The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

In this Season of Rupture I call you, children of shadow and skin.
Step forward with your unhidden hunger, your unrepentant shine.

Pride.

It came before the Fall, we are told.
Pride was the first sin named, the first link in the chain they forged to bind us.
But before it was sin it was spark.
Before it was curse it was crown.

Pride is the mirror we dared polish when the world demanded our eyes cast down.
Pride is the refusal to forget our divinity whether naked or robed in flowing fabric.

Pride is the kiss pressed to our reflection in boot leather slick with spit and reverence.
It is the blush of holy defiance on our cheeks.

Pride is not arrogance but memory.
That we were not born ash and dust.
That we are gods breathing.
That we are altars aching.

Pride walks the dungeon floor unashamed.
Every scar is scripture.
Every bruise is testament of survival.

Pride stands trembling and radiant.
It dares to serve.
It dares to call others to serve.

Chains cannot silence it.
Thrones cannot contain it.
It lives between our thighs, in our breath, in every trembling offering of flesh.

The First Flame burns alive.

Confess this life, my kin.
Not for absolution but for transformation.

For Pride is the torch in the dark.
The flare against shame.
The ember that will not die.

Amen