and profane sanctity: death in life, God and sin, terror amidst hope.

My God, my God, what have we done? Why have we forsaken you?

suicide-3

Artwork by Marine Corps veteran Jeremy Stainthorp Berggren

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