On theologies and the most holy places

In Paul’s first letter, addressed to the Corinthian church, he reminded them: “Now you are the body of Christ.”[1] He went on to explain that some were the hands, others eyes, ears, or feet. This means that each had a role in that body, in the community of Corinth, and thanks to all of them, the community could function properly. Subsequently, this metaphor has been used to talk about all Christians who form the Church regardless of any condition. And as Christian reflection is always done from the symbolic place we occupy, the Church has been influenced by theologies from different bodily sites. In other words, theology has not only shaped bodies, but bodies have also constructed theologies.

Some have been developed from the brain, placing it as the main element through which to understand who God is and what They wants from us. Others, more or less distancing themselves from the brain, believe that the privileged place from which we can speak of God is the hands. Thanks to the work they perform, God’s Kingdom can be made manifest. In addition, there are theologies which focus on the mouth, repeating like parrots what others have said before, without passing that information through the brain at any time, and much less using their hands to check that they are saying something meaningful. Of course, there are other theologies made from the navel, from reflecting on oneself, on what I need, what I want, what is mine. And we could go on and on mentioning other parts of the body and the theologies that emerge from them, but I don’t want to bore anyone so I’ll end by recalling the indecent theology practiced by Marcella Althaus-Reid removing her panties[2].

Before moving forward with my reflection, I encourage my more theologically conservative readers to stop reading right now and go in search of other authors who do not grate on your nerves with their theological experiments. Because when I was reading the following comment sent by one of my readers the other day: “God did not create the anus to be penetrated by a man”, I realized that if we go on analyzing the corporal simile of Paul, some people in the body of Christ had to occupy the anus, and, therefore, their theological reflection had to derive from there. Then I wondered why after so many years of hearing similar comments, I had never realized the homophobic theologies that LGBTIQ Christians endure, which are made by the supposedly impenetrable anuses of many specialists.

Paul says that the body formed by us believers is the temple of the Holy Spirit[3],  and if in the Bible there is a Temple, in capital letters, it’s the one built by Solomon in Jerusalem in the tenth century BC. So for a Jew like Paul, it is possible that the temple formed by all Christians was very similar to that of Solomon. If anyone is interested in knowing what it was like, simply open your Bible; otherwise, search it on Google. There you will discover that the Temple of Jerusalem was divided into three areas: the porch, the Holy Place and the Most Holy Place. I guess the superlative must have helped to conclude that the Most Holy Place was the most important. So important that no one could enter, because they believed that the presence of God was there in all its fullness. For all of the above, we can tie up the loose ends and conclude that the relevance of the anus in many theologies lies on considering it their holy place, the privileged space where they can find the god they talk about. A god who rejects those who dare to enter his room, and who accepts those who meekly refuse to cross the beautiful and thin veil that would allow them to be in the glory (the glory of God I mean).

My reader’s comment, which has led to this reflection, does not take into account that when a man reaches a certain age, he has to visit a urologist, who will put on a glove and screen the man’s prostate. So, like everything in life, there are exceptions to the rules, and if it is a doctor with such good intentions, and although our face will only show discomfort from the ordeal, we should be thankful that God has created this very sensitive orifice which can be penetrated by the firm and precise fingers of a urologist for the sole purpose of saving our lives. At this point I realize that in the Most Holy Place there also were some exceptions. On Yom Kippur day, the high priest (a spiritual urologist?) could introduce his fingers and the rest of his body into this small room to try to save the lives of the people of Israel, asking God to forgive the sins committed the previous year. Today many non-Jewish people still have their particular Yom Kippur when they realize the intention of some high priest or priestess (I can’t believe how fast things change) to penetrate into their anuses with the intention of apologizing for I-don’t- know-what sins and excesses.

Personally I’m not the kind of person who prioritizes some parts of the body over others, and no matter how interesting the Most Holy Places might seem to me, I refuse to believe that those theologies that try to make them an impenetrable place are Christian. To begin with because I think it is quite significant that the gospel makes it clear that after Jesus’ death, the veil of the Temple was torn[4]. It is a way of saying that the God of Jesus is not locked away in any particular place, and that we can now go in and out of the Most Holy Place without fear that we are committing an abomination punishable by death. I don’t know if this will help those who are concerned for other people’s anuses, and for their own, though I fear it will not, because these people are really fond of telling everybody how to live, think and even what they can or cannot do with their anuses. What they fancy—and, between you and me, what makes them ridiculous—is to create a world where naturalness, spontaneity, happiness, pleasure, or the desire to experiment, are conspicuous by their absence. We don’t need to check on their anuses, their faces clearly show how unhappy and dissatisfied they are with their theology.

Going back to what Jesus’ death can tell us about privileged places to make theology, I suppose—and I will retract what I said in the previous paragraph—only the theology that comes from the heart is distinctly Christian. That was Jesus’ maxim: love, even if the theologians of the anus don’t like it. That’s why I think that Jesus is more than just head, hands, mouth or anus; Jesus is the heart of the body formed by all of us believers. And his blood is what gives us life and dignifies us. Any theology that emphasizes a part of the body other than the heart, other than Jesus, does so to humiliate or make some human being suffer. And the theologies that focus solely on the heart, and forget about the importance of other parts of the body (the neighbor), are dead theologies, unable to pump enough blood to other organs to stay alive. So, to all these theologians of the anus, I would suggest that you move to the heart, a heart that constantly pumps life, because no matter how holy you consider some people’s anuses are, there is nothing holier than love.

Carlos Osma

From the book "Only a Faggot Jesus Can Save Us"

Available at Amazon

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Notes:

[1] 1 Corinthians 12:27.

[2] Marcella Althaus-Reid, La teología indecente (Barcelona: Edicions Bella-Terra, 2005),72.

[3] 1 Corinthians 3:16.

[4] Mark 15:38.