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koko-mochi · 3 months

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I just finished the first season of The Chosen, here are my thoughts...

For context, I have a Master of Divinity degree from Harvard, and I am a United Church of Christ preacher and member-in-discernment.

Overall I am really enjoying the show, I've cried a few times, and it has made my faith feel deeper and made me feel more connected to Jesus. I can't wait to pick up season two from the library on Monday and keep watching.

Here's a list, in no particular order, of things on my mind as I finish season one:

I love the show's portrayal of Jesus. He is welcoming, friendly, funny, and sensitive. At the same time he can be strange and uncanny. Jonathan Roumie absolutely crushes it in this role, and it was easy to think "this is Jesus" instead of thinking it is an actor playing Jesus. I do sort of wish Jesus was a little bit scarier, a little more challenging, but I get the feeling that will come later.

Nicodemus as a POV character is an inspired choice. Much like many modern Christians, Nicodemus struggles to believe what he is seeing, yet he longs to believe anyways. It's easy for me to see myself in him, especially as a highly-educated theologian. Additionally, seeing things from Nicodemus' perspective adds nuance and depth to how we see the Pharisees and the Sanhedrin, instead of succumbing to the unambiguous (and grossly antisemitic) villain treatment so many Christians still gleefully participate in on Palm Sunday. And the astute viewer will remember that Nicodemus has a very important role to play at the end of the story, when we eventually get there.

On the other hand, the Romans are cartoonish villains for most of the first season. I started rolling my eyes whenever Quintus appears on screen, eyebrow cocked, wicked sneer on his lips. It sure drives home the point about the Romans being violent colonizers and oppressors, but in a story that presents everyone as redeemable--even tax collectors--the fact that Quintus doesn't seem redeemable stands out. Gaius seems to be quite a bit more nuanced, so I can't help but wonder if we'll continue to see development for him.

I liked the portrayal of Matthew as autistic-coded. To me he doesn't feel like a caricature, I can see myself in him, and I empathize with him. The scene when Jesus asks him to follow really hit me.

Much has been said about this show's portrayal of emotionally-vulnerable masculinity and I strongly agree with it. The men in this show are tender, they're affectionate, they're supportive. They laugh and cry and hug freely. It's probably the best portrayal of masculinity in media that I've seen since Lord of the Rings.

The theology of the show was more progressive than I was expecting, though I didn't agree with everything the writing posits. The show's framing of Jesus' healing miracles as him forgiving the sins of the sick/disabled person grates on me. At the same time, I love how the opening of most episodes present a scene from the Hebrew Bible. It grounds the show's theology and Jesus' ministry in the Jewish scriptures, a thing that I think Christians too often avoid. It also does so in a way that feels connected to the Hebrew Bible instead of being supersessionist.

"Get used to different." What a great line. I wanna use that in a sermon. That's what following Jesus is all about, isn't it? Amen.

#pastoral care posting #the chosen #jesus fandom #jesus christ #progressive theology #queer christian

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aghostfromtheages · 2 years

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I posted 1,456 times in 2021

50 posts created (3%)

1406 posts reblogged (97%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 28.1 posts.

I added 265 tags in 2021

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Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i will also not give you a 4 generation lineage breakdown at yhe beginning of my final paper to try and convince you that i can write about

My Top Posts in 2021

Midnight Mass/Reader Insert WIP

Just a snippet of the latest WIP I've been working on. I can't get him out of my head so, you know what that means. Some sexual tension in the confessional duh

Part 2 WIP can be found here

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“Forgive me father for I have sinned.” The wood of the confessional smelt old and a little bit musty. “My last confession was… er… well, my last confession was a long time ago. If at all.” You added the last line as if in explanation, for you truly could not remember. You had been a kid on the mainland the last time you had participated at church. Sitting in a pew didn't much count.

In the dim light, through the confessional lattice, you saw Father Paul smile softly in encouragement. He had already guessed at your request upon your knock at his door. Of your own volition, you wanted to take the sacrament this Easter Sunday, and for that, you needed to attend confession.

“it’s a good start.” His voice was gentle. “I don’t want you to feel as if you have to, it's not my intention-“

“-No not at all. I want to do it. I’m just not used to-“

“-This.” Father Paul’s eyes met yours through the lattice. “I know.” He gave a slight nod of understanding. There was no accusation there, only a statement of fact.

Your face became hot. You had attended church but a handful of times before the arrival of Father Paul. As a social grace, a nod to the community, you would go once a year at Christmas. Never the religious type, your uptick in recent visits could only be attributed to the new, compelling and darkly handsome preacher.

41 notes • Posted 2021-10-07 06:24:29 GMT

A Heart for a Silver Sword Ch.1

You can find a WIP of future chapters here. A link to the posting on AO3 is in the comments.

Chapter 2

Laer T.A 2804

“No simple commission. A set of swords and matching silver armour, fit for a Sindarin king no less.” You stared out as the midday sun burned up the mist in the valley. It would have been a lie to say you were not already considering the invitation.

“You are under no pressure to accept his request.” Elrond watched the Silvan messenger leave the terrace, headed for the kitchens and some food. “Even in these times the road through the mountains is perilous, and the elves of the Greenwood are not recognized for their affability. You know this.”

You were keenly aware of the dangers of travel these days as well as the reputation your eastern kin had fostered. Yet you still considered the messenger's offer. Musing aloud, you drummed your fingers against the railing. “It would be a princely challenge, besides I have not travelled through the mountains since the dwarves lost Moria.” Sadness tinged your voice. Your people had been welcomed by the dwarves of Durin during your young years in Eregion. “There are paths still that the orcs do not know.”

Elrond frowned. “If you will not be swayed by good sense then at least pay heed to caution. In a few days, Crithedir and his cousins are returning to Lothlórien by way of the mountains. Join them.”

You had known that Elrond would not approve. He worked hard to keep his people safe and Imladris hidden. Over the decades you had produced many fine works, from shining armour sets to great gilded weaponry meant for the hunting of orcs, wargs and other beasts that haunted the foothills of the Hithaeglir. There was no longer trade with the dwarves since Moria and Erebor had fallen, and even fewer visitors to share your craft with. A peaceful world had little use for the gift of weaponsmiths, even ones as dedicated as you.

Turning your back to the view from the railing you smiled, inclining your head to Elrond. “Your kindness and wisdom are not unheeded. I will of course take care and plan to travel with Crithedir’s company as far as I may. There are few tools I can travel with so the journey will be light.”

Elrond’s grim countenance lightened, for he did not like the idea of parting with one of his people on such a dire note. “Imladris will feel the absence of your cheerful spirit. May it brighten Thranduil’s halls. And-” he added hand over heart, “may you find your way home swiftly and without trouble.” With his blessing, you parted, light in step and with a renewed vigour of heart that you had not felt in many years.

In the interest of safety, you and your travelling companions chose to take the high pass, Cirith Forn en Andrath. Since the attack on Celebrían, Elrond had all but forbidden passage by Caradhras. The company made their way through the pass quickly, hardly stopping to rest. A sizeable gathering of elves at fifteen, any goblins that may have been near did not dare to harass your group.

After two days of travel, you and the Silvan messenger, whose name you discovered was Fêron, split from Crithedir and his kin, after crossing the Anduin. Fêron had made most of the trip to Rivendell from the edge of the Greenwood through the mountains in the company of woodsmen. This provided additional protection but slowed him greatly. Between the two of you, travel time was halved, even with your added load of smithing supplies.

You had never had a chance to visit the elven court in the Greenwood, so you had only to subside on what others had told you. Fêron was eager to share the stories and histories of his people and their Sindarin kings. As you travelled along the northern perimeter of the forest, to the elven road, he regaled you with descriptions of their feasts, holidays, the splendour of the underground palace, and news from the Greenwood.

“Now,” Fêron lamented, “the forest is fouled with spiders, giant wolves and other fell creatures. The men I travelled with have begun to call it Mirkwood, and even the forests own people have taken to calling it Taur-nu-Fuin.” Picking his way over fallen trees, he continued, “A darkness lies in the old fortress. The king will not allow any of our hunting parties further south than the roots of the Emyn Duir.”

You mulled over the information in silence, even as you felt an uncomfortable weight settle on your shoulders.

Within another half a day the two of you had reached the beginning of the elven path. The forest had become treacherous, but Fêron assured you that he knew the safest way through. “We will attract less notice, just the two of us.” He promised.

The Greenwood had been a constant brooding presence on the edge of the horizon for most of your journey. To step under its canopy was to step into a world of eternal gloom and twilight. Even the air was heavy on your skin. Travel through the forest was slow, but steady. When rest was necessary, Fêron would find an old sentry platform built in one of the large fir trees that populated much of this part of the forest. The two of you would take turns keeping watch before moving on. It was a lonely and quiet journey. No birds sang, the only animals you did see were large, black squirrels. Skittish and mistrusting, they gave you and Fêron a wide berth. Massive cobwebs slowed your passage further, until you turned north, leaving them behind. The further north you travelled the less foreboding the woods became. While they were still dark and dense, the beech and oak were more common here, filtering the light and keeping the forest cool. The great dark fir trees lessened once you passed the mountain range and fell away altogether as the two of you approached the Elvenking’s halls.

By the final day of your journey, Fêron’s mood had improved considerably. No longer silent and moody, he whistled to the birds that had now begun to appear with the absence of the spider nests. By the evening you had reached the banks of the Forest River and the palace gates. As you approached the glade and the bridge to the entrance of the palace you could tell there was some sort of commotion. Guards in bronzed plate armour lined the path to either side. Other elves in fitted, leather hunting attire gathered nearby, chatting, and laughing lightly as they leant on their spears.

Then, in a way you could only describe as handsomely dishevelled, the king rode up, followed by a retinue of silvan elves. Thranduil’s hair was loosely braided for the hunt, and an ornate hunting horn hung from his saddle. Fitted with gleaming silver tack, his horse was agile and high stepping. Before him, all the elves bowed their heads in deference. Fêron looked at you askance, silently imploring you to follow suit with a nod of his head. Though you were not used to such formal customs, you inclined your head in acquiescence. Thranduil scanned the rows of elves as he passed, and, spotting you, he responded in like. Dismounting, he handed his horse off and after casting a final curious glance your way, he disappeared over the bridge and behind the broad woodland gates with his escort.

Your stomach tightened into a knot as you watched your new, royal patron depart behind the carved stone doors. Just nerves. You assured yourself as you and Fêron stood back. Another two pair of elves carrying a white hind, and the arrow that felled her, made their way across the gate before the crowd began to trickle inside.

“Our king is notoriously hard to please.” Fêron peered at you sidelong, “Are you as brilliant a smith as they say?

You cast a peevish smile in his direction.

“We shall see.”

47 notes • Posted 2021-09-08 01:16:23 GMT

Red Nights

So I had to start writing a little something up with Astarion, it couldn't be helped. This will be a short precursor to some very nasty smut.

Prompt is: F *ck yourself stupid on my fingers while I hold your throat and call you darling.

The night was warm and the sky clear. Fireflies flicked lazily through the bushes at the edge of camp. Your companions kept to themselves, Lae'zel sharpened her weapons, while Gale fed leftover camp food to the dog. Shadowheart was already asleep, Wyll was nowhere to be seen and Astarion flipped through a book idly, his eyes following your movements around camp. You sat by the fire, trying hard to ignore the gaze you felt burning into your back.

It was a game, unspoken, that you two played at. Astarion pretended to ignore you and you pretended to ignore him until one of you made nice. Or, as nice as you two ever got. He had a certain way of getting under your skin, and, admittedly, in all ways, it turned you on. In comparison, Astarion seemed to find your willfulness enticing. Since your coupling, after the festivities, you had both playfully circled one another. You matched his casual cruelty and snide wit with equally stinging repartee. While you had not enjoyed anything more intimate than a few heated glances since your first night together, this evening, feelings seemed desperate to surface. Often you would spend the better part of your camp time chatting with him, but this time, you left him to pore over his texts alone. Instead, you paced by the fire. The longer you ignored him the fiercer his smirk became. You circled the bonfire one final time before making your way over to Astarion. His gaze followed your every step.

“Restless?” he tried his best to sound uninterested but his voice couldn’t hide the spark in his eyes. “Fancy a midnight stroll?”

You sidled over, tapping the edge of his book, “Are you offering? Going to save me from all the terrible goblins and bugbears?”

“Hardly,” He snapped the heavy tomb shut, narrowly missing your fingers. “I rather do enjoy seeing you fight through a challenge. ” He bared his teeth in a promising threat.

47 notes • Posted 2021-04-17 06:16:26 GMT

a heart for a silver sword

WIP for a Reader x Thranduil seven parter fic I'm working on. It'll be mostly canon (Silmarillion included) compliant, combined with my favourite choice bits from the movies. Each chapter will be based around a different part of the Sindarin calendar. The reader is an accomplished elvish smith who has been commissioned by Thranduil. A link to the first chapter can be found here.

Firith

The cool night air had emptied the courtyard. Once busy with stargazers and the rustle of passing folk, the fading of summer left you alone to sharpen your most recent work in silence. The great swords were your finest blades yet. They reflected the fire of the nearby lamps in a dazzling display, making pools of light dance across the pillars as you ran the whetstone across the edges in even strokes.

His approach was silent, but your sharp eyes caught the measured movement at the edge of the gallery. The Elvenking was dressed in robes of umber and gold, reflective of the turning colours of his forest. He did not speak, but paused to watch you tend to your newest creation. You continued on, refusing to be interrupted by Thranduil’s presence. After some time, he joined you in the centre of the courtyard, appraising your work.

“I have not seen such fine work forged in an age… or more.”

You inclined your head in thanks at the praise, watching his gaze follow the curve of the blade to the hilt, where your hand rested.

“May I?”

You nodded in deference, before passing him one of the blades, presenting it hilt first. He lifted it from you, twisting it expertly. Laying it across his arm he examined the blade. Thranduil seemed surprised, but pleased. His voice was soft.

“It could rival even the famed blades of Gondolin. Their smiths were widely celebrated for their technique.”

A prideful warmth spread through your chest, there were few finer weapon smiths in the history of your people than the elven smiths of Gondolin. Each of your swords was made from a single piece of silver elvish steel. The blades were designed to be dual wielded, but were weighted in a way that they may also be used single handedly.

“Please,” you offered, “see how they handle.” You moved to pass him the second sword, but instead he gestured to you.

“Give me an opponent to test it on.” His tone brooked no argument. “A smith must know thier crafts best of all.”

The challenge stood. You were familiar with the martial style of javelins, daggers and swords, as well as bows. If the Elvenking wished to bet his pride on an audience of one, you would oblige him. You shrugged, your blades' performance would speak for themselves.

“As you wish.”

Standing with the sister-sword you positioned yourself several paces away and adopted a sparring stance. Thranduil began to circle the inner courtyard clockwise. You matched him pace for pace, slowly closing the space between the two of you. His first strike was quick and without embellishment. You parried without issue, and remained on the defense. As the blades met, they sang out in clear, ringing notes. The quality of your work was apparent in the weight and hardiness of the blades. Matched against a weapon of weaker metal, there would have been no contest. As it was, the paired blades were a pleasure to wield against one another. Neither you nor the king pushed the other. Rather, the two of you seemed to flow through a shared bout of trained blocks and parries. Thranduil wore a rare smile, you knew your work on the requisition had pleased him.

Finally, after some time in your practiced duet of traded blows, Thranduil made a surprise feint towards your left side. You were not quick enough to recover, and found yourself backed against one of the stone pillars. He stopped pointedly, mid advance, the sharp blade edge a breath from your neck. You both breathed even, unmoving as the instant seemed to hold it’s place, suspended within the cold night air. Your breath hitched as your eyes followed the blade at your neck, up the outstretched arm to the king's face; impassive. Thranduil’s eyes, blue chips of ice, held your gaze before blinking and turning away, breaking the spell of the moment. You dropped your eyes to watch him tap the tip of the sword gently against your collarbone.

“You’ve outdone yourself.”

64 notes • Posted 2021-07-19 02:01:20 GMT

Who are you when I'm not looking?

I doubt you even know yourself

Despite those lies that took me

When I'm not looking, you are someone else

Thank you @reidreamer for this excellent piece :) You were so patient while I tried to explain this very specific idea I had in mind, and you executed it even better than I imagined! This holds a lot of symbolism for my V, especially because of the ending I chose. I can’t recommend this artist enough!!

138 notes • Posted 2021-02-16 18:49:59 GMT

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#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #wow

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