February 5: Making Up for Lost Posts, Catie Rosemurgy, "Jesus, the Perfect Lover"

Yes, I'm making up for the couple of posts I missed earlier this week.  I'm not going to get all philosophical.  My mind won't allow it this evening.  Too tired.  Too long of a week.

A couple of days ago, I was talking with a writer friend.  He started sort of interviewing me about my approach to religion.  He's fascinated by my relationship with it.  He sees me as both irreverent and faith-filled.  He asked me to explain how I can maintain both of those states simultaneously.

It was a rather lengthy discussion, but it all came down to the fact that the thing I love about Jesus Christ is that He is both wholly human and wholly divine at the same time.  Mostly, I love the human Christ.  The Christ that gets pissed at the temple and whips people with a rope.  The Christ that weeps at the death of a friend.  That's my Christ.  I still grapple with the divine.

Catie Rosemurgy likes the human Christ, as well.

Saint Marty will always be more human than divine.

Jesus, the Perfect Lover

by:  Catie Rosemurgy

2000 years and he's still rising.
I know, I know, girls.  If Hell didn't exist before,
it does now.  Just for my mouth.  But if I explained

how his skin feels, how timeless and damp,
how raw and in need of bandaging
from my constant, constantly

forrgiven touch,
you'd toss your hair one last time
and put on your suit of flames too.

How often have we all said, "If only
I never had to leave the house again, if only
my wishes were fishes and my supernatural boyfriend

could make thousands more of them, if only no one else
ever existed at all."  My Jesus spreads himself out
permanently and looks a lot like me:

a bit disappointed but not too surprised.  Still, he's glad
that he can at least distract me from whatever
crude nails my palms have room for.

But look how he hangs so quietly--there's definitely
an ingredient missing.  Someone very large
didn't think it through and forgot

to add absolute strength.
So he's my undressed apology,
my portable laboratory

where "Dear Lord, no" and "My God, yes"
were simultaneously invented.
I can tell by the amused look in his eye

that, straddling and blond
and incomplete, I am not responsible
for what I do.  Mostly, though, the way

we squirm together
is like sleep, only brighter.
After I press against him

for an hour or two, he can see right through me.
He knows the glint of my ribs,
the steam escaping my heart.

Any fool can see
how he looks down at me,
wanting to hold me, extinguish me, wishing

he would've thought of this before,
of everything he could have done for me
with his arms.  That's what makes him perfect,

he always admits
to my burning image
when he's wrong.