When one person dares to speak her truth, it challenges us all to live our own. With Red Hot and Holy, Sera Beak offers a provocative and intimate view of what it means to get up close and personal with the divine in modern times.
With a rare combination of audacious wit, scholarly acumen, and tender vulnerability€"vibrantly mixed with red wine, rock songs, tattoos, and erotic encounters€"Sera candidly chronicles the highs and lows of her mystical journey. From the innocence of her childhood crush on God; through a whirlwind of torrid liaisons and bitter break-ups with Christianity, Buddhism, Sufism, Hinduism, and the New Age; and finally into committed monogamy with her own Red Hot and Holy Goddess, Sera shares transformative insights, encouraging us all to trust our unique path and ignite our own spiritual love affair.

Sera Beak's luscious writing and renegade spiritual wisdom that slices through religious and new age dogma made her debut book The Red Book a breakout success. With Red Hot and Holy she offers a far more personal book€"an illuminating, hilarious, and above all utterly honest portrait of the heart-opening process of mystical realization. This hot and holy book invites you to embrace your soul, unleash your true Self, and burn, baby, burn with divine love.
 
 
Excerpt
 
As a child, I was madly in love with God.  Gaga for God.  In grade school, I used to write €œI (heart) God€ at the top of all my homework assignments and in the margins of the notes I passed to my girlfriends about which boys we thought were cute.  Next to The Little Princess, a children€s bible was kept on my bedside table for nightly reading.  Miracles?  Prophetic dreams?  Angels?  Healing the sick?  Sign me up for those gigs!  And every Thursday I believed J.C. dropped by my bedroom so I could ask him personal questions and tell him which sister was annoying me the most.  I was magnetized to rosaries, prayers, and pyramids the way other kids were to doughnuts, MTV and the Cabbage Patch Kids, and every time I saw a religious figure (priest, nun, Buddhist monk, Hare Krishna) out in public, it would take an enormous amount of willpower not to stalk them.
 
When Career Days at school would come around, my questionnaire would look a little something like this:
Favorite subject?  God
Favorite hobby?  God
What do you want to be when you grow up?  God
(Okay, there was a brief time when I was six years old when the answer to that last question was €œan albino.€  I thought albinism would make me glow in the dark.)
When I was a child, God was not a belief of a magical Santa Claus type.  He was as real as my heart.  I felt Him (inside me).  I recognized Him (everywhere). I knew Him (personally).  We hung out together, and I never wanted our rendezvous to stop.  I only wanted us to draw closer.  I assumed I was experiencing what many Catholics refer to as €œthe call€ to be a priest, so I matter-of-factly informed my parish priests and Sunday school teachers of my future vocation.  They laughed, patted my head, and told me I couldn€t have heard the call to be a priest because I had a vagina.
Okay, they didn€t say that last part, but believe me, it was implied.
They did tell me that only men were allowed to be priests because Jesus only had male disciples (to which Mary Magdalene juts out her left hip and slaps her round cheek with The Gospel of Mary Magdalene).  But, of course, I could always be a nun.