“Come,” you are bidding, “come and follow me.
It’s Sunday, time to worship at the shrine
And enter our private sanctuary.
Let us eat the holy bread, drink the wine.”
With each new drop of wine my body sways.
Your soft fingertips write psalms on my skin
As I lift my hands to heaven in praise,
Longing to feel your worship from within.
Our lips like blazing red coals purify.
It’s as tempting as that long ago tree.
With passion we are crying, “Sanctify!”
Because holy communion is the key.
I offer my sacrifice of praise here,
Withholding it would treat you profanely.
I gasp secret confessions in your ear.
Once I was blind, but now I see plainly.
You sing a sanctifying canticle;
Meditations of your adoration.
A chord not found in any church hymnal.
A holy and beautiful temptation.
Church bells ring hosanna, we breathe amen.
Author’s note: There was something freeing, healing about writing this. I’ve somewhat jokingly deemed it “sexy sacrilege,” but I don’t actually believe it’s sacrilegious. For me, writing this was a way of denouncing the idea that the sensual and the sacred are at odds. And it was a way of reclaiming the religious imagery that still holds so much power for me.