Corpus Festum

Those people? Believe me, you’ll find it easy to detest those who claim to be above Hate. And I don’t mean the Christs. Not at all. They’ve got it good, and you can like them even if they go around kissing enemies, dying one day, living another, throwing words like “thirst” and “foreslake” up their mommas and their poppas. No. The Christs are fine by me. They can trash around temples, heal the blind, and curse the million generations of an innocently bystanding Ficus religiosa like there’s no tomorrow. Oh yes, the Christs can hate. And with style. They’re fine by me. What I meant to despise are those who emulate their messiahs without surpassing them. Those little winemen and handmaidens. Those who’d rather answer What Would Iesu Do? because they’d no spine enough to ask What Would I Do? Bless their puny hearts, those Christalettes. They hate Hate so much that they fail to comprehend the role of enmity in Love. Brother, when the rule was laid to Love Thy Enemy, you clearly had to get your hands on some foe or other to qualify for the faith. Find an enemy. Or make one. When Judas kissed his Jesus, the entirety of Christ was expressly sealed into the fabric of Hell. When Jesus partook of his star apostle’s tongue, Judas was assured a gleaming place in the savior’s very Heaven. Oh, it’s all there in that fine scene, that coupling gesture: love, sacrifice, abhorrence, redemption, death. It’s all in the kiss - that pure, wet package. Yet the Christalettes, so devoted to their blindness, prefer to stand in their prayerful lobbies and singing corridors than take wisdom from the banquet of the Body. If you find them blocking your way with fish and bread and leaflets, a prudent thing to do is to hate them politely. Tell them you’re a sinner on the way to more sin. Ask them if they’d like to join you. Watch as that Herd Sea parts before you. Then proceed on your Myrrhy Way.