8 January 2009
These things do not blaspheme…

The following was my intro on the group “Loosing my Religion/Religious Play” on FetLife. I thought folks might enjoy ;)

Thank you for the invite Masque.

I find it fascinating that the idea of blasphemy is at the forefront of so many perspectives here so far here on the group (from other thread). To me the idea of defiling the gods, or God, or the divine, or Universal Will or whatnot (insert your filter here) actually has very little to do with my fetishism around faith, religion, and spiritual mysticism.

Blasphemy states disrespect.
I do not intend my acts by their very nature to disrespect, but instead to use the tools of the hive mind to place those who interact with me into the roles they have subconsciously absorbed in life. As Father Harrington I have had strangers open up to me and share their deepest secrets on street corners- permission given to be ungaurded. As shaman, sexualized, I become s/he who is conduit to the divine, an opportunity for people to walk between worlds and labels in life. As guru, whether “dark” or “light” in that role, I give people an opportunity to believe in something bigger, to let go, to not just submit but surrender to the Will of another (and/or the Divine). As a temple whore my body becomes temple, becomes sacred space for the possibilities of healing to take place amidst the bliss and carnage of desire.

My history? My family was mixed faith (Goddess Worshiping Lutheran Crystal Healer and Born-again Catholic Activist) and thus I was encouraged instead to go to every type of faith gathering I could and make up my own mind. I attended temple, synagogue, mosque, churches of many types. I went to Wiccan Sabbats and Satanic Black Masses. I became active in ceremonial magic and drank in hymns at Notre Dame.

And everywhere I went I realized I touched God/Universe/Divine/Love. In Cappadocia long dead cities still smelt of incense and I prayed there. At Kildare I left my wishes tied to Brigid’s sacred wells. From Glastonbury I hammered out my feet on the ground at a rave and kissed the Goddess on the lips in the pouring rain.

I have an addiction for the divine, and that includes the power of the objects that have left their mark on those seeking the faces of that power no matter what you call it. I love the smell of frankincense swinging, the cling of prayer shawls to my naked flesh, the cut of a good looking man in full vestments or a raving oracle screaming in tattered veils. I can feel the echoes of god’s love and lust for the world in the pages of old family bibles and become aroused.

Arouse. To awaken from slumber. To be driven mad with desire.

Give me nuns and anchorites married to the Lord. Give me trannsexual hookers dancing for fallen Sufi Mystics. Give me phalluses that tower into the sky. Give me rosaries whose beads have become steeped in unreleased needs waiting for permission to live fully. Give me trappings and true passions, because in each I see desire, love, God.

These things do not blaspheme in my eyes.