Reader, I was healed on Monday last.
It is true the Lord has demanded we shed our wanton ways, forsake earth-bound idols, strip off the robes of the flesh in favour of His chosen garments of love and peace and purity and all the rest.
But how the street was littered with feathers that evening, not a monk’s habit in sight.
Darling Reader, on Monday last I attended (on a very expensive, two-hours-notice whim, might I add) Harry Styles’ concert, and I have no words for the magic felt in that hall beyond these – to watch that man perform was to feel one’s soul ascend to heaven, attain the highest level of acceptance, and then return to Earth, full of exultation and prepared to engage in a beautiful, broken, brilliant world of sinful design.
I watched that concert leaning over a mass of musical disciples from my fixture in the highest balcony, and I felt myself moved in my core. There is not a being alive unfamiliar with the sensation of which I now speak – we often are disinclined to identify those phenomena which unite us, but if we as a population conceded on nothing else, we must at least acknowledge the universality of the moment when music is our burning bush, speaking messages only we can and are meant to hear. It is in these moments, these instances in which golden beams rain from stage lights above and thin paper marked with five-lined staffs is as precious as a sacred book, in these moments, we experience music in its purest form: the religion responsible for communicating scriptures found only in the vast realm of lyrical sound.
Reader, God may gaze upon us always, but it is the Female Gaze that I felt that night. Thousands of people were packed into one enormous room, and all I felt was a celebration. Harry danced, and tens of hundreds of people joined his movement. He sang, and we shouted in kind. We showered him with adoration, and he, us, with love. We danced with him, despite the vast space separating performer from audience, rather than for him. Here stood countless women, prepared to worship at the altar of song constructed by this man who preaches in love and stands in a pulpit of intimacy, even while deafened by the roars of his devotees.
God ordered of us not to make idols, but Harry makes idols of the people in his words. From his pen flows forth images of women who are feeling, who are vibrant, who are alive, and though they exist only in the realm of his music, they are not limited to what his eyes can see. He sings of those raw truths much accursed by holy texts, and in doing so, praises that which give many cause to feel lost. There is purity in his hedonism, softness in the naked nature of his work.
And yet, devilish though he may be, in his roguish sounds let there be heard a greater truth – that as he defies our every expectation for what a prophet ought to be, Harry Styles often sings a sermon more alike what God must have intended for us than we practice as we condemn him for it. He lives in love, begs us to treat people with kindness, urges everyone in his presence to be the person they were created to be. He stands with those in need of an ally and uplifts those who need healing – a medicine often found in the form of song. That night, I did indeed see a monk’s habit made of a checkered shirt and neon pants.
It is for this reason, Reader, that I wonder if God’s gaze and the Female Gaze are really so different after all. There is life, love, acceptance, dancing, singing, sadness, and strength in the work of Harry; a life lived in his image is messy and beautiful and broken and resilient. This is the Female Gaze… and I must believe it is also a holy gaze. God may or may not be a woman, but He certainly lives as one.
Reader, it is my wish for you to treat people and be treated with kindness. I hope you lead a life of love, and with as much joy as can be found in a song.
Love,
Lettie Anne