Saint Augustine once said:
“The Church may be a whore, but she’s my mother.”
Why is the Church a whore and a mother?
Why isn’t the Church an abuser and a Father?
A hater and a lover?
A sick institution and a room full of good-hearted people?
Why can’t the Church be twins that disagree constantly?
Or a table of philosophers at a cafe, reading the same thing differently?
Rather than face our paradoxes, we place them on her. We plaster her with big letters.
The dripping paint reads:
“She’s a woman.
A woman must carry all the goodness and all the badness, all the confusion and all the sadness.”
Meanwhile, men continue to repeat and rewrite history with their strained eyes and calloused hands.
If the Church is a whore it’s because they all raped her
If the Church is a whore it’s because no one saved her
If the Church is a whore it’s because they all chained her
If the Church is a whore it’s because we created a monster
And expected her to be very pleasant
And very nice
Ever kind ever submissive ever wise
And ever able to carry whatever we placed
On her back
We expected her to carry it all up the hill
Without her back breaking, without falling ill
When she cannot hold it and screeches out in pain
We send her away and call her insane
If the Church is a whore it’s because she’s not a virgin
If the Church is a whore it’s because we haven’t learned yet
That these labels placed on her is not who she is
They are taglines that help us justify
These cycles
These judgements
They go something like this:
“How dare this generation be spiritual and not religious.
Don’t they know they need us?
They need this whore.”
“If our scapegoat is set free,
There is nothing left to sacrifice,
Nothing left to blame,
Nothing left for us to gain.”
“So release Barabbas, and give us the Christ.
We will enrobe her in silks and sashes and scepters,
Only to spit on her
And call her
A whore.”
The Plot is Love 