God was drunk when he made us. He’s drunk as he loves us. And we’re drunk when we turn to him. When we pray. Drunken prayers are the most sincere prayers.
God loves us most when we bow our drunken heads. When we mutter drunken prayers. Slurred prayers. The prayers of staggerers.
We want to hear a drunken sermon. Bothering Cicero for a drunken sermon. Read it out: that stuff from Paul! About the fucking principalities!
WE WANT PAUL! WE WANT PAUL!
Cicero, reading: … For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places … take unto you the whole armour of God …
Yeah, fucking A! Now hit us with a Psalm. Hit us with no. 23!
NUMBER 23! NUMBER 23!
Tell us about God, Cicero! Fucking testify! Tell us the most beautiful God-stories! We want to hear about angels! About Adam! About the Son of fucking Man!
Tell us the most beautiful things Jesus did. How he overturned the tables! How he chased the moneylenders from the temples! Tell us how he told those parables! How he was crucified – fucking crucified! How he was fucking born again! Tell us about the fucking Resurrection! How he rolled away the fucking stone!
Tonight, the whole world is drunk. Tonight, everyone and everything is drunk. Tonight, we’re drunk in the world-drunkenness. And drunken prayers are the only ones God hears.
Work in Progress 