Category Archives: In Christian Love

An Issue of Blood

Dear Mister (yes, MISTER) Pro-Life Blogger:

Not that it’s any of your feklaptin’ business, but I take birth control pills. Yes, me, the celibate one over here. I take them to better regulate the hormones in my body, and without them I will bleed for about two weeks out of every three and have to go to the hospital for blood transfusions. Funny thing, it’s entirely possible that I have the exact same condition as the woman you’ve probably read about in Matthew 9:20-22, Mark 5:25-34, and Luke 8:43-47.

If you don’t have insurance (like I won’t after March 30th), these pills cost $145 a month. I wouldn’t even try to convince a Catholic clinic to write me a script. Planned Parenthood, the only women’s health clinic with no income restrictions? $39 a month. And the added bonus of having to look at dead babies and be called a whore by my coreligionists as I go in to pick up my script!

Would you shut your trap, please? You’re making all us Christians look like jackasses.

In Christian Love,
Mary Sue


Filed under I'm Just A Girl, In Christian Love, me being myself, my life

A Gentle Reminder

I am not a demographic, I am a child of God!

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Filed under In Christian Love, me being myself


So, some jackhole got arrested for possibly maybe thinking about setting fire to Grace (Episcopal) Cathedral in San Francisco.

And it’s the same brilliant guy who set fire to the Burning Man early this year.

Where’s my handbag? Someone needs to be smacked into next week.

In Christian Love, ‘acourse.

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Filed under In Christian Love, me being myself

Why do they make it so hard to go to church? (2)

Decided Saturday night that I needed to go to church. Having not been in a long, long time. So I checked online for the nearest Episcopal parish (NEP) in Portland, OR, and made a note of their address (half a mile from my house) and their start time of 10am (an hour after St. Thatguy started, which was good from my point of view, my point of view being I got home from work on Saturday night at 11.30pm).

So I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth and my hair, and was half an hour early to the NEP.

There wasn’t a single car in the parking lot. Not a blessed one. Now, this place according to both their web site and the sign out front, had an 8am service. Sandwich boards gave the phone number for the Co-op preschool, but the sign on the side of the building said the later service stated at 10.30.

I drove around, trying to identify if there was another point of entry, you know, the secret door where you had to know the secret Episcopal handshake to get into NEP. Nope, just the one out front. So I went and parked near enough to it where I could keep an eye on the comings and goings, but far enough away I didn’t look like an undercover cop.

I sat there in my car for an hour, from 9.30 to 10.30, and not a blessed soul drove into the parking lot nor entered the door of the church. At 10.30, I found out why no one had entered the single identifiable door of the church; when I walked up to it, it was locked.

By that point, I was running into a time crunch. Any 11am service would make me late for work. Thank goodness St. Crankypants* Roman Catholic Church has a 10.30am service. I got there at 10.38am, and walked through the door right as they were starting the Gospel reading. Exactly an hour later (including a homily about perserverance I needed to hear, the parish announcements, and the eternal internal argument I have with my inner child at RC churches, “He just said this sacrifice is for everyone! Why can’t I go up for the Eucharist?”) I was out the door and nearly stampeded by the people who wanted to get to their cars much quicker than I did.

But you know what I’ll remember for the next few weeks? The way my heart just fell out of my chest when I went to pull that door open on NEP and it was locked.

*a commentary on the saint, not the people


Filed under I'm Just A Girl, In Christian Love, me being myself, meditations

Redneck Theology

Let me explain something to you: the directions to my ancesteral home include ‘turn off the paved road.’

I learned to drive a tractor about the same time I learned how to walk.

I can shoot, spit, belch, clean wild game, plant crops, prune trees, saddle a horse, sing Hank Williams songs, shear a sheep, and can my own tomatoes.

I am a redneck. And rather proud of it, thank you very much.

One of the things about being a redneck is you have a great respect for your elders, who transmit the Gospel through word and action. And that don’t take place in the white clapboard buildings as much as they take place in the home and around the hearth.

Stories over Sunday dinner table, piled high with fried chicken and enchiladas, is hearing the Gospel. Riding shotgun in the pickup truck that’s piled high with bags of food to the needy, that’s living the Gospel. Picking up a crying child and hugging her and making her laugh, even if she’s your hated cousin’s baby, born out of wedlock to that useless fool she married, that’s being the Gospel.

That’s the theology I grew up with. Now, my Redneck Theology probably won’t be taught in no seminaries. Which makes some people think it’s not as good as theirs, because it doesn’t come from highly educated people who spend their lives locked up in small rooms in academic halls.

Well, sheeit. That’s no skin off my nose. You just sit up there and pass judgement on whether or not my theology is worthy or not ’cause I dangle a participle here or there. I don’t got no time to debate theosis versus gnosis, hon, I’ve got God’s Work to do. You also sit up there and pass judgement on my family, our way of life, call it dark and narrow-minded. I know plenty of kids from the middle-class leftist suburbs who got disowned and abandoned to the streets when they came out of the closet.

My right-wing, mostly Republican, proudly redneck family still opens their arms and welcomes me home to the Ranch with no reservations.


Filed under I'm Just A Girl, In Christian Love, my life

The Holy Spirit is Laughing Her Ass Off Right About Now

This morning I was dancing around the house singing, “I love our bishops! I love our biiiishops!”

Housemates Upstairs1 and MainFloor1 were looking at me oddly.

And now, an open letter to the ABC.

Dear Archbishop Rowan Williams:
This gesture on behalf of TEC by our bishops was more of a ‘pointing to the point in our constitutions and canons where it says “you can’t do that, sillyheads” ‘ than the ‘two middle fingers and a stuck out tongue along with the pelvic thrusts that will drive you insaaaaane‘ you seem to think it is.

Reach around behind yourself, get a firm grip, and yank that stick out of your butt.

In Christian Love,
Mary Sue, Laywoman

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Filed under In Christian Love, The Current Unpleasantness

I am your target demographic (ph33r m3!)


 Because when I walk in the doors of your parish, all eyes are on me. I am under 30 40 50  60 years old, and I keep coming back regularly.

People are always saying, “Golly, I wish we had more young people in the church.”

Well, I’m going to let you all in on the secret. Here’s what us Millenium Generation people want:

  • We want to be. We’ve had more self-help and psychology thrown at us than any other generation. We have a pretty good idea of who we are, and how we function, and the kind of disasters that trying to change that will cause. Let us be ourselves.
  • We want to belong. Don’t assume we’re too busy, because our Friday night plans will probably include ice cream and Numb3rs and sitting alone on the couch. Ask if we want to help with the Stewardship Campaign, the Altar Guild, the Vestry. Let us help.
  • We want to think. We want to play What-if, we want to know what the Bible says, what the Church Fathers and Mothers said, what the Creed actually means. Many of us have little or no knowledge of Christian theology or praxis or history. Let us learn.
  • We want beauty. Whether that’s incense and bells and icons or smoke machines and guitars and Powerpoints, we seek to understand that breathlessness that comes from Somewhere Else. Let us worship.


Filed under In Christian Love, me being myself