SOUTHERN INCISION
On Faith, Flesh, and the Moan That Split the Night Wide Open
“I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope. For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.”
—T. S. Eliot
Preface
There are resurrections the church refuses to recognize. They happen in laboratories, not sanctuaries. They arrive in pill bottles, not empty tombs. They transform blood work into benediction, viral loads into victories the faithful cannot preach because the miracle came from science, not from God.
This is a testament to that other kind of rising. To the body that was supposed to die but learned to live. To the fifteen years of mornings when I swallowed survival and called it faith. To the undetectability that made me safe but not saved, whole but not welcome, alive in ways the church has no sermon for.
U=U. Undetectable equals Untransmittable. Medical fact and theological crisis. The truth my blood carries and the truth the church cannot hold.
What follows is not apology. It is witness to a body that became its own altar when every other door closed, to a faith built from lab results and adherence, to the resurrection that happens one pill at a time.
If you are looking for redemption, you will not find it here. But if you are looking for what it means to live when you were promised death, to love when you were called contagion, to build holiness from what the church called curse, then read on.
This is the gospel they will not preach. Let it be preached anyway.
