#parish renewal

[lawrenceop]

HOMILY for The Baptism of the Lord (A)

Isaiah 42:1-4. 6f; Ps 29; Acts 10:34-38; Matt 3:13-17

The other time that St Matthew tells of a voice being heard from heaven, it declares: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him” (17:5). We hear the exact same declaration today, but there is an interesting difference. Today, at the start of Jesus’s public ministry we’re not explicitly being told to listen to Christ. Rather, we’re presented today with Christ, our God, who has come to listen to us. As Ven. Louis of Grenada observes, Christ spent thirty years in silence – we know nothing of his so-called ‘hidden life’ – and then, from his Baptism onwards, three years of preaching. In this way, Christ shows us that he “valued the silence of recollection”, and I would add, he spends this time observing us, listening to us, coming to understand our human condition and human experience.

For at Christmas, we celebrated the Incarnation of Christ; God’s eternal Word taking flesh, being born as a baby. And as such, the Word is helpless, needy, and wordless if not silent. Thus, God humbled himself to share in our humanity; he comes to listen to us, becoming one with us. And today, on the last day of Christmas, we see the depths to which Christ shares in our humanity. By descending into the waters, a symbol of death, we see a prefiguration of the death that Jesus will choose to undergo in order to ‘listen’ to what it is to be mortal. And also, in humbling himself even to accepting John’s baptism of repentance, Christ shows that he chooses to identify himself with sinful humanity. So, our God chooses to humble himself to become Man, and not just to stand apart from us as a perfect human being, but to stand alongside us sinners; standing with sinful humanity in the Jordan, joining us in the waters of repentance. 

As the late great Pope Benedict XVI said: “Jesus loaded the burden of all mankind’s guilt upon his shoulders: he bore it down into the depths of the Jordan. He inaugurated his public activity by stepping into the place of sinners. His inaugural gesture was an anticipation of the Cross.” So, Christ identifies with sinners for our sake, in order to save us from sin. For as St Gregory Nazianzen says: “What has not been assumed has not been healed”.

However, we note that Jesus also says to John, more specifically, that he comes to be baptised in order to “fulfil all righteousness” (Mt 3:15). So, it is for God’s sake, for the sake of his justice, in other words, that he comes to the Jordan. Hence we hear in Isaiah that God’s faithful servant comes to fulfill God’s righteousness; to “bring forth justice to the nations” (Isa 42:1). So when Christ comes to the Jordan he does this, not by sitting in judgement, but by lowering himself into the river and listening to us, to our experience. For, as Isaiah says, the reed has been bruised by sin, the wick burns dimly. And so Christ doesn’t come to break us or extinguish the light. On the contrary, God’s justice and holiness is served when he comes to heal the wounds of sin and to fan our wavering love into an ardent flame. And this, too, is why Jesus comes to the Jordan to be baptised: For Jesus comes, like the doctor, to listen to us and to observe our symptoms but, more importantly, he also comes to cure our diseases; to heal and vivify. And what he prescribes is baptism. Or, to be more, precise, Christ himself is the cure. For our fundamental disease is sin which cuts us off from the life of God.

So, today, Christ descends into the waters and dies alongside sinners, joining us in the depths. But he also rises out of the waters, and we, too, are called to rise up from our sins, and to rise with Jesus to new life; the sinner becomes a beloved son or daughter of God. Hence when Jesus goes up from the water, St Matthew says that “the heavens were opened”, the Spirit descends, and a divine voice is heard (Mt 3:16f). So, too, in the sacrament of baptism we have died with Christ and rise to new life in him; we are healed of sin and filled with the Spirit of God’s love; heaven is opened to us, and we hear this declaration said about each of us individually: “This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased”. Therefore, when Jesus comes to the Jordan and says “thus it is fitting for us to fulfil all righteousness” (Mt 3:18), he is speaking of the righteousness he will bring about in us, in all peoples, through baptism and the other sacraments of his Church. 

So, although we’re not told explicitly in today’s Gospel to listen to Christ, in fact, if we’re attentive, there is something we’re being called to listen to today: Christ’s own example, and we’re called to follow him, and to share in his divine life. So Baptism, a vital sacrament that begins our Christian life, is still only the start of a new life, indeed, it inaugurates a new relationship with God. For through the Son of God, Jesus Christ, we can now be called sons and daughters of God. If so, then we need to receive the grace of God the Son, the graces and virtues and gifts that flow from Christ, and which makes us holy as Christ is holy. This requires from each of us a daily, on-going response – a life of faith and prayer in order to sustain and cultivate a living relationship of Faith with Jesus Christ. 

In particular, speaking of the baptism of infants and the role of the parish, Pope Benedict XVI said: “after Baptism [children] must be educated in the faith, instructed in accordance with the wisdom of Sacred Scripture and the teachings of the Church so that this seed of faith that they are receiving today may grow within them and that they may attain full Christian maturity. The Church, which welcomes them among her children must take charge of them, together with their parents and godparents, to accompany them on this journey of growth. Collaboration between the Christian community and the family is especially necessary in the contemporary social context in which the family institution is threatened on many sides and finds itself having to face numerous difficulties in its role of raising children in the faith. The lack of stable cultural references and the rapid transformation to which society is constantly subjected, truly make the commitment to bring them up arduous. Parishes must therefore do their utmost increasingly to sustain families, small domestic churches, in their task of passing on the faith.”

This, in a nutshell, is my hope and my plan and my intention for this parish and for our long-term catechetical plan for St Dominic’s. Please pray for this plan, and for the spiritual renewal and support of our families, and please do what you can to help make this church and this place a living community of the Baptised where we can come to know God, hear his Word, and grow to love God more deeply. Thus the prophet Isaiah says to you and me, to us Christians today, that “I, the Lord, have called you to serve the cause of right; I have taken you by the hand and formed you; I have appointed you as covenant of the people and light of the nations.” We can only do this if we are lit up from within by the grace of Jesus Christ, with a burning love for God, and a desire to obey God’s commandments, as a faithful child of God:All this is what Baptism leads to.

[siena-sevenwits]

I am so excited for the 10 PM vigil tonight, you don't even understand.

[tarjapearce]

Heathens (Pt. 1)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun!Reader

art by @maxro_art on IG (Her Deliverance AU is ❤️❤️🤌🏻)

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If you're sensitive regarding religion, please don't read this. Masturbation in holy places, explicit language, wet dreams, Female anatomy, oral ( F receiving) Gentle Dom Miguel, Corruption kink, overused tropes cause yeah, a tinge of yandere undertones if you squint, mutual lust, Not Proofread ~

Summary: Father O'Hara had a little lamb ~

A/N: Another for the Miguelverse ~ Reblogs and comments are much appreciated c:

Main Masterlist

From all the places you could've find solace from war, The house of God was the least of lieus in your list. Not that you had a choice.

Family long gone after unsuspected explosions decimated your town, followed by constant tragedies such as losing friends along the way either by enemy and merciless hands or sickness. In the end, it was only you. You had outlived them all despite your short age. And now, they lived crammed up in your memories.

Happy, smiling and very much alive. Sometimes you'd see familiar faces on stranger's bodies. Grief had slowly nested within your soul and when all hope seemed lost, the chapel had saved you from what surely would end up in your premature death.

The blackest of black matched the crispest white you had ever seen, they were all donned in their beatific robes, prayer beads dangling at every gentle step they did. And there it was, epiphany unfolding itself before your experienced in horror eyes. It was your call.

All the answers to your laments and aching heart were sent as them. Nuns of the Mistbourne Parish. A church located in the outskirts of a now rundown by conflict Nueva York. The church that now played a major role in taking in as much people within their sacred walls, before they could be dispatched to a more adequate place.

Without hesitation, you had joined. And now, six years later you still remained with them. Early twenties had settled right for you as a nun. Ever devoted, compassionate, and diligent.

As time went on, the main city was reconstructed, burying it's dark tragedy under freshly built towers, hiding the pain under the rugged carpet full of concrete and wire homes, like nothing ever happened. Like if war had never stepped upon it and gave it a much needed renewal at people's lives expenses.

But no matter how many changes time brought, life in Mistbourne's Parish remained the same. Untouched by the technological advances from the outer world. There was always something to do, as simple as it was. And so far, you've been satisfied with it.

The only alterations worth of mention was your holy family expanding.

A new couple additions to the staff. More sisters, an eighty percent of them were beyond fifty. You were the youngest, their child. After all some ended up raising you within the house.

And him. The new priest.

The tallest and bulkiest man you've ever seen. As much as staring was considered rude and borderline a sin, it was unavoidable to do so, when his rusty brown eyes fell upon you. Their color unique, like he was. Never in your life had you seen someone like him, or another man besides the butcher and the guard. He had definitely been a regular man before coming here.

The soft weary expression lines in his sharp countenance revealed his own fair of lived experiences.

He towered over you, crisp white dot on his black rimmed neck line, parading his status with modest pride, and golden praying beads dangling on his narrow hips, you held yours while asking forgiveness for keep staring.

"Father."

Father O'Hara. In his mid thirties, broken family also torn by war, wearing his vows in the shape of a ring on his right hand.

"Sister"

His voice deep yet gentle, like a lullaby. His steps took him away to his own residence. The rectory outside the church.

It made sense as to how some workers were renovating it in the past few weeks. The parish last priest had been sent off in sacred duties, only to realize later that he had killed a man. Cops and detectives surely made a show out of it.

Dark times, according to Sister Lianne, one of your mother figures. But now, Father O'Hara had taken his place, erasing all traces of the previous man with concise and pithy actions.

He took his role seriously. Said masses on sundays, visited the sick, baptized people; but his most popular feat was to hear the confessions. The most intimate secrets revealed to him by either your fellow sisters or people from the town that came to expiate their sins in hope to be forgiven.

You'd sometimes run into each other, bumping casually in the narrow wooden floored halls, you'd often apologize, only to reciprocate a polite smile on both ends. He'd sometimes help you out by carrying things a bit too heavy, or you'd help him out lighting up the altar for his speech.

Yet, his hands in one occasion took an accidental taste of your body dimensions underneath your beatific robes, while preventing you from falling down the stairs. He'd scold you for being careless and carrying things that obscured your sight.

After many sorries on your behalf, you returned to the cells and went straight to your own dorm, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His hands felt burning upon remembering the dents of your form, the curve of your waist and certainly the warmth that irradiated from you, so so close from his.

Unexpectedly it had brought memories from his past. His old life where he'd have his lovely and temporary companion for the night impaled deliciously with himself before war and hell broke loose. Before he was forced by the subversives that raided his town to create a new fake identity in the spot as they heard him speak spanish or fight a war he hadn't started, much less would end. And so, his life as Father O'Hara begun.

Odd enough, the sudden and thoughtless choice had granted him peace after witnessing so many terrors his fellow human could be capable of. His need of help has always been stronger than anything and when he finished licencing some sacrifices were required.

Poverty vows weren't an issue since his previous life had been modest yet good enough to go by. Little difference between his current lifestyle.

The obedience vow took him a little longer to fully yield. But he accomplished it to a T, just to avoid more trouble. He faked it until he made it.

His chastity vow had been a quite the challenge to perfect, but no matter how much the temptations paraded before him in the many parishes he was assigned to, he didn't give in. His libido had been sapped out of his body, like a campfire after completing it's useful cycle.

Not because of his brand new sanctity invested by holier-than-thou elders, but rather a broken mind full of grievance and other negatives that always haunted him. The gunshots and bombings too fresh in his mind.

It had been years since he touched someone in a way that wasn't holy. Since he had provoked things in someone else that clearly would make him go under the laicization from the clergy without second guessings.

Until he held you the other day.

Both of your eyes too enraptured in eachother that had sent an igniting spark to his spine. Reviving all those inactive nerves he thought his existencial toll severed long ago. His eyes had gave a brief rake over your face.

Wide and round eyes staring back, both in awe and surprise straight into his soul. Nose flaring softly just like your mouth, whose bottom lip trembled at the little erratic breaths your lungs exhaled upon being in physical contact with a man for the first time in ever, while cheeks bloomed with a not so discreet flush. And your body heat.

Jesus all mighty.

It was dangerously tempting. For a brief moment his past self had taken over, but quickly vanished upon hearing steps. Earning you to fix your crucifix and cowl nervously and him to fist his hands to refrain himself to take another taste and fix his collar and cassock.

To his conclusion, the robes you wore did not match what was underneath. He noted much, but having you wear that loose habit only fuelled his now active and sinful imagination. An opposite from your habits' purpose.

Priest life was hard, and the Celibacy vows were his biggest damnation. Mind often plagued with 'I shouldn't have done this.' 'This is ridiculous' 'Fucking idiot' 'Why did I even lie about this?' But even so, priesthood was better than ending up dead or mutilated by mines somewhere in the battlefield, in the middle of a war he didn't started, much less would end.

Government later was forcibly recruiting all those men, be them widowed or married. It didn't matter. War wasn't for him. Neither Priesthood.

But he'd bear it. He'd bear it until he was put in another parish church full of older and witty ladies he'd definitely wouldn't lust after.

----

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sweet voice behind the confessional punctured walls, perked up his ears. He had memorized a lot of things, your voice included.

"I... I haven't confessed in weeks. But it grows me concerned that... my mind is somewhere else."

Silence. You were met with silence as expected, it also encouraged you to keep talking.

"A man has flooded my thoughts and no matter how much I try to occupy myself, he's there. Leading me to temptation and sin."

A man?

His brow quirked as he slanted over the little wooden division between you, to hear better and take a peek on your face. The only men he could think of was the guard, the butcher and himself. The only men inhabiting the same area as you.

"How does this man tempts you?"

"He... He visits. In my dreams I mean and..."

A low 'forgive me, God' echoed in your stall. His throat dried and his hands rested on each side of his knees, gripping at the fabric of his pants.

"He does things I know I shouldn't partake in... But, it feels too real."

"You sound scared. Does it frightens you?"

"Very much so. But it is a strange sort of fear, Father."

"What kind of fear then?"

It took you a long pause to muster

"A fear of him stopping his visits in my mind."

He gulped.

Your hands took the crucifix and held it tighter, "For him to stop doing such sinful things to me, even in my dreams."

"Have you sinned in the carnal affairs?"

"N-No. I would never. I've never engaged in them, Father."

His groin twitched, as a hand raked over his scalp. A shaky breath that was forced to come out in silence. Only when he thought you couldn't be more innocent, there you were proving him wrong.

"Ever?"

"I promise to you with my life, I've never."

"I must know" He wetted his lips with his tongue, "What kind of things does this man does to you?"

"W-What?"

Your spine straightened up instantly, eyes wild, staring another hole into the already punctured division. Cinnamon color in his skin, the only brief glimpse you managed to see. But even so, his gentle yet cornering voice brought you down from your initial jump.

"I need to know, so I can dictate a penance."

The flush on your cheeks returned, burning bright upon remembering the all too lucid dream you've been having about your secret man. That, even though visited frequently, you still didn't know his face, just his body as it smothered yours wholy in a constant merciless and scorching rut.

All what you remembered was him feasting between your legs like a starved man. His hands maneuvering your soft mounds to then give a gentle squeeze.

"His hands are the ones that bring the sin, Father."

"Explain yourself"

His voice was sultry, buttery rich and smooth on the other side of the stall. A subtle order. To your dismay, that same demon had a similar voice tone. Alluring, speaking to you in a foreign language it had you mewling and asking for forgiveness every time you remembered, cause you had begged the faceless man for more.

"He touches and... t-tastes places I shouldn't allow no man to delve in." With a thick gulp you continued, "His tongue is... marvelous."

His eyes widened for a second as his hand hovered over his crotch

"Marvelous?"

"I feel the biggest sinner by admitting this. Please, do forgive me."

"Accountability is part of the process."

He tried to sound as professional as he could, but little did you know his mind was torturing his already crumbling resolve with such vivid details. Celibacy wasn't a problem, until now. Hearing such sinful words coming from such a unsuspecting thing like yourself, a virgin that is, made his old self to re-emerge.

Disguising himself as a sheep, while he fought through his holy learning years to tame his wolfish appetite.

There were plenty of ewes in the flock , but so far the only one that made his mouth water was you. A perfect little lamb. And now, this. We're you set to making him break his vows?

No. You weren't. He was reaching his limits to break celibacy and you were just having wet dreams about someone that definitely made him wonder about your past life. A past lover? No. Not even that. A possession? A demon? No. Definitely not.

He had heard things whenever on lunch duty. Mindless talk that revealed more to him from others and you than they intended to. You, a nun. Picked up from a ravaged village nearby and raised within  the nuns, meaning, you had zero idea of what pleasure meant.

He believed, but wasn't a complete blinded idiot to faith. Your body was asking for physical and forbidden relief. Just like his.

But again, the golden band around his right hand not only forbid but also was the perpetual reminder of what was a stake.

"I know, Father. But... this man has such power over me that has pushed me to sin. He... he has pushed me to take such vulgar matters in my own hands."

Maker's mercy

His cock twitched harder and he was unable hold back and gave a firm  squeeze while biting his lip to quiet himself at the long forgotten and heady pleasure that was drowning his body in an alarming rate.

As if done of being fed lies and a quick and sloppy handjob for ages. It was disgusting how easy was to sin, how well his body ached and reacted to such stimulus. How effortlessly his old habits had caught up to him.

He was the one that needed a penance now, cause he couldn't shake the image of you spread with your legs wide open, naked, sliding your fingers in between your weeping folds. You'd certainly have your mouth shut or lips bitten to avoid having anyone hear you.

He had closed his eyes while his jaw clenched, occasionally sweeping his tongue over his lips to keep them moist.

"Say it. Say your sin."

He commanded in a voice that had your cheeks flustered and your pearly nub a throb. His hand half squeezed half stroked over his clothed groin. Swollen and needy cock begging to be set free and properly taken care of.

"I..." A dry gulp and your hands went to your crotch, begging your nature to behave. Cheeks impossibly red.

"I've enjoyed touching myself after dreaming a man... f-fucks me, Father."

The word 'fuck' coming out your delicious looking yet pure lips, had his teeth gnawing at the insides of his cheek, self control harder to keep under the leash. It barked, howled even demanded for more explicit details.

Instead, he sighed quietly and cleared his throat. The sudden noise had you gripping the skirt of your habit in shame.

Miguel didn't say much besides the prayer of absolution and a couple of more prayers as your penance. The same right hand that was squeezing his cock was now being kissed by you, to confirm your forgiveness. Plump, warm and soft lips caressed his ring finger.

And once you were gone, his hand took control on its own, slid under his soutane to stroke himself. If you felt like a sinner, he was the devil himself.

The vice like grip in his own cock made him shudder, sensation foreign yet so welcoming after years without it. A little whine escaped past his gaping mouth, exhaling pecaminous breaths as he stroked like teenage boy that just discovered masturbation for the time ever. Sloppy, desperate and wet motions echoed in the now sullied stall.

He fisted his hand tighter, thick fingers coaxing a much needed release, hips rutting into his choking hand. Quiet whimpers and an array of curses flew out his mouth.

His flushed tip swayed and shook under his own rough ministrations while his jaw clenched, he clawed at the chair when hot and thick spurts of his cum dribbled down his hand and wrist before time; pooling in the hollow of his palm while earning a gutural growl that dissolved into a shaky whimper, as he curled against the wooden and punctured wall for a brief lapse of seconds to regain his composure.

"Fuck..." He had to lay against his chair to keep the light-headedness at bay, drowning in his own made pleasure, panting like he had run a marathon for hours.

He shouldn't have lied back ago. And  definitely shouldn't have become a priest. He was soiling their already tainted reputation. His old self was back to stay.

He cleaned up his hand under his robes to then leave to change. He was given a glimpse as you were picking up some harvest in the orchard while he was making his way back home.

---

Window's glasses echoed with the soft rain. The parish has been quiet during weekdays, but busy for you. As winter approaches the harvest must be picked, the grains sorted and the meats stored.

You saw Father O'Hara less and less, and when you did, they were mere glimpses. He was as busy in meetings with other priests, or preparing for the mass that was now given twice a week.

If you weren't in the garden or the laundry, you were in the choir.

Lingering yet brief gazes chased each other. He had heard some nuns speaking about him, some had wonderful things to say, saying that he had been one of the most efficient priests the church has had.

Others mentioned between hushed and bashful whispers about his physical condition and how they caught him go for runs at crack of dawn a couple of times.

And you, just wanted to go to confession again and ask for forgiveness. Not to spill the advantures you had in your dreams with a man that oddly resembled like Father O'Hara, but to unleash your heart's desires to wonder what was beyond the parish.

It was your life, all you've ever known so far. But one of those trips to the city during a beneful visit to another location, had left you amazed. How could a world so different like yours could be considered bad and straying?

But again, vows. Your vows bound you, and once broken, there was no turning back. But right now all that mattered was to get to the dorms. The rest was out in another visit to the city, you were to stay to finish your tasks in the kitchen.

Weather changed so abruptly that one moment you were taking the last basket of vegetables inside, to then run for the dorms to seek refuge. But they were far and the only thing in sight was Father's O'Hara rectory.

It was either getting a terrible fever from the cold and unforgiving rain or ask him to lend you an umbrella to mitigate the glacial numbness spreading through your body. Another reason you barely went out during these days, rains in the countryside were merciless.

Miguel was tending his own garden when the rain begun drenching. Even more when the thunders broke the peaceful white noise. He removed his soutane and shirt off leaving his inner vestments free, but the desperate knock on his door made his undressing ritual to stop.

While quirking an eyebrow, he approached the door and opened it. Eyes widened in surprise upon seeing you, soaked through your bones. lips blue and shivering from the cold.

"P-Please-"

"Jesus. Come in."

He ushered you in, then rushed to get a towel. A frown in his face deepened upon hearing your teeth clatter, clothes stuck to you like a second skin.

"C-Can I... borrow your... u-umbrella?"

Without much though he smoothened the towel against your face, drying it.

"An umbrella? Really?!"

A vehement shake of your head, while trying to get him off you.

"You're freezing cold, the dorms are too far for you to leave. Don't be stubborn."

"I... I don't h-have clothes."

You mumbled through rattling teeth while your eyes darted hazily over his naked torso. He sighed.

"Unbelievable. You're freezing to death and you're worried about clothes. Get them off, I'll put them to dry."

He grumbled while taking more logs into the fire to what would be his living room. If it wasn't for the glacial and biting freeze that refused to leave your body and the foggy thinking in your brain, your cheeks would be beyond red. Crimson even from such simple act.

A weak nod you gave. Your hands stopped bracing your shivering body to focus on removing the cowl and headdress. Releasing through shaky motions your soaked hair that wasted no time to stick on your face and neck.

The next was your crucifix, and praying beads, the tempo you removed them could make a slug to easily win the race, this alarmed him greatly. He had seen what hypothermia did, way before turning himself into this holy persona.

Without much thought, he peeled off your habit that weighed you down.

"Qué mierda más pesada" (Such a heavy shit)

He held you by one arm as he removed the outer layer off. Your eyes drooped and he gave you a little shake.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

Eyes concerned raking over and it dawned on you. Those eyes, the same beautiful and unique eyes were the same that visited in your dreams.

A difficult gulp rolled down your throat as Miguel kept undressing you while grunting. Wet clothes were a pain in his beatific ass. Shivering dicreased, but your lips remained blue, a new shade of purple drawing over them.

"I-It's so cold" You mumbled through laborious breaths.

"Course it's cold. You're soaked! What were you even doing?"

The way he scolded you felt like someone you've known for years was giving you a lecture. So casual, homey, normal. It was Miguel O'Hara speaking, not Father Miguel. The ever gentle and patient man you've been helping.

"Jesús bendito, con cuánta cosa te vistes." (Holy Jesus, so many layers.)

He murmured while pushing you to his chest as he removed the dress that covered your underwear. It felt like a heatless body had been thrown over him, but the warmth irradiating from him felt heavenly. Your form instinctively nuzzled your head on his chest. He had to stop to gulp at the sensations

Even though his mind slapped itself, His couldn't help but wander over your shivering and weak body.

"W-Wait"

A small dark patch hovered above the joint of your legs. Taut peaks followed by lovely areoles ever standing and shivering under the flimsy white fabric of a short nightgown that proved even harder to remove since it clung to you like a second skin, refusing to abandon your body.

He peeled you off of everything despite your protests, but was sufficiently prude to not look over your naked form. A minute too slow and it would be late. Like the young boy in his arms, that had died out of cold once the subversive groups arrived in the forsaken town, they had forced him and the rest to go through a frozen river. He made it, but the boy didn't.

His mind wasn't in the tip of his cock.

That will come later.

But his brain had only one single purpose right now. To keep you alive but for that he needed keep you warm.

Despite the recklessness of his actions, he pulled a freshly folded duvet around  while pulling you ontop of his chest and sat together near the fire. Hands moving to dry your hair as much as he could. Your skin was full of goosebumps, frosty to touch, that relished into any source of heat available. His torso, the duvet and the raging bonfire made your head spin.

It felt like his hands, rubbing some life back into your arms while he shielded your body, embracing your form with his torso and limbs. Like a paramedic on duty. Your cheek smooshed against his solid chest, it made him shudder with your own coldness but eventually the body heat treatment would be effective.

"Sorry" it was all you managed before your teeth shuddered again, and his fingers caressed your neck, placing a new wave of delicious heat on your skin.

"You'll be fine."

Your body was slowly but surely returning to it's temperature. Miguel remained there, basking you within his body, fingers gingerly caressing as much cold skin as he could under the duvet. Even his breath provided a little heat. Your erratic breaths collided against his skin, earning a discreet shudder from him.

You had drifted off to limbo, trying to sleep a bit, but unable to completely do so. Not when a man, the Parish Father nonetheless, was holding and nursing you back to an acceptable temperature with his own.

"Father O'Hara..."

Miguel's ears perked up upon you mentioning his name.

"It's Miguel."

He mumbled while drawing lazy circles on your lower back. The fire and the duvet had kept you toasty to curl even more towards him. Teeth no longer clattering.

"Thank you, Father."

"Stop."

His eyes rolled in annoyance, as his hands stopped caressing your skin to then rub his face.

"Stop calling me that."

"But that's your-"

"I don't like it."

He grumbled while looking down at you.

"Call me Miguel."

"I can't do that. Feels too disrespectful."

"I'm not Father O'Hara here, understood?"

You nodded

"Are you cold?"

"I am. Not as before but yes. Has it stopped raining?"

His own smell was making your mind a puddle, some of that fragrant incense remained etched on him.

"No. Just got worse."

You sighed while resting your head on his chest. Heartbeats a mellow lullaby.

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"You were cold and soaked." He pointed dully and bored.

The duvet was brought closer to your chest while staring at the flames. Fingers tracing a lazy and mindless pattern in his abdomen.

"I was picking up the last batch of harvest when rain poured on me."

Your toes curled in as a soft breeze flickered the fire and he tilted his head to watch you closer.

"Now I'll have to explain why there isn't enough corn."

"We'll go by. It's ok."

"Are my clothes ready yet?"

A snort that  would be translated into an 'Are you kidding me?', your brow furrowed.

"You'd be lucky if they get dry during the night."

Another defeated sigh. But a sudden thought however made your cheeks burn faintly.

"D-Did you see me naked?"

"No."

Oh.

There was a silent pause before you spoke again. Curiosity tempting.

"Have you seen other women naked?"

He huffed playfully while pushing your hair away from your lovely and sweet face.

"Yes. I was a regular man before all of this."

His fingers curled up in his hand, morphing into a lazy fist

"Do you miss it?"

"Would be a liar to say if I don't."

"You... You've had sex before?"

He chuckled while with an open palm, took a taste of your skin, deliberately roaming your lower back. You shuddered.

"I did. Plenty of times."

Your audible gasp made his eyes droop hazily in a smirking grimace.

"I was told it felt marvelous."

You looked up at him and he pulled your chin upwards, he really had to keep his restrain under a leash to not take you here and there, instead, he cupped your face and hovered his lips over yours

"Do you want me to teach you, Sister?"

He was the demon. The very same one that visited in your dreams and left you a soaked mess. A little too late you'd noticed that he wasn't wearing his vow ring. It was placed somewhere else you truly couldn't care less at the moment.

You only nodded.

"Use your words, dear"

"Please", you gulped, "Teach me."

It was in that moment that he sealed your lips with his. Your first kiss ever. Chaste and sweet at the beginning that slowly turned into this obscene display of his mouth assaulting yours with his tongue in between gentle licks and bites of his lips.

A shaky whine then a whimper escaped your throat upon feeling his hands skimming down your spine. He only let you go when you tapped out for air.

"How often am I on your mind, pequeña?"

Finally the demon in your dreams had turned into a reality. Eyes were closed, unable to look at yourself melting under his touch. Nipples perked against his chest.

Plump and hot lips caressed yours but they stopped. Hands pulled you upwards, Miguel turned you around so your back was now colliding with his chest.

"You're still cold."

Cheeks grew impossibly red while he slowly peeled off the duvet out of your body, leaving you bare before him. You gulped as he moved your hair to a side and slowly kissed up and down your neck.

His hands were unable to resist any more and cupped your mounds, like in your dream. Calloused palms, rough against soft breast.

"Qué maravilla. Is this how your dream goes?

Legs smothered together, a little strip of hair etched to your pubic mount. He hummed in appreciation to then part your legs above his. Cunt pulsing at the coolness of air brushing past it.

Both of your legs dangled ontop of his as you remained nested above. Your heart beat at the playful moves his middle and index finger pulled on your nipple as his free hand darted over the joint of your inner thighs. You could feel him trembling underneath, the restrain made his breath hitch.

Your own turned erratic once more as he slid three fingers in between your folds. A shy Ah escaped your lips while he used two of them to part the outer labia

"Look at that, little one. Is that what you touch when thinking of me?"

Drunk eyes darted between your legs and his skillful hand, the engorged and pearly clit peeked out as one of his fingers flickered slowly. Focusing the right amount of pressure in it that had your moans shaky. He paused to adjust his fingers as they caressed and rubbed as much flesh as they could.

Mouth etched to your ear. Deep and needy breaths fanned behind you

"So so pretty. Look at that"

He made a show of his fingers coating themselves in your slick. One of his digits hovered over your entrance, slowly it disappeared inside. A muffled groan echoed in the void space

A wet and shlicking sound came from his ministrations, head unable to move, too enraptured into watching him sliding in and out. Skin bloomed with a new wave of goosebumps as his tongue licked your neck and earlobe, rewarding you for taking one finger deliciously, that he licked up clean before going back to rub at your clit.

"Want to add another?"

A breathless and hissing yes.

You didn't know who was with you right now since Father O'Hara couldn't. Your brain still refused to believe they were the same man. One preached and talked mass every Sunday, the other had your head spinning while his fingers explored your insides with such gentleness it only increased your whimpers and need for something more and bigger within you.

"Does that feel good, Hm?"

A dumb nod while more escaped your mouth repeatedly

"More?"

"Please!"

How could he deny to such petition? Even most when you were gripping him so deliciously and pulsating with every stroke he delivered in, grazing at your sweetest spot.

"Like this?"

He increased the tempo and your breath hitched, hips moving to meet his fingers aiding them to reach deeper and deeper.

Breaths turned into short and shallow pants, blood rushed to your cheeks. One of his digits pushed past between your lips meeting your moist muscle that wasted no time into kissing it. All you could hear was yourself and your weeping pussy that demanded for more.

But they weren't enough. Brain was sent into an override when the climax washed over you. All the pent up need and lust drowned you. Strong pulsations dictated the contractions that trapped and milked Miguel's fingers. Mind split in two in a shattering and core shaking spasm.

Mouth gaped, eyes heady and drunk with blind hot pleasure, body convulsed while an array of mumbles and clumsy curses flew out of your mouth to finally end with a delicious quivering cry.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay, pequeña." He cooed you through it while kissing your neck. Heart pounding in your ears.

It took you a moment to breath properly. How could you have missed this? How could you remain so ignorant to this? Alienated from something you were often told it was dirty and condemning.

He had only touched in the right places and you were melting. But why stopping there? You knew he also wanted you, his hard on pressing over your lower back, begging to set free.

"M-More"

He shook his head with a proud smile

"Can't do that, preciosa"

A capricious whine came through your throat, "Why not?"

"Cause, as much as I'd love to take you until you recite the bible backwards to me, you know what could happen."

"You don't want me, then? Why stopping now?"

"Far from that. And we must be discreet. Wouldn't want you to be whipped by Sister Lianne."

He took your hand and kissed your wrist. While his other limb pulled you closer to him.

"I am the only one that shall leave marks on you, my dear. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but-" He took your chin in a gentle but firm grip.

"Is that clear?"

You nodded with a pout.

"Lay on the bed."

"What? "

"Lay on the bed, so I can taste you."

Miguel could fulfil that fantasy. With Bambi-like steps you pushed yourself up and walked over his bed. Plush surface welcomed your body under a creak.

"Spread them."

Toes curled up for a second before spreading them open. Clit already tingling with a foreign yet needy sensation.

He kneeled before you, like he did every day he worshipped the Lord. But this time it wasn't God, but you. Nose nuzzled over your inner thighs while taking a whiff of your scent. Tantalizing and so alluring for his own senses.

Slow and deliberate kisses were placed above your flesh, the strip of hair that decored your pussy, to finally sink in between soaked folds.

The mewl you gave only made him feast upon you. Hands grope the sheets by instinct as he spreaded you further.

His tongue lapped and curled at your hole, slurping it without refrain and inhibitions. Devouring it like it would be his last meal.

Your dream had felt too vivid, yes, but this was completely different. This was in a whole new different level. His corruption had tainted your soul and it was gladly welcomed into your arms.

Legs twitched and shook while your head was thrown back, chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to breath properly as his tongue was set into fucking your drooling hole.

The way his tongue fucked, dribbled and guzzled your cunt had you mewling and moaning the filthiest things you didn't think possible you could get out.

Good was an understatement, heavenly was a measly word to compare what you felt like. It was maddening and he gave you no rest.

Have you ascended? No. He just wrapped your supple thighs around his head, preventing you from squirming too much, holding your hips in place as his sloshing and assailant mouth gave you no rest.

You hadn't recovered completely from the other orgasm when a new one had approached. Lurking around your senses.

His name was moaned, over and over and when your hands were done of clinging onto the sheets, you held onto his hair. Silky and smooth chocolate locks slid under your fingers.

Eyes peeked over you, and he had to pause for a moment to squeeze his cock. Aching and weeping for him to let him free and make you his. But that would come later.

That would come much later when he had more leisure time and when he'd get protection. As much as he wanted to wreck your snug cunt, he didn't want you to be whipped and shamed like another nun was when the higher ups found out she was pregnant by an outsider.

"Miguel"

His name on your lips rich and tasty, like him.

Your voice snapped him out of his trance to immediately go for your clit. Plump lips pursed and captured the engorged nub. While his hands pushed your legs up and folded them, giving a complete access to your pulsating pussy.

He slurped and souped while his tongue teased. Wet laps sent jolts through your spine each time he tasted you.

Too much. Too good and too soon, yet he didn't stop. He shook his head like a mad dog subduing it's prey and that move alone had you gushing over his mouth. He quickly gobbled it all down.

You whined, cried and blabbled, even tried to pull his head away but he delivered you a last stroke with his tongue to then lick his lips clean.

"Please"

You mumbled through blown breaths as he watched you with a lust blown glare.

What had he done out of you?

"Greed is a sin, my dear."

What had he created?

"But if you're good enough, the wait will be worth it."

His little lamb was so willing for him, aching to be tainted, corrupted even more. And his task was to banish such whims.

He'd given you a taste of what laid ahead. A promise of a much unholy reward if you followed this path with him. But your resolve had been made the first time you came.

He'd be your first and last. There wasn't any need for another to teach you what he was compliant to demonstrate.

You'd be his to fuck. His to tame and corrupt.

You'd be his.

---

Taglist:

@plumplumpurin

[sunbleachedlottielee]

Thinking about Laura Lee inviting her teammates to attend church with her before nationals, expecting not a single one to show (after all, why would they? She sees the way they roll their eyes and snicker when she suggests a pre-game prayer) but to her absolute delight, not one, not two — but four Yellowjackets show up to mass.

Lottie is the first to show up, and she’s not sure why she’s there to begin with. Raised Protestant and even then only nominally, religion has never exactly been her cup of tea, but Sunday morning she finds herself dressed and in the church parking lot before she knows what she's doing. Laura Lee nearly tackles her with a hug when she finds the lanky brunette milling about the vestibule nearly 30 minutes early; the deacon's daughter, Laura Lee eagerly reserved a pew in the front center for herself and any teammates that might show. Lottie feels increasingly at ease as the bubbly blonde gives her the rundown of what to expect, but when Laura Lee takes her hand halfway through mass for the recitation of Our Father, Lottie's heartbeat is so loud that she would've sworn it was ringing off the rafters.

Nat follows shortly thereafter, sheepishly ducking into the church and quickly crossing herself with holy water from the font. When she notices Lottie’s quirked eyebrow as she slides into the pew, she shrugs and explains “I was raised Catholic,” but doesn't add that she hasn't been since she was a child whose prayers for the violence to end went unanswered. Laura Lee’s quiet parish is much different than the boisterous Italian-American church she grew up in, but the rituals are the same regardless. She looks a little out of place in an old dress she borrowed from her mom and her leather jacket over it, and (what she considers to be) a touch of eyeliner but despite the judgmental looks of nearly everyone around her, she's entirely sober for mass. She does, however, line up for a taste of dry red communion wine even though she vaguely remembers something about needing confession first — it may be a sin, but she sees it as a well-deserved treat.

Shauna and Jackie arrive together (as always) with the stragglers only minutes before mass is supposed to start. They actually got there before Nat, but sat in the car for nearly 20 minutes because Jackie was dragging her feet about the whole ordeal. When pressed about why she even wants to go, Shauna says she has a renewed interest in the “tragic saints,” but she really just thinks it’s a good idea to double down on the latter half of pull n’ pray. Jackie eventually concedes when Shauna plays the God forbid we do something that I want to do for once card, and tries to make it seem like it was her idea to go in the name of "promoting team unity."

Jackie prays for Jeff to break up with her before she has to break up with him; Lottie prays that the butterflies in her stomach, born of forbidden feelings, will drop dead. Shauna, who still doesn't quite know how you're "supposed" to pray, steals secret glances of Jackie with her eyes squeezed tight, kneeling next to her in the pew, and feels a wretched pit of guilt opening in her stomach as she recalls just one of ten commandments: Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Laura Lee is the only one who prays that the team will win nationals, but even she knows the New Jersey state champion Yellowjackets don't need divine intervention to come out on top. After all, her biggest prayer of all had already been answered.

[moonshinemagpie]

btw, if you ever wanted a really quick glimpse of how the Dewey Decimal System is biased in favor of white Christian Europeans, just check out the 200s section:

200 Religion 201 Philosophy of Christianity 202 Miscellany of Christianity 203 Dictionaries of Christianity 204 Special topics 205 Serial publications of Christianity 206 Organizations of Christianity 207 Education, research in Christianity 208 Kinds of persons in Christianity 209 History & geography of Christianity 210 Natural theology 211 Concepts of God 212 Existence, attributes of God 213 Creation 214 Theodicy 215 Science & religion 216 Good & evil 217 Not assigned or no longer used 218 Humankind 219 Not assigned or no longer used 220 Bible 221 Old Testament 222 Historical books of Old Testament 223 Poetic books of Old Testament 224 Prophetic books of Old Testament 225 New Testament 226 Gospels & Acts 227 Epistles 228 Revelation (Apocalypse) 229 Apocrypha & pseudepigrapha 230 Christian theology 231 God 232 Jesus Christ & his family 233 Humankind 234 Salvation (Soteriology) & grace 235 Spiritual beings 236 Eschatology 237 Not assigned or no longer used 238 Creeds & catechisms 239 Apologetics & polemics 240 Christian moral & devotional theology 241 Moral theology 242 Devotional literature 243 Evangelistic writings for individuals 244 Not assigned or no longer used 245 Texts of hymns 246 Use of art in Christianity 247 Church furnishings & articles 248 Christian experience, practice, life 249 Christian observances in family life 250 Christian orders & local church 251 Preaching (Homiletics) 252 Texts of sermons 253 Pastoral office (Pastoral theology) 254 Parish government & administration 255 Religious congregations & orders 256 Not assigned or no longer used 257 Not assigned or no longer used 258 Not assigned or no longer used 259 Activities of the local church 260 Christian social theology 261 Social theology 262 Ecclesiology 263 Times, places of religious observance 264 Public worship 265 Sacraments, other rites & acts 266 Missions 267 Associations for religious work 268 Religious education 269 Spiritual renewal 270 Christian church history 271 Religious orders in church history 272 Persecutions in church history 273 Heresies in church history 274 Christian church in Europe 275 Christian church in Asia 276 Christian church in Africa 277 Christian church in North America 278 Christian church in South America 279 Christian church in other areas 280 Christian denominations & sects 281 Early church & Eastern churches 282 Roman Catholic Church 283 Anglican churches 284 Protestants of Continental origin 285 Presbyterian, Reformed, Congregational 286 Baptist, Disciples of Christ, Adventist 287 Methodist & related churches 288 Not assigned or no longer used 289 Other denominations & sects 290 Other & comparative religions 291 Comparative religion 292 Classical (Greek & Roman) religion 293 Germanic religion 294 Religions of Indic origin 295 Zoroastrianism (Mazdaism, Parseeism) 296 Judaism 297 Islam & religions originating in it 298 Not assigned or no longer used 299 Other religions

(found here)

"Christian/Christianity": 25—with many other words and phrases, like "Anglican churches," "Protestants," "Baptist," and "Old Testament," also indicating Christian topics

Judaism: 1

Islam: 1

Most other world religions, clumped together: 1

[gertold]

faulkner’s relationship with his father is primarily built on his absence. which is why when he suddenly vanishes from his life, faulkner is “forced” to find a new home, a physical location of the parish. when he later comes back, now leaving the parish behind in turn, he’s changed and renewed. and his father’s back too, changed and renewed as well. and now, that he offers his child soothing and loving words, gives him a sense of relief, that he cannot possibly be responsible for all the wrongness in his life, the very words faulkner has been longing to hear his entire life…he vanishes again. he come backs, only to abandon his son again.

“i always thought the worst thing in the world was repetition”.

[scotianostra]

The Cathedral At Iona Argyll And Bute 1817.

Iona is considered to be the place from which Christianity spread to Scotland after St Columba founded a monastery on the island in 563.

It wasn't always an idyllic peaceful place,those wo inhabitted Iona were in danger during the middle ages.

The martyrs of Iona were a group of 68 Celtic Christian monks who lived at Iona Abbey (on the island of Iona, Scotland) and were massacred there in the early ninth century.

Medieval monasteries and abbeys were frequently the target of Viking raids because they were wealthy landowners and stored vast amounts of gold and other precious materials. Vikings plundered abbeys, like Iona Abbey, for riches, food, and even their holy texts—which were, at the time, often inscribed with gold leaf. Iona island was particularly vulnerable because it was easily accessible to Viking boats and hard to reinforce from the mainland.

The monks of Iona Abbey were known best for their work on the Book of Kells, an illuminated Latin manuscript of the Gospel. It is largely accepted that after the massacre in 806, survivors fled to the Abbey of Kells in Ireland, where work on the book continued.

The monks of Iona Abbey were known best for their work on the Book of Kells, an illuminated Latin manuscript of the Gospel. It is largely accepted that after the massacre in 806, survivors fled to the Abbey of Kells in Ireland, where work on the book continued.

By the 13th century it had become a Benedictine monastery, but was closed after the Reformation.

In 1899, the Duke of Argyll transferred ownership of the buildings to the Iona Cathedral Trust (linked to the Church of Scotland) but the gift of ownership to the public was not accompanied by any endowment and funds had to be raised by the Trust.

The Boer War had made such a heavy demand on the public purse that the first appeal for the restoration fund was not made until 1901.  Work began the following year, reroofing and re-glazing, for the sum of £2,750.  Rebuilding continued as and when funds allowed, individual donors were often most generous and some have windows in the Abbey dedicated to them.

Restoration of Iona Abbey buildings began in 1938 when Rev George F MacLeod established the Iona Community.  The scheme was designed to unite craftsmen and trainee ministers in the task of renovating the historic site.

Experiencing the physical renewal of the Abbey was intended to prepare the young ministers to achieve spiritual renewal when they returned to their inner city parishes.  The Abbey restoration was completed in 1965, from which time The Iona Community have run it as a residential centre and continued daily  worship in the Abbey Church.

In recent years, the Iona Cathedral Trust found the financial burden of maintenance of the Abbey increasingly difficult and passed this responsibility to Historic Scotland who now manage the Abbey and maintain it's fabric.

[bethanydelleman]

Can you shed some light on how and why Maria's infidelity end up on the paper? I have so many questions. Was that normal? Was it like, celebrity gossip today? Would the Rushworths wealth make them well known enough for their problems to make newsworthy gossip? Or was it like a crime report? Like how a robbery might be reported? Did Rushworth have anything to do with it? Because it sounds humilliating for him, but I'm thinking maybe he'd want evidence for the divorce?

I follow a Facebook group that shares snippets of the paper from the Regency and you can find everything! Like even things that today we would think of as very personal details. So yes, it was normal. For example:

Notice of a Marriage published in The Examiner August 27, 1809

On Monday at Bath, —----- Hartley, Esq., just come of age, and into possession of 6 to 8,000l., per annum, landed property, to Miss Watts, the daughter of the Parish Clerk of St. Michael’s, whose celebrity as a cobbler stands unrivalled. The young man has settled 300l., per annum on his father-in-law, and 600l., per annum on his wife. The ceremony commenced at eight o’clock, the bridegroom had no sooner given his troth than he was taken with fainting fits, and it was not till half past eleven the service was renewed. Shortly after, his uncle arrived to forbid the marriage. On leaving the church they were greeted by the populace.

(This also answers the question of how everyone knew everyone's incomes)

From August 1, 1811 London Chronicle:

[About two years ago the wife of Mr. Badden, a corn-dealer, in the neighborhood of Kingston, was lost from her home, and supposed to have been drowned in the returning from Hampton Court, her bonnet having been found in the river; and her husband and relatives mourned her loss in the usual manner; but on going through Malling, in Kent, last week, to the surprise of Badden, his supposed lifeless rib* presented herself, mounted on the top of a baggage-waggon, with a chopping boy at her breast, in the character of a corporal's wife, with whom it turned out she had eloped from Kingston, and to whom she was afterwards betrothed. Badden had got married also, and it is not apprehended that the lawyers will have any trouble on the occasion. *rib is a Biblical reference, Eve was formed from Adam's rib]

Marriage notice from the 4 February 1810 Examiner

[At Monkwearmouth, Mr. R, taylor, to Miss D. of Southwick. No sooner was the ceremony over, than the fair one seemed to demur, and strange as it may appear, she has not yet deigned to place herself in that situation in which a man's rib ought to be - in plain English, she has not gone home.]

Here is a crime from the London Chronicle Jan. 7, 1809:

[Yesterday three labouring gardeners were committed to the House of Correction, under the Vagrant Act, for begging in the streets They requested the favour to go into a public-house to have some refreshment before they were locked up, which was granted to them, where they divided 5s. each, being the amount of their morning's begging.]

I think the main evidence against Maria was that she left the marital home, so newspaper reports probably wouldn't be necessary. I would imagine Rushworth would rather not have people talk about it, but it sounds like everything became very public.

Also, Rushworth was certainly rich enough to qualify for celebrity gossip-type coverage and Maria was the daughter of a baronet.

[ceo-draiochta]

Ancient Paganism on the Islands of early Modern Ireland

The islands of Inishkea (Inis Cé) also known as Inis Geidhe or Inish Gay are a pair of islands off the coast of Belmullet, County Mayo. One of the most remote parts of Ireland. These areas have a lot of history. With habitation evident in both Neolithic and early Christian eras. The island is said, in the Irish Version of the Historia Britonum to have been occupied by a single Crane since the beginning of the world, and is named after an obscure female saint from around circa 800 AD.

The evidence for pagan or pagan like practice's in Inishkea comes from a series of accounts. 

Protestant Robert Jocelyn in 1851 described the practices of the island in his book “Progress of the Reformation in Ireland – Extracts from a series of letters written from the West of Ireland to a friend in England, in September 1851” as:

“..save during the few and necessarily short visits of the clergyman of the parish, seldom have they heard of eternal life as the free gift of God through Jesus Christ, and even these visits were unprofitable from their total ignorance of English... their worship consists in occasional meetings at their chief’s house, with visits to a holy well, called in their native tongue, Derivla... Here the absence of religion is filled with the open practice of Pagan idolatry... In the South Island, in the house of a man named Monigan, a stone idol, called in the Irish ‘Neevougi’ has been from time immemorial religiously preserved and worshipped. This god in appearance resembles a thick roll of home-spun flannel, which arises from the custom of dedicating a dress of that material to it, whenever its aid is sought; this is sewed on by an old woman, its priestess, whose peculiar care it is”

Caesar Otway in his 1841 book “Sketches in Erris and Tyrawly” describes the practice's as:

“… they have what is better called by some the Neevoge or as others pronounce it Knaveen; both mean the ‘little saint’, and I prefer the latter pronunciation which may not be a bad derivation for the English word knave, Latin gnavus, a knowing fellow. For the Knaveen of Inniskea must be a knowing one indeed, for by his instrumentality, the natives consider they can raise or allay a tempest, raise a storm when a ship nears the island, and so they may get in a wreck or allay it when their own boats are out at sea in a gale of wind. The Knaveen is a stone image of the rudest construction, attired in an undyed flannel dress which is every New Year’s Day renewed”

Caesar later describes how a pirate smashed the idol, but local people found the pieces and wrapped them together in cloth. 

Description:

Both accounts describe a Naomhóg, a stone idol wrapped in flannel. The stone is said to have been small, weighing 2-3 pounds, been greenish and the size and shape of a smoothing iron (the precursor to the modern iron)

Abilities:

The idols power is said to have been able to bring abundance in the form of wrecked ship landings and growing potatoes, heal the sick. protect from weather, quell fire, raise winds. 

Worship:

The people of the island were said to wrap the idol in a flannel, varying in colour but usually depicted as red, which was replaced each year. It was sewn by an older woman, described as a priestess. The people of the island were said to kiss the idol in thanks. The idol usual resided in the wall of the house of the chief. The idol was brought along of certain journeys for protection, The people were also to have worshipped at a holy well nearby though the relation to the idol is unsaid.

Fate of the idol:

The Naomhóg was broken by pirates but ultimately pieced and bound together. The idol supposedly was thrown into Portavally harbour by a catholic priest to get rid of it. 

Pagan?

Idols such as Ralaghan Man, the Boa island statue and Corleck Head are pre-Christian objects thought to be used for ritual purposes. This along with the distinctly pagan powers over earth, sea and sky, and its dedicated worship suggest a pre catholic origin. Worth noting is the word “naomh” meaning saint is one of the few Irish word relating to religion to not come from Latin and instead from proto-celtic. The figure, which is described as feminine could possibly related to a pre christian St. Geidh represented by a Crane.  

Christian?

The idea of pagans on Inishkea is not without fault though. The island was home to a church dedicated to St. Colmcille, with evidence of monastery life from 540 AD. This is at odds with the supposed ancient paganism. Later accounts also suggest that the people of the island believed that the idol was from said church. There were also efforts to claim that the idol was anything Christian related from a cross to a broken piece of a jesus statue. 

Possibilities: 

Misinterpretation:

It is hardly a secret that protestants from the UK heavily looked down upon the catholic practices of Ireland and this may have been viewed as heathenry. Post famine catholic church also made an effort to ensure practices lined up with Rome, making them view the practices as unfavourable. 

They Forgot:

The islands remote position may have made it so that when the catholic centre collapsed, the people were left isolated and thus had to practise their religion from what they knew, which eventually evolved into the worship of an item associated with a saint. 

A Snapshot In Time:

The idol may very well be from a time when newer catholic traditions were introduced, as we know that the church is from an era where pagans were still common, and as such merged local practices, the concept of a female guardian of winds being brought into a christian perceptive as a saint . Life in the monastery may very well have involved pagan elements that were never corrected due to the rural location, this merged christian/pagan practice may very well have contiuned onto the modern(ish) day, with increasing yet brief christainisation from interlopers. This is personally what I think is most likely. 

Further info.

[headcanonsandmore]

'Stand and Deliver!' Chapter Four

Summary: Tegan normally finds the sunday service dull, but a certain pastors daughter may just liven things up for her…

~~~~~~~

Read on AO3.

~~~~~~~

For Tegan, the rest of Saturday passed in a haze of renewed acquaintances and friendships. She was invited over to Polly’s house, as well as being received at Ian and Barbara’s cottage for some home-made scones.

It was a good way to spend the day, Tegan had to admit. And, well, it also took her mind off of her current confusion regarding a certain pastor’s daughter.

When Tegan arrived back at her parents inn for their evening meal, Adric spent the entire time shooting knowing looks at his sister, who cooly ignored him. Adric knew a little too much for his own good and, while Tegan did appreciate that he didn’t seem to have any issues with it, she preferred not to comment on it. The last thing she needed was Adric accidentally blabbing to their parents about the matter. That would be a recipe for disaster, to say the least.

Tegan did eventually manage to fall asleep that night, although her sleep was fitful. Nonetheless, she found herself mostly rested by the time the dawn arrived. After a quick breakfast, the family changed into their Sunday best, and headed through Crofters Lodge towards the little chapel.

It wasn’t anything to write home about, of course. Crofter’s Lodge was not a large parish area, nor did it have a large congregation. The simple country chapel was adorned with little other than the bare essentials of pews, prayer books and a pulpit. Instead of an organ, there was a small piano, now rather care-worn with years of use and lack of funds for anything other than essential maintenance.

However, it had a homely feel, despite its modest trappings. But maybe that was just the familiarity of it, now renewed for Tegan after years spent in London.

Given that Tegan’s parents were the proprietors of the local inn, they were afforded the privilege of sitting in the row of pews second-from-the-front. Or, at least, Joy insisted that it was a privilege to her doubtful children. Tegan certainly didn’t find it much of a privilege; she had spent most of her childhood wishing she could be sat towards the back where no-one was watching her.

However, as she sat down on the pew, all thoughts of this nature disappeared from her mind.

Nyssa, sat in the pew just in front, turned in her seat to smile at her, cheeks dimpling as she did so. Her grey-green eyes sparkled despite the dim winter sunshine slipping through the windows of the chapel.

Blinking quickly and desperately trying to ignore her frantic heartrate, Tegan returned the smile.

‘Hello,’ she whispered, as the congregation all sat down around them. ‘You okay?’

Nyssa nodded.

‘Yes; yourself?’

Tegan nodded, smiling wider.

There was the unmistakable sound of Adric snorting next to her. Tegan elbowed him in the ribs. Nyssa gave a quick giggle and turned round to face the front again.

A few moment later, the congregation fell silent and Pastor Tremas strode up to the pulpit, smiling down at the assembled villagers.

‘A happy Sunday to you all,’ he said, kindly. ‘It is good to see you all here again. Especially, as my daughter reliably informs me, that Miss Jovanka has now returned from London.’

Tegan felt her cheeks flush as the congregation broke into polite applause. Nyssa turned in her seat again to flash a soft smile at her, and Tegan’s heart beat faster once again.

She held back the sigh that threatened to escape her lips as she smiled back at the pastor’s daughter. The rest of the congregation might as well have dissolved into the background. Tegan knew it was selfish, but she couldn’t help it; whenever Nyssa smiled at her, it was like the rest of the universe became less important.

The applause subsided after a few moments and, as her father began his sermon, Nyssa turned back around in her seat to face the front.

The sermon was fine, by all accounts, but Tegan had never been one to get very concerned with religious matters. She stood with everyone else when it was time to sing the hymns, and chorused “amen” when directed. Her brain was still buzzing with the giddiness that it had experienced when Nyssa had smiled at her, and it was hard to focus on anything else for the time being.

However, eventually the pastor finished his sermon and, now that religious matters had ceased, Tegan began to take notice again.

‘Now, as you all know,’ Pastor Tremas continued. ‘The chapel collection for poverty aid has been very successful this past month. You have all been incredibly generous to donate… how much was it, Nyssa?’

Startled, Nyssa stood up and pulled from the pocket of her dress a long piece of parchment. She turned to the congregation, looking a little flustered.

‘Er… I am p-pleased to report,’ she stammered.  ‘That the collection this week has come to… ten pounds, five shillings and tuppence.’

There was a large amount of clapping, and Tegan joined in enthusiastically. She was happy to have an innocent reason to stare at Nyssa, and the pastors daughter seemed to blush under the praise from the assembled villagers.

‘Well done,’ said the Pastor, smiling proudly at his daughter. ‘Nyssa, you are a credit to us all.’

Face burning with embarrassment, Nyssa gave a quick courtesy and sat back down.

Pastor Tremas ended the service, and so the assembled villagers began getting to their feet (the older members grumbling as they did so) before heading out of the front doors of the chapel.

In the crush of bodies, Tegan lost sight of Nyssa, and was only able to get her bearings when she had followed her parents and Adric outside into the small churchyard. It was a rather pretty place, although the trees were still bereft of leaves given the season. At the very least, the rain had held off again, so that the air was simply cold as opposed to freezing and drizzling.

‘Nyssa seemed rather embarrassed,’ Joy said, as she linked her arm through William’s. ‘She’s normally very calm when reading out the donation totals.’

William nodded.

‘Yes,’ he replied, stroking his chin absentmindedly with his other hand. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I know why,’ Adric said, with a cheerful laugh. ‘It’s because of-ow!’

‘Tegan!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘Don’t elbow your brother!’

Tegan rolled her eyes, before shooting a glare at Adric. The boy had the decency to look apologetic.

‘Speaking of Nyssa, I best check on her,’ Tegan said. ‘I’ll see you all later.’

Joy looked confused, but William gently patted her on the arm and escorted her away. Adric gave a grin to Tegan before following them.

At which point, Benton appeared.

‘Hello,’ Tegan said, quickly. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have seen-’

‘I believe Miss Nyssa is sat on the bench in the graveyard,’ Benton interrupted, with a knowing -yet kind- smile. ‘And all alone, by the looks of it.’

‘Er, r-right. Thank you.’

With a fond chuckle, Benton doffed his hat and headed away.

Tegan followed the other path around the side of the chapel. She was glad that her boots were of hardened sturdy leather, as the mix of winter rains and cold weather had reduced the path to a somewhat muddy and watery surface.

Sure enough, Nyssa was sat on the bench in the graveyard, looking quietly out over the village. The bench was just underneath a large oak tree, drawing the eye towards the figure sat below, and to whom Tegan felt herself irresistibly  drawn. Tegan hadn’t really had the chance to notice earlier, but the pastor’s daughter was wearing a lovely dress in very dark -almost midnight- blue, with her bonnet back with white frills. Even for an austere Sunday best, it was rather fetching on her.

‘Room for a little one?’

‘Oh, h-hello, Tegan’ Nyssa said, smiling quickly as she noticed Tegan’s approach. ‘Did you enjoy the service?’

‘I suppose,’ Tegan said, sitting down beside her. ‘I was more impressed with your fundraising, to be honest; I wouldn’t think such a small village would have so much spare cash to give.’

‘I was surprised too,’ Nyssa replied, with a chuckle. ‘But it is wonderful to see people being so generous. And it will definitely go a good way to helping the villagers currently out of work or struggling to make ends meet.’

Tegan smiled.

‘You really believe that, don’t you,’ she said, softly. ‘Your father wasn’t kidding about you being a credit to us all.’

Nyssa blinked quickly, and her cheeks seemed to flush.

‘I-I really don’t think the praise is necessary,’ she stammered. ‘But… thank you, Tegan. That… that means a great deal to me.’

‘Not like you to stumble over your words,’ Tegan giggled. ‘It’s not because of little-old-me, is it?’

‘Stop it!’ Nyssa said, softly slapping Tegan’s arm. ‘Don’t make fun!’

The two young woman lapsed into giggling, and Tegan relished the feeling of uncomplicated ease with which they sat together. There was something magical about being sat with Nyssa in this way, as if the day was just for the two of them. With the graveyard quiet around them, aside from the occasional call of a robin amongst the hedgerows.

It was little moments like this that Tegan held on to, and that she revisited in her quieter moments to put her mind as ease.

‘Thank you,’ Tegan said, softly, ‘for saving my life, by the way.’

‘W-what?’

‘Yesterday morning,’ Tegan said, confused as to Nyssa’s startled expression. ‘With that wardrobe, remember?’

‘O-oh, yes!’ Nyssa replied, quickly. ‘Well, no need to thank you; like I said, you would have done the same for me.’

‘Probably not as swiftly as you did,’ Tegan said. ‘I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly.’

‘Er… just instinct, I suppose. I have read about husbands pushing their wives out of harm’s way.’

‘We’re not married, Nys.’

Nyssa’s face burned red.

‘T-that’s very true, yes,’ she said, quickly. ‘Silly me.’

‘It’s sweet,’ Tegan replied. ‘I… I appreciate it, Nyssa.’

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, and Tegan felt the faint stirrings of hope within her heart. What had Adric been implying earlier? That Nyssa hadn’t been flustered because of the congregation applauding her, but that Tegan had been?

Oh, how she wished she could be as brave as to enquire further.

But she couldn’t dare. To suggest anything else would be presumptuous, not to mention unfair to Nyssa.

One of these days, Nyssa would find a young man who she wished to marry, and that would be that. It hurt Tegan to imagine that, but she knew that she could do nothing to prevent it. And, in the long run, if a marriage made Nyssa happy, then Tegan was fine with that. Even if it did pain her to know that any future Nyssa would have would not be with Tegan by her side, at least in that sort of way.

‘You are too kind. Tegan, I wish that…’ -Nyssa’s eyes were fixed on Tegan’s for a second longer before looking down quickly at her own lap. ‘Oh, nevermind.’

There was a pause but Tegan was unable to voice her desire to enquire what Nyssa wished for. Fear choked her throat, and she crinkled the fabric of her dress underneath her hands.

‘Er… Nyssa?’

‘Yes?’

Tegan deliberated for a second.

‘I imagine you’ve already been aware of this, but there is due to be some dancing and singing at my parents inn this evening. It’s probably too much to ask but-’

‘O-oh, I see,’ Nyssa replied, blinking quickly. Her hands clasped the folds of her dress. ‘Tegan, I would love to… I-’

‘You’re probably busy,’ Tegan said, words stumbling over themselves. A nervous smile broke over her lips. ‘I was just wondering, you see. Mum normally keeps trying to get me to dance with Benton, and I think she might stop it if you’re there-’

‘W-well,’ Nyssa interrupted. She swallowed quickly before continuing. ‘I… being the pastors daughter doesn’t prevent me from dancing, of course. As long as I do not partake in any drinking, I’m sure my father will have no issues with me attending.’

‘Really?’ Tegan’s eyes widened, and she grinned. ‘That’s fantastic; thank you!’

‘My pleasure, Tegan. Although…’ -Nyssa looked up at her from under her long eyelashes. ‘I… I do not have much experience dancing with people.’

‘Oh, that’s no matter,’ Tegan replied. ‘You can… you can dance with me. If… if that’s okay?’

Nyssa reached out and squeezed Tegan’s hand softly.

‘That is more than okay, Tegan. I would consider it an honour.’

The two young woman shared a smile, and Tegan could see herself softly reflected in those grey-green orbs that she found both intoxicating and yet relaxing all at once. As Nyssa continued to gently squeeze her hand, Tegan felt -just for a moment- that maybe things weren’t as hopeless as she had once believed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Apologies for the delay between this chapter and the last (got sidetracked writing LOTR smut for Merrywyn day XD) but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. In the next chapter: dancing, pining and a new arrival to the village!

[bleaksqueak]

Merry Christmas! Aside from all the occasions we celebrate this time of year, are there any festive traditions exclusive to the veil, and to what extent does each character join in?

And is Elias getting coal in his stocking this year?

Thank you for being so super patient while I got to this reply!! And there are quite a few festive traditions exclusive to the veil, though over the many generations, they have changed and morphed as these sort of traditions often do, some have even merged with outside customs brought in through the many wards that have come to make the veil their home. The main religion of the veil fell to the wayside long ago, though several important festivities have their root in its traditions. I believe the local surviving parish of Lichgate has a few fliers posted up in Gwenne-Batar's office while Maia and Nikolai sit, awaiting retribution. The event they're advertising was once a more sacred period celebrating the renewal of Death and calling its aethers to those who yearned for connection, but in modern days it looks like they've picked up the custom of Treats and Hayrides (AND REAL, AUTHENTIC GRAVEYARDS). We may just see more of that and exactly what's up with it in an upcoming chapter if Maia gets suckered into checking it out. (edit) Oh, I completely forgot to answer the last question! His stocking is made out of coal. It is only to be filled with prayer sigils to save his wretched little soul.

[fear-not-beloved]

Let us devote time every day to intimacy with Jesus the Good Shepherd, adoring him in the tabernacle. May the Church adore: in every diocese, in every parish, in every community, let us adore the Lord! Only in this way will we turn to Jesus and not to ourselves. For only through silent adoration will the Word of God live in our words; only in his presence will we be purified, transformed and renewed by the fire of his Spirit.

POPE FRANCIS // CONCLUSION OF THE ORDINARY GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE SYNOD OF BISHOPS (29 OCTOBER 2023)

[theelfmaid]

FORBIDDEN - Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt fanfiction

Chapter 1 - Mystic Brews

Words: 1588

In the peaceful and secluded town of Crockett Island, where the sound of breaking waves and the aroma of salty air filled the atmosphere, the arrival of a new priest brought a sense of renewed faith to the community. Father Paul Hill, a man of gentle temperament and unwavering devotion, had been assigned as the new priest at Saint Patrick's Parish. Little did he know that his life was about to take an unexpected turn.

At the heart of the island, hidden among charming streets and picturesque buildings, stood a cozy coffee shop called "Mystic Brews." Run by a mysterious woman named Isabella, it was a place where locals and visitors sought comfort in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, stuffed pastries, and other delights that only this place had the privilege to savor. Unknown to the rest of the world, Isabella was no ordinary woman. She was a witch, endowed with magical abilities that she kept well-hidden from prying eyes. Therefore, her personality was marked by professionalism and introversion when it came to personal conversations.

That day was marked by the presence of the new priest, who had come to replace Monsignor Pruitt, who was unable to return to Crockett Island due to his delicate health condition. Mystic Brews quickly filled up with a few faithful followers who came directly from Saint Patrick's, as they were frequent customers. Even though the number was small, the cozy coffee shop welcomed them with open doors, as the demand was not as high as in the big city. But Jane managed the place with ease, as there were not many expenses and she perfectly controlled the supplies.

As the time passed, the number of people in the coffee shop gradually decreased, which was quite usual. Sometimes she received orders that she delivered before the lunch hour, when Mystic Brews had no clientele.

Standing behind the counter, putting some croissants in the display case that had just come out of the oven, Jane finished her little task while waiting for lunchtime to close the coffee shop and make her deliveries around the Island. A sound interrupted her lost gaze at the floor and led her directly to the laptop, which was signaling a FaceTime call.

"Sasha," she pronounced the name that shone on the screen, while checking the Wi-Fi before answering to make sure the call wouldn't drop this time.

"Hi! Finally, Jane, this island's Wi-Fi is terrible. I almost sent you a letter; I might have received a reply before managing to make a call with you," Sasha laughed, taking the phone with her as she walked down the street.

"Wow, a new way to say I live at the end of the world," Jane rolled her eyes with a smile, adjusting the webcam so that Sasha could see her better.

Sasha agreed, pursing her lips, as she had no shame in voicing her opinion about her younger sister's life, and Jane pretended to care about the criticisms, but deep down, she didn't care at all about pleasing her sister. The young witch knew that Sasha followed the strict and intrusive steps of their mother.

"I'm sorry, J. But you know this place is the end of the world," Sasha admitted. "I think even the countryside would be less difficult to live in. A weirdly named island that smells like fish and is sinking further into misery."

Jane could be offended, but she chose to focus her annoyance on the place itself and the people who lived there, some of whom she had grown to like. Erin Greene, her dear friend, was one of them.

"I don't know how you manage to keep this book cafe running without sinking into debt and everything else," her older sister commented.

Jane took a deep breath, hoping her mind wouldn't be disturbed by the thoughtless words her sister so casually uttered without considering their impact. The gods knew that she wouldn't want those words to be overheard by any island resident, even though they were used to criticisms, or by her eight-year-old daughter, Matilda. The little girl had taken a liking to the place since they arrived a few months ago.

"I managed one of the Mystic Brews branches in Chicago, so cut me some slack. This was our grandmother's project and dream in her youth, before she came here to live with our grandfather. But she loved this place just as much, and she loved the people here. I'm proud to fulfill my part in her will and use it to escape the city and build her dream in the place she loved. This isn't the original Mystic Brews, but it certainly has Millie's essence." Jane wisely replied to her sister, silencing her for a moment to reflect on her thoughtless judgments.

"I understand, J," Sasha mumbled. "But I imagined you would want to pursue bigger ambitions before settling in a place like this that has nothing for you or Tilda."

Jane sighed.

"Matilda is happy here, she has few friends, but she helps me a lot. And she has a home surrounded by the ocean, trees, and books. Since the internet access is a disaster," Jane laughed. "But I see that it's enough for now. Away from the city's noise, from the hustle and bustle... from Howie..."

"And from her family," Sasha completed.

Jane sighed.

"Not from her family," Sasha. "We do the best we can-"

Jane's argument was cut off by the ringing of a bell coming from the door, announcing the entrance of a new customer. She looked up to see the tall, slender, and timid figure of a man with dark hair and a white collar around his neck.

He was a priest.

"Morning...! Hello," he smiled timidly, entering the place, carrying a leather bag and wearing a gray cardigan.

Jane corrected her posture, feeling a little awkward due to the unexpected presence. She gave a courteous smile.

"Hi! Welcome, feel free to make yourself comfortable, Father."

He alternated his gaze between her and some empty tables, taking a seat, still feeling shy as the place was new and quiet.

"Work is calling you!" Sasha said amidst the buzzing of the city, as she was still walking on the street during the video call.

Jane promptly turned her attention back to her sister, giving her a nod with a forced smile before ending the call. She stepped down from the stool behind the counter and slowly made her way to the jukebox.

The priest looked curiously from his seat at the surroundings. The plants, the organized and displayed books for customers' reading, the pastries in the showcase, the smell of coffee from the machine – all of it gave him a sense of being at home.

In the background, he heard the jukebox's volume rise as the music began, and now Mystic Brews was less quiet and more inviting than it had seemed before. He watched in silence, a gentle smile on his face, as the young woman glided in her boots toward the counter and him, holding a menu in her hands.

"Maybe you already have something in mind to order, but still, I'll leave the menu with you to check out the options, in case you want something different from the usual and simple: coffee," she handed it to him, and he thanked her with a nod.

"Oh, thank you. The place is very inviting; I understand now why the parishioners spoke so highly of it," Father Paul Hill smiled, glancing over the menu. "I'm Father Paul Hill, by the way. I've come to temporarily replace Monsignor John Pruitt."

Jane vaguely remembered the figure of Monsignor, but not as much, as he had left Crockett Island shortly before she had noticed.

"Ah, yes, a figure of great influence here on the island. But I only knew him by sight," she replied.

Father Paul Hill furrowed his brow. "Really? You didn't attend his Masses?" he asked carefully.

Jane hesitated, but she answered, "I'm not a churchgoer, exactly... Well, I don't go to church. I don't believe in..."

He adjusted his posture, arching his eyebrows, and Jane imagined she had made Father Paul uncomfortable with her pagan and unbelieving presence.

"Forgive me," Father Paul said politely, surprising her. Forgive? "I couldn't have imagined, of course. But I shouldn't have assumed you had to be religious..."

Jane promptly reassured him, "It's alright, Father. I understand that such assumptions are common on an island where the heart lies in the Parish."

He smiled gently, nodding his head to look at the menu again and order something to satisfy his hunger.

"Well, I'll have the coffee..." He looked at Jane and let out a nearly inaudible laugh. "A croissant with salted caramel, and toast with egg and oregano. Please..."

"Jane,"

"Yes, yes... Jane," He said sweetly "Please, Jane."

The atmosphere was now calm and more relaxed. He watched Jane nod in agreement and leave to prepare his order. Father Paul took out his sacred book, a notepad, and a pen from his bag. With Neil Diamond's "Holly Holy" playing from the jukebox, he felt less anxious, now casually at peace in the presence of his thoughts, all focused on his future sermons. The aroma of coffee and fresh eggs filled the air.

Jane observed him curiously, happy to have another customer, especially someone who seemed pleasant and new to the place.

In the back of the coffee shop, behind some shelves, huddled and curious, was a little something with eyes fully fixated on the newly arrived figure of Father Paul Hill.

Jane's calm and melodious voice resounded, "Matilda...? Where are you, dear?"

AN: Thank you for reading my fanfiction with John Pruitt. Hopes you enjoy it and stay here, bexause it'll be more. Like and reblog if you like it, I'll love to know your opinion.

[beardedmrbean]

Averbode Abbey, a Norbertine abbey in Scherpenheuvel-Zichem (Flemish Brabant) has emerged as Belgium’s hotspot for exorcisms. More than 1,000 exorcisms take place here every year. Historian Kristof Smeyers (Leuven University) and "Geert", one of Flanders' official exorcists, explains the renewed popularity of 'devil exorcisms'.

An 'exorcism' may mainly have seemed something from the past. Yet it still happens today. "I do 3 exorcisms a week and not a day goes by without new requests," Geert, an official exorcist, explains. ("Geert" is a pseudonym, but his real name is known to our news team).

It asks a lot of him, in addition to his pastoral work "to listen to these people's stories and to try to set them free". Geert says he is no exception. "I often hear that even in other parishes they can hardly keep up with the demand".

Not like in the movies

"Exorcism has been around for a very long time," explains historian Kristof Smeyers (KU Leuven). His research 'Devil's Displeasure' tries to chart the history of exorcism in Flanders.

"At some point, the church felt that there was a need to incorporate these practices, which had existed for centuries. In the 17th century, the procedure was then written down step by step. Not much has changed since that day."

Geert learnt about exorcism from such works. "There are also courses in exorcism in Rome and I would like to take one someday. Exorcisms are not actually that spectacular, unlike how they are sometimes portrayed in films like 'The Exorcist'."

If it doesn't happen like in the famous horror movie, how is it done? "It starts with an exploratory conversation," Geert explains. "The person freely, and in full confidence, tells his story. This is followed by a long prayer to set him free. Nothing physical actually happens."

"The essence of an exorcism is engaging in dialogue with evil," adds historian Kristof Smeyers. "The manuals recommend caution, because the devil is the father of lies. So anything he says can be a lie."

Who chooses for an exorcism?

According to Smeyers, people who are possessed do not display uniform symptoms. "These symptoms change a lot over the centuries," he explains.

In the 19th and 20th centuries, for example, it’s mainly "physical symptoms" that occur. "In general, alarm bells go off when someone shows abnormal behaviour". Think of 'accidents' that occur but seem to have no explanation.  They can raise suspicions of the devil."

The historian does see a clear distinction between those who are convinced "that the devil dwells within them" and those whose surroundings are convinced of it. "There’s a disproportionate number of women who are said to be possessed by the devil or demons. There is a dominant theory that women are more prone to sinfulness and evil."

Geert sees a pattern in the people who come to him. "They are people who are stuck and cannot move forward in life and blame it on the presence of a superhuman force. We live in uncertain times. People have less to hold on to and find it harder to explain things."

Can exorcism offer these people real liberation? "It doesn't happen automatically” explains Geert ,”but about half the people say they feel better and are able to move forward once again."

[baberoe-archive]

my good friend who literally always comes correct. tell me your thoughts how would baberoe handle a zombie apocalypse. pitch me the movie in your mind's eye

HI BEL!!!!!

first of all. might i be so bold as to suggest that of any pairing, baberoe are probably one of the most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse. they r both pretty handy, and they r resourceful in ways that complement each other so in any given situation one of them is probably fairly well equipped to resolve it. gene has first aid and health covered, is probably a decent shot, and can probably survive well enough off natural resources if society collapses. im going modern au w this, so there is no reason babe would know how to shoot, but he’d pick it up fast enough, and he can get pretty creative in using whatever’s lying around to help him, plus he’s so naturally friendly and charming he can probably worm his way into any settlement or group and is adept at maintaining connections with care networks. they would slay at a zombie apocalypse to be honest.

before i give my further 2 cents i should say im no connoisseur of zombie media so forgive me if i plagiarize or fail to obey established tropes or whatever. but anyway heres what i got for a movie:

so. i’d like to pitch a journey to bayou chene. when i was thinking about a zombie apocalypse situation, my first thought was if they start in the same place, they are going to want to go back to their families and make sure everything is okay. i dont see either of them being able to stay away from their family if they know they are in danger. so this springs out of that. in this pitch, gene came to philly for school, met babe and they started dating. they are living there together when the zombie apocalypse starts. there is a desperate need for health workers, so there is no way gene can get away. as the time wears on, communication systems fail, and eventually he stops hearing from his family in bayou chene completely. it is maybe a year or two before there is some semblance of normalcy and gene does not feel guilty for stepping away. when he says he is going back to louisiana, babe insists on coming with him. i think, during this journey, they realize how much they’ve drifted apart — gene has been so busy at the hospital and at shelters, and babe has been volunteering himself, as well as taken care of family, and between the trauma and grief, they have had no time for each other. this journey gives them the opportunity to meet each other again, to fall in love again. the ease in which babe inserts himself into communities, the way he insists on helping in the kitchen, how when he gets kicked out of the kitchen, he falls in with the kids, playing soccer and laughing at the weird jokes children tell. the love he has for everyone, for the world. his unrelenting optimism, how he holds onto hope like it’s a weapon. babe, for his part, sees anew gene’s single-minded focus, his determination. the gentleness of his hands, a gentleness that comes from his grandmother before him, her grandfather before her. he’s not optimistic, not really, but he will do what he can, he would stand before god and chew him out if he could, and babe loves him for it. by the time they get to louisiana there is something light within them, a renewed vision of the world. gene is feeling almost hopeful as he drives a stolen pick up down familiar state highways, then local roads, deeper and deeper into the bayou. they pass a sign that says they are entering st martin’s parish. a few miles later, they are stopped by a tree in the road. they get out of the truck and climb over, failing to notice the tree was cut down with a chainsaw. another tree blocks the road a few miles later. there’s another before they reach the church at the center of town. the windows are smashed, the pews overturned. every building is empty. they turn down the single lane road leading them deeper into town. gene is silent now, not bothering to call out to former neighbors, friends, family. when they reach the house, babe recognizes it from photos. the white washed siding is dirtier now, the garden overgrown, the door off its hinges. inside it is a wreck — sofa cushions turned over, drawers pulled out and emptied, picture frames without pictures. when gene makes his way upstairs to his former bedroom, he finds a rosary on his bed. it is his grandmother’s, the one she used when she was healing, her favorite. with shaking hands, he picks it up, then looks back to babe. there is something sad and resolute in babe’s expression when he nods. cut to black.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Ash Wednesday 2023: The First Day of Lent

By Cate Von Dohlen

"Lent comes providentially to reawaken us, to shake us from our lethargy." - Pope Francis

What is Ash Wednesday?

In 2023, like in every year, Ash Wednesday is the first day of the liturgical season of Lent.

It always falls six and half weeks before Easter, beginning the Lenten season of preparation for Christ’s Resurrection on Easter Sunday.

This year, Ash Wednesday takes place on Wednesday, 22 February 2023.

Origin

Ash Wednesday dates back to the 11th century. However, the tradition of receiving ashes has even earlier roots — to the ancient Hebrew custom of clothing oneself in sackcloth and dusting oneself with ashes as a sign of penance.

The Bible does not explicitly detail this first day of Lent, but there are many instances of this repentant act in the Old Testament such as the following:

I have sewed sackcloth upon my skin and have laid my strength in the dust.

- Job 16:15

Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the deeds of power done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago, sitting in sackcloth and ashes.

- Luke 10:13

Across many religious traditions, ashes signify the mortality of our human bodies.

By the sweat of your face, you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

- Genesis 3:19

In the early Christian Church, public penance for people who had sinned included wearing ashes and sackcloth. As the Church grew and evolved, this practice lessened.

This long tradition — of externally recognizing ourselves as sinners seeking renewal with God — ultimately transformed into what we now know as Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.

Is Ash Wednesday a Catholic Holy Day of Obligation in 2023?

Ash Wednesday is not a Holy Day of Obligation for Roman Catholics, yet receiving ashes is a universal practice among Christians to begin their Lenten journeys.

Most Catholic parishes offer Ash Wednesday Mass, and in some places, it is possible to receive ashes without attending Mass.

Do I need to be Catholic to receive ashes?

You do not need to be Catholic to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday. Several other traditions within Christianity also share this act of repentance.

Why is Ash Wednesday important?

As the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday awakens us to Jesus’ entry into the desert preceding his death.

Before Easter, however, we must prepare our hearts for his Resurrection.

We begin our season of preparing our hearts for Easter by recognizing our brokenness and need for conversion, a turning of our hearts to God.

Where do the ashes come from?

Palm Sunday is the Sunday before Easter. It symbolizes Christ’s return to Jerusalem after spending 40 days in the desert.

In the Catholic tradition, we receive palm leaves, which have been blessed, to hold onto during Mass and bring home.

The leftover palms from Palm Sunday are then burned and saved for the next Lenten season.

This year’s ashes are from the palms of Palm Sunday of 2022.

Where do the ashes go?

It is typical to receive ashes on your forehead in the Sign of the Cross.

Similar to taking communion at Mass, you usually proceed toward the altar to get ashes. The priest will make the Sign of the Cross and say one of two things:

“Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.”

“Repent, and believe in the Gospel.”

What do the ashes symbolize?

The ashes symbolize our mortality. They are a physical reminder that our bodies will decay, but our souls will live on in eternal life.

Fr. Antony Kadavil further reflects on the symbol of the cross of ashes on our foreheads:

"The cross of ashes means that we are making a commitment – that we are undertaking Lent as a season of prayer and penitence, of dying to ourselves.

It also describes our human condition: it says that we are broken and need repair; that we are sinners and need redemption. Most importantly, it tells us that, as followers of Jesus Christ, we are to carry our crosses."

Fasting on Ash Wednesday

There are only two obligatory days of fasting and abstinence in the Catholic Church: Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.

Catholics are also instructed to abstain from meat on each Friday during Lent.

Why do Catholics fast on Ash Wednesday?

Fasting is a sign of repentance and helps us embody our spiritual hunger for Christ, who himself fasted in the desert for forty days preceding his death and Resurrection.