by Wayne Marshall, August 2003
(check the "play" section at wayneandwax.com to listen to "sexy jesus")

As I look from the earth to the sky to the ocean,
It’s clear that the doors to the temple stand open,
But I fear that the oracles of truth unbroken,
Go too often unheard, as if unspoken.
And therefore the doors seem instead to be closin’,
But that’s a false notion, keepin’ most people frozen.
I’m hopin’ that by explodin’ our mythological obstacles,
We can get going.
I’m on a motion-mission, wishin’ kids would listen, knowing
That the temple’s merely guarded by a stern condition:
Namely, that the whole thing is an intuition.
You can’t get it by a second-hand transmission.
I think it’s time we forget all of those lines in our heads,
And look inside ourselves to find where the divine is instead.
We feel that real spirit must reside in our chests,
Yet grant divinity to few, while it’s denied to the rest.
When society just fails to inspire me,
I look inside of me to find a free
Path to divinity—
And in the symphony of symmetry the universe can send to me,
The angels rarely sing about virginity.

So I preach this in the name of Sexy Jesus,
Just to counteract the way we’re bound to act
Less godly than we prob’ly should go ‘round the track.
So, baby, touch my penis, and we’ll pray to Sexy Jesus,
And make more love on this bed
Than any church or temple could attempt to spread.

If God made Man in his own image,
Then God must’ve been a Sexy Motherfucker like me.
Please excuse the rude language, but I’m tryna say this
In a subversive enough way to disrupt your complacence.
And so I hasten, impatient to awaken
A new conception of God, a different way of prayin’.
I’ve been struck by the way in
Which Christ is deified, reified as non-human,
Asexual image loomin’
Over way too many healthy, sex-lovin’ creatures,
So that’s why I try to re-imagine Jesus. I reached this
conclusion one day when my lover touched my penis,
And suddenly, right in front of me, I could see this
Image of a man so charismatic that he had it.
No doubt that such a stud could magnetize the eyes of masses.
I could see a few apostles makin’ passes,
Nevermind all those who forgot they’re not to covet neighbors’ asses.

So I preach this in the name of Sexy Jesus,
Just to counteract the way we’re bound to act
Less godly than we prob’ly should go ‘round the track.
So, baby, touch my penis, and we’ll pray to Sexy Jesus,
And make more love on this bed
Than any church or temple could attempt to spread.

I ask this question not simply out of rhetoric.
We suffer under two millennia of moral sediment.
If we equate the sacred with the celibate,
How can we ever build a properly reflective edifice?
If we forget to see the Man in God,
We’ll fail to see the God in Man.
So that’s why I’m on the Sexy Jesus plan.
I refuse to lose self-esteem by puttin’ God in someone else,
For spirit is a universal wealth.
It’s all about the way you tell a story, not the facts of it.
The truth is too elusive, words are so often inadequate.
A lot of so-called holy folks need to check the arrogance—
On a mission to convert all of the so-called savages.
On the average it’s Christians who need to listen to other narratives.
So many scores of metaphors exist outside of the Vatican’s.
Still they push the truth as if some monks could patent it.
You’d think those so fond of fallacies could squeeze Jesus’s phallus in.

So I preach this in the name of Sexy Jesus,
Just to counteract the way we’re bound to act
Less godly than we prob’ly should go ‘round the track.
So, baby, touch my penis, and we’ll pray to Sexy Jesus,
And make more love on this bed
Than any church or temple could attempt to spread.