anonymous asked:

Do you identify with high or low church practices more? Also do you appreciate/take part in the veneration of saints?

I prefer high church practices, for myself. I love the tradition of it, and the fact that it’s so very different from evangelical services. That sounds a bit shallow! But seriously, I’m much more concerned about whether a church is actively engaged in social justice, although if I have a choice I generally prefer high church.

And no, apart from Mary I don’t personally venerate any saints but that’s really because I don’t feel like I have a connection with any of them. I’m pretty envious of people who do. It’s something I’m looking into.

[30 AD]
god: how was your first coming
jesus: i became one of the most venerated prophets in human history before the romans executed me

[2016 AD]
god: how was your second coming
jesus: they all laughed when i said “coming”
god: Oh thank fuck its not just me who laughs at that haha omg

sleepdeprivedsage  asked:

How is Kit Purrson fanon? I literally don't think I've read a single fic about Kent Parson in Vegas that doesn't involve Kit Purrson? Like, I believe you, but the Check Please fandom is just wild. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised since this fandom has developed extensive personalities for various characters who have literally appeared in one panel but still. Kit Purrson? Upon reflection Kit Purrson does seem more like a shitpost topic than an actual canon truth and how did I not realize this????

There’s a reason I have a fandom tag called “I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR”.

Ngozi, once: “If Kent Parson had a cat he’d name it after himself.”

Fandom, now: “Kent Parson is a cat person. He’ll kill you if you make his cat sad. He’s a national spokesman for the ASPCA. Kit Purrson has saved his life six times. He makes the Aces venerate a statue of Kit before they go out onto the ice.  Every square inch of his apartment is wallpapered in cat pictures.”

On Irish roots
  • Me:*cracks knuckles* Alright, Grandmother's side of the family. We've got a bunch of passed down stories and family lore and zero documentation. Two other trees have genealogies; time to give you the same treatment.
  • Me:*five hours later* How many Agneses and Johns can there possibly be across six generations? Do all the Johns have to be coal miners?
  • Me:*ten hours later* What the fuck are they doing in Boston with no immigration on record? Oh, teen daughter and illegitimate baby, gotcha.
  • Me:*twenty hours later* Found the first Agnes! Please be the first Agnes...

It is related in the annals of Clairvaux that St. Bernard asked our Lord which was His greatest unrecorded suffering, and Our Lord answered: “I had on My Shoulder, while I bore My Cross on the Way of Sorrows, a grievous Wound, which was more painful than the others, and which is not recorded by men. Honor this wound with thy devotion, and I will grant thee whatsoever thou dost ask through its virtue and merit. And in regard to all those who shall venerate this Wound, I will remit to them all their venial sins and will no longer remember their mortal sins.”

Oh loving Jesus, meek lamb of God, I a miserable sinner salute and worship the most sacred wound of Thy Shoulder, On which Thou didst bear Thy heavy cross, which so tore Thy flesh and laid Thy bones as to inflict an anguish greater than any other wound of Thy most Blessed Body.

I adore Thee, Oh Jesus most sorrowful, I praise and glorify Thee, and give thankfully to thee for this most Holy and sacred and painful wound, beseeching Thee by that exceeding pain and by the crushing burden of Thy heavy Cross to be merciful to me on towards Heaven along the way of Thy Cross.(Mention Petition). Amen 

the first kiss

A living portrait of cosmic glamor, Spock thinks. Butterfly wing eyelashes and black holes with whiskey diamond halos. Portals to another universe, a different universe: a universe named Jim Kirk.

Gravity captures the phantom red string tied about Spock’s pinky, draws him toward onyx wells fated in stardust ink to drown him. The canvas work nears completion. Tonight, he will succumb to what he spent a lifetime contending–will stand upon the horizon of eternity, let his eyes close, and fall headfirst into the darkness.

Caress breaks the silence like dawn overtaking night, breathes unspoken words of beauty and affection and forever from Jim’s unmoving lips; they spill across Spock’s with the prickling scent of mint.

Vulcan legend penned on ancient parchment told of a paladin, of celestial hands cupped and holding the universe like treasure. Now, human palms cradle his face with thumbs gracing over his cheeks as they would that venerable scroll.



The word leaves Spock breathless. Their noses touch. His lashes fall. And finally, after standing on a frayed edge of bleeding emotion for so long, he plunges into the unknown.

Heartbeat pounds deep reverberations through Spock’s ears, pulsing ripples across the plaster prison thickened over decades and fracturing a surface once deemed unbreakable. Calcified soot sheds from his soul in layers, leaving luminescent blue tendrils of glittering stellar fabric unraveling in its wake–an exodus of suffocating memories carried with him like a curse of thorns tangled about his ankles. They’re the lasting remnants of rejection and isolation, of hushed whispers and echoing criticism, of implied insufficiency, of assumed inadequacy, of Vulcan, of Earth, of being too much of both and yet never enough of each.

And yet, with the undoing of these stitches, Spock finds that he is still Spock–that none of the chaotic needlework stapled to his soul by others defines him or governs him or speaks the true story of who he is.

The last coil unravels from his ankle and a navy ocean of glowing stars breaks his fall. He plummets naked into the mercy of fathoms devoid of atmosphere.

The red string pulls and soft human lips press to Spock’s. A supernova detonates upon the galactic tapestry.

For the first time in years, Spock breathes.

inspired by the red string of fate. written to the instrumental version of Faded.

In this instance, I’m speaking of a place local to those of us that live in the state of Pennsylvania. There is a documentary called “Suffer the Little Children” made in the mid-80’s about Pennhurst before it was closed in 1987. I personally would require anyone wanting to trespass there to watch it with me before I would take them there to go “ghost hunting”. Let them see the spirits that linger there because they feel as though they were forever forgotten. Let them gaze into those fuzzy images of hollow eyes and bare chests rising and falling like those of baby birds. Then I would ask them again how much of a thrill seeking moment this was going to be.

We ignore these people when they are living unless they commit a heinous crime and after they are dead, we mock their pain by making them into movie demons and their places of torture into entertainment venues. There are battlefields that no one can ever turn into developed land because “it’s hallowed ground, men died here fighting for their lives.” These people were fighting their own wars and these buildings were their battlefields, and yet these places of struggle are made into apartment buildings, their bones thrown into mass graves or worse, abandoned wells or midden heaps and forgotten about once again.

Is the thrill of poking around in these places getting less?

And honestly, I’m not trying to totally dissuade people from going. Many of the spirits like visitors. They get more attention paid to them now in death than they ever had in life. My emphasis is on being respectful. Know what these people have been through. Respectfully ask to come onto the property just as you would ask to come into a person’s home. Bring gifts of candy for the children and cups of coffee for the overworked, underpaid staff that tried to keep them safe and now in death feel too guilty to leave them. While you are there light candles, sing songs, anything to help these people to elevate, to get them back to the ancestors that miss them, anything that will help to chase back the darkness for a while.

Places where people have suffered should be places of pilgrimage, hallowed gardens of flowers and bones, not parking lots and college dorms.

And like places of pilgrimage, they should be visited. My issues are not with people going to these places, but in how they act toward the spirits when they get there. Shouting at them, challenging them, insulting them, daring them to touch them, make noise “prove that they are there.” When I see this behavior on certain TV shows, I want to reach through the screen and knock their teeth in. I want to write and ask them if they would do this at Auschwitz or a POW campsite. I want to ask those that express excitement at visiting these places to tell me why they are excited. If they are excited to interact and celebrate and elevate these spirits, then ok. But if they are all about “going to a scary place”, they can enjoy media sensation right in their own living room. If they want to “go talk to dead people”, I’d be asking “Why would they want to talk to you?” This goes for not only abandoned mental hospitals but battlefields, sacred native ground, sites of massacres and lynchings, hanging trees, old plantations and cemeteries.

“What are you offering the Dead out of respect? That they will appreciate? That shows that you come with good intent instead of gawking.”