I have a confession: I am a non-Christian addicted to Christianity — or, rather, Christian imagery. I collect crucifixes. My budding collection consists of a white cross bearing a silver Jesus that I bought from an antique seller, two mini rosaries from St. George’s Chapel in Windsor, United Kingdom, a rosary I crocheted, a small glass cross statue, a ceramic crucifix from Mexico, two rosaries I wear as jewelry, and a combo rosary and prayer tattoo on my left arm (which I’m counting as part of the collection).
Like I said, I’m not a Christian, and while I have tried to be (by both my own hand and the more forceful hands of my devout peers), I never truly have been. When I left my conservative hometown to move to Atlanta, I quickly renounced the religion and chose a more humanist and alternative approach to spirituality. My 19-year-old self would probably be horrified to see all the crosses on my walls, but these symbols of reverence mean more to me than the religion that birthed them.
I collect crucifixes simply because they are beautiful. They are evocative of a Southern gothic brand of horror, a fearful protection against demonic evil that I find perverse and exciting. At the same time, they are also representative of loving sacrifice, reverence, and gratitude, all of which still make up my definition of God.
Along with my collection, I often turn to religious text and imagery when writing poetry or making collages, juxtaposing these images with overt sexuality to explore topics of domination and worship. And the truth is, I am more in awe of and devoted to God — my version of God — as an unapologetic blasphemer than I ever was while cosplaying as Christian at church and Bible studies as a teenager.
The God I am devoted to is my partner’s laugh, wet grass under my toes, and fruit juice running down my chin. God is tarot cards and debut novels and dried flowers. It’s my sister telling me secrets late at night and the maggots communing among the trash rot. It is everything that inspires awe in me, and everything that inspires disgust. It is neither heaven nor hell, but the Earth my feet are planted on.
As I have come to my own deeply personal and meaningful conception of what God is, I have come to a place where I feel I can reclaim the reverence and beauty of Christianity. As a queer Southern woman, I know it is mine to take for my own, to reimagine in my image — in God’s image. People may assume I’m Christian because I have a cross around my neck, but they will not know the truth of my secret power. I do not worship Jesus or believe in eternal punishment, but the cross is just as much mine as anybody else’s.