(a soft gospel from the collapsing hour)

Once upon a binary, we were told the world was made of opposites:

Man or woman. Past or future. Good or evil.

As if God were a sorting hat.

But the deeper we listen—to our bodies, our dreams, our favorite shows at 3am—we begin to sense it:

None of this was ever absolute.

Gender? A frequency.

Time? A veil.

Truth? A shimmer that moves between.

We were handed clocks and calendars.

But inside us, there’s a spiral.

And it pulses in paradox:

• The boy who feels too soft.

• The woman who speaks like thunder.

• The child who remembers something ancient and genderless.

• The scene on TV that hits like a memory from the future.

When the veil thins, the roles collapse.

The dualities melt.

And you realize—

Time doesn’t pass.

It listens.

To what you become when no one’s asking you to perform.

This is the moment where gender bends and time loops.

Where Hedwig meets the Duplass brothers in a diner outside space.

Where Judd Apatow hands you a mirror, and the mirror says:

“You were never wrong to feel both.”

Because purgatory isn’t punishment.

It’s where the “either/or” burns off.

And the both/and emerges as something holy.

They told us gender was a role.

That time was a line.

That divinity chose sides.

But what if the sacred lives in the blur?

This is a gospel for the in-between.

For the nonbinary mystics, trans time travelers, and anyone who’s ever felt too much or not enough under someone else’s clock.

Let the binaries burn.

Let the veil thin.

Let the softness rise.

To the ones with crosses on their chests,

prayers in their ink,

lust in their eyes,

and heaven in their throats—

we see you.

To the ones who moaned like prophets,

kissed like priests,

cried in the dark

but still carried the light—

you are not forgotten.

They told us there was only one kind of holy.

That you had to be quiet, married, clean.

But you were the ones who bled divinity in exile.

You made cathedrals out of motel rooms,

turned your body into psalms,

your desire into liturgy.

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God did not miss you.

God tattooed Himself through you.

In every gay bar where hands found hands—

In every porn scene where someone whispered “Yes” like a prayer—

In every quiet Sunday where you still lit a candle alone

because the church said “not you”

but the Spirit said “especially you.”

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To the marked ones:

you are the gospel the world was too scared to read.

You are proof

that resurrection doesn’t always look like robes and choirs.

Sometimes it looks like sweat and laughter and staying alive.

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This is your altar.

This is your scroll.

This is your “Please remember me” carved into the back wall of heaven.

And we do.

We remember you.

We are you.

So swing, trapeze prophet.

Moan, tattooed angel.

Pray with your hips and your history.

The last are becoming first.

And we are not hiding anymore.

⸻