#of course that for those people a place without a church is a non-place to start with never mind anything else

[elbiotipo]

It's fascinating to me that for our modern (at least on European-influenced societies) thinking, the classical Roman way of life is so familiar. When you read about it, the rethoric of the speeches feels modern, a society based on contracts and laws and litigation, with public works, a state bureucracy and standing army and trade economy and even spectator sports, a concept of philosophy separated from religious dogma and tradition, with even a limited understanding of a government by 'the people' and 'citizenship', even the names all sound familiar even if in completely different contexts, and no wonder since they inspired our current politics.

This all in contrast to medieval feudalism, which is completely alien to me. A society created upon family connections and oaths of fealty and serfdom with no such thing as an overarching state, not even kingdoms were any more real than a title one person holds, and all held together completely, utterly, to an extent I cannot emphasize enough, by the institution of the Church and the Christian faith. In a way we just aren't used today in our secular world. I simply cannot overstate how everything, every single thing, was permeated by faith in the Medieval worldview and the Church which took its power from it, we have an understanding of it but I think people just don't realize it.

[themidnightcrimson]

religion ࿏ wm

summary: in which the new reverend at your hometown church wants to give you a lesson on sexual immorality.

words: 5.6K

warnings: pastor!wanda, fem!reader, oral (r giving), fingering (r receiving), slight non-con/dubcon, manipulation, dumbification, degradation, religion, lots of bible verses, rip my religious trauma, spank me with a bible, fuck me with the crucifix, yes lord in wanda's name we pray amen

this post is for 18+ only. minors dni.

masterlist.

A few women in the church had put together a potluck after one Sunday sermon, or a “covered dish supper” as the elders liked to call them. You remembered loving those potlucks as much as you loved church itself when you were a child. As the years went by and your worldview got bigger and your mind opened up to the broader possibilities that this was not what life should be like, you scarcely ever went to church.

Upon moving away for college, the idea of church was a laughable thing to you. You could hardly even remember what the rituals were anymore, or the verses, or the hymns. It wasn’t necessarily a hatred or aversion, but rather a bitter distaste in your mouth when reminded of how indoctrinated you and your whole community were into the church. You just weren’t religious anymore, and you preferred living life that way, though it took years of untying the knots of theological principals and “truths” from your mind.

When you were back in your hometown for a visit, your mother nearly fell over at the sight of the little rainbow bracelet on your wrist. After a very heated conversation where you threw in her face the fact that you had been with multiple women in college, she seemed to give up and leave the conversation alone—until the next morning she asked you to come to church with her.

“Really? You think going to church is going to reverse the way that I was born? You expect me to just pray the gay away?!” you yelled at her, but she was calm. She said that was not her intentions, but rather they were to simply have you come see everyone you grew up around. She said that there was a new pastor there who was younger and could relate better to youth without that kind of feigned wise judgment that the other pastor, a wobbly old man, used.

You fought tooth and nail against your mom in a thirty-minute argument until finally you were just too tired to fight against her anymore. You felt how you did in high school—getting lectured by your mom for skipping church only a single Sunday, being placed under her godly ray of obstinance that so easily drained you until you just couldn’t fight anymore. She forced you to wear one of your church dresses from high school and practically shoved you into the car that Sunday morning. You were just looking forward to the potluck afterward.

As your mom pulled the car into the church’s parking lot, you realized that they had done renovations on the sanctuary since you had been gone. It was bigger now, with huge mosaic windows facing the front and a new pure white cross on top of the spire, making the triangular building look even taller and more pointed than it already was.

“This new pastor a millionaire or something?” you mumbled as you unbuckled your seatbelt.

“No, she’s just so brilliant and amazing that she’s attracted dozens of new parishioners since she came,” she explained. “You’ll see. She really has a way of connecting with young people, especially young women. I couldn’t tell you how many girls your age have joined in the past year!”

Crinkling your eyebrows, you stepped out of the car and took a breath of fresh air. Even in the parking lot, you could pick up that familiar smell of wood and old books. “The pastor is a woman?” you asked, remembering only male pastors. Although your denomination was open towards female pastors, the general misogyny of your small-town Southern community had always favored men, of course.

“Uh huh,” your mother said as she stepped out of the car and fixed her hair in the wind, walking over to you and gently grabbing your arm suddenly. “Y/n, I should probably let you know… I did call Reverend Maximoff last night and told her a little about your…situation.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at her incredulously. “What?!” Had your mother really gone and called the local pastor to tell her that her daughter was gay?

“Look, it’s important for a pastor to know their parishioners’ personal lives in order to truly connect with them. I’m not saying I asked her to… pray the gay away or whatever you said, but I just let her know that you were having some…sexually immoral feelings. She’s helped many young women here with the same problem.”

“Excuse me?!” you exclaimed, jerking your arm away from your hand. An old couple walking by glanced over at you, and you blushed and looked away, speaking quieter. “Why the hell would you tell some woman I don’t even know that I’m having sex with women?!”

“She’s not some woman, she’s an ordained minister of God!” your mother exclaimed. “She’s not going to drag you up in front of the church and hang you, for God’s sake! She was just concerned that you’re not living your life under the guidance of God and would be happy to give you a steering hand, that’s all! She didn’t even say anything about the gay part—just the promiscuity!”

Curse words formed on your lips, but you pursed them together, pushing past your mother and towards the church so you could get this thing over with. “Promiscuity my ass,” you muttered as you burst open the church doors, hit with that familiar old smell. It looked different now that it had been renovated, the ceiling and windows much taller and the carpet redone, but it was the same wooden pews you remembered as a child and the same large altar with a grand piano and steps for the choir.

You looked around at all the familiar townspeople sitting in the pews as the choir, dressed in their robes and holding their hymnals, made their way to the chancel in formation. You realized that your mother was right when she said that the church had grown—all of the pews were jammed full of people, except for a little spot near the front where there was enough room for two people to squeeze in. Feeling aggravated and brash, you stormed to the front and shimmied past the row of people to sit down in the empty spot, your mother scrambling down beside you.

“Please don’t be angry in the house of God,” she began.

You ignored her, looking around and seeing that there were groups of young women your age looking excitedly towards the altar, waiting for the pastor to come out. You assumed maybe the pastor had started a women’s group and was just mentoring the young women.

Reaching forward, you took the hymnal book sitting in the slot behind the pew in front of you, opening up its yellowed pages and flipping through. You could still remember some of the songs, but before you could read one, there was a hushing whisper among the congregation.

Glancing upwards, you saw Reverend Maximoff emanating from behind the altar, glancing out among the ground with a smile as she stepped to the front. You were shocked to see her—she was older than you, but not by too much. She had a youthful smile to her face and twinkling green eyes, her blonde hair cut right to the shoulders of the maroon robe and dark green stole she wore.

“Good morning, everyone,” she announced, her voice loud and confident. The church crowd silenced and gave their full attention to her. “Today we will start by worshiping the Lord our God with our choir’s beautiful voices, as well as your own.” Her Southern accent was feminine and airy with a cheerful tune to it, as if she was already singing by simply speaking. “Please turn to page 304 in your hymnals and stand to worship the Lord with us.”

The sound of people standing and pages turning filled your ears, and you found yourself flipping to the page and standing up along with everyone else, realizing that your muscle memory was still there. It felt odd being in that place again, viewing the solemnity and respect of religion in a community sense.

The choir started, and then the rest of the church joined in, singing the hymn in unison. You didn’t sing at first, until your mother’s elbow stabbed your ribcage, so you quietly mumbled the words.

Glancing up, you watched Reverend Maximoff singing at her stand, face turned towards the choir and grinning at them as the words formed on her lips. You had to admit that for a pastor, she was beautiful and charming. Her smile was nearly mesmerizing as her head slowly turned towards the congregation in appreciation for their singing, eyes casting over the pews of people until they flickered near you. Realizing that you were staring, you quickly glanced down at the book before she could make eye contact with you. Feeling suddenly nervous, you mindlessly stared at the book until you figured she would be looking somewhere else, looking back up only to find that she was looking right at you.

All you could hear were the choral praises of God as the Reverend’s eyes bore into yours. The smile on her face faded a little, her focus zoning in on you through the crowd. You remembered what your mother had told her about you, the thought bringing a sickly blush of shame to your cheeks. Why was she staring at you? Was she judging you? Thinking about what a dirty sinner you were? You couldn’t take it, but you couldn’t look away either.

Finally, the song ended, and she broke eye contact.

“Thank you so much. You may please be seated.”

The crowd sat down and put their hymnals away as the choir did the same, and once everyone was finally still and quiet, the Reverend opened her Bible and started flipping through pages to find notes for her sermon.

“Today, people, we will be talking about the one thing we think about almost all of the time—our bodies.” Your teeth ached as you braced yourself for whatever religious bullshit was about to be shoved down your throat. “Our bodies—whether it be our health, our appearance, the work we can do with them, what we eat, what we drink—our bodies remain a constant thought in our mind.”

She stepped out from behind the stand, walking to the front steps of the altar and peering out at the crowd with her luring eyes like a bird.

“God tells us in His Word that our bodies are a temple for the Holy Spirit. You see, we do not own our flesh and blood. Our body is a sacrament to Him in everything we do with it. Our divine purpose on this Earth is to use our bodies the Lord has given us as a vessel for the Spirit, to spread His Holy Word. If our bodies are unholy, or if we use them to transgress against His Word, we are violating His purpose for them.”

As much as you wanted to dissociate and just block out whatever she was saying, a strange curiosity overcame you that kept your eyes trained on her as she stepped down the altar steps to get even closer to the crowd, holding the Bible in her hands.

“There are many ways that we sin with our bodies every day. When your mouth curses, when your hands do not pray to Him, when your feet lead you to unholy places. One of the most extreme ways that we go against the Holy Spirit within us is when we commit the very sin that seems to have a grasp on the youth today—sexual immorality.”

There it was. You bit the inside of your cheek and took a deep breath, trying to control the anger within you.

“I want y’all to turn to one of my favorite passages in the Word,” she said, turning to walk towards the other side of the pew as she waited for people to turn to the verse. “1 Corinthians 6:13.”

You wouldn’t dare to pick up a Bible. You crossed your arms and ignored your mother’s urging glances as the Reverend started to read.

“You say, food for the stomach and the stomach for the food, and God will destroy them both. The body, however, is not meant for sexual immorality but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body,” she called out, her voice echoing off the walls of the large room. You watched her, her back turned from you, as she paced the other side of the room before turning, walking towards your side of the pew with her eyes trained on the book. “By his power God raised the Lord from the dead, and he will raise us also. Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ himself? Shall I then take the members of Christ and unite them with a prostitute? Never!”

You rolled your eyes and rubbed your forehead, wishing you could escape this cultish experience. Still, you watched her, the way her lips formed the words, the way her face looked pointed down to the book, eyelashes dancing across her cheeks as she read the words.

“But whoever is united with the Lord is one with him in spirit.” She turned down the center aisle, and as she got closer to your pew, you started to shift uncomfortably in your seat. Suddenly, her eyes lifted from the pages and pierced you sideways. You felt frozen under her stare as she discreetly eyed you, not even having to look at the page to recite, “Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.”

Her voice was lower now, serious and clear. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from hers as she slowly floated past you, her robe wafting around her ankles. You noticed the way her svelte hands held the Bible, a single digit lifting to flick the page. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on her lips as she finally looked away from you and kept preaching, walking down the aisle.

Finally, you could breathe. Surprise filled you as you realized that you had started sweating—were you really so demonic that you were sweating in the pews of a church? But why did she look right at you as she read that particular verse? Was she targeting you because of what your mother had said?

You could barely listen to the rest of the sermon as she talked about sexual immorality and fleeing from it by turning your mind and body towards the Lord.

At the potluck, you couldn’t help but find your eyes drifting to wherever Reverend Maximoff was in the room. Potlucks were always held in a building connected to the sanctuary where they had special events and meetings. She drifted around the room chatting with different members of the congregation, her eyes somehow always finding yours right as you were looking at her. You would blush and quickly look away, redirecting your focus on what the old lady was talking to you and your mom about.

You didn’t realize that she was waiting for you to be alone. Finally, you left your mom and the lady to go to the table filled with homemade desserts, browsing around for something chocolate.

A hand on your lower back made you gasp and turn. You were shocked to see Reverend Maximoff standing close beside you, still dressed in her robes. “Y/n,” she greeted you with a pearly smile, her earrings dangling from her ears. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Your mom has talked about you so much since I’ve been here.”

“Oh,” you said with a polite smile. “Has she?”

“Yes,” she smoothly answered, stepping even closer to you. “I’m very glad you came today. I must tell you that the Lord has speaking to my heart about you quite a lot.”

“Oh yea?” you said disinterestedly, more focused on the way her eyes kept darting down your body, trying to pinpoint why she was ogling you.

She tilted her head and closed her smile, looking thoughtful for a brief moment before saying, “You know, I was hoping you would have a session with me here sometime, before you go back to college. I would love to talk more with you and get to know you. You were at this church long before I was, and I would love to give you some heavenly advice on whatever is pressing at your heart.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Nothing’s pressing at my heart but my ribcage.”

She giggled, and it surprised you. “No, there’s always something for pretty young women like you.” You flushed a little at her choice of words. “God has a plan for you, y/n, but I get the feeling you may need some guidance to get you there.”

“You get these feelings a lot?” you droned, picking up a brownie from the table and taking a bite, keeping eye contact with her. You weren’t going to let this pastor try to get her godly claws in you.

Her eyes flickered to your mouth as you took a bite of the brownie, her irises darkening. “Come see me after the Wednesday night sermon. Maybe…” She reached forward and took the half-eaten brownie from your hand, her fingers grazing yours. “I can teach you to use your mouth to praise the Lord.”

She put the half of the brownie into her mouth and chewed it with a smirk. Frozen and confused, you stared at her as she put her thumb in her mouth to suck off the crumbs, winking and floating away from you. Your entire body went hot as her words folded over in your mind, as well as the sight of her eating the brownie you had just had between your teeth.

Normally, you would’ve declined any invitation to have personal sessions with a Reverend, but the brief interaction you had with Reverend Maximoff had you offput and curious. Your mother almost cried in relief when you told her that you would be going to the Wednesday night sermon as well as staying behind to speak with the Reverend.

Wednesday’s sermon went the same as Sunday’s. There were less people there that night, naturally, and although Wednesday night sermons were usually shorter than Sunday’s, it seemed like Reverend Maximoff was antsy to be finished with it. She spoke faster with less focus, ending the sermon after only an hour. Your mother excitedly hurried away with the rest of the congregation, and you anxiously stayed in the pew as the Reverend talked with some lingering people until finally she ushered them all out, closing and locking the church doors behind the last person.

You turned your head and watched her as she sighed, holding onto the doors for a moment before turning around to look at you, clasping her hands at her front.

“Y/n,” she began lowly, turning her face down slightly as her eyes trained on you, her feet slowly leading her up the aisle towards you. “I was so glad when I saw you here tonight.”

“Well,” you began, fiddling with your thumbs. “I didn’t have anything else to do tonight.”

It was only partially true. You could have caught up with your old friends or went out to dinner or even just stayed home and watched TV, but something lured you into that church that night, and you felt it had something to do with the way she predatorily eyed you as she neared you.

She said nothing as she came closer, sucking her cheeks as you could see words forming in her brain. “Keep watch over yourselves and all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers. Be shepherds of the church of God, which he bought with his own blood.” A smirk drew itself on her lips. “Acts 20:28.”

You just raised your eyebrows and nodded impressively. “You have the Bible memorized. Good for you.”

Ignoring your sly comment, she spoke, “It means that, as the Reverend of this church, it is my duty to be a shepherd.”

“That is what the verse says.”

Her eyes narrowed at you, her lips parted at distaste of your attitude. “What did I tell you about your mouth?” she snapped, her voice edged and cutting as it echoed loudly off the walls of the church, reminding you how alone you were with her. You stiffened in the pew.

She neared you, resting a hand on the edge of the pew as she stood before you. “As a shepherd, I must keep watch of my flock. I must be aware of them all the time—their lives, feelings, behaviors, their walk with God.” She paused, her tongue settling over her lower lip as she tilted her head. “Tell me, what path do you walk?”

You blinked, lips opening and closing as you tried to understand what she was asking.

“Do you walk the ways of the wicked? The ways of Satan himself?” Without breaking eye contact, she lowered and sat on the pew beside you. “Does your body sin against the Spirit?”

Looking down, you shook your head and laughed. “I know my mom told you. Believe me when I say I have no inclination to your religion, and I never will. I don’t need to be scrutinized or judged.”

“Your mother was only acting as a shepherd by leading you to me, and I thank her for that,” she remarked, her eyes glancing down at your dress where the ends stopped at your mid-thigh, leaving your legs bare. “I fear you are not treating your body as the temple of God it is. You have tainted it with your sexual proclivities, haven’t you, y/n?”

Your face started to burn at her outright words. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me, how do you prefer to use your body? Like a whore? Like a destitute slut?”

Ears burning at the sound of her husky voice, your face burned even hotter. The shock of her words left you speechless and utterly confused as to how a Reverend would speak to someone that way.

“You can tell me, y/n. Only God is watching us.” She reached forward suddenly, placing her hand on your thigh and sliding it upwards. The touch startled you and made you jump to your feet.

She looked up at you with a twisted smirk as you started to tremble with nervousness. “What kind of a Reverend are you?”

“One who will do anything to guide her people to God,” she lilted, standing up and reaching for you again. You backed away, bumping into the wooden back of the pew and circling around it to get away from her. You jumped up the steps of the altar.

“What are you doing?!”

“So Christ himself gave the apostles,” she began in her pastor voice she used during the sermon, circling the pew to saunter towards you again, stalking like a predator, “the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors and teachers, to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up.” She took a slow step up the altar, grinning devilishly. “Ephesians 4:11-12.” She lowered her chin. “I can help you restore your body’s temple. I can sanctify you, make you whole again in the eyes of the Lord.”

Your heartbeat fluttered at the way she was seductively eyeing you, sauntering up the steps, the sultry and sensual tone in her voice. You let her come near you and place a hand on your waist that made you shiver all over.

Whispering, she said, “As God’s apostle, I offer you a direct line to worship Him and beg for forgiveness.” Her other hand softly cupped your chin, feeling the blushing skin here. Her thumb grazed over your lower lip, her dilated eyes drinking up your mouth like thick wine, and she recited, “May my prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice.”

The verse burned in your ears—it was one you had memorized for Sunday school so many years ago and somehow still subconsciously remembered. You whispered, “Psalms 141:2.”

Her grin widened. “Good girl.” She licked her lips, thumb still grazing your own. “From the fruit of their mouth a person’s stomach is filled; with the harvest of their lips they are satisfied. The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit. Proverbs 18:20-21.”

It became hard to breathe when two of her fingers slipped through your lips and sunk slowly over your tongue.

“What goes into someone’s mouth does not defile them, but what comes out of their mouth, that is what defiles them. Matthew 15:11,” she recited, her own lips parting in a sigh as she slid her fingers further into your mouth.

A soft noise escaped your throat as you let her feel your mouth, your legs becoming weak. Her grip on your waist tightened when you flicked your tongue between her fingers and closed your lips, sucking dutifully on them. She jutted her lower teeth in desire, stepping so close to you that there was no room to breathe. Your skin felt hot all over, and you became suddenly aware of the cross hanging at the front of the altar, as if it were burning into your back.

The Reverend licked the back of her teeth, eyes trained on her fingers disappearing into your mouth as she whispered, “Shall you use your tongue to praise the Lord our God?”

A dirty sucking sound escaped your mouth as you sucked her fingers, and you were so under her trance, her beautiful green eyes, the way she was so enamored with your mouth, that you eagerly nodded around her fingers.

A half smile curled on her open lips as she slid her fingers out of your mouth, placing a hand on your shoulder and harshly pushing you down. Your knees hit the velvet red steps of the altar as Reverend Maximoff, standing on the step below you, placed one leg on the upper step and started to lift up her robe. You kneeled, watching in all of God’s glory, with the church’s mosaic windows behind her, as the Reverend lifted up her maroon robes and bunched them with one hand at her hips, exposing her bare pussy. With one foot on the step below your knees, and the other foot beside your knees, she tilted open her thigh and placed a hand on the back of your head.

You shivered at the feeling of her fingers in your hair as she pushed your head towards her, bucking her hips. You were filled with pulsing desire as you placed your hands gently on her hips and let her draw your mouth towards her, opening your lips and finding her slick folds. Your tongue ran over her slit, and you moaned at her taste, at how she was so wet that her juices already covered your lips.

Reverend Maximoff sighed, leaning her head back as you found her clit and started to lap at it. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed, pushing her hips towards your face as you suckled on her clit.

You could hardly keep up with her as she pushed your head and bucked her hips at the same time, forcing her clit onto your tongue. Your mouth involuntarily closed when one particular thrust of your head was too rough, to which she snapped, “Open your mouth! Proverbs 31:26—She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.” Her sentence ended with a piercing moan as you opened your mouth wider for her and let her fuck it as she pleased.

Whining from the force, you furiously tried to pleasure her—as much as you could with the way she was practically pleasuring herself with your mouth like it was a toy. You melted at the sounds of her moans and gasps that echoed in the church, at the way that you were kneeling on the altar with your head between her legs, at the way her hand was tangled in your hair. Her clit tangibly throbbed on your tongue as her hips thrusted harder, her moans rising in pitch.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she screamed as she came, grinding her clit against your tongue and grabbing your hair so hard that your scalp ached. You struggled to breathe, eyes tearing up from the pressure on your face, listening to her catch her breath and loosen her grip on your hair. Finally, she moved away from you, dropping her robe back down her ankles. You were panting, lips puffy and red and covered in her wetness, eyes glistening as you stared up at her, drunk with lust. She grinned, biting her lip. “You serve the Lord well. Come.”

She offered out her hands, and you took them, letting her help you to her feet and guide you to the front pew. She sat down, keeping hold of your hands, and pulled you down so you straddled her lap. She sighed, her eyes looking everywhere at you except your face.

Her fingers crawled to the straps of your dress, slowly tugging them down your bare shoulders. She recited, “How beautiful you are and how pleasing, my love, with your delights.” Her voice was quiet in the silent room, burning at your ears as you tried to stay focused with the taste of her still on your lips. Her eyes sunk down your chest as she started to pull the dress down your breasts. “I said, I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit.”

She tugged the fabric of your dress over your breasts, exposing them as they bounced over the fabric. Taking a sharp breath, she drew one hand to your tit and squeezed the soft flesh there, earning a gasp from you.

“May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine, the fragrance of your breath like apples, and your mouth like the best wine.” Her eyes, which were trained on your exposed chest in front of her, flickered up to your face, catching the gloss of her cum on her lips. She raised her other hand and spread her fingers over your lips, smearing the wetness across your mouth. “May the wine go straight to my beloved, flowing gently over lips and teeth.”

You started to throb at her touches, at her words, at her inebriated eyes. Her hand that groped your breast fell down to your thighs, urging the end of your dress upwards as it slid up your skin.

“Song of Songs 7:6-9,” she whispered with finality as she danced her fingers up your inner thigh, and you watched her hand disappear under your skirt. “Is your body a temple of God, y/n?” she asked you as she parted your panties with her fingers.

You nodded desperately, so turned on by what she had done to your mouth, so dumbed down by the verses and the touches and the taste of her. She bit her lip and moaned as her fingers touched your slick cunt, grazing over your clit before two of them sunk into your hole.

Head falling back, you grabbed at the shoulders of her robe and whined as she plunged her fingers inside you, your wetness already making a dirty squelching noise as she pumped inside of you.

“I’m not so sure it is,” she husked as she wrapped an arm around your hip to steady your bucking motions. “You’ve been a dirty girl, y/n. You’ve used your body to sin against His Word. My hand of God can only do so much—you need to beg for his forgiveness.” An evil smirk lined her lips.

You could barely hear what she was saying as she fucked her fingers into you, your hips moving up and down in desperate search for more of her. She thumbed at your clit as she waited for you to answer, leaning forward to press wet kisses on your nipples that bounced with your motions.

“Please, God,” you began shakily, “Forgive me.”

“That’s not good enough,” she tutted, suddenly pushing a third finger inside you. Your mouth fell open at the stretch and the burst of sensations that exploded when she curled her fingers inside you. “Beg Him. Beg Him to forgive you for being a dirty whore.”

“Ah!” you exclaimed when she bit your nipple, jamming her fingers into you harshly. “P-Please, God,” you began breathlessly, squeezing the Reverend’s shoulders as pressure built inside you. “Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you for?” she urged, biting your other nipple and sucking on it.

You tried to remember exactly what she had said as your orgasm threatened to impend upon you. “F-For, for being a dirty whore!” The sound of your own voice saying those words pushed you over the edge, your inner walls clenching around the Reverend’s fingers. Your hips rocked hard against her hand as she watched in pure desire and delight, grinning when you finally came down from your climax.

“Very good, my child,” she soothed as you panted, her fingers still inside you. You trembled on her lap, seeing that your wetness had dripped onto her hand and down her maroon robe. “The Lord our God is a merciful one. He forgives you.” She played with the end of your dress, moving her fingers inside you and seeing just what a mess she had made of you. She looked up at your beat red face and teary eyes, her eyes alight with an idea. “Have you ever been baptized?”

[kingofthewilderwest]

Moral Orel hit me in a sweet spot. I think it’s beautiful seeing fans on different paths discussing how the show touched them. I’ve seen people who’ve left the church, agnostics, atheists, and Christians all say the show spoke deeply to them. Of course the show’s black humor on religion offended many, especially before its last season aired, but I think the show’s resulting legacy - connecting to people who’ve both left and who’ve stayed - demonstrates successful nuance to how Moral Orel was crafted.

The show’s creators have said it’s not against religion per se, it’s against hypocrites. Even with the first season, I felt that and found appreciation (frankly, joy) for what was satirized. Here was a show speaking up, exaggerating, and lampooning the facets of Protestant American Christian culture I’ve vented about in confidence to relevant friends and family - without, like many modern shows which tackle this subject do, mocking followers themselves, faith itself, and suggesting to viewers one way of life is better than another, one group of people is (ex: intellectually) superior to another.

Some people have stepped away from Moral Orel and said, “This show comforted me when I left church,” or outright, “This show taught me there is no god.” And that’s not an unfair way to interact with Moral Orel because it doesn’t preach what you “should” do there (a sign of mature writing, really). I stepped away from Moral Orel and said, “This show comforted me in the areas I get frustrated,” which assuages my feelings and makes me more confident in my faith and place within culture.

I feel awkward in contemporary culture because I was raised with minimal secular exposure - daughter of a worship pastor, student at a private Christian school until high school. Meanwhile, in adulthood, I didn't attended church functions for over a dozen years. My group of friends have largely been non-Christians who hold negative opinions about the religion and don’t live remotely similar lifestyles to what I was raised with. I love what I've learned from them. Unfortunately, this also means the cultural building blocks that make me who I am seem shared by no one I'm around, which, even though I'm in my 30s, remains disorienting.

On the flipside, I'm the weirdo with the third eye in Christian spaces, too. I’m an ever-thirsty knowledge-seeker who strives to comprehend forbidden topics from all angles. I spent my twenties researching, questioning, rebuilding knowledge, and critically analyzing everything about the Bible. Church attendees and services feel painfully artificial, with mental blockers to topics I feel are critical to understand.

In either community I partake in, I feel “off.”

I’m grateful to have been raised by parents who didn’t pussyfoot around issues, with a father who deep-dives research. Discussions, delving, and digging into the hard stuff has always been fostered. My family spoke to pastors when we disagreed with their theology. I grew up around people who practiced passive acceptance, but my family was not that.

In the last year, I’ve returned more strongly to my faith and have been reintegrating with the Christian community. In some areas, my faith has grown and, humbly, I’ve learned much from peers. Despite stereotypes, I want to note that, in certain fields, the church community has always been deep and meticulous! And there are so many beautiful and uplifting areas in the church. But likewise there are those areas that get assumed, aren’t questioned, and aren’t… responded to well by questioning spirits. There have always been areas in the church culture I find disingenuous, foolish, illogical, limited, oversimplified, denialistic, or susceptible to hypocrisy and immorality. I’m not better than any person on this planet, but I’m rubbing shoulders with a community that has different blinders than I do, who don’t even consider asking the types of questions or seeking out the information I find necessary for a solidified faith.

Moral Orel disparages the toxic elements of Protestant culture, the misinterpretations, the artificial facades, the mindless assumptions, the poorly-hidden underbelly, all the areas Christian community can and does go wrong. It makes me feel justified feeling awkward in two worlds: someone for whom Christianity is deeply important, but someone whose mindset doesn’t jive with the rest of the town. Someone who can find and wants to find the best lessons outside of Christianity. Someone who believes in questioning, rethinking constantly, raising her eyebrows at common notions within church culture, and striving for the actual love, sincerity, dedication, and goodness our faith should be based on.

[alpaca-clouds]

High Fantasy Conundrums: It's Actually Not "Medieval Europe"

So I ramble on about High Fantasy and the issues with this subgenre in regards to depicting diversity of all sorts. I talked yesterday about the lack of non-white cultures within most of the big named High Fantasy settings (such as DnD, LotR, DA, Witcher and so on). Because while these days we will find non-white characters in those settings often, those are not allowed to exist within any other context than a white, supposedly "medieval European" culture. A white culture, at the very least.

This is an issue especially with those coorporate controlled worlds, such as DnD and DA. Those absolutely could afford to worldbuild their settings outside the "Fantasy Europe" continent, but they somehow never do.

And I am not even saying that there should not be PoC characters in those settings, that have absolutely completely absorbed the "white culture" and are very much part of it. I am just saying that this should not be ALL non-white characters - and that there should be a variety of non-white cultures. Also, ideally, that there should be more than THE dwarven culture, THE elven culture, and THE halfling culture.

However, there is of course another conundrum that comes up at this place. And ironically enough that conundrum is almost the reason why Lord of the Rings exists in the way it does. Because Tolkien named this as one of the reasons he created Middle Earth.

See, let's all be very honest with one another. Yes, we tend to act as if your average 0815 high fantasy world with swords, sorcery, elves and dragons is based on medieval Europe. Because it has like knights, with swords, and some architecture that is vaguely based on medieval Europe. And the people will usually eat food that is somewhat inspired by what people wrongly imagine food in medieval Europe looked like, and they cloth in that way too, but...

Yeah. No. It is not medieval Europe.

There are so many things about those settings, that are very much not very medieval European. And I will call it out now: A big part of that is the lack of the Church, as we know it, and at the same time also the lack of cultural conflicts within the human society.

It is not just that those worlds tend to have elves, and magic, and dragons, and whatever other fantastical elements that were not part of the real medieval Europe. It is more clearly, that those worlds will very much lack certain cultural aspects that were central to medieval European culture.

(And don't get me started on the fact that "medieval Europe" lasted for a good 1000 years in which things changed a lot. And one of the big issues with a lot of Fantasy Worldbuilding is, how resistant it is to change. Often fantasy worlds will stay the same over thousands of years, with no major technological or societal advancement happening.)

And here is an issue that a lot of writers run into. Some consciously, some unconsciously. An issue that become quite clear, whenever we actually start to think about the topic of "cultural appropriation".

I wrote about it two weeks ago in a way. How a lot of white writers aware of this issue will go and adapt Greek mythology, without realizing this one central part: Even that is appropriation, because of Greece's long history of being colonized - something that, yes, the Western European powers did play a role in as well. They still do. Exploiting Greece to this day.

The issue is, that... Well, there is no "European culture". Because that culture has been destroyed by colonialism and the Church. It has been thoroughly destroyed, leaving a lot of white people with a big issue in that regard. Because they are essentially cultureless outside of colonialism. Colonialism and exploitation is the only culture there really is for them. And that... is kinda an issue.

In a way, with all his faults, Tolkien was aware of this. He stated multiple times that part of his reason for creating Middle Earth had been, to create a "fake mythology" for especially the England he knew. After the orignal mythology of the land had basically been erased. Lord of the Rings and everything connected to it, for Tolkien, was a knowingly faked "culture origin". Which is why he also went to those length with: "Oh, this is actually based on a book that I found and translated." Yes, everyone knew that story was made up. But he tried to allow those stories to take that place.

But yes, this is the issue. White folks have mostly lost their connection to what was originally their culture. And technically it is not their fault. It was supplanted by the Church first, and then it was supplanted by colonialism.

People are often not aware how many parts of "white culture" are actually based in: "We need to come up with a different way to do this, because non-white people are doing this as well, and we know we are better than them." (This shows especially in food culture. Because yes, there is a reason British cuisine is an abomination that should be burned to the ground. And yes, that reason is colonialism - just not the way people think.)

A core issue is, how Christianity as a religion has merged with those colonial ideas and ideals. The main aspects of Christianity - no matter whether we are talking about evangelical Christianity or Catholicism - are too entangled in colonialism, to actually provide that meaningful cultural aspect that we would need it for. And yeah. That... is a problem.

It is a problem in the real world, because I do think that a lot of folks feel that lack of culture in some way. I also think it is an issue, because for many people it takes away a lense through which they can see the world. And in the fake world of fantasy, it also shows in the fact that we do lack a certain cultural language. And High Fantasy shows this so clearly.

Because, yes... Technically I would argue that everyone does know that the Church played a big role in medieval Europe. They know somewhat, too, that the hierarchies, and serfdom and what not were important. And that you cannot go in and be like "this is like medieval Europe" when none of those things are there.

But we also do simply not know how to deal with the church these days - and with the role it took back then.

There is a reason, why we have no issue writing fantasy settings, in which gods from all sorts of mythologies intermingle, while there are only few settings in which the Christian God shows, and the angels play a role. Sure, those exist. I mostly can think of Neil Gaiman adjacent works in this regard. But they exist.

But there is a reason why they are not common. And that reason is, that we really are in limbo in a way. We are in a cultural limbo - and strangely enough this shows nowhere as clearly as in high fantasy worldbuilding, and its weird relation to culture itself.

[nerdygaymormon]

Lunch with the Renlunds

I had the opportunity to meet Elder & Sister Renlund. We gathered in his office at the Church Administration building and they presented me a gift, a book written by both of them titled The Melchizedek Priesthood: Understanding the Doctrine, Living the Principles.

They were cute. Elder Renlund said something, then his wife didn’t exactly correct him, but pointed out his words could mean this or that. I commented it’s obvious she’s a talented lawyer. She looked amused and he said it’s true.

Sister Renlund apologized and said we were going to eat in a little cafeteria, and the food is fine but nothing to write home about. It’s a place we can go without being constantly interrupted. I’m thinking, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Are we about to eat in the Church Administration cafeteria? The most exclusive spot in town?!!” What I said was, “It doesn’t matter so much where we eat as much as the company we’re with.”

As we walked into the cafeteria, Elder Gong was walking out. During the course of the meal, several other people sat down at other tables and ate, including Elder Ballard, I think Elder Rasband (I was seeing the back of him, so can’t be sure), and Elder Oaks.

When we sat down, I reminded them that when we met several years ago in Brandon, Florida, we took a picture together and the stake president called out, “Every General Authority who takes a picture with David offers to take him to lunch when he goes to Utah.” And here we are, having lunch! We laughed at that.

I noted that when I first met Elder Renlund and disclosed that I’m gay, his immediate response was “Same-sex attraction isn’t a sin, but bullying people over it is.” This reply was unexpected but meaningful to me because it indicated you understand that is part of the experience. People make comments and do things that convey very rejecting messages. They may or may not intend it that way, but it’s this one, and that one, and another one. It may seem like no big deal to them, but I’m the one receiving such messages over and over and over.

He responded that we are to love everyone. It’s not our place to judge.

Sister Renlund said it’s true for many people, including those who are single and those who are disabled, they deal with many judgmental comments. We need to love and not judge.

I brought up the panel I’m going to be on at the Affirmation conference. Parents of LGBTQ children can ask questions to those of us on the panel. I’m thinking that what I’d like to convey is these are your children, love them. The children are the ones who have to make difficult choices and to live with the consequences. Parents shouldn’t make their relationship & love another tough choice. The Renlunds agreed. 

Elder Renlund commented that too often parents think they have to choose between their LGBT child or their church. So often they think of their choices as a binary, either choice A or choice B. He added that limiting our vision to A or B presents a false dichotomy, we can do both. Sister Renlund stated there’s usually a choice C if they will look for it, and choice C is always the right choice.

Then Elder Renlund added, “If a parent has a gay child who is getting married, some church members think they can’t go to that wedding. No, that’s wrong. You go and support your children, be there for the important milestones in their life.”

I replied, “To me, it would be like if a friend invited me to the christening of their child. Even though Moroni teaches strongly against this, that’s my belief, not theirs. I can be there to show I love and support them in this important moment for this family. They are making the best choices for themselves, and I make different choices for my life, but that doesn’t mean we can’t love and support each other.”

Elder Renlund concurred. “That’s exactly right. We have many non-member friends and when they come to Salt Lake City, we take them to a little restaurant that serves wine so that our friends can choose to have some with dinner. Our choice is not to have wine. I don’t lecture them about their choice to drink wine. I accept it is their choice and I get to make my choice.

I can go to a gay marriage to show I love and support them. I’m not there to participate in that choice, I’m not marrying a man, he is. I am going to show up as my authentic self and I expect them to be their authentic self. I prefer to meet with people who are being authentic and not pretending to be someone they aren’t.”

Lunch went on and I asked Sister Renlund if she usually travels with her husband when he goes on an assignment. Indeed she does. Elder Renlund stated that he likes having her speak. If it’s a priesthood leadership meeting of only men, then she probably won’t, but otherwise he wants her to speak. They are aware of how it looks for it to be mostly men speaking at a meeting and they try to counter that. If the meeting is to mostly or only women, then he may choose not to speak and let’s her do the talking for both of them. On a more practical matter, a husband & wife traveling together helps custom officials believe he isn’t there for business activities, which they will likely suspect if he were showing up alone dressed in a suit despite what his visa indicates.

I honestly don’t remember what caused Elder Renlund to say this, we probably were talking about queer youth who reach out to me, but I will always remember him pausing, looking right at me, and proclaiming, “You’re a hero.” I’m sure I blushed at that comment, it feels over the top, I was surprised he would say that. I’m just an ordinary gay guy trying his best to make things work in this space.

As lunch was winding down, I asked if I could share about our meeting and discussion on my blog, it’s a place where I write & share about my feelings, experiences, thoughts, and frustrations as a gay member of this church. They said to please do. 

Sister Renlund suggested we should take a picture to put with the blog post.

They expressed that they really enjoyed their time with me and invited me to get together again when I come to Utah. 

I sent a thank you note to the secretary who set this up and she responded, “Elder and Sister Renlund each gave glowing positive reports of your lunch together. I think it is safe they are in your fan club.” 😊

I’ve been in their fan club since the first time I met them in 2018.

[trespasser-press]

Welcome home, starchild. We've found each other again. She made sure our tethers kept strong, you and I. The Universe. Versa Major. Creation surrounds us, and so does destruction. Death eats away at the innocent flesh of the Palestinian people. Congo, Sudan, Hawaii... Where does the light go in the darkness of war? It goes in us. WE are the light, the STARCHILDREN.

It is important to spread awareness and do our part to illuminate the injustices. For how can we belong to any plane of the heavens if we do not use our light for its purpose? I will release you of these bitter truths for now, as it is time to celebrate our reunion.

I am Saint Lucille of no church but my own. You are welcome here, in any state, with any soul. I can't know you individually yet, so I haven't had the privilege of deciphering your strengths, but if you so choose, you may claim the title of Disciple. Not mine, as we've only just found each other again, but the Universe. She holds us so dear.

My starchildren and disciples of the Universe, Oh, how I've waited. I don't want to ramble, so here's what I've come to share with you. A new way of "worship." A new religion, though its name has not reached me in these teachings... yet, of course.

The first thing I wish to clarify is that anyone can speak directly to the Universe, I hold no special abilities. The moon, the sun, and every planet we can reach with our intention can hear us and they do respond. Things to remember: You may not ask for more than you deserve. Sometimes the answer is simply "No." Not for punishment, not because you haven't earned it, but because that is what's right. (Your emotions that follow are valid, forgive.)

A bed plate. To maintain even the smallest semblance of mental balance and self accountability, once the day is started, the first task (after hygiene if you prefer) is to make the bed and place a porcelain plate near the end. On this plate you can leave offerings, whatever you see fit to offer in exchange for what you ask. Alternatively, it can be a small altar to protect your place of rest. To sleep is so peaceful, yet so vulnerable. Protection in these compromised moments is paramount.

Acknowledgement and community aid to everyone from those less fortunate in our own towns to those burdened by silent genocides. We will scream until we drown in the blood of our torn vocal chords. Do not give more than you can. An empty cup cannot fill another.

"Prayer." A line from a song that I feel perfectly captures the embodiment, acknowledgement, and appreciation the Universe deserves. "There is no love like your love." Sing this to the skies. We do not seek to spread our message unless asked, we do not judge other belief systems, we cannot be deterred, we are thankful to only the Universe.

To be a Disciple, you mustn't ever shy away from the name. If you're ashamed of this title, let us dissect that and shed you of this barrier that burdens you with superficial "sin." You are not the opinions you predict in other's minds. You're safe and loved amongst your fellow Disciples and starchildren.

Ranks. Everyone, believers and non, are starchildren. You cannot shed yourself of this truth. It holds you even when you sob. A Disciple is someone who is active. Someone who shares their love for creation without boasting it into anyone's face. You can and should be as loud as you can, but only for you. We can not act above others before we've been elevated from the Earth.

I hope to be taught more. I hope to uncover new ranks. For now, as a founder of this scripture, I am Saint Lucille. I cherish my title and relinquish any ego or percieved power to the Universe. Thank you for sharing this joy and knowlege with me so that I may share it with others. I can only hope this reaches my starsiblings. I know you'll hear me. I know you'll understand this message and begin to hear her for yourself. She never wishes harm, she never guides to darkness. Allow her voice to fill your ears and relieve you of your intrusive thoughts.

[spewagepipe]

Pipe Dream: "Helakia"'s Stat Pools

"Helakia" (working title) was an RPG concept proposed by a friend of mine, for which I designed a system of interacting stat pools in place of the traditional skill/attribute ratings. "Helakia" has since been abandoned, but I think the concept of those pools (and their interactions) are worth preserving here.

The Vitality pool would be added to dice rolls for any kind of physical action, but would also decrease quickly as a result of injury or disease – with zero points implying death. It would only increase with lengthy investments of rest, medical attention, and fitness conditioning.

The Purity pool would be added to rolls for any kind of social interaction, but it would decrease as a consequence of committing "sins", as defined by the setting's draconian dominant religion (including real crimes like murder, but also oppressive social norms). To be clear: this mechanic is politically reactionary by design. In "Helakia", all god-fearing people will sense and react to the "stains" on someone's spiritual aura, even without knowing how they arose – so the players were supposed to find themselves being unfairly persecuted from time to time.

Corporal punishment would be the only normal way to restore one's Purity pool: an injury suffered in the name of atonement would transfer one point from the character's Vitality pool into their Purity pool. Flagellant-style characters would often find their Vitality dipping dangerously low, but a maxed-out Purity stat would attract a "flock" of followers to carry out tasks on their behalf.

The third pool, Insight, would be added to rolls for any kind of cognitive or perceptual task, including, most importantly, the practice of occult magic. Any mind-expanding activity, including learning novel ideas and observing supernatural phenomena, would increase one's Insight pool. Relatively few things could deplete it, with the chief exception of casting magic spells (which ravages the sanity of the spell-caster).

Of course, magic (and indeed all non-dogmatic knowledge) is considered inherently sinful by the Church; so any increases and decreases of Insight points would result in a 1-for-1 loss of Purity points. Even simply seeing an occultist at work might require a penance.

All three pools are pulling normal "skill modifier" type duties, but the theory was that they'd also cause an emergent story: Over time, your Insight would tend to grow (and your Purity to deplete) as you make new discoveries. When your Insight is high, there's a temptation to exploit it for magical power, but that will further deplete your Purity, which will cut you off from critical social resources. To have the best of both worlds (or to maximize your following while forgoing magical power), you'd need to give up your Vitality – but Vitality is the bedrock of the game. You need it to live, and it's the only stat that always requires tedious time and effort to build back up.

[atheautistic]

Hey guys, welcome back to Atheisms. Clearly You are gluttons for punishment. I feel like i might have run long the last couple of times, so i shall try to keep things brief!

I wanted to post this one for my loved ones that may be stalking my tumblr profile actually. Firstly, if that's you, welcome! i think you're awesome and brave to come read this. I allow anonymous questions on this blog too, so you can ask whatever you want without anyone knowing. But i don't pull punches here and i speak my mind in its entirety. This is my thinking place, so be prepared to hear my thoughts!

I think that Theists (people who believe in a God of some sort) often worry very much about the people in their lives that turn out to be agnostic or atheist. Being a former Christian, I have a pretty good idea what those worries might be. Here's a couple of specific worries they will likely have.

Fear that my immortal soul is in jeopardy of spending an eternity of unrelenting suffering in literal darkness and flames where i will burn without dying for crimes that are finite (and minor). In essence, the Theist (christian) believes that their God will torture me for eternity. Not destroy me, (that would be better for me obviously) just torture me. For no purpose other than revenge. No wonder you're afraid! I'm sorry that God feels that's necessary. Not sure what i could have done to deserve all that. Is it just because my AuDHD brain has a hard time accepting fantastic claims that have no testable or verifiable evidence? Well, hopefully I'M correct and I'll just get to stop existing!

Fear that, now that i no longer believe in God, somehow my moral fortitude will collapse, sending me, anyone close to me, and those in my care into the depths of sin and despair. Now, if that's you, i gotta tell you that's really hurtful. But, i don't blame you exactly. You worry about that because the church has pushed upon you the belief that only The Church knows what's right and wrong, when they clearly have no idea themselves. They can't even seem to all agree if the LGBTQ+ community are actually really human beings that should have rights or not. Not sure why we're relying on the guidance of an organization that is clearly exclusionary, bigoted, theocratic, endorses (yes, still) slavery, and whose highest figures of moral authority have been found guilty of awful sexual crimes against the most vulnerable demographics in the world, all over the world! (Can you read that last sentence out loud in one breath?) i think we can find a better standard for morality then that.

Fear that the person they love will suffer some kind of reprisals for their (in this case,) non-belief. This is, of course, a valid concern. Atheists are amongst the most disliked people in the world according to an article written for scientific American By Daisy Grewal on January 17, 2012 (https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/in-atheists-we-distrust/)

4. Finally, it may cross the mind of a caring theist that the person is choosing to be rebellious against god, essentially throwing an existential temper tantrum. The problem they have with this is that many theists believe and fear a God of tough love who will:

A. punish me in some inscrutable, or perhaps even supernatural, way (see point #1)

B. Just let me fail in some spectacular way that is likely to harm me.

Also, this suggests that the atheist is childish in his non-belief, which is also pretty insulting. Especially when you consider what children are known to believe in.

Those are just some of the reasons why loving theists worry about their apostate loved ones. Isn't it sad that most of these concerns are actually a fear of what their god might do? What does that say about Him? A lot, i would say...

Listen, don't worry about me Fam! If God really is in control, and he doesn't want to have to toss me in the lake of fire, He definitely knows how to get ahold of me, right? Even with my free will intact, there should be a way for a being such as Him to reach me right? So what's to worry about? God says he didn't want anyone to perish right? So if he exists, I'm sure he'll straighten me out somehow, despite my great learning! (Obscure tongue in cheek bible reference.)

Happy questioning!

[privilege-rpg]

ZACHARY WILDE

☆ FULL NAME: Zachary "Zach" Oliver Wilde ☆ GENDER: Non-binary ☆ PRONOUNS: He/They ☆ AGE: 36 (April 14th, 1988) ☆ TYPE: Full sibling; solo ☆ HOMETOWN: Knoxville, Tennessee ☆ JOB: Professional Animator; Animation Professor at PSU ☆ SCHOOL: PSU Alumni ☆ SEXUALITY: Pansexual ☆ FACECLAIM: Chris Wood

ABOUT ZACHARY

tw domestic violence, tw mental health

While everyone thought Aaron Wilde was the perfect Christian man, Zach knew from a very young age that he was not. While he preached Christian values in public, he was incredibly different behind closed doors. Zach would say the wrong thing, be too loud, or question the wrong thing and the next thing he knew he was getting backhanded by his father. The one continuous thing in his childhood was the constant beatings from his father. Zach learned early on that the best thing to be around his father was quiet and compliant. As his parents started having more children, he would step in front of them to make sure he took the brunt of it. He made sure that his father never laid a hand on any of his siblings, and that all of the anger went to him. Zach didn’t understand much at that young age, but what he did understand was that he loved his siblings and he would do anything for them.

Zach never felt any connection to god or religion, but he always pretended to be the perfect golden child of the Wildes. This continued on until he was about fifteen years old, and Wilde Faith was on the air. They were questioning him about his father, a bunch of cameras on him, and Zach had a full-blown panic attack. He ended up getting physical with the camera men. Them pushing the cameras in his face even during this panic attack made it worse. The next thing Zach knew, his parents sent him off to a mental hospital rather than dealing with him. He stayed there for three months, and came back a lot happier. He was prescribed anti-anxiety medication that changed his life. Zach was adamant about taking this for the first few months back, but soon enough his father denied him of his medication.

He started to refuse to be on camera, and would threaten to hit the camera-men again if they got near him. Oftentimes he’d go other places, hanging out with friends and partying. He wanted to rebel, and be nothing like the Christian boy that everyone expected him to be. While Pacific State University was still close to the church, he didn’t care. All of his friends were going there, and he finally was living on his own. (He didn’t understand why his parents still gave him money, but who was he to say no to money without work? Not Aaron.) Zach had always been in love with art and animation, so he double majored in both, falling in love with art and everything about it. Being in college allowed him to be the person he was actually meant to be: goofy, happy, exploring his sexuality (and even gender at times). He still deals with anxiety, of course, and is very diligent about taking his medication (weed and/or Xanax, depending on the severity) and seeing a therapist once a week.

Zach still has issues, but for now: he’s happy. He’s dealing with those issues in an incredibly healthy way, and he loves his life more than anything. He currently writes and animates a series that he posts on YouTube, and it’s his absolute passion project. He also works on animating things for commercials, which is where he actually tries to make his money, and something he loves doing as well.

FAMILY BACKGROUND

At first, Aaron Wilde was just like any other pastor. He was loved by many in Knoxville, and that’s how it stayed for many years. As the years went on, though, he grew in popularity. Everyone in Tennessee would travel to see him - especially the housewives with nothing better to do. Did Aaron’s good looks have everything to do with his popularity? Absolutely. Which is why it was no surprise when someone in Los Angeles called him, asking him if he’d like to have his own church (that seated 17,000 people). He agreed, of course. Aaron moved his whole family to Los Angeles so he could be the pastor of Pacific Grace Church. Aaron Wilde became the best-known pastor in the United States, with several people from all over the United States coming over to see him give sermons. Every sermon was televised. Aaron did this for seven years, and then was offered a reality television deal. They named the show Wilde Faith, and it followed around the Wilde family to show off how they were a perfect Christian family. Wilde Faith was on for six seasons, as Aaron continued to be the pastor at Pacific Grace. After the six seasons, they decided to end because Aaron said “he talked to God and He said it was time to stop”. Aaron continues to work at Pacific Grace to this day. Elizabeth is the happy and dutiful wife to him, and that’s about it.

[wolint]

THE RETURN OF CHRIST!

THE RETURN OF CHRIST

John 14:3

 

We don’t know exactly how long we’ve been waiting for the return of Christ, but we are indeed waiting, aren’t we? The return or the second coming of Christ the Messiah has been the subject of many debates among both believers and non-believers alike.

Some people believe that the return of Christ is a myth, some think it has already happened, while many others hope he won’t return. What’s your opinion? Regardless of your opinion, feelings, and beliefs about the return of Christ, it is an anticipated event for which we should all be prepared.

Have you prepared? Are you preparing?

Every deceased person in history, great or small, has ‘R.I.P’ or ‘LATE’ attached to their names. The only person without these attached to his name is Christ Jesus, who has no tombstone or grave for his body because HE LIVES! Jesus’ resurrection demonstrated his victory over death as declared in Acts 2:24 and 1 Corinthians 15:54-57, vindicating him as righteous in John 16:10. This indicated his divine identity as stated in Romans 1:4. It led to his ascension and enthronement according to Acts 1:9-11, 2:34, Philippians 2:9-11, and Isaiah 53:10-12 and his present heavenly reign. The resurrection of Christ is the basis of his return. As he promised in our text, he’s preparing mansions in heaven to receive his bride, saints or believers, whom he will return to take home at the appointed time while dishing out punishment for those rebellious and resistant to his love and sacrifice.

The fact of Christ’s return cannot be disputed.

There are three reasons why people don’t want to believe and accept the return of Christ according to C. S. Lewis of blessed memory.

The first reason why people reject the return of Jesus is because they believe that since it didn’t take place when the early church proclaimed it, then it is a myth. 2 Peter 3:3-4 even tells us that scoffers will kick against the good news and the second coming of Christ, they will ask ‘where is the ‘coming’ promised?’ As they already are doing, Matthew 24:36-44 says he’ll come suddenly, like a thief in the night, when we least expect him, with everyone going about their business of ‘living’.

Secondly, many today believe that humanity is evolving on its own, assisted by smart humans, and have therefore convinced themselves that there won’t be a need for Christ to return. Of course, society already believes they don’t need God, so why need Christ to come back when man seems to think they have reached ‘perfection’ on their own merit.

Thirdly, man is too consumed to care about eternity; their interest is in the now. Eat, drink and be merry, sadly the coming of Christ will cut short these activities and so people are loath to believe this and don’t want to expect it. But Jesus will return, despite the denials, rejections, ignorance, and unacceptance.

Christ will return! And when Christ returns, he will hold judgment. Everyone will give an account of their lives, including the believers, of things done, said, thoughts, and motives. But the return of Christ is meant to produce hope in Christians who are suffering, and it motivates believers to pursue godly lives.

Christ’s return will change a lot of things. Evil will be destroyed, there will be world justice, safety, and security. There will no longer be wars because Jesus Christ, the King of kings and Lord of lords according to Luke 1:33, whose kingdom will never end, will rule as king. And under his rule, there will be universal peace, and joy. Isaiah 51:11 declares, ‘everlasting joy will crown their heads, gladness and joy will overtake them, sorrows and sighing will flee away. Everlasting joy! With this joyous anticipation, let’s wait for the blessed hope and appearing of Christ says Titus 2:13.

Are you expecting Christ?

PRAYER: Father, by your word, I know what the end will be. Help me, Lord, to remain faithful to the end and optimistic about the return of Christ in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Shalom

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT. PRAYER MIN.

[lonita]

Montreal - part 1

I figured a trip to a city that I've never seen anything of but the train station, wouldn't be without its adventures and incidents, but I didn't figure those experiences would start with the trip barely even begun. Who knew? The bus station in Hamilton has self-flushing toilets. I also didn't know that the next trip experience would include me developing a head and chest cold on the train to said city. So, my first purchase in Montreal was a bottle of decongestant. Yummy. Never used Robitussin before, and I have to say that it doesn't taste too bad. Certainly tastes better than Buckley's. (Anything would, though.) We walked from the train station to the hostel we were staying at, and on the way passed St. Patrick's Basilica which is a lovely old church dedicated to, and used by, the city's Irish Catholic population. We visited Notre Dame on our last day, which was very lovely, and very blueish. (I never did get to see its named counterpart when I was in Paris, much to my regret.) I'm not a church-going person by any stretch of the imagination, but I like visiting old churches. Some are quite lovely. Our first impression of the city was, "Gosh, it's awfully quiet for a big city on a Saturday afternoon." That impression quickly changed when we headed off to Rue St. Catherine later on. That's one of the main streets, and it seems Montreal retains quite a lot of European style habits that don't seem to exist in other Canadian big cities; namely that all the action is concentrated (more or less) on what (in England) would be called the high street. That street is covered in what one would normally find on a high street; lots of shops, restaurants, a few theatres, and lots of people. Surviving in Montreal isn't too difficult for non-French speakers, since the city is not only well-used to tourists, but is what could be termed the English city of the French province. One of the best universities in the country is there (McGill), and it's an English university. (Most of it scattered through various buildings lining Stanley Street, which goes up a hill towards Mount Royal. Must be hell in winter.) Montreal, like many large cities worldwide, has its own Chinatown, which is marked off by these really lovely gates. (Unfortunately the picture I took of one of those gates, got deleted.) The pharmacy there has a pharmacist who can, according to the sign, speak English, French, and six different dialects of Chinese. It's not a large Chinese section, from what I could gather, but it wasn't without its charms. It had what a Chinatown usually has; lots of shops, lots of restaurants (from very Chinese to very catering-to-North-Americans), and lots of people. The hostel was stayed at (Auberge Alternative du Vieux Montréal), located in Old Montreal near the port and right across the street from what used to be the Central Fire Station but is being reconstructed to be a museum, was quite nice. The people (staff and guests) were friendly, the place was well-equipped, and it was cheap. ($18 per night) I'd recommend it to anyone; and, according to other guests I heard talking, it ranks between 8 and 9 on a hostel scale of 1 to 10.

The metro (subway, tube, underground, etc.) was a metro, but not full of the sort of graffiti one imagines the New York subway to possess. It was clean, and extensive enough. The cars were narrower than the ones in Toronto, but the trains ride quieter, as the cars use rubber wheels. (Fare is $2 per trip, but you can buy a strip of tickets - I think it's 10 - for about $8.50. They also have monthly passes and special three or four day passes mainly geared for tourists.) Though the metro is nice, the only way to see the city is really by foot. It might be a lot of walking, and some of it uphill, but you miss so much of the flavour by staying underground or on buses.

We ate some traditional regional food, of course, but that's one thing you should (in my not so humble opinion) always do when you visit a place you've not been before. There's the smoked meat that the city is well-known for, which is just smoked ham, and poutine. Poutine is French fries covered in gravy and cheese curd. It's really, really yummy. The city has other European touches; like the proliferation of cafes, and the existence of what the population of France would term a tabac. That's just a small shop, smaller than a convenience store, that sells cigarettes, beer, wine, junk food, and small things like that. One thing you have to bear in mind, though, should you stay in Old Montreal, is that there don't seem to be too many grocery stores or tabacs. There's one five minutes walk from the hostel we stayed at, but there didn't seem to be any others, and the closest pharmacy is the one for Chinatown. It's not that far of a walk, though. The city has two IMAX theatres, which is very nifty, and has (of course) the Olympic Stadium. Right under the stadium, in a building that was used for sports like handball and such, is a place called the Biodome. This is now used as an indoor zoo. It's an amazing place. It's set up as forests, each room playing host to a different style of forest. There's an Amazonian type jungle room with crocodiles, tropical birds and fish, and a Laurentian forest room which plays host to North American wildlife. (Including a water area with seagulls… seemed a bit useless to add a room with seagulls, the damn things are all over - like pigeons - but I suppose that's the point.) Another thing to keep in mind, is that sometimes Montreal has what's called Museum Day (not sure how many times a year they do this), and on this day most of the city's museums are free. I think the Biodome has a cost to get in, but it seems that it might be free after a certain hour of the day, since we paid nothing to get in. It costs $10 to go up the elevator in the tower of the Olympic stadium, which might be a bit pricey, but it's really a lovely view of the whole city.

[spoondrifts]

essay on anti-theism and protestant american culture i wrote for an intro to religion class last semester

All across the world, religions of all kinds are bound up in complex webs of the cultures they permeate, from genuine theocratic governments to legally secular Western democracies. Particularly in the United States, the relationship between Protestant Christianity and American culture has remained closely intertwined since the country’s founding, despite the legal separation of church and state outlined in the First Amendment. In America, Christian apostasy is unique in that it rejects the notion that one can remain culturally Christian despite embracing atheism or anti-theism, due to a pervasive but subtle idea within Christian ideology that presents religious identity as modular. As a result of this, ex-Christian anti-theism is functionally Protestant—professedly secular but dogmatically religious.

In places such as Iran, Afghanistan, and Mauritania, the relationship between culture and religion is explicit: their governments are shaped by Islamic law, and Islamic principles dominate every aspect of life. However, in secular countries, the connection is far more implicit. In Turkey, for instance, while technically a secular nation, Islam is the dominant religion and its influence can be seen everywhere from school curriculums to public architecture. In Japan, nearly eighty percent of the population participates in Shintoism or Buddhism in some way as reported by the Agency for Cultural Affairs, despite being majority nonreligious. While these statistics are due to the Japanese peoples’ unique conceptions of spirituality, which are not analogous to any Western experience of religion, they still represent an example of how culture and religion are not inextricable, as shown by Japanese cultural customs such as bowing to convey respect, visiting shrines on special occasions, and mindfulness of the natural world, which also have deep religious significance.

In his book Holy Ignorance: When Religion and Culture Part Ways, Olivier Roy explains that dominant religions are “powerful machines for manufacturing culture.. even if societies become secularized, they still bear the cultural imprint of the founding religion.” This principle rings true for the United States as well. Although America was not founded explicitly on Protestant Christian principles, the Protestant majority has retained an incredibly strong influence on the resultant culture over the last several hundred years. The primary difference between Christianity and other belief systems across the world is that modern Christianity markets itself as a modular religion—something that you can swap in and out without altering anything else about yourself. The idea is that you can still be Filipino, or Irish, or Nigerian, you’re just also Christian.

The issue with this framework, beyond its colonialist implications, is that religion isn’t plug-and-go. All religions carry cultural baggage, regardless of how universal their doctrines are. The Christian mindset that Christianity can simply be plugged into the “religion” slot and leave the culture unaltered produces the belief that Christianity, uniquely, is not tied to any cultural practices or ideas of its own, and therefore is value neutral. “The logical mechanism of exclusion of the unbeliever is inherent in any religious conviction, even if those concerned are not aware of it, the sole exception being Christianity—where it is properly understood, which of course has not always been and is still not always the case, not even thanks to those who calls themselves Christian" (Lautsi II, 54 E.H.R.R. ¶15). This quote surrounding a Quebecois court case expresses how Christianity paints itself as so universally encompassing that it ends up creating the implication that Christianity is the default, an inherently exclusionary principle that disadvantages non-Christians.

The de facto assumption that Christianity is the baseline dominates American culture: “The statement that ‘America is a Christian nation’ not only posits an intersection between religious and national boundaries; it also implies that the boundary between Christians and non-Christians helps regulate the threshold between more and less ‘prototypical’ Americans” (Straughn 283). In daily life, it is assumed that everyone knows who Jesus is; in the winter, people who do not celebrate Christmas are treated with bewilderment at best and hostility at worst. Not engaging with Christian culture means, on some level, not engaging with American culture, a dangerous line to draw for vulnerable populations who have historically been subjected to strong suspicion and the assumption that they are “invaders” infiltrating American life. In her journal Battles Over Symbols: The “Religion” of the Minority Versus the “Culture” of the Majority, Lori G. Beaman explains, “While not wholly successful, the desacralization of religious symbols serve to both distract from a de facto hegemony and to reconstruct the symbol as one that belongs to everybody.” In America, this is exemplified best by Christian atheists—people who have abandoned the Christian religion, but still practice the Christian culture they live in. The crucial difference between atheists and religious minorities in America is that atheists often recolor Christian norms as accessibly secular, rejecting the idea that one can remain Christian in any sense if one abandons Christian doctrines. This idea is not so foreign to other religious minorities, who recognize that religion and culture are inextricable: Jews and Muslims, for example, may still label themselves such even if they no longer practice Judaism or Islam. For them, religion is not modular.

The most damaging extreme of this modular mindset, for atheists, is found within anti-theism—total opposition to all religion. A relatively small sect of atheists, anti-theists present an ideal of the world that is explicitly post-religious, drawing upon rationalist concepts of reason, relational experience, and pragmatism in stark contrast to the empiricism of Christianity, wherein certainty is frequently drawn from sense-experience and not necessarily logic. Anti-theism has a strong online presence within forums and apps such as Reddit and Instagram, where sizeable communities exist. In the case of formerly Christian anti-theists, modularity comes into play when anti-theists fail to recognize their own participation in Christian culture and complicity in Christian hegemony.

The reclamation of Christian symbology by anti-theists is problematic for the entire ideology of anti-theism, particularly because it results in a belief system that pushes for total secularization while also defining “secular” as just desacralized Protestantism, thereby upholding the implicitly colonial mindset that Christianity is de facto and value neutral. It “emerges from within a Western Christian tradition while being seen as epitomizing the sorts of Western political illiberalism and evangelical, conversionist cultural superiority that anthropologists struggle against” (Marshall S347).

Furthermore, anti-theism embraces not only the secular symbology of Christianity but its attitudes and principles as well. The belief in religious modularity is found within anti-theism too—because religion is considered to be damaging and oppressive, religion should be eradicated, failing to account for how closely tied together religion and culture is all across the world. The eradication of religion would result in the eradication of entire cultures, a goal that is both not feasible and extremely problematic to strive for. In this way, although anti-theism identifies itself with the struggles of minorities under Christian hegemony, it inadvertently plays into the harmful power dynamics that prioritize Christian secularism and drive forward attempts to assimilate minority cultures. This is demonstrated through its core concepts: evangelism, or spreading the “truth”, misrepresentation of vulnerable minority religions as threatening to the “mission”, and lastly, the aforementioned necessity of the eradication of religion, resulting in an ideal Edenic paradise of post-religious intellectualism.

All of these concepts are rooted in and implicitly condoned by Christianity as well: evangelizing as commanded by the Great Commission, Christianity’s long history of Islamophobia and even longer history of antisemitism through portraying other faiths as threatening the moral integrity of Christian dominance, and what the end result of successful global conversion would look like: an ideal Edenic paradise of unity with Christ.

As a result of this, even though anti-theism rhetoric presents itself as the wholesale disaffiliation with and opposition to religion, it actually functions as an extremist offshoot of Protestant Christianity due to the persistent misrecognition of its own affinity with the cultural norms it stems from.

Works Cited

Beaman, Lori G. “BATTLES OVER SYMBOLS: THE ‘RELIGION’ OF THE MINORITY VERSUS THE ‘CULTURE’ OF THE MAJORITY.” Journal of Law and Religion, vol. 28, no. 1, 2012, pp. 67–104. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/23645227.

Marshall, Ruth. “Christianity, Anthropology, Politics.” Current Anthropology, vol. 55, no. S10, 2014, pp. S344–56. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.1086/677737.

Roy, Olivier. Holy Ignorance: When Religion and Culture Part Ways. Hurst, 2010.

Straughn, Jeremy Brooke, and Scott L. Feld. “America as a ‘Christian Nation’? Understanding Religious Boundaries of National Identity in the United States.” Sociology of Religion, vol. 71, no. 3, 2010, pp. 280–306. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40961206.

宗教年鑑 令和3年版 [Religious Yearbook 2021] (PDF) (in Japanese). Agency for Cultural Affairs, Government of Japan. 2021.

[noveltyadvent]

Without Sky

by Natan Dubovitsky

There was no sky over our village. That’s why we went to the city to watch the moon and birds, on the other side of the river. The people in the city were not thrilled to have us, but they did not try to stop us. On one of the hills, where the brick church stood, they even built an observation platform. Since for some reason they considered us drinkers, in addition to benches and a pay telescope, they built a small tavern by the observation deck, and a police post.

I could understand the city people. They had suffered greatly from the rage and envy of newcomers. And though it was insulting that they considered us - their closest neighbors, almost city people ourselves - intruders, still, we could understand them. And after all, they understood us. They didn’t drive us away. No matter what they wrote on their websites, they didn’t drive us away.

Everyone understood, if they were honest, that it was not our fault we were left with no sky. On the contrary, it was a great honor for us, in a way. The marshals of the four coalitions chose our sky for their decisive battle because the sky over our village was the best in the world: calm and cloudless. The sun flowed through our sky like a wide, peaceful river. I remember them well, the sun and the sky. The marshals found this place ideal for the final battle. It’s not surprising. This was when all armies were airborne, and here there were no clouds, no turbulence. It was perfect.

This was the first non-linear war. In the primitive wars of the nineteenth, twentieth, and other middle centuries, the fight was usually between two sides: two nations or two temporary alliances. But now, four coalitions collided, and it wasn’t two against two, or three against one. It was all against all.

And what coalitions they were! Not like the earlier ones. It was a rare state that entered the coalition intact. What happened was some provinces took one side, some took the other, and some individual city, or generation, or sex, or professional society of the same state - took a third side. And then they could switch places, cross into any camp you like, sometimes during battle.

The goals of those in conflict were quite varied. Each had his own, so to speak: the seizing of disputed pieces of territory; the forced establishment of a new religion; higher ratings or rates; the testing of new military rays and airships; the final ban on separating people into male and female, since sexual differentiation undermines the unity of the nation; and so forth.

The simple-hearted commanders of the past strove for victory. Now they did not act so stupidly. That is, some, of course, still clung to the old habits and tried to exhume from the archives old slogans of the type: victory will be ours. It worked in some places, but basically, war was now understood as a process, more exactly, part of a process, its acute phase, but maybe not the most important.

Some peoples joined the war specifically to be defeated. They were inspired by the flowering of Germany and France after being routed in the second World War. It turned out that to achieve such a defeat was no simpler than achieving victory. Determination, sacrifice, and the extraordinary exertion of all forces were required, and, in addition, flexibility, cold-bloodedness, and the ability to profitably administer one’s own cowardice and dullness.

But all of this was realized and analyzed later by historians and economists. Then, it was just war, World War V, and rather horrifying. I was six. We were all six or younger, all who today enter the Society, who are thirty years old now. We remember how, from the four corners of our sky, the four great armadas swooped down. These were not roaring, screeching and howling airborne apparatus of the old kind, as we had become used to seeing in the video-archives. For the first time, the newest, absolutely silent technology was employed, with some kind of invisible systems of complete noise reduction.

Hundreds of thousands of airplanes, helicopters, and rockets destroyed each other throughout a day in the silence of the tomb. Even falling, they were silent. Sometimes dying pilots screamed out, but rarely, because almost all of the machines were pilotless.

At that time, automatic machinery was being hurriedly brought into general use, and not only in the field of transportation. They introduced hotels without staff, stores without sales people, homes without masters, financial and industrial firms without directors. Even a couple of “pilotless” governments were organized as a result of democratic revolutions, so airplanes were nothing to speak of.

As a result, there was no one to scream while crashing onto roofs, bridges and monuments. The only sound was the cracking and crackling of our homes as they were destroyed beneath the rain of falling debris. And it wasn’t loud. The systems of sound reduction were effective across almost the complete depth of the battlefield.

Our parents tried to shelter us in the city. Above the city, the sky was clear, but the city people closed the city. Our parents cried for help from our side of the river. They begged them to at least take the children, at least those younger than ten, or seven, or three. Or younger than one year old. Or only the girls. And so forth. The city people did not open the city, and we children could understand them. We understood our parents, too, of course, including my own.

My father said: they won’t let us in. We have to dig down. We burrowed into the riverbank sand, in a minute’s time, it seemed. Everyone did, even the fattest and oldest of us. People don’t know themselves well. It might seem strange, but we are, in fact, much more nimble and intelligent than worms. One detail: it was winter. Freezing. The sand was hard.

Mama and Papa burrowed in together with me. They were warm and soft. Papa, a brave and clever man, brought some of my favorite candy from the house with him, a full pocket. And Mama bought my handheld game player. With it, I was happy and not bored in our burrow, so my time passed splendidly. The tail of an airplane fell on us, towards evening.

The fighter aircraft of the Northern Coalition were super-light, made of almost weightless materials. Even if an entire one of these fighters fell on us, the whole airplane, it would not have caused us serious harm. And Papa had dug us in pretty deep.

The place where we were hidden attracted the tail of another airplane. Unfortunately, it was an attack aircraft of the Southeastern League, an older plane, relatively silent, but heavy. Our burrow was deep, but not as deep as the tail of the attack fighter was heavy. The sand above us was frozen solid, but all the same, it was sand, not concrete, not steel, not the shawl of Our Lady: sand. And sand is not steel. I learned this well then, once and for all. And to this day, wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me: Is sand steel or not? I will answer: No! On the run, not pausing for a minute to think, not doubting. No.

I lay between Mama and Papa and didn’t hear the blow. It’s possible that Papa made some funny quacking sound when the excessive weight crushed him, or he swore coarsely. One time he had yelled out something of the sort in front of me and frightened me.

It’s possible that my mother also let out some kind of sound, but not necessarily. I’m not sure she even had time for a guilty smile, like the one she always had when something unpleasant happened to Papa or me. I hope it wasn’t painful.

They were killed. I wasn’t. Death wound round their bodies but didn’t reach mine. My brain was just touched by its black and stifling presence. Something boiled out of my brain and evaporated: the third dimension, height.

When they dug me out in the morning, chilled to the bone because my parents had quickly grown cold and become like the sand, I saw a two-dimensional world, endless in length and width, but without height. Without sky. Where is it, I asked? It’s right there, they answered. I don’t see it, don’t see it! I became frightened.

They gave me treatment, but didn’t cure me. This kind of contusion, severe, can’t be cured. The tail of the attack fighter crushed my consciousness into a pancake. It became flat and simple. What do I see in place of the sky above our village? Nothing. What does it look like? What does it resemble? It looks like nothing, resembles nothing. It’s not that this is incommunicable, inexpressible. There’s nothing of that. There’s just nothing.

After the war there were about fifty other cripples like me. All of us, the two-dimensionals, turned out to be the same age. Why? No one knew. The city scientists dug around in our consciousness for a while. They wrote a few treatises. They dragged us around to symposiums and talk-shows. Several foundations were organized on our behalf. Laughing at us was forbidden by a special law. They built an observation platform for us and a charitable institution. Then we went out of fashion and they forgot all about us.

If it was only that we didn’t see the sky above our village, that would be nothing, but our very thoughts lost the concept of height. We became two-dimensional. We understood only “yes” and “no,” only “black” and “white.” There was no ambiguity, no half-tones, no saving graces. We did not know how to lie.

We understood everything literally, and that meant we were absolutely unsuited for life, helpless. We required constant care, but they abandoned us. They wouldn’t let us work. They wouldn’t pay us a disability pension. Many of us deteriorated, fell and perished. The rest of us organized ourselves to stay afloat, to save ourselves together or perish together.

We founded the Society and prepared a revolt of the simple, two-dimensionals against the complex and sly, against those who do not answer “yes” or “no,” who do not say “white” or “black,” who know some third word, many, many third words, empty, deceptive, confusing the way, obscuring the truth. In these shadows and spider webs, in these false complexities, hide and multiply all the villainies of the world. They are the House of Satan. That’s where they make bombs and money, saying: “Here’s money for the good of the honest; here are bombs for the defense of love.”

We will come tomorrow. We will conquer or perish. There is no third way.

[girlpocalypse]

AOK, white woman

The ancestors' genes really went hard on me.

Though I believe I fully present as a tall Filipina, I do have a white Dad. The most notable genes I got from Larry were depression, height, and some leg hair. The rest is from Florence.

I was too brown to fit in with my Dad's Iowan extended family; too white for my Mom's family. On my Dad's side, I always felt like my mom, brother, and I were these out of place, exotic signs of a brave new “post-racial” world that everyone patted themselves on the back for over lunches of mayonnaise-based "salads" and sour cream casseroles.

In nomenclature I was always deemed white by people who knew my parents, thanks to that good ol' one drop rule. To be fair, I was much lighter skinned as a child, but only because I was ordered to hide in the shade when outside. Even now, when I spend a day in the sun I hear the full cacophony of aunties and uncles in my head: "We didn't leave Cagayan for you to look like you spent the whole day working in the rice fields!" I was generously gifted colorism, but gate kept from owning Filipino culture. Lucky me. 

Once, at the beginning of a bright, shiny new Trump presidency and the resulting cultural emboldening of public bigotry, I once met one of those aunties for brunch when she visited Chicago. I recounted the tale of being shouted at by a man in his car to go back where I came from on my way to the restaurant. Without a beat she assured me, "Well that's okay though, you're white!"

By school age I had fully internalized this message that I must claim whiteness. I felt isolated and weird as the lone non-white girl in my Kindergarten class, and so badly wanted to be just like everyone else. When it came time for my very first school birthday party, my Mom asked me what kind of treats I wanted to bring in for my celebration. I reportedly said:

"Mommy, I want a white Barbie cake because I'm a white girl."

People told me I should be white, so I tried to be. I lived in white spaces for so long, all I wanted for most of my childhood was to be seen as one of them.

I went to the Philippines for the first time when I was sixteen. The motherland had these ideal island weather conditions, which meant that suddenly my hair (which I had been dutifully wearing straight like the card-carrying emo girl I was), suddenly had beautiful, beachy, vibrant curls. After that trip I threw out my Chi flat-iron and never straightened my hair again. That was the first way that I ever gave myself intentional permission to reconnect with my ancestral roots. (Get it?)

My Mom had waited to bring us to her home country until my brother and I were old enough to have our wits about us, since traveling with my six-foot tall white father as a mixed American family was dangerous. The difference between the way I was treated when I had proximity to my Dad's whiteness by strangers in America versus the Philippines was staggering. People in Manila and the countryside alike didn't like that my mom had "betrayed" her people by being with my Dad, so it was safer to leave him at home when we went to the market or ran errands. For the first time in my life, my brownness kept me safer.

At the same time, whiteness made me a commodity. On that trip, family, friends, and strangers would fully walk up to me, stroke my cheek, and say things like, "Oh my god, wow, you're a SINGER? Maganda, you're so tall and so light! The next Charice or Charlotte Church! You should be on television!" I was gifted bottles of face lightening cleansers and serums to take back to the states with me so I could keep my "white" skin beautiful.

This Summer at our family reunion photo shoot, the photographer was arranging the adult cousin generation for a group photo and asked us to sort ourselves by height. This of course erupted in overlapping cries of, "Send Anna to the back because she's SO tall!" The chaos peaked as my petite dietician of a cousin who was sitting in the row in front of me enthusiastically turned to everyone announcing, "Yeah, she's soooooo tall because Anna's WHITE!"

Without thinking, I shoved my arm next to hers: "OH YEAH? PLEASE, POINT AT THE PART THAT IS WHITE. SEE YOUR PUREBLOOD FILIPINO ARM NEXT TO MINE? HMMM, IT LOOKS TO ME LIKE MY 'WHITE' ARM IS SIGNIFICANTLY DARKER THAN YOURS, HOW STRANGE!"

In that moment, I felt the collective rage from all the years I was told I was "such a big girl," by my Filipino family. Giant. Fat. Huge. Tall. White.

It's not even like my cousins have more of a claim to Filipino-ness than I do. In fact, I, only a half Filipina, planned said reunion. I, a mere half-breed, am the only one of the cousins organizing in my city and creating Fil-Am spaces for Filipino music and community. Practically none of our cousin's generation even speaks Tagalog, as we were raised in the peak age of first-generation assimilation. Our families thought they were doing right by us by keeping us from the mother tongue. They didn't want us made fun of for our accents; didn't want us academically behind since the prominent thinking at the time was that introducing young children to multiple languages was detrimental to their development. They wanted us to be American, full stop. Though I now see that our parents were just doing what they thought was best, I used to be really angry that I was kept from Tagalog. Everyone always responded that my lack of language made sense, since I was "only half."

Somehow, my flat, wide nose is the smallest one of all sixteen grandchildren. My delicate disposition made me the only one of the cousins who has a recessive blood disorder called Thalassemia (similar to sickle cell anemia and common in southeastern and south Asian populations). I am half Filipina, but I have whole insecurities about the flatness of my face. I am only half, but have this Filipina medical problem that will leave me systemically tired and immunocompromised for my whole life.

For our cousin's Christmas Secret Santa exchange a couple years ago, I was given a 23-and-me DNA test. The results were predictable:

25% Germanic 25% British Isles 49% Filipino, indigenous to the Ilocos Norte & Cagayan regions 1% Spanish

The thing that shook me to my core was the way my 23-and-me reports outlining my risks for certain diseases and genetic conditions compared me to other "average caucasian women" of my age. Over and over again across the page, the data read:

Anna: WHITE WOMAN Anna: WHITE WOMAN Anna: WHITE WOMAN

Me. My brown ass. A woman who gets clocked for Mexican or Latina or Filipina by strangers everywhere she goes; a woman who gets so dark in the Summer she wears five separate shades of foundation depending on how sun-kissed she is; a woman who is yelled at from cars to go back where she came from -- which, if you were wondering, is Liberty, Missouri.

I'm not sure when exactly I decided to give myself permission to stop introducing myself with an asterisk: half white, half Filipina. Those words always felt demeaning to me - after all, I couldn’t divide myself into a brown half and a white half.

What I do know, is that I am utterly exhausted from this lifetime of being told who I am.

I look in the mirror and see a whole person. She rides the line between identities in a world that subscribes to binaries and therefore belongs to nothing. Not gay, not straight, but a secret third thing. Not so disabled that you see it at first glance, but not well enough to keep up with able bodied people. Not brown enough for the brown people, not white enough for the white people.

I look in the mirror at her lidded eyes and cascading jet black hair.

She is not "half" anything.

And she is abso-fucking-lutely not a white woman.

-AOK, August 2023

[kinetic-elaboration]

June 8: MSCL 1x15 So-Called Angels

Finally watched the Christmas ep, which I've been putting off for 2+ weeks because it's just so intense and I haven't felt up to it or like I'm starting early enough (I obviously did not start early enough but I also took a nap and that's why so....)

It is really good, it's just... the emotion of it doesn't ever really let up so every time I watch it, I start crying right off and basically don't stop until the end. It's definitely a rather maudlin episode in a way, like it is trying to make you cry for 40 minutes--and it does every time for me!!--and there are a few parts of like extreme non-subtlety. But it holds a special place in my life regardless.

I always forget that the Chases talking to the police is what leads to something of a 'happy' ending, that the warehouse is cleared but its inhabitants are taken to a church, which is maybe a little unrealistic or overly optimistic. But at the same time, other aspects of the story show that there aren't happy endings or easy solutions for a lot of people like Rickie. And it matters a lot to me that his story continues and remains front and center in the next episode. It's not just one very special episode and then we assume everything works out for him.

Another thing that's interesting is that it's not clear which of the two categories of abandoned children, which the officer does explain in so many words, Rickie falls into. I like this choice because it ultimately does not matter. Whether he was scared to go home or was told not to, the result is the same; when the officer delineates the difference, his voice trails off and all that's left is the photo of the angel as a human girl.

I think the episode makes a clear and concerted effort to show that there is no clear line between good, or lucky, or "normal" people--who have homes and security and simply never have to worry about losing any of those things--and bad, or unlucky, or "other" people, who are simply inscrutable to the first category of people. Abandonment can take a lot of forms, like Brian's family leaving him at Christmas, and one bad fight or bad moment can spiral and become serious very fast, as with the parallels between Angela and the angel. The Chases even compare Brian and Rickie--what would you do if Brian came and asked for help? And in a way he does! And they help him, without thinking twice, in part because they seem him as one of them.

Of course, Brian and Angela are fine, and their lonely or scary experiences are much more temporary than Rickie's. I don't mean to say, well, it's all the same! Just that it all sort of falls into the same continuum, and the situations are messy and unpredictable. I mean, Jordan is housing insecure too, even though he does appear to have a house that he lives in at least some of the time (where Angela visits him in Pressure). He says his father doesn't hit him anymore, and yet when he lights the candle, he doesn't seem to be at home. And he has up to date information on where unhoused youth stay the night. Rickie and Jordan are both central characters, and they're both defined by more than a 'tragic backstory.' There is no clear dividing line between them and Brian or Angela--the biggest difference is that Angela has a home with a warm and caring family who will go after if she leaves.

It's interesting how people's apparent disbelief that anything really bad could happen to Rickie--because he's Rickie! he's "normal"!--could have so easily contributed to him dying, too. Like Rayanne knows about the abuse but she also knows he's always dealt with it before and he has his cousin, etc. And Patty and Graham see his bruises but they just assume that it's better to follow social rules and not involve themselves in something that isn't their business. Versus Jordan and Angela, who have maybe limited means at their disposal but they still try to do something, take some sort of action. Was the warehouse good for Rickie? I mean no, but it was better than the sidewalk. Angela wanted to give up her shoes and share her Christmas Eve dinner--fairly small gestures, but they're something, they're a reaction that isn't just 'well it will work out because it always does.'

I noticed the shoe motif more this time as well. Angela's boots are shown prominently early on. Later the angel tells her that her own boots have holes, and Angela swaps their shoes. So all that is pretty obvious: they could easily 'walk in each other's shoes,' Angela's deed was selfless and giving. But I wonder also if the holes in her shoes were part of why she died. She froze, because she could not walk any longer in the shoes and because the cold came through them. Does Angela's act of giving her new shoes allow her to move on? Also, something I noticed this time, Rickie mentions his own shoes at the beginning. Patty notices that he tracked in mud and he says his shoes must be leaking. If Rickie didn't have the Chases, if he didn't have just a few moments of good luck instead of bad, would he have died too? Is that what the shoes are an omen of? Is that why this girl is HIS angel, because their trajectories could be so similar?

I obsessed about the situation of the angel as well. At first I thought she perhaps had not been dead long if her picture was still up. But then some of those posters do stay up a tragically long time. Patty saw the poster and later understood the girl was dead. Because she just knew or sensed it, or because she saw the date on the poster and knew that if the girl hadn't aged, she also hadn't survived?

Yet, even dead, the angel still exists in a human body, feeling human sensations. She even sleeps! She needs to, in order to connect to Angela, and of course the idea is that she's simultaneously human and angel, that the celestial is found in the poorest and most downtrodden. But I just kept thinking about it from her point of view. She's dead but she's still suffering; the idea that she's stuck on Earth is really upsetting. I don't think it's the best reading though. Maybe she's in a sort of purgatory: she moves on when she saves another kid, or when she receives her shoes. Or maybe she chooses to return on Christmas; maybe, as with the other characters, there's a certain pleasure or warmth that come from doing the right thing or helping others; maybe, in a Christ-like way, she takes on a human form and human suffering in aid of others.

And finally, love the one (1!!) moment of levity with the help line call. Rayanne wasn't even wrong! Disrupting negative thought patterns is like a therapy technique.

[nickgerlich]

Wave Your Hand

“He causes all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hand or on their foreheads, and that no one may buy or sell except one who has the mark or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.” Revelation 13:16-17, NKJV.

I grew up in a religiously divided family, meaning Dad was Roman Catholic, and Mom was Church of God. Not the snake-handling kind from Tennessee, but the more Wesleyan-based group out of Indiana. I went to both churches. While I never quite understood the rituals of the Catholic Church, I can say I was equally perplexed by the biblical literalism of my mother’s church, and the behavioral restrictions they placed on parishioners. They used their Bible as a cudgel against non-believers and those believers who dared question.

Suffice it to say, they were the kind of people who would take that little snippet from Revelation quite seriously, never mind a little out of context. They truly felt a time was coming (yet, but no doubt imminent)  in which we would have to have a special mark to be able to transact anything, that there would be an emergent antichrist, and all that. I found it interesting that the closing book of the Bible, a treatise of hope, ended with a horror story.

But I digress. I truly doubt all of that end-of-the-age stuff was intended to be taken literally, and that we’ll never have to possess a special mark to go to the store. But then again, there is pause for thought when you consider that our increasingly cashless society requires a debit or credit card for many of our transactions.

And then there’s Amazon’s Just Walk Out technology, something I have written about already more than once, but just learned a new wrinkle:

You don’t even need plastic. You can simply wave your palm over a scanner, and it will read your unique palm print, thereby tying it to a payment method. Assuming no one ever cuts off my hand and takes it shopping, this could be the greatest convenience ever. Or, the beginning of the end times. Your call on this one.

Just Walk Out is being used at airports and sports venues, where long lines are a hindrance, and people are often in a hurry, either to make their connection, or get back to the game. While it is one thing to open an app upon entering the store and allowing it to track and charge you, it is quite another to just wave your hand. Maybe the Revelator was on to something.

One company in particular that has found great success with this technology is Delaware North, a New York-based food, lodging, sports venue, and gambling services provider. A “sponsored” piece (that’s code for advertorial) in Retail Dive tells the story of how they have implemented it effectively and profitably.

There are variants of frictionless shopping, of course. One might argue that self-check is almost frictionless, other than the scanner and payment terminal with which we interact. But then there are mobile apps for scanning and paying directly from the shopping cart without having to go to a terminal.

In total, they are decreasing the need for humans to handle transactions. Naturally, there are naysayers, ranging from those concerned about data privacy, incorrect charges, and even shoplifting (not them, of course), to those who bask in the glow of concern for other peoples’ employment. I just hope those same people never use ATMs, self-serve gas, online banking, online bookings, online shopping, online this, online that, online whatever. What’s that saying about folks who live in glass houses?

Bottom line: This has the possibility of revolutionizing retail. Sure, there will always be need for clerks in certain situations. But whenever we are buying basic items, ones that do not need any human intervention, Amazon’s technology could be used. You know. Kind of like filling our tank with gas. Making a withdrawal. Or buying food.

Sure, jobs will be displaced, but new ones will rise from those ashes, as they always have in the industrial and post-industrial eras. We’ll get over it. Meanwhile, we just have to find our way through yet another paradigm shift.

Because the digital era keeps ‘em coming, one after another. As for that church my mother attended, it disbanded after the preacher died. I guess they just couldn’t handle all that change.

Dr “Roll With ‘Em“ Gerlich

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