Sundance and Baptism have grown limp over the centuries. Their placebo has grown dull through time. We see them today corroded with tradition and reanimated as a kindergarten musical before lunch. The Pastor handed me my lines and pushed me onto the stage, “Stand over there and sing this aloud when you hear, ‘Amen.’”
No one knew he was speaking Egyptian. I thought ancient rites were as stoic as my church. The raciest thing St. Timothy’s had was a bright red door. Its mouth was subdued with black braces to a fortress of surrounding stone. This was my only house of God and the red door was its tongue.
History has taught me much since then and by chance some of it was accurate. There are altars in Jerusalem with evidence of Messiah christened in THC. Vestal Virgins at the Temple of Athena lubricated a wooden Priapus every moon. Men came for miles in many more ways than one. Sex is religion’s grandmother. Passion opens the Muladhara in the coccyx and we are reborn.