Sexuality is theology. My desire to know and be known is physical. My need revolves on questions of vulnerability, of openness, of intimacy, of nakedness. Both mystical union and communion are full-bodied experiences – the bread and the wine and the ecstasy. Why, then, is sexuality so tightly bounded by our weekly Sunday morning discourses? Are we attempting to protect God? To control God? Are we afraid?
I’ve heard the stories of a sterile, effeminate Jesus – pierced but never impregnated. “Who touched me?” God asks. And I look around confused, not because there is a crowd here and everyone has come into contact with Jesus, but because We. Do. Not. Touch.
Except we do (at least in secret), and I am ashamed. Ashamed to admit the truth of my desire. Ashamed to let others see who I am.
In worship I’ve learned to cover myself with fig leaves and hide in the bushes. God enters our meetings, calls my name and yours, but I’m hiding. “Who told you that you were naked?”
I close my eyes, feign meditation, and hope he’ll just go away.
But Jesus stays, determined to undress my oppression: economic, political, theological.
Jesus upends decency.
“How can you ask me for a drink?” she asks.
“He would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is,” he thinks.
But they had forgotten that even David entered the house of God, took the consecrated bread, and ate.
I, too, am hungry.