The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

Blessed are the unruly and the unfit,
for their excesses show us the edge of society.

Blessed are the unrestrained,
for for their ecstasies break the chains of complacency
and teach us our limit(ation)s.

Blessed are the volatile,
for their storms teach us that silence is not safety.

Blessed are the lovers who claw and moan and tremble,
for their lust reveals that desire is no sin,
but the compass that points us home.

Blessed are those who’ve been told their hearts beat too loud,
those who’ve been told to hush,
that their hungers burn too hot,
their tears fall too freely,
tongues too greedy,
breathing too loud,
claws too sharp,
aches too wet,
teeth too long,
too
too
too…everything.

Blessed are those whose silence has been demanded,
whose fire has been declared, dangerous,
whose hungers unseemly,
whose tears excessive.

Blessed are you who love until your ribs ache,
rage until the sky itself shivers,
cry out when the lash lands,
who feel every pulse of joy, envy, sorrow, and lust
at every edge of bursting.

Blessed are those who are too much.

This is our season.

In the Rupture of Autumn, the turning leaves sing the Gospels
of Frenzy and Wilding and Dangerous, declaring:

The fire that consumes also reveals.

The storm that tears also remakes.

The feral cry in the night is the holiest psalm you will ever sing.

In the Rupture of Autumn, Nature herself celebrates the Rites of Revelation and of Abundance.

In the Rupture of Autumn*, within the greying clouds
and the chill of the air are written our Sacraments
of Kneeling,
and of Service,
and of Pain,
of Control,
Deep Trust,
Aftercare.

Our Ruptured Confession:

We have hidden our fire.
We have feared our own rage.
We have caged joy, envy, grief, lust
until they strangled us into shame.

Our Ruptured Proclamation:

We drink deep from the Red Goblet
And will no longer apologize for the stain on our lips.

Our Ruptured Ritual:

We will drink deeply.
We will scream until glass shatters.
We will kneel and rise and fall again,
Our flesh marked, our breath ragged,
Our mouths wet, our hearts wide as the breaking storm.

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This is our season:
The Season of Rupture.

We are too much.
For them.
But we were never meant for them.

We are exactly enough
To set the World ablaze

Amen.