I like the idea of flesh as identity. It's mortal, it decays naturally, it's perhaps our only physical proof of our existence. (I feel, therefore I am?)

So, in continuing with flesh as identity, it's also a blank canvas on which we might paint whatever decoration we see fit.

Cronenberg's explored this twice: in Crash (1996), and in Eastern Promises (2007). Greenaway does it to good effect in The Pillow Book (1996), too. But those are deeply non-Christian artists.