4.10.2020

‚Äč

Good Friday has been like every other: I always want to die.

Not the same thing that some political Christians always wail about--dying in Christ as a denying of personal identity, which seems more like a dodge or assimilation.

I actually want to die.

 

Every Good Friday, the world does actually seem to stop, the resurrection hasn’t come. Poetry is sung from bleeding bodies--I read Danez Smith like their work is scripture because it is. I check the news, I take stock of grief from generations of abused femme bodies, and I want to climb into a tomb.

 

Crucifixions still happen; people still walk silenced (and silently) into death. There is violence not as obvious as a Roman cross (duh). There is still a crown of thorns; there is still a spear in person's sides; there are still whip lashes on other’s bodies--been that way for hundreds of years. I'm not speaking about "lost souls." I'm speaking about systematic inequality: It's a deeper desperation than political Christianity allows one to see. Christ did not die for anyone. Christ died with a narrative that has claimed countless.

 

All this, and I somehow want for the rest that three days of death would offer. “It is finished” is a peace that stands at the line between Christ martyr and escapist Christian. 

 

That peace is interrupted by the grief of Mary and her fellow womxn(plural). Wild, rebellious, courageous womxn baring their teeth and dressing the body of their fellow femme radical--I believe that Jesus was non-binary, gender fluid, femme. They(singular) were that stricken beauty that screamed poetry from the cross while bleeding out. Jesus ain’t no cis-masc.

 

Femmes are the revolutions of persons--that’s what I mean by queer theology. This is a Theos of generations; there are many gxds, including (femme)Christ. I choose to believe that womxn and femmes called people out of death--that they still do. 

 

I’ve been fasting for the last 37 days--time sped up and slowed down when the pandemic hit. I’ve not known hunger, just a hole in the middle of me each day. It felt appropriate to not eat for ten to twelve hours as folks became sick, died, and cared for each other.

 

I’m at Good Friday again, and I want to die. I want to, but I won’t. There is the revolution, a resurrection of sorts. 

Her womb when she died, and she was radiant 

Oil on canvas

5' x 7' 

2018

Wretched baptism

Oil on canvas

5' x 7' 

2018

To break cedar

Oil on canvas

5' x 7' 

2018

© 2020 Alden DiCamillo