#Easter altar

[pagan-stitches]

My prayer beads from left to right: a set dedicated to Morana/light half of the year, Granny’s rosary, a set dedicated to Morana/dark half of the year.

[ccthegoddessblog]

Rituals vs. Spell work: Understanding the Difference

When delving into the mystical realms of magick, it’s essential to grasp the distinctions between rituals and spell work. Let me illuminate these concepts:

Magical Practices (Spell work):

Definition: These are simple workings—everyday magics that don’t necessarily involve elaborate rituals.

Duration: They can take seconds to a couple of hours.

Intent: They have an intention, an end goal, and a magical act.

Examples: Taking a magical bath, divination (like tarot), reciting a spell, meditating, or lighting a candle.

Ritualistic Level: Not very ritualistic; no casting of circles or complex spells.

Rituals:

Definition: More elaborate magical works with structure and specific components.

Duration: Longer than practices due to their complexity.

Purpose: Assist in walking between worlds, raising significant energy.

Components: Often involve casting a circle, calling quarters/elements, and invoking spirits or deities.

Examples: Full moon rituals, spell bottles, transformative magics, protection spells.

Spells:

Definition: Spells consist of words or phrases with a specific intention.

Components: Usually involve words (or emojis) and focus on a desired outcome.

Purpose: To signify, relate, or talk—directing energy toward a goal.

[antikristvs]

Ave Satanas, Lucifer!

[ladyloveandjustice]

[honnneyz]

dropping this byeee -Shadow gets his abilities from Sidum, god of death and war

[artemisandhersilverbow]

I was actually speechless when my CD showed up today and "But Daddy I Love Him" lyrics stopped me in my tracks. CONCRETE POETRY??

Pattern poetry is probably the more accurate categorization for this ex., but I immediately thought the lyrics echo the shape of one of the most famous examples, "Easter Wings" by George Herbert.

I know the variants have different shapes for the lyrics (circle, square, octagon). But any googling of Concrete Poetry or pattern poetry will inevitably lead you back to the OG George Herbert (or like... ancient Greece, but ignore that for now). I also saw someone on Twitter say that the variants could even symbolize the many interpretations (and no true muse) of this song.

Below is a brief breakdown of "Easter Wings".

On its base level, in "Easter Wings" the speaker meditates on one's relationship to God. I have been thinking, prior to this booklet showing up at my house, that the "him" in BDILH could potentially be God. Or at least one interpretation of it could be. Sunday best, pearl clutching was an early tip off.

Anyway, pattern poetry is more than just shaping a poem into a fun shape or even an obvious shape. The physical shape and visual appearance of how the poem is printed works in combination with the themes and content of the poem to amplify the meaning. It adds another level (a third level?) where the poetry has to be seen to be fully understood. Also because you need to see the poem, authors use its shape to manipulate words, phrases, meanings. Essentially, if you heard the poem it would sound one way, but reading it will reveal the authors true meaning. Dear reader, indeed.

This is an oversimplification, but in "Easter Wings" the wider lines are, to borrow a phrase from "Robin," lighter. The narrowing signifying this turn to despair, pain, disconnect from God. Similarly BDILH lyrics narrow at the most biting part of the song and give way to that incredible running through field energy we end on.

And not for nothing, but the only way I would find the joke of "I'm having his baby, no I'm not," would be if she was talking about God. Lol iykyk.

Anyway, Herbert has another very famous poem. One taught to me in middle or high school - maybe you've seen it before too. It's called "The Altar". The first illustration is harder to read and a little more obvious, the second is how I've seen it reproduced more commonly (still the shape of an altar).

And naturally, the word altar made me think of another song from TTPD... So Long, London.

This woman terrifies me...

Anyway, Taylor wants you to put her reading glasses on! Album booklets, lyric videos, the choice is yours! As I always find with her booklets, she fully embraces writing out her lyrics as poetry. You'll notice a lot of changes from the Genius versions, for ex. Album booklet's punctuation, line breaks, new sentences, etc. have changed the entire "meaning" of lines/songs for me. Usually, whatever reframing I find is richer than what I had accepted on the first listen.

I've also noticed how simple the lyric videos for TTPD are in comparison to previous albums, but she's (ok her digital media team who I would not doubt are under STRICT instruction) playing with text quite a bit. Like Herbert above we have many instances of spacing, CAPS, vs lowercase, even collage like effects that completely reorder the lyrics, perhaps even the meaning.

[smaller-comfort]

April 14, 2006

(Behind the altar, brightly backlit, bored with bondage, and Unamused, the pornographic Christ presides. Embarrassed, I avert my eyes from his withered figure, high on the wall.)

We gather to hear, in this hallowed space, Of the vacant vault where their savior was. No body there, only hidden hope, wrapped in ragged rolls of cloth. Is faith so simple: a hollow tomb? My grave overflows, filled with bones.

And yet, faithless, I feel I am never more at home than in the house of god, when our offerings echo in the emptiness.

Who will hear our halleluiahs?

The angled apse lit with spotlights draws my drifting eyes upward. I lose myself in lines and silence; I will not wonder at the deafness of angels, nor the cold comfort of an open tomb.

The sermon is short, a small blessing; little miracles mean more to me than sacrifice and faceless Fathers.

Outside, against the outbursting onset of spring, the snow recedes in the sun, revealing letters in the leaves of drooping daffodils. A crocus calls out, commanding me to read what is written: "Resurrection time." I believe in nothing, if not in this.

[adamklipp]

[feralcanine]

✨🌸🐇🌅🐇🌸✨

HAPPY OSTARA

[stone-cold-groove]

Easter Mass.

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

trigun midnight mass au. is this anything.

[pagan-stitches]

Ironed the Easter altar cloth today. Explanation of motifs here .

[re-new-your-mind]

Messiah is the same today! Flee idolatry . As many hold fast to images of lions as Yeshua ,and others to images of a man as Yeshua ,while he is The image and likeness of The Eternal ,''they'' fail to realize who he is ,as El and the son of El. I grew in Christianity ,it is no small thing to call the error out! The so called holidays that are not in the word and lead back to bondage ..

(1)Whoever commits sin is enslaved to sin . (2)Many call him Master ,yet when he,The Son of Man returns ,will he find faith on earth?

Exo 20:3-4 “You have no other mighty ones against My face. “You do not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of that which is in the heavens above, or which is in the earth beneath, or which is in the waters under the earth,

Jhn 10:29-30 “My Father, who has given them to Me, is greater than all. And no one is able to snatch them out of My Father’s hand. “I and My Father are one.”

1Jn 5:19 We know that we are of Elohim, and all the world lies in the wicked one.

[emotionalwizard]

Gotta say, Santa-shaped chocolate is kinda disturbing to me.

I'm consuming an effigy of an ancient, syncretized deity and boogeyman who is known for his great kindness and demonological know-how.

This is adorable and eating it feels sacrilegious.

[bloodsuckingviolet]

The only Geesus that matters today

[freelancearsonist]

Won't You Suffer for the Angels to Fly?

➔ Joel Miller x fem!Reader - 2k

➔ Joel finds religion in the last place he expected to--a preacher's daughter.

➔ Rated MA for pure blasphemy. a lot of religious imagery and defiling of holy places--please read at your own risk. unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, fingering (f receiving), corruption kink, HEFTY age gap (r is early 20s [unspecified], joel is 56), reader uses feminine pronouns and has female anatomy [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ this is for my mid to plus!sized readers :) you're beautiful and valid and i love you. this was written in basically one sitting after i binged mike flanagan's midnight mass in one night. thank you to my lovelies @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @shakespeareanwannabe for talking me through this <3 title is from "heaven only knows" by bob moses

The Bible teaches–at least according to what Joel was able to gleam from the Easter service–that everything happens for a reason. That every pelting raindrop in its descent from the sky, even before it lands heavy and dark in his hair or soaks the lush green landscape of Jackson, has a purpose.

He’s struggled a lot with purpose ever since hearing that existential crisis-inspiring sermon that Tommy had dragged him to. 

In the preacher’s defense, it went over well with everyone else. So many people are lost nowadays, adrift in a world that doesn’t seem to have space for them. They need that hope, that reassurance that they’re here for a reason. That they’ve survived hell on earth not out of luck, but out of purpose. He pulled out the big gun that everyone needed to hear on one of the two days a year that everyone in Jackson has their ears open to him. It was tactful, and Joel has to acknowledge that. Your father is clever, if not cunning.

It’s a trait that you’ve learned directly from him, whether purposeful or not. But you sat right in the front row and nodded along to every word, accepting without thought or conflict that purpose is in every action, every reaction, every change of tide and every gust of wind.

And if everything has a purpose, your purpose must be to torture him.

You never have anything but a smile on your face for Joel. Joel, a man older than your own father, a man whose hands have broken every commandment that you hold so dear. A man that should know better than to let you get under his skin and infect his dreams.

He wonders what it would be like to hold someone so perfectly untainted in hands that have killed and destroyed and sinned. Hands that are strong, hands that are experienced, hands that are greedy. He’s certain he could teach you all about greed. He could make you beg, plead, sob for more and more and more until the only thought remaining in your pretty little head is how much you want to take from him. Until you become a glutton at the altar of his generosity.

And oh, how generous he could be once he had you begging. Minding your manners and asking nicely for what you need, of course, but he would never deny you anything you asked of him.

“Can I help you with that, Mr. Miller?” He hadn’t even noticed he was struggling–and he wouldn’t be, really, if he wasn’t so distracted. Putting new legs on a pew isn’t the issue after all; it’s the fact that you’re sitting there on the stairs that lead up to the altar and absentmindedly swinging your legs as if you’re taunting him. As if you understand that his resolve is slipping with every passing second he’s alone in this room with you. 

“Joel.”

“Hmm?” You shift your posture to lean closer, and that skirt that’s already way too short to be worn by the pastor’s daughter, in a house of God of all places, rides just a little further up your deliciously full thighs. 

How is he expected to work, to keep his mind on the job, when all he wants is to know what those thighs might feel like wrapped around his head?

He clears his throat and adjusts “You can call me Joel, sweetheart.”

He sees it, then. It’s so subtle, but it’s not imagined. You squirm at the pet name, at the raspy drawl of his voice, and it changes everything for him.

He sees in his mind the sweet girl, barely out of her teens, who sits in the front pew with a Bible in her lap. He sees the girl who sings so sweetly to the tune of every hymn. He sees the girl who’s so shy that she blushes every time she catches his gaze.

And then he sees everything underneath the act. He sees the girl who’s bold enough to wear a bright red dress to the Easter service. He sees the girl who makes eye contact with him across the dining hall every night to watch the way he reacts to her lips wrapped so tantalizingly smoothly around her spoon. He sees the girl who knew he would be alone in the chapel today–the girl who wore an easily accessible skirt just for the occasion.

You bookmark the page you’re on and set down the book you were reading, eyes fixated on him all the while. “Is there something I can help with, Joel?”

There certainly is, and it’s not the pew he’s supposed to be repairing.

He remembers, vaguely, hearing something about how God spares guilt from sinners when sin is necessary. It must be necessary to teach you a lesson, then–as you stride over and kneel beside him, your eyes heavy with anticipation and lashes fluttering, he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“Hasn’t your daddy taught you not to dress like this?” He takes the hem of your skirt idly in his hand, rubs the silky fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He’s not touching you, not really, but his hand is so achingly close. An inch or two, and he’d feel your warmth–those plush thighs that God created to rule over Joel Miller’s mind, body, and soul; ‘til death does he finally know peace, amen.

You shake your head and even manage to seem smug as you say, “No. He just teaches everyone else to resist temptation.”

“I’ve never been much good at that,” he murmurs.

He thinks that you know that. He thinks that you’re his crucible, his most important moral trial–that maybe, if he can turn you away now, he’s a good man.

Joel Miller is not a good man. His kiss is crushing. It’s hellfire, it’s brimstone, it’s everything you’ve been taught to fear your entire life. You melt into it so prettily, accepting your damnation with parted lips and eager eyes. A wanton moan gets caught in your throat when his hand slips further up your skirt. 

No panties–in a place of worship, no less. He should bend you over his knee for this transgression, make sure you understand how filthy you are. But there’s hardly time for that now, not when he’s even more desperate than you are. And you are desperate–dripping down his fingers into the palm of his hand as your teeth leave perfect little indents in the plush skin of your bottom lip.

His free hand grips your chin firmly, guiding your eyes to his. He wants to see your depravity, the flickering embers of lust in your eyes as you come on his fingers and cry out for salvation from the all-consuming pleasure.

“Oh my God–”

His hand tightens around your jaw just the slightest bit in warning. “No, baby. You moan my name when I’m touchin’ you.”

And you do–thighs trembling, eyes watering, you cry out his name like a prayer as your cunt pulses and squeezes around his willing fingers.

There’s an unpracticed tremble to your hand as you reach to work open his belt, and it makes his cock throb under the confining material of his jeans.

You want every inch of his skin pressed against yours, so desperate for it that you’re nearly in tears when he pulls your fingers away from the buttons on his shirt. He’s not foolish–no one steps foot into this place during the week, but he knows better than to tempt God’s sense of humor. This has to be quick and contained, and you know it too; you picked your little skirt for exactly that reason.

He catches a glimpse of your glistening need as you settle over his thighs, and once again he battles to resist temptation. He whispers in your ear as you settle your chest against his and grind that fluttering, sensitive cunt along his length–promises himself more than you, really, that he’ll bury his face in your folds and drink from you next time. Next time–the promise makes you clench impossibly hard around nothing.

His eyes have never been quite as heavy as they are when you start to sink that dripping heat down his cock. Head tipped back, throat exposed, completely at your mercy. He has to force himself to look up at you–to worship the goddess enshrined on his altar, all his for the taking.

You bite into your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as your hips settle against his, completely overwhelmed by the burning stretch of his size. He’s a challenge, certainly, but one that you are determined to overcome. 

“Easy, baby girl,” he grumbles as you start to rock against him before you’re truly accommodated. His hands rest heavy on your hips–not anchoring, but encouraging. As wrong–as depraved–as this may be, he wants you to enjoy it without pain. “That’s right, nice and slow.”

It doesn’t stay that way, though; the desperation mounts to a boiling point until you’re bouncing fervently in his lap. It’s delicious, the way the thick head of him drags against something deep and sensitive within you. He guides you when your thighs start to burn, grip tightening enough to leave forbidden bruises in the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth presses to yours, breathing the oxygen straight from your lungs as he presses his hips up. There’s nothing you can do but take it, pliant in his hold, head rolling back to accommodate the wet drag of his mouth and the tickling scratch of his beard against your throat.

He feels it before you do–a subtle flutter as your cunt tries sucking him in even deeper. And maybe, if he was a good man, he’d lean away from it and have mercy on you. But he’s not a good man–he’s a greedy, wanton, desperate man. He angles his hips and thrusts as hard as he can, shoving you into your release with force.

You overflow with it; gushing over him like a flood, staining his hastily pushed down jeans and the floorboards beneath.

He pushes you onto your back like you’re weightless, adrenaline coursing as he starts to slam into you. It’s not polite or sweet or loving–he fucks into you and empties himself like an animal. He growls deep in his throat as his cock pulses within you, instructing you to “take it, baby girl” as if you’d consider anything less. 

You don’t know where your release ends and his begins. All you know is his weight on top of you, his mouth on your jaw, the collective breathless pants that fill the room as you both come down together.

You’re not sure how long it is before he pulls out of your warmth with an actual whine, breath heavy against your neck where his face is so comfortably nestled.

And you start to laugh, because you wish you’d worn panties after all–you don’t know how you’re going to get home with the mess of cum that’s dripping down the curve of your ass.

He even chuckles with you, until he tears his eyes away from your blissed face and sees the cross hanging heavy on the far wall.

“Th-that…” he gulps. “That can’t happen again.”

“It can,” you assure him, and he supposes you’re right.

You keep your head down and your eyes to yourself on Sunday, even as you spot the barely-noticeable stain on the hardwood floor next to the newly-repaired pew on the right side of the aisle. It’s so faint that no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, but it’s glaringly obvious to you. You should be ashamed; you should be begging for forgiveness. But then you meet Joel’s watchful eyes, and the shame washes away. How can you feel guilty over an act of worship?

THE END

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