#introduction to the devout life

[tabernacleheart]

When God the Creator made all things, He commanded the plants to bring forth fruit each according to its own kind; He has likewise commanded Christians, who are the living plants of His Church, to bring forth the fruits of devotion, each one in accord with his character, his station and his calling. [Therefore] I say that devotion must be practised in different ways by the nobleman and by the working man, by the servant and by the prince, by the widow, by the unmarried girl and by the married woman. But even this distinction is not sufficient; for the practice of devotion must be adapted to the strength, to the occupation and to the duties of each one in particular.

Tell me, please... whether it is proper for a bishop to want to lead a solitary life like a Carthusian; or for married people to be no more concerned than a Capuchin about increasing their income; or for a working man to spend his whole day in church like a religious; or on the other hand for a religious to be constantly exposed like a bishop to all the events and circumstances that bear on the needs of our neighbour. Is not this sort of devotion ridiculous, unorganised and intolerable? Yet this absurd error occurs very frequently; but in no way does true devotion, [which is unique to each soul,] destroy anything at all. On the contrary, it perfects and fulfils all things. In fact if it ever works against, or is inimical to, anyone’s legitimate station and calling, then it is very definitely false devotion.

The bee collects honey from flowers in such a way as to do the least damage or destruction to them, and he leaves them whole, undamaged and fresh, just as he found them. True devotion does still better. Not only does it not injure any sort of calling or occupation, it even embellishes and enhances it. Moreover, just as every sort of gem, cast in honey, becomes brighter and more sparkling, each according to its colour, so each person becomes more acceptable and fitting in his own vocation when he sets his vocation in the context of devotion. Through devotion your family cares become more peaceful, mutual love between husband and wife becomes more sincere, the service we owe to the prince becomes more faithful, and our work, no matter what it is, becomes more pleasant and agreeable.

It is therefore an error and even a heresy to wish to exclude the exercise of devotion from military divisions, from the artisans’ shops, from the courts of princes, from family households. I acknowledge [honestly] that the type of devotion which is purely contemplative, monastic and religious can certainly not be exercised in these sorts of stations and occupations, but besides this threefold type of devotion, there are many others fit for perfecting those who live in a secular state. Therefore, in whatever situations we happen to be, we can and we must aspire to the life of perfection.

Saint Francis de Sales

#this is a game changer #saint francis de sales #introduction to the devout life #this is very relevant to my life lately #i needed to hear this so badly right now #devotion #this hits hard #this is absolutely vital #vocation #true devotion #personal spirituality #reflect on this

[faux-monastic]

"It is our privilege in this war that we are certain to vanquish so long as we are willing to fight." -St Francis de Sales, Introduction to the Devout Life I.V

#Francis de Sales #Salesian spirituality #Introduction to the Devout Life #my notes #catholic quotes

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (January 24)

January 24 marks the Feast of St. Francis de Sales, the patron saint of writers and Christian unity whose role as a priest and bishop helped bring thousands of Protestants back to the Catholic Church.

In the late 16th and early 17th century, St. Frances de Sales conducted spiritual direction both in person and in written correspondence. This inspired his famous work “Introduction to the Devout Life.”

During his ministry in Switzerland, he wrote and distributed religious tracts that made inroads among Protestants and helped between 40,000 and 70,000 return to the Catholic faith.

Because he is a patron saint of writers, his feast day traditionally marks the release of the Pope’s annual message for World Communications Day.

Pope Benedict XVI’s 2013 message reflected on social networks and their potential to strengthen unity and harmony between people.

He also warned that these enable a mindset that rewards popularity, rather than rewarding what has intrinsic value.

St. Francis de Sales was no stranger to unpopularity.

As a priest, he volunteered to lead a mission to return the Calvinist Switzerland back to the Catholic faith. He faced much hostility, including death threats and would-be assassins.

He was born on 21 August 1567 in the Savoy region in what is now part of France. He was a diplomat’s son, born into a household with great devotion to St. Francis of Assisi.

He studied rhetoric, the humanities, and law in preparation for a political career.

He had resolved to hold to religious celibacy and held a deep devotion to the Virgin Mary, but he kept this strong spiritual life secret from the world.

This devotion clashed with the wishes of his father, who had arranged a marriage for him.

The Catholic bishop of Geneva found Francis de Sales a position in the Swiss Church, leading to his ordination as a priest in 1593.

He was named Bishop of Geneva in 1602, after which he worked to restore Geneva’s churches and religious orders.

He helped the future saint Jean Frances de Chantal, whom he had served as spiritual director, found a women’s religious order.

He died on 28 December 1622 in Lyons at a convent he had helped to found.

Francis de Sales was beatified on 8 January 1661 and canonized on 8 April 1665 by Pope Alexander VII.

He was declared a Doctor of the Church by Pope Pius IX in 1877.

He has been styled the "Gentleman Saint" because of his patience and gentleness.

#Gentleman Saint #Saint of the Day #St. Francis de Sales #“Introduction to the Devout Life”

[dathwan]

So vast the joys that I await, No earthly travail seems that great.

St. Francis of Assisi

#Favorite Saint Quotes AJD #St. Francis of Assisi AJD #Introduction To The Devout Life AJD

[fearless-eagle]

Introduction to the Devout Life—PART V— CHAPTER XVIII. Three Important and Final Counsels.

Introduction to the Devout Life—PART V— CHAPTER XVIII. Three Important and Final Counsels.

On the first day of every month renew the resolution given in Part I. after meditation and make continual protestation of your intention to keep it, saying with David, “I will never forget Thy Commandments, for with them Thou hast quickened me.” And whenever you feel any deterioration in your spiritual condition, take out your protest, and prostrating yourself in a humble spirit, renew it…

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#Introduction to the Devout Life—PART V— CHAPTER XVIII. Three Important and Final Counsels.

[ddarker-dreams]

Lock, what DO you love and like so much about Dostoevsky's work? I don't think you've ever talked about that. Please, I want to know !!!

^o^

(christianity mention jump scare below proceed with caution)

i thought this would be an easy to answer but figuring out how to put my feelings into words proved difficult .

the beginning is always a good place to start, so let's go with that. by chance, i happened upon this video on youtube and gave it a watch. about halfway in i decided i had to read notes from underground for myself. i struggled to understand what the narrator was trying to get across. the unique writing style, where the reader is addressed directly, as if in challenge, helped me preserve.

i think part of what makes his work special to me is his depiction of people. and they really do feel like people more than characters, even if some of their characteristics are unique to the era dostoevsky wrote in. everything else about them transcends time. i can see myself in some of them. whether it be the titular idiot, prince myshkin in his naivety; alyosha, who goes from devout to doubting; and ivan, whose bitterness toward religion masks his disappointment at the state of the world. 

that's why the brothers karamazov touched me in particular. for some context, i grew up in a christian household and was heavily involved in the church (american northeast white baptist strand of church). around when i was 11 or so, the introduction of left-wing politics through social media had me undergo a looooong identity crisis. these new ideas felt at odds with what i'd spent my entire life believing. what i grappled with the most relates to ivan's anecdote, the grand inquisitor, where the goodness of god is called into question. the bitterness, the disappointment from crushed expectations, all those sensations resonated strongly with me. reading it as an adult who (supposedly) 'healed' from that time period in my life was like opening pandora's box. i'd never seen my thoughts and struggles so accurately described, or treated with more than a 'his ways are higher than our ways' type platitude. i stuffed these concerns of mine away because they only ever served to make me feel worse.

i won't delve deep into the Depressing Lore. the only reason i mention it is to stress how profound an impact the work had on me. throughout the remainder of TBK (and in most of dostoevsky's discography), the best and worst of humanity is shown. our hypocritical nature, capacity for evil; nothing is shied away from or made more palatable. and yet, throughout it all, our potential for good is shown too. whether it be in the little acts or monumental self-sacrifice. sometimes those acts are honored, or ‘worth it,’ sometimes they aren’t. it’s cheesy but whatever i’ll say it — choosing to love and serve others is my greatest joy. i don’t really need a definitive answer to those problems i struggled with. that’s the takeaway i’ve had from his work. it might not seem like a big deal, but not feeling guilty for having certain doubts or anxious over those doubts never fully being resolved was. very significant for me. and healing (for real this time). 

so that’s the sentimental perspective GJSDLKFJS from my writer’s perspective, i can only describe him as brilliant. his grasp on the human psyche is incredible. he can accurately describe so many emotions, worldviews, and give the context necessary for each one to feel organic and real. it’s vivid, too, in a way i can’t properly get across. everyone’s unfiltered and messy. characters contradict themselves in the same sentence. they’ll murmur, go off on tangents, tell stories, misquote the bible (or many other significant works), and just be overall disasters. aka how people actually are. 

the man’s also funny as hell. the protagonist from crime and punishment has a mental breakdown spanning multiple pages over a sock. yes, there’s context, but that’s still the gist of things. then there’s the issue of the hedgehog in the idiot. hedgehog drama. 

ultimately, his work is so very human. there’s commentary on issues that are prevalent to this day, multiple centuries later. the topics he touches on tend to align with what i care about most. whether i agree or disagree with what i’m reading, there’s always something i glean from it. something meaningful that sits with me long after i close the book. i’ll mull over it and bother people in my vicinity until they mull over it too. no one is safe. whether it be a co-worker or my dad who drives noticeably faster to reach our destination and be free of my many questions.

i could keep going but this ended up being long enough GJSKDF i hope at least something here makes sense?>?? i apologize for the incoherent ramblings. it's what the dude does to me.

#dostoevsky fanclub #answered #Anonymous

[cipheramnesia]

The Menu, to me, is such a fascinating movie. I'm going to come back to it and watch the way it's filmed more carefully. but the first time through is such a tantalizing and layered discussion about work, wealth, and inevitably life under capitalism.

What I particularly love about it is that at a very surface level reading it offers a sort of "introduction to systemic inequality," an easy to swallow metaphor of humanity literally consumed by exploitation to the point of annihilation, wrapped around a peppy little survivor girl finale. For me, stripping away all the tasty deeper subtext, it still fulfills the most basic component of a popular film, which is "having a good time." You do not need to try and "get it," you can simply enjoy it by itself if you like.

However, as soon as we get into the finicky details of the movie, especially our "final girl," it starts to get really interesting because the initial surface metaphor starts to fall apart and demand a more complex level of thought. (This will feature some spoilers.)

What I find fascinating is that our protagonist is a sex worker. The entire grand metaphor proposed by our chief antagonist, the chef, is you can divide the world into the served and servers. He has arranged what he thinks is a perfect and flawless illustration of this grand truth, and one unforeseen change fully undermines his entire thesis. She's a worker who provides a service, she's someone getting served by workers in the process of that service. Her job and her life weaves between both worlds and although it's possible to make some larger sweeping generalization, to do so would take the nuance away from the lived reality of most people who are at once point or another both things. This undermining of the chef's thesis is very much the point of the movie, not to suggest there is no class or wealth inequality, but rather as an entry into moving past the surface level binary view of "haves and have nots" into a more complex idea of how wealth and power affects people in different places of the hierarchy.

The movie itself presents each new act as a new item on the menu, which is a well-considered choice, as each step forward reveals more information that builds the complexity of the ideas in the movie and whets your appetite to consider it further. The plot, the characters, and the action in the film progress in a way that mirrors the kind of experience the menus title cards before each segment are describing. The restaurant itself being totally isolated, with every employee committed to their jobs with a cultish intensity lays a groundwork for the production of the idea that individual lives are disposable not just in the literal sense, but metaphorically, a quick sketch of the modern expectations of a workforce by capitalist society to consider their personal lives as disposable in comparison to their jobs. Ralph Fiennes' casting as the chef adds a kind of metatextual level to the proceedings, as he himself is an aspirational actor for many other working actors in the film industry. The way he is worshiped by his devout employees while viewed as someone meant to perform on demand by his employers is the kind of deeper exchange that our modern hierarchy expects from us. You can find a higher place in the world so long as you are always willing to trade yourself to anyone who can afford to purchase you.

This level of exchange, where we as individuals are the actual consumable goods in some way is more at the heart of the Menu than a simple binary division of class. It is also the reason to have a protagonist who is, in a literally sense, her own medium of exchange. The surface metaphor of everything as transactional and finite is deliberately broken time and again, because the antagonist, a chef, is unable to see a world more complex than his own route of understanding it, through food and cooking. He sees everything as abstracted, consumable without any possibility of restoration, resources as something which can only be exchanged but never increased or distributed. He is not the villain in the movie, that role remains with characters like the stockbrokers, the old wealthy gentleman, and our protagonist's date for the evening. But he is the antagonist because of his fundamental idea of the world aligning with the villains (even while ostensibly there to kill them) and in conflict with the fundamentally reasonable position of our protagonist, that she ought to live.

I would enjoy dissecting The Menu scene by scene because there's simply so much going on in it, for me personally. I think there's something excruciatingly interesting to be said about the protagonist being a sex worker, in particular because the movie itself does not chose to view this in an exploitative way, but rather uses it to serve the larger idea that humanity cannot, in fact, be broken down into a consumable resource alone - that giving of yourself does not mean a loss to yourself. I also believe there is a distinct turning point in the movie where Ralph Fiennes sits down at a table, which is to me a huge change. It is the movie making an effort to draw a line under the real thesis, that even the antagonist who insists throughout the movie that he exclusively exists as one who serves, who gives himself up one bite at a time until he is exhausted, even he is someone who cannot exist in his own idea of a false binary.

The chef here is not wrong in recognizing the existence of exploitation, or even necessarily incorrect in his ideas of addressing it through violently usurping those in power. I would argue that overall the conclusion of The Menu doesn't disagree with the notion of hierarchical exploitation innate to modern society. If anything, it serves to illustrate even more how much this trend is ultimate a downward spiral of inevitable and total destruction.

However, it is a movie that is meant to be optimistic, a movie about hanging on to our human connections even when we have some exchange between each other. It's about caring for other people, caring about what they do for us, or caring about what we do for others. The conclusion, and our survivor girl, are a recognition of that hope and that potential which still exists.

(edited from bad casting memory)

#the menu #horror movies

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Francis de Sales

Doctor of the Church

1567 – 1622

Feast Day: January 24 (New), January 29 (Trad)

Patronage: against deafness, authors, Catholic press, confessors, deaf people, educators, journalists, teachers, writers

Born to the nobility, St. Francis de Sales, who is known for his deep faith and patience, studied law and theology at the University of Padua, Italy, earning a doctorate in both fields. Bishop of Geneva in 1602. He is known also for his writings on the topic of spiritual direction and spiritual formation and authored many books, the most famous of which was Introduction to the Devout Life.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

#SaintFrancisdeSales #Portraitsofsaints #Feastday #Saintoftheday #Saintquotes #Saintquote #patronsaint #patronsaints #saintportrait #DoctoroftheChurch

[baby-jaguar]

Phillip Graves; Sheriff

Introduction to the AU

Let's meet our candidate!

Where is he from?

Genoa, NV

Where does he live?

Searchlight, NV

What's his livelihood?

He was a previous soldier in the Nevada militia before leaving for Searchlight, where he soon followed his childhood dream of enlisting as a deputy. After some time, he ranked up to become the town's sheriff.

What are his qualities?

Phillip has made a well-known name for himself, and his ego is possibly even bigger with the level of authority he commands and holds. As the Sheriff, he is protective over his people but demands the respect that he deserves for keeping the town safe. Though he is a hard-liner, he does have a soft spot for those he protects and is always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need. He does live by his own code of ethics, being sure that any action is in the best interest, regardless of the consequences. 

He describes himself as a cowboy casanova, someone with blue eyes that rival the sky on a clear day. He is a man who deserves respect in every aspect of his life, but will never mistreat the closest he gifts his love to. Phillip is looking for a spouse who is not meek or submissive to the challenges faced in the wild region but will give him the respect he deserves as a hard-working husband. He is searching for a spouse who will be able to keep a good face around the town and become well acquainted with the townspeople, to have the inside information and aid Phillip in keeping the peace. Despite the quick tongue and even quicker draw of his gun, he is a charming man to his core. 

Biography

Phillip Graves was born in the settlement of Genoa, Nevada in 1885, the son of a Mormon pioneer family. He grew up in a strict and devout Mormon community and was raised with a deep sense of morality and justice. From a young age, he was drawn to justice and the rule of law, loving the idea of being able to enforce the law and serve the community, and he desired nothing more than to become a Sheriff.  

As a young adult, he enlisted in the Nevada militia in his late teens, and he quickly distinguished himself as a capable and effective soldier. After several years of service, he returned to civilian life, but ultimately left the Mormon Community and moved to Searchlight, Nevada where he found a calling as a lawman. Phillip's passion for justice and dedication to the law led him to become a deputy in the Searchlight Sheriff's Department. He quickly rose through the ranks, and soon became a respected Sheriff in his own right.

He is a stern lawman, known for his uncompromising sense of justice and his relentless pursuit of criminals and rogues. Even through the harshness of his demeanor, however, he is also seen as a fair and honest man, and he is respected by the people of Searchlight and the criminal element alike. However, he was not above a little corruption now and then loving the thrill of bending the rules and taking great delight in using his position to get what he wants. He is known for his quick wit and cunning ways, being able to maneuver through some of the toughest situations.

Despite his sometimes corrupt ways, Phillip is a highly respected Sheriff in Searchlight. He is known for his fairness, his honesty, and his dedication to the law. Now, while he does love the life of getting to serve the people he protects, he also craves companionship and love after a long time of being too busy for romance. As he spends most of his days patrolling the streets and nights working on cases, he can't help but always feel like romance is something he is missing in his life, no longer a distraction from his duties.

#phillip graves #task force 141 #cod mw2 #commander graves #shadow company #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #graves cod #graves mw2 #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #warren kole

[umbralstars]

FE OC Week day 1: Introductions! Today I would very much love to introduce Emyr, my first 3H oc who I made 2 years ago! He's the (illegitimate, kinda) grand prince of Itha; aka Rufus' heir. He's a few years older than Dima and, long story very short: he ran away during the aftermath of the Tragedy for a number of reasons and joined up with Jeralt's Mercs (with his little sister) under the alias "Robyn."

He gets found out in the aftermath of Conand Tower when he protected Dimitri with his mask literally coming off (a mask that I still haven't designed as of yet). He goes back home, almost gets executed by Cornelia as an "accomplice" to Rufus' murder, and becomes the Grand Duke to help hold what's left of Faerghus together.

He later becomes a Griffin Knight and thus has a griffin named Sirin who's been with him since childhood. Emyr has a great respect and fondness for his uncle Lambert, his childhood best friend Glenn, and complicated feelings towards Rufus. Much of his story revolves around how he interacts with the various influences in his life and who he wants to ultimately be as a lord and a person. His mother's family is from the Ruska region and have long connections to Sreng. @fe-oc-week

Extra stuff below :)

Chivalry (Personal Skill): Adjacent allies and unit deal 3 extra damage and take 2 less damage during combat.

Weapon Skills (at time of recruit)

Swords: D

Lance: D+ (strength)

Axe: E (weakness)

Bows: C (strength)

Brawling: E (weakness)

Reason: E+ (strength)

Faith: D+ (strength)

Authority: C (strength)

Heavy Armor: E

Riding: E+

Flying: D (budding talent)

A lot of his skills start elevated because 1) he's already been to Garreg Mach before and is a mercenary currently and 2) he's meant to be a unit who's immediately usable and on-par with the units you've already been teaching. All of his skill ranks come from friends or family who helped to teach him or previous experiences he's had.

Just a note on the brawling: he's not bad at it, he just avoids it cause he doesn't know if he can always keep his strength in-check. Same reason he avoids Axes, though he also finds those unwieldy.

Gifts

Likes:

Whetstone

Legends of Chivalry

Riding Boots

Board Game

Dislikes:

Gemstone Beads

Coffee Beans

Floral Adornment

Lost Items:

Carving Tools: A small satchel of uniquely sturdy carving tools. It likely belongs to someone who loves woodworking.

Sheathed Dagger: A wing-shaped dagger with a lion head on the pommel. Made of very sturdy material and the hilt is in-laid with the Crest of Fraldarius on one side and the Crest of Blaiddyd on the other.

God Statuette: A wooden icon representing a leonine deity of some kind. It probably belongs to a devout believer of a different faith.

#fe3h #fe3h oc #fe oc week #emyr artemi blaiddyd #character intro #blaiddyd bastards #my beloved bird #i always welcome questions about him forever and always

[oogaboogasphincter]

Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter one: the high priestess

series summary: when you find love in a priest, a litany of spooky events begin to follow you that can only be described as a haunting. is it your own guilty conscience that disturbs you... or could it be something else?

chapter summary: you're visiting your best friend in her new town for the first time when you are begrudgingly thrust into her devout way of life. however, something - or someone - makes you rethink your plans of avoiding the church at all costs.

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.4k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI!: reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, SLOW BURN TABOO RELATIONSHIP BABYYY, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ lots of character introductions so pls bear with me, mention of the death of a loved one and some light grief, food and eating mentions, sudden illness, potentially cringe banter, take a shot for every time i wrote 'father pike' in this (trust me we learn his first name soon enough but for now it's all formalities between him and reader), is this whole thing blasphemous? probably

a/n: sooo this is something very different from what i normally write, but i'm so excited to be trying something new! :) i'm not too sure where i want to take this story yet, so i don't have a total number of chapters or an ending planned (i really don't even have much of the plot figured out LMAO) but i'd really really appreciate any and all feedback from my readers! ♥️ let me know what you liked and what you want to see more of in future chapters!

“So I won’t burst into flames when I walk through the doors?” 

You ask your best friend, Lucy, sending her into a fit of laughter. She clutches your hand tighter in hers, squeezing it with pompous affection. Despite your best efforts to maintain your feelings of impartialness towards the church, your palm slips against hers with a sheen of clamminess as you travel closer to the hulking cathedral. 

“No!” She laughs, that breathless laugh you’ve always found comfort in. “You’re holier than most of the people who go every Sunday.” 

You scoff and give her some side-eye, something that just makes her shake her head even more. Whether or not this is how you wanted to spend your first day in Carmeltree visiting her, you are going to this harvest dinner. 

She sighs contentiously, contrasting the playful smirk on her face, “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Now come on, we’re gonna be late!” 

——

Lucy has been your best friend since kindergarten. The maple leaves that swirl around you both in the crisp autumn air as you run through the streets now invoke a fierce sense of nostalgia, one that’s almost painful. One of your first memories together is making leaf rubbings in class with the fallen leaves that blanketed the frosted school grounds. She liked warm colors and you liked cool colors; she liked maple leaves and you liked birch leaves. Two complete halves made an even brighter whole when you came together, and the rest is history. 

Despite the big city you grew up in, somehow you always managed to be in the same classes, share the same hobbies. But your luck had to run out sometime; when you both graduated, you got accepted into universities on opposite sides of the country. You kept up your communication, talking to each other every day and spilling your guts about everything, from the monumental to the regrettable, the joyous to the devastating. 

You thought something was amiss when she called you in the middle of the night a few months back. At first you brushed it off, thinking maybe she fell asleep with her phone in her hand and dialed you by accident, something you’ve both done plenty of times over the course of your friendship. When she called you back as soon as you didn’t answer, you knew there was something wrong. That’s when you learned her mom had passed away. 

It wasn’t sudden, but that didn’t spare her any devastation. You were there for her all day, every day. Consoling her when she wept, relishing in the happy memories that brought a rare but vital smile to her voice, sympathizing with her grief. But without a physical shoulder to lean on, Lucy went looking for more support to help her. 

Her mom was a devout Christian and, by proxy, so was Lucy. She isn’t as rigid in her faith as her mom was, but she always viewed it as a guiding light to betterment, a sturdy foundation to catch her when she crumbled. Luckily, the whirlwind of life events in the past six months that displaced her from her college friends to the small town of Carmeltree was gracious enough to gift her a tight-knit, painfully orthodox population. 

On the contrary, you grew up in a household without any influence of organized religion. Your family celebrated Christmas and Easter, but it was mostly for all of the gifts and chocolate. 

Religious differences never caused any turmoil between you and your best friend, because you love each other for who you are, regardless if you share spiritual beliefs. If praying and attending sermons helps Lucy to process her grief and gives her something that uplifts her soul, what kind of a friend would you be to forbid her from that? 

—— 

That doesn’t make you any more enthused about being dragged to the dinner held at the church to celebrate the autumn harvest. Lucy dropped the plan on you the second she picked you up from the major airport, whose segregating miles seem to swell with every second that passes. Knowing you would come up with an alternative plan you’d both like better, she didn’t give you a chance to back out, and you didn’t fight. Committed to being a good friend, and with a curiosity pricking your heart, you run alongside her through residual puddles as the street clocks chime eight times. 

And let’s get one thing straight - “church” was a dishonorable term for the structure you’re going to. For hundreds of years, since the first round of colonizing settlers that invaded this square patch of disparate land, the citizens have been addicted to worship. They would lend their last cent to their religion, egregiously ignoring their growling stomachs and dilapidated houses for the sake of a prosperous God. The result of this frenzied generosity is the biggest cathedral you’ve ever seen. 

You’re still a few blocks away, but the spires reach over the trees and spear up at the moon; whose craters can be seen with miraculous clarity on this autumn night. As you move closer and closer, the details in this spectacular of gothic architecture reveal themselves. There are a litany of pinnacles that stand like soldiers guarding their fortress and clerestory windows that dance and swish with light coming from inside the maw of the beast. When your eyes drift to angular beams that aid the structure - flying buttresses, if you remember correctly - your marvel is suddenly absent.

“No gargoyles?” you ask. 

Lucy matches your disappointment with a shake of her head, “They come too close to the pagan border.” It’s unmistakable the way she lowers her voice, though there’s only a handful of patrons a hundred feet away from you. 

Against the cloudless, darkening sky and a comically-eerie full moon, anyone would be dosed with at least a few drops of intimidation by the staggering black outlines. You fail to find any ease once you come to one of three entrances. The carvings of ancient tales you don’t know loom over your head in the angular tympanum and greet you with uncertainty. Are they supposed to make you feel welcomed or warned? 

The gigantic doors are swung and held open by their own weight, giving way to the narthex. There’s a singing choir hidden deeper within and their melodies echo all around you. A large chandelier emits a soft orange glow, which is peculiarly swallowed up instead of reflected by the intricate, gilded etchings that coat the walls. Maroon velvet beneath your feet turns into a dark abyss of shadows from the unprecedented amount of people in here. You cling to Lucy’s coat with both your hands, somewhat subconsciously, and she laughs before taking your hand in hers and parting though the sea. 

You’ll admit it, you can be very shy when you’re overwhelmed. Though for some inexplicable reason, crowds usually didn’t give you a fuss. You actually found a sense of comfort in being lost in the blur, blending in as just another body amongst hundreds, sometimes thousands of others. But you didn’t like this crowd, didn’t know these people, and not in a stranger-danger kind of way; you’ve unknowingly crossed the line of some Christians in the past and have dealt with their fiery ravings. From knowing Lucy all these years, you seem to have an understanding of their way of life, but then you slip up - use His name in vain, talk about a crush you have no plans to marry a little too fondly. You’ll be chewing on your third forkful and look up at the table, meeting ghastly stares and wanting to smack yourself in the face for completely forgetting grace. 

Lucy never scorned you about forgetting or misunderstanding the rules. She knew that you didn’t mean any malice, you just simply… thought it was all a little silly sometimes. Between lighthearted Lucys and tyrannical Karens, it felt like walking on a minefield. So, you guess, you do know these people; it’s their unpredictability that worries you. 

The claustrophobia wanes as you enter the nave. The ceiling spreads out, breathes, and is lined with stained glass windows that bend the moonlight into faint rainbows. Some of the outermost pews have been moved to accommodate long tables, adorned in chestnut velour, copper filigree and serve as the throne for only the most impressive squashes of the harvest. A buffet joins the autumnal decor, sitting in sterling silver that you can imagine was forged at the beginning of the century and is used only for occasions such as these. 

Ever atune to your mind and body, Lucy pulls you into the line of hungry patrons just as your stomach grumbles. You’re transfixed by the magnificent altar at the back of this illustrious cave, your eyes climbing up the grand steps of the sanctuary to the stone table where you know the priest stands when mass is held. You try to picture one giving a sermon and reciting from scriptures. Doesn’t he have a cup or something too?…

A plate is stuck in front of you, waving a little, and the priest laughs at you when he finally gets your attention. You take the plate with a little embarrassment, your smile a sheepish one. “Sorry,” you mumble with pity. 

The tall, wispy-haired man smiles with his teeth and places his arthritic hands around one of yours as you hold the plate. “Oh, it’s alright, my child. I myself have gotten lost in the wonders of the cathedral many times.”

Lucy chimes in, reading your awkward gaze. “It’s her first time,” she whispers with a little too much excitement for your liking. The priest puts on a goofy surprised expression, his eyebrows going up and his mouth forming a small 'o'. He looks back to you with a softer smile, “What a beautiful thing to witness, then. I’m Father Gala, pleased to meet you.” 

“There’s no one better to come here with for the first time than Miss Finkle. You’re in very good hands.” As you nod in agreement, you can’t help but wonder… what would this elder man, in his starched and pressed vestments, think if he knew you and Lucy had “practiced” kissing so you’d know what you were doing when the “real thing” happened? 

You wave the thought away like a gnat, not wanting to feel like you’re keeping another clean secret that’s considered dirty by some. You’re already under the guise of being a practicing Christian; Lucy had said they were more readily accepted than anyone else, despite the church’s proclamation of aiming for cultural diversity. 

The choir has ended their singing, replaced by applause then the soft, overlapping chatter of the religious folk, and their red robes merge seamlessly into the surrounding crowd. Three other priests emerge from doors on either side of the sanctuary, two from the door closer to you and one from the other. You don’t get a good look at the singular man, since the door is on the opposite side of the grand hall from you. The two others are deep in talk, gesturing with their hands and keeping their faces close to one another while they walk as to not let anyone eavesdrop. You move ahead in line and depart from the eldest priest, whom the two new faces greet and guide a few feet away from everyone. 

You don’t mean to pry, but you can’t help your curiosity and look back at the men. You can’t hear them, only watching their mouths move, but Father Gala’s sweet smile grows somber, then bitter. With scowling brows to match, the other two priests keep up their gestures laden with well-maintained passion as they tell Father Gala a story. 

In the first lull of this conversation, the eldest priest, with his arms crossed over his chest, flickers his eyes to yours without moving his head. Your heart springs from your chest to your throat. His glower lessens when he bites the inside of his cheek, but you feel a doubling, tripling of stress when the other two priests turn to look at you too. The taller one, with a jet black, scraggly bowl cut, mirrors Father Gala and crosses his arms. He looks down his long nose at you in dignified annoyance. The third, with stocky limbs and strawberry blonde hair, glares at you from his periphery. Your eyes widen, in an attempt to show them you’re not a threat, expose your remorseful guilt, or provide a silent apology, you don’t know.

Lucy snaps you back forward with a gentle push against your back to get you to move in the line. You’ve finally reached the buffet, but suddenly the smells that wandered up your nose in wispy, tempting little tendrils earlier instead worm their way down your esophagus and instill a powerful nausea. She can sense your discomfort, your disorientation from what just happened, and supplies your plate for you. With a protective gaze over your head at the men, and a loving hand on your bicep, she guides you to sit in the pew farthest away from them. 

She has to stick a fork in your petrified fist for you to speak. “What the hell was that about?” You question, chancing a glance over your shoulder at the offending party and see that they’ve gone off to greet guests with friendly smiles again. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, they just looked worried and-“

Lucy pats your knee once, “Don’t worry. There must be some sort of drama happening behind the scenes, something that the town would inquire about. Since they’re priests, they think they have immunity from gossip.” She scoffs lightly and you think you catch your devout friend rolling her eyes at those most holy. “They’ve been acting weird for a while now, off and on. One week, Father Gala is like Mr. Rogers, and the next, he’s Dracula.” 

That earns a snort from you, hiding your smile behind the back of your hand. She gives you a reassuring smile, filled with her signature warmth that’s comforted you all these years, “You’re doing great. Now eat.” 

Thankfully, your nausea has quelled enough that you taste the delicious food as it’s meant to be tasted. Maybe you don’t have to worry about foraging during your stay in this town void of all fast food, only relying on two quaint grocery stores to feed itself. You’ll just have to become friends with whoever made this delectably gooey mac and cheese. 

Lucy interrupts you, “Oh, by the way,” she covers her full mouth and then swallows, pointing daintily, “that’s Father Thorn,” at the tall one, “and that’s Father Angus,” at the blonde one. You nod once in understanding, taking a look at their faces to match their names with, before Lucy turns away with a laugh. She teases under her breath, “Maybe they’re all pissed they could never be as handsome as Father Pike.” 

“Priests can be handsome?” you ask of the mysterious fourth priest, bemused. Priests, deacons, popes and the like all conjure up images of men with wrinkles as delicate and numerous as the pages in the ancient books they abide by. If they’re not a million years old, they’re unsightly at best and possess a visceral lack of sensuality, like Father Thorn and Father Angus. Lucy has got to be pulling your leg. 

“Yes,” she breathes, a soft pink blooming in her cheeks, “and young, and warm, and have a voice that makes every sermon a lullaby, and big, tender hands…” she trails off in a dream.

You let out a laugh, amused by her dramatics. “Oh, so he’s really ugly, then,” you sneer, trying to expose her hyperbole. 

She giggles at your tone, shaking her head. You reign down on her, spurring her giggles on with a barrage of sarcasm until they’re uncontrollable.

“Is that why this place doesn’t have gargoyles, because he can take its place? Does he have leathery skin,” you drag your hands down your face, pulling your cheeks down to expose your eyes, “rotted fangs,” hold your hands by your mouth and snarl your fingers, “hairy feet with long, twisting toenails that tear through his shoes?” You get up and drag your feet along the floor, growling and licking your lips rabidly. 

Lucy doubles over, tears threatening to spill over her eyes every time her lungs have to suck in a breath, “Stop!” She’s wheezing and you drop the act, putting your hands on your hips. 

“Well, you gotta tell me if I’m wrong or not!” Tapping your foot, you await her retaliation, until a voice warm with a smile cuts through the air.

“You forgot the giant rat’s tail that drags behind me.” 

Your heart stops for a second, thumping wildly when it starts up again to catch the missed beats. Turning tentatively on your heel, you’re met with… exactly what Lucy described. 

Before you is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, if not the most handsome ever. Chocolate waves that crest over top one another in a cute, slightly overgrown style glisten like ganache on top of his head in the candlelight. He’s got a scruffy beard that’s cut close to his cheeks and jaw, avoiding looking unkempt, threaded with two or three streaks of gray. His aquiline nose is gorgeous, there’s a little dimple in his cheek that deepens as he’s smiling, and his eyes… oh, his eyes…

“I’m Father Pike,” he extends his hand in greeting, keeping his other tucked behind his back. He has to bend forward slightly to reach your height better, aiding your descent into enchanted madness as he gets closer. You take his hand and introduce yourself- GOD Lucy was right. His grasp is light, comforting. Where Father Gala made you feel stuck in his eternal cage, Father Pike sets you free. You fall into a stupor fantasizing about what his hugs must feel like.

He smells like cinnamon. It could be from the pie you suspect he ate, from the apple undertones you detect, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just how he naturally smelled. A warm, cozy, inviting dream; he sure looked like one, at least. 

His gaze lingers on your expression frozen with intrigue before he turns and welcomes Lucy. They begin a polite banter that allows you to stand back and try to quell your blood that throbs with nerve. If you had known someone like Father Pike was going to be here, you would’ve dressed in something nicer, possibly sexy - the modesty expected in a place of worship be damned. You curse yourself for choosing these well-worn jeans and roomy sweater over the opaque tights and a dress of an acceptable length you were going back and forth on in your mirror earlier. But, in an odd sort of way, you still felt exposed in front of Father Pike from underneath all your thick layers. You couldn’t hide yourself from him, no matter how many clothes you armored yourself with. 

He turns back to you, and he doesn’t ogle your nervous body, or try desperately not to; he looks into your eyes with a soft smile that crinkles the skin around those big brown puddles. It makes your chest feel like it has a big, gaping cavity that you could look inside of and see your heart thumping hard, vulnerable blood spilling from all your edges and trickling down your legs. The flustered emotions of a blooming crush rapidly morph into something malicious and parasitic, causing you to put the back of your hand to your forehead that has broken out in clamminess. It’s hard to hear Father Pike over the rushing buzz in your head when he speaks to you.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, are you new?” 

And just like that, your knees start trembling beneath you. Your heart misses a beat, causing your lungs to seize in anger and you suck in a harsh breath. In a flash, Father Pike’s friendliness snaps into genuine concern and he steps forward, taking your elbows and catching you on your way to the floor. You make a startled sound and his timbre slashes through your panic, “Let’s get you sat down somewhere, okay?” 

You can barely muster a nod, tears threatening to spill over your eyes and join the rivulets of sweat on your cheeks. Father Pike more or less carries you by your middle as you pathetically cling to his arms, dragging your debilitated form a short distance to a secluded, abandoned pew by the door he entered from earlier in the evening. Father Pike sits you down and takes the place right beside you, putting his left arm around your shoulders and his right hand in yours. As soon as you’re grounded on the unforgiving wood, your vision stops spinning, even though you didn’t realize it had started. Breathing suddenly feels easy again, returning to its involuntary glory instead of being laborious. It’s like your body resumed its regularly scheduled programming with an invisible snap. 

Away from the hub of the crowd, his voice seems louder, its velveteen quality more clear, “You alright?” 

You take a precautionary, steadying breath before meeting his eyes, fearful that something in him will set off all your alarms again. But when you meet his eyes, everything is serene. “Y-yeah, I’m okay.”

A pause to verify your sincerity, and then he chuckles, trying to uplift the atmosphere with a lighthearted tone, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just…”

You laugh, as much as you can muster in your breathless state, “No, no, you didn’t!” He retracts his hand from yours slowly and you instinctively grasp his forearm with a reassuring touch. Once you notice what you’re doing, you let go of him with an embarrassment like he’s burning you. “I- I don’t really know what happened, all of the sudden I just felt… sick.” With your confession, a wave of nausea infiltrates your stomach and makes you feel a little queasy again. It’s climbing to its previous intensity quickly. The fossilized church feels like it could cave in on you at any moment. 

Father Pike touches your shoulder softly, “I’m going to go get you some water, okay?” You nod and the waning gleam in your eye sends him swiftly disappearing into the crowd. 

A decent number of paces away, an older woman looks at you with fear as Lucy speaks to her, no doubt explaining your abrupt qualm. Drawing any more attention than you already have will just worsen your panic, so you thwart the drama. You raise your hand at her with a thin-lipped smile to deter her worry and she places her hand over her heart with a happy sigh before walking away.

Father Pike reappears behind Lucy and drifts by her with your drink clutched tight in his hand. Lucy’s eyes flit from the priest’s chivalry to your shy, measly form and she raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth with a scoffing smile. You could read your best friend’s face better than written word: she thinks that you’re doing this on purpose to get the Father’s attention. 

You wish you could say you were reeling him in with salacious spite, however, you were anything but. Your illness was true and unforgiving. You shake your head at her in defiance, but you can tell she doesn’t buy it. She turns away to busy herself with the rest of the party, but really she’s intending to give the two of you some privacy from the wink thrown over her shoulder. With a roll of your eyes, you think about how you’ll have to defend yourself with a foolproof case under her gavel later tonight. 

Father Pike retakes his seat next to you, handing you the bottle of water, unopened, that your puny fingers struggle with. Kindly, he offers his hand and you pass over the bottle for him to open. He hands it back to you and sits hunched over his lap, hands clasped between his open legs, staring at you intently as you take a few slow sips. You feel a little awkward, looking down at the bottle in your hands and fidgeting with the wrapper on the outside, so you take a note from his book and try to lighten the mood, “I knew I wasn’t a big fan of parties, but I didn’t know I was this bad.” You chuckle dryly, risking a glance at him. It works: he’s laughing with you. 

“I’m not a big party person, either,” he smiles, his dimple creasing within his beard. You raise an eyebrow at him, a little befuddled by his statement, given he inserts himself into the lives of others for a living. He takes your hint, “I enjoy talking to people, giving sermons and all of that… but even this feels a little overwhelming for me.” You nod, finding comfort in the fact that you’re on the same page. He keeps that endearing smile with a measuring eye as he continues watching you, looking from the crease of your brow to how your legs squirm uncomfortably. 

There’s something about this man that makes you feel… transparent. Like how you felt exposed to him earlier, even underneath all your coarsely knitted layers. You feel like a fraud, sitting next to one of the holiest figures in the entire congregation. And for some reason, out of all of the people here, you feel that he deserves the truth. There’s nothing about him that has given you any indication that he won’t turn on you like the rest would if you confess to your disguise, but at the same time… he makes you feel safe. Of course, he just recovered you from some undisclosed blight, but you can write that off as convenience. You were sick, he was right there, certainly he would’ve tended to you. There must be some moral code within the priesthood to never let a sick person lie. But even before that, putting aside his obvious handsomeness, there was something in his eyes that held you. Let you know that it was all okay. You decide to ply him with honesty. 

“Um… so, I’m not very religious. Like, at all.” Your voice is a little shaky, worried if his nice-guy facade will finally melt away to reveal a sneering orthodox. He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, so you keep going. 

“So, if I’m not religious, and I’m drinking this, does that mean…” You trail off in question, and he doesn’t understand what you’re getting at. 

“It’s holy, right?” You raise the water. 

Father Pike looks like he can’t believe what you just asked. He shakes his head in amusement, void of condescension, leaning the slightest bit closer towards you. He lowers his voice slightly, protecting you from any invasive ears. He softly explains, “Just because it’s water in a church doesn’t mean it’s holy. A priest or some other figure has to bless it.” His smirk deepens at your visible relief, “You’re not sinning, or anything near it. You’re perfect.” 

He said you’re… what? Your heart skips again but this time it’s not from sickness. Well... is it sick to be attracted to someone who is virtually untouchable? You get to thinking; you know enough about the church and its inner workings to know that priests usually take a vow of celibacy. Consequently, most never date or get married. Does that mean… are they barred from all things sensual? Are they allowed to tenderly brush their fingers against someone else’s, and not for the purpose of prayer? Can they share a glance that lingers a little too long for it to be considered chaste? Can they… can they even think about anything remotely sexual? 

There’s no way that can be true. You can understand physical celibacy, sure, but it’s impossible for one not to have a thought that makes them quiver at least once in their life. In your own experience, sensuality sometimes has nothing to do with sex. You’ve felt the warmth of eroticism lying under the sun’s rays in the middle of spring, savoring a delicious meal, when you finish a book with a satisfying conclusion. If Father Pike starves himself of such pleasures, you can’t fight the pity that chokes you. 

“What if they have priests at the packaging plant?” You joke, hoping to simultaneously break the silence that has swelled between you two and put a wedge in your brain’s cogs so they’ll stop churning. 

Father Pike laughs, genuinely from his belly, and oh you could get used to that sound. His eyes crinkle at their corners with a grin, “Then the church would be thrilled at our outreach.” 

You go to take another sip of your water, but his hand comes out to touch yours. The impossible delicacy almost makes you flinch. He puts gentle pressure on your skin, making you stop in your tracks. He shifts closer to you, his voice dropping an octave, warning you, “I’d be careful though; there is a possibility that you could grow rotted fangs and hairy feet, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Your fluttering nerves make your laugh squeak out of your tightened throat, louder than you intended, in a bark. Slightly mortified, you hide your smile behind the hand that isn’t suspended in the air by Father Pike. With mercy, he releases you. 

“What about a rat’s tail?” You ask with a teasing glint in your eye. 

He ponders for a moment, comically deep in thought. “That only affects the most sinful of us,” he reveals. 

...What? That was flirty, right? It had to be flirty. There’s no way he didn’t mean it to be flirty. Your imagination can be very active at times, but there was no mistaking the twitch of his mustache to repress a smirk. 

Trying to ignore the furious heat that has instantaneously kindled between your thighs based on that singular tone change, you latch the bottle to your mouth and avert your eyes elsewhere. Out of your periphery, you think you see Father Pike’s shoulders droop and his gaze lower to the ground with a silent huff. Shit, did he take your silence as a blow to his humor? 

You can’t think too much now because the clocks outside in the streets resound ten chimes. Lucy appears and her beaming at the two of you seems to rejuvenate Father Pike a little. He straightens his back before he stands and they begin talking, shaking hands. Their mouths spew unintelligible babble to you as your entire nervous system is locked on one thing: Father Pike’s back. His gorgeous personality had swept you up and away into a cloud of bubbly giggles and blushing cheeks that you hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. Maybe if the robes had made a greater impression on you, they would’ve served as a reminder to restrain yourself from dreaming about the forbidden, but alas. 

Father Pike is dressed identically to the other priests: black clerical shirt, cassock, pants, and shoes, and a white tab collar. But he wears everything so much better. The garments are majorly obscured by the enveloping cassock, but even the thick, flowing fabric can’t hide the broad width of his shoulders. When he gestures with his hands, you can see the muscles move dreamily in reaction by the flickering candlelight. He’s tall, and this fact is only emphasized as you continue to sit motionless on the pew watching him and Lucy. 

When he turns with a hand outstretched to help you to your feet, you bite your lip with ravenous desire. Somehow you didn’t notice - probably because you were too enthralled with everything else about him - how his Adam’s apple sits on glorious display with the white tab collar as its pedestal. The tempting image makes you swallow hard. God, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. 

“Time to get going,” Lucy says, motioning from behind the Father’s back for you to take his hand. You do and stand, drifting to the front of the church on autopilot. It feels like the calm quiet of your time with Father Pike and the chummy, sociable atmosphere of the dinner has dissipated and a sense of urgency has taken root. The friendliness remains in the goodbyes and promises of meeting again you hear all around you, but you’re definitely being ushered out with the rest of the herd. You guess, remembering a tidbit about religious folk, that they have a curfew. 

It feels like you’re being ripped away from Father Pike and you don’t like that. Although you’ve only known him for all but two hours - which sounds ridiculous when you put it like that - you’re desperate to know more. You’d find genuine, complete contentedness in simply watching him go about his daily activities. Recording what details he decides to give you privy to and admiring his boundaries when he reserves himself. He’s the first possibility of a new friend in this conservative township and you don’t want to let him go. 

You’re grateful that he ghosts your back as Lucy leads you to the entrance, it gives you comfort and makes this dream last as long as it can. You don’t sense just how close he’s following behind you until you get to the heavy front doors and the toe of his shoe snags on the heel of yours. It makes you trip and fumble forward, but Father Pike reaches to catch you. His hands grip your waist, molding your oversized sweater to your body. Then, he gently steadies and pulls you back upright. The foreign sensation of your flattened heel tickles your foot and sends you stumbling back into his chest. He looks down at you, his hands still on you, “I-I apologize.”

Through the darkness you see the tips of his ears glow red. Before you can say anything in return, he renders you speechless by getting on his knees. Without a word spoken, moving in tandem with implicit choreography, you lift your foot up so he can fix the heel back into place. He doesn’t give you the choice of wobbling on your lonesome, placing one of your hands on his right shoulder to keep you balanced. And god, you wish he hadn’t done that. 

Your lips part as your breaths gain some weight, but you snap your oblong mouth shut when you hear an ancient, warbly voice. “Oh, no, what have we here?” Father Gala teeters over just as Father Pike finishes retying your shoe. Imperceptibly, you squeeze his shoulder in reverence as he stands up and then you let your hand fall innocently to your side. 

You shrug, giggling a little uncomfortably, “Father Pike stepped on the back of my shoe, it was an accident.” 

“Young and clumsy,” Father Gala jokes, you think, with a grumbly tone. He claps a hand on Father Pike’s left shoulder with more effort than you thought the old man could muster. As Father Pike steadies the elder priest’s cane, you reason he more so fell into Father Pike than anything else. Your favored Father chuckles with accountability. 

Father Gala passes off his cane for a moment to take your hand in his two, like he did when he gave you the dinner plate earlier this evening. Clearly the party has tired him out; his hands are quivering and his back is permanently bent at an angle. “Peace be with you,” he croaks with cheerfulness, despite his withered voice. 

You freeze. You know you’re supposed to say something back to complete this exchange and from the innermost depths of your brain you think it should be a simple phrase, something that any ardent Christian would remember. Between your disinterest in the church and the Father Pike fog that has eclipsed your mind, you’re dumbfounded.

An angel appears in your midst and comes to your rescue: Father Pike, peering into your eyes over the shoulder of the crouched figure before you, mouths the words silently, “And also with you.” 

“And also with you,” you recite amicably. Father Gala smiles, pats your hand twice in delight and turns to give Lucy the same departing sentiment. You release the air of worry you held inside and take a few steps to meet Father Pike, whispering close by his side so only he will hear, “Thank you.” 

The handsome Father closes your height difference by leaning down and pretends to brush some invisible dust off of your shoulder, an excuse to be this close to you. 

“Don’t mention it. Your secret’s safe with me,” he murmurs. 

And you trust him to keep his promise. Sure, he could go behind your back and spill your lies to the other priests, the entire community, let them know that there’s a rat infiltrating their congregation. 

The mischievous sparkle in his gaze as he looks at down you, biting your lip to suppress your giggle and keep your little inside secret just that, tells you he won’t let one word slip. 

Father Gala has returned for his cane, so Father Pike clears his throat and stiffens himself. Clasping his hands together, he builds an appropriate distance between the two of you before anyone sees it was anything otherwise. 

The night winds have picked up, biting at bits of exposed skin with a malevolent appetite. To shield the older priest, Father Pike guides him back into the cathedral. “I hope to see you two back soon,” the handsome Father interjects as you’re turning to leave. 

“We’ll be here Sunday!” Lucy shouts over an unnatural gust that howls and warbles her voice. With one arm over each other’s shoulders, holding tight together, you begin the trek back to her house to take refuge for the night. Behind you, you hear the cathedral doors shut, sealing you off from a final parting glance to Father Pike. You aren’t too disheartened by that and the cold can’t gnaw at your heart, either; Sunday is only two days away and you can’t contain your excitement. 

—— 

The whole night has felt like a whirlwind. To your complete and utter surprise, visiting the church is no longer seems like it’ll be a chore, but rather an opportunity. For what, you’re not exactly sure just yet. But you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks and skirting down your spine at the infinite possibilities. Maybe you should start praying for your salvation now.

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[ruibaozha]

An Exceedingly Brief Introduction to Nezha's Weapons

Hello hello! This post has been re-formatted out of an ask for visibility purposes.

I'm sure items like Nezha's Wind Fire Wheels and Flame Tipped Spear are well known iconography, but in the spirit of over-explaining I would like to describe where these weapons came from among others within his arsenal. This post will overlap with a handful of points I had been saving for a post describing Nezha's military career so I apologize if anything stated becomes redundant.

Did you know that Nezha's conflicts with Ao Guang and the Lady Rock Demoness pre-date the publication of Canonization of the Gods? These stories appear elsewhere succinctly within the Ming-period encyclopedia The Grand Compendium of the Three Religions' Deities which record the careers of more than a hundred divinities, like Guanyin and Mazu (1). One of which described is Nezha. The translated description of his strength is as follows:

Nezha was originally a great arhat-immortal in the service of the Jade Emperor. He was six feet tall, his head crowned by a golden disc. He had six heads, nine eyes, and eight arms. He puffed out dark clouds. He stood on a large rock. His hand weilded an instrument of the law (falü). He roared loudly, summoning clouds and rain, shaking Heaven and Earth. Because the world was full of demon-kings, the Jade Emperor ordered him incarnated on earth ... The demons were all subdued by Nezha: The Bull Demon King, the Lion Demon King, the Elephant Demon King, the Horse-Headed Demon King, the World-Devouring Demon King, the Mother-of-Demons Demon King, the Nine-Headed Demon King, the Tārā Demon King, the Brahmā Demon King, the five-hundred yakshas, and the seventy-two Fire Crows all surrendered to him. (2)

And this reputation as a devout acolyte of either the Buddha or the Jade Emperor depending on which era you are drawing upon is something to be elaborated upon later. The very difference between it being the World-Honored One or the Jade Emperor sending Nezha to quell these demons is worthy of it's own elaborations, however we are here to discuss the two iconic stories that lead to his eventual suicide. Even within the pages of The Grand Compendium he could not escape his own demise:

When he was five days old, Nezha went bathing in the Eastern Ocean. He trampled over the [dragon king's] Crystal Palace. He somersaulted straight to the top of the Precious Pagoda. Because he had trampled over his palace, the infuriated dragon king challenged him to fight. By then, Nezha was already seven days old, and he could overcome the nine dragons. The old dragon had no choice, except complaining to the [Jade] Emperor. The General [Nezha] knew of his intention. Intercepting him by Heaven's Gate, he killed the dragon. Mounting the Jade Emperor's altar, Nezha took the Buddha's bow and arrows. He shot an arrow, unintentionally killing Lady Rock's son. Lady Rock raised an army to fight him. The General [Nezha] took the Demon-Felling Club from his father's altar and, fighting his way Westwards, slew her. Considering that Lady Rock had been the demons' chief, Nezha's father was infuriated. He worried lest his son's killing her would provoke the demon hordes to war. Therefore, the General [Nezha] sliced off his flesh and bones, returning them to his father. Holding fast to his inner soul (zhen ling), he hastened to the Buddha's side, pleading that the World-Honored One make him complete once more. Considering that Nezha could subdue demons, the Buddha snapped a lotus flower. He fashioned it's stem into bones, it's roots into flesh, it's fiber into tendons, and it's leaves into clothes, giving life to Nezha once more. (3)

There are of course similarities and differences but I mention this as it sets forward a number of precedents. Established is the moment Nezha is bathing in the river, the conflict with the dragon king Ao Guang, the presence of a bow and arrow, subjugation of a rock-spirit, and introduction of his iconic lotus motifs to name a few. But more pressingly it helps set the stage for what is perhaps the earliest known documentation of these tales.

Between 1228 and 1250 the Quanzhou Pagodas were constructed, the stone monuments depicting 80 Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, saints, and guardian divinities. The ground floor features ferocious martial gods protecting the stupa's gates so it is not a surprise that Nezha is found here protecting those behind him. Within the southest corner of the Eastern Pagoda's ground level, flanking both sides of the ornamental gate, are the tablets showing a benign and wrathful Nezha.

Notice the dragon beneath his feet, the belt made from it's tendons in his left hand and the divine bow in his right.

Notice the six arms and three heads. Alongside holding a sword, Nezha is also holding both a sun and a moon which was typical of many Tantric deities (4).

I only look so far back to help establish the image of the Nezha I am about to describe. The Song and Ming periods had a penchant for depicting Nezha with a fire-emanating wheel and/or fire-emanating ball such as within Hong Mai's Record of Hearsay (夷堅志). The story follows a Jiangxi ritual master named Cheng who was attacked by a strong stone spirit, he recites the "Spell of Nezha's Fireball" to summon him.

Cheng anxiously recited a spell and walked the Big Dipper Outline. The prodigy showed not the slightest fear and gradually pressed in against his body. Cheng realized that this was a stone spirit. Consequently he recited the "Spell of Nezha's Fireball" and, forming a mudrā, recited: "Divine General! Can you tolerate a wang-liang demon obstructing my way? Expel him forthwith!" Suddenly a fireball emerged from behind Cheng's body and struggled with the black lump. After a while a noise burst out, like clashing metal, and the black lump disappeared. The fireball made several revolutions around Cheng's body and also vanished. (5)

The Ming-era fiction, theatre dramas and overly-flattering literature largely named Nezha's fiery weapon as a Dharma wheel, a fire wheel, or a golden wheel. Within The Grand Compendium Nezha is using the Dharma wheel, in Zhu Youdun's The Bodhisattva Manjusri Subjugates the Lion Nezha is using the golden wheel against the fearsome animal, and the 1592 edition of The Journey to the West describes his "lightning-propelled fire wheel"(6). The presence of the fire wheel is not completely unique to Nezha though as it is an ancient emblem of Buddhist law, a similarly Ming-era mural within the Beijing Fahai Temple showing a Tantric deity with six arms and a weapon held by each. The flame wheel is also present here.

The flame wheel was not alone though, often Nezha would have an embroidered ball accompanying it. The Journey to the West would explain it's use in conjunction with the flaming wheel: "The lightning propelled fire wheel was like darting flame; Hither and thither the embroidered ball rotated"(7).

Even Nezha's golden brick has it's roots. Mark Meulenbeld has argued that the golden brick used against his brother Muzha within Canonization of the Gods has origins in Ming Daoist scriptures. The ritual compendium The Daoist Methods United in Principle, which predates Canonization by over two centuries, recommends the use of golden bricks for locking demons in bottles (8).

Equally an argument can be made that Nezha's Wind Fire Wheels and Flame Tipped spear have roots within Daoist exorcism with Buddhist overlap. By the fifteenth century edition of The Daoist Methods United in Principle Nezha is described weilding the golden brick, a golden spear, and riding fire wheels(9).

There are of course other weapons to address, like his qiankun pouch, the qiankun hoop, his sky ribbon, and the Nine Dragon Holy Fire Cover. Please let me know if there is curiosity for these other weapons.

Citations:

(1) This compendium survives presently in both a Ming-era edition titled Sanjiao yuanliu shengdi fozu sou shen daquan (三教源流搜神大全) and a Qing-era edition titled Huitu sanjiao yuanliu soushen daquan (绘图三教搜神大全).

(2) Within the Ming-era edition this description is present on pages 326-327. Within the Qing-era edition, 330-331.

(3) Within the Ming-era edition this is described on page 326. Within the Qing-era edition, page 330.

(4) It is worth saying that this well may not be Nezha. The pagodas lack cartouches. Within Twin Pagodas of Zayton G. Ecke and P. Demiéville cite a local tradition to identify the three-headed six-armed guardian as an asura demon and the opposite image as the dragon king Sāraga. However a proper association between the images is never made and both the bow and tendons are unexplained.

(5) The translation used here is by Edward Davis within Society and the Supernatural on pages 47-48. Within Hong Mai's Yijian zhi the original is on pages 1429-1430. Davis identifies Cheng as a village ritual master and thus distinguished from Daoist priests. However, Li Fengmao's Wuying xinyang on pages 573-574 highlights the orthodox Daoist elements within Cheng's performance.

(6) It may be worth comparing editions here. Take the Ming and Qing era editions of The Grand Compendium page 326 and page 330 respectively against Wu Cheng'en's Journey to the West 4.44, translated by Anthony Yu on 1:129.

(7) This is also Anthony Yu's translation within 1:129.

(8) Daofa huiyuan, DZ 1220, 240.11a, 138.13a and Fahai yizhu, DZ 1166, 15.17a; Meulenbeld's chapter 5 of Demonic Warfare.

(9) Daofa huiyuan, DZ 1220, 138.13a.

#li nezha #lmk nezha #nezha #nezha reborn #nezha 2019 #monkie kid nezha #the legend of nezha #nezha lego monkie kid

[ninareviewsfilms]

Queering the heteronormative… but make it pink

“I'm a homosexual! I'm a homosexual! I'm a homosexual! Oh my god... they were right. I'm a homo.”

Released in 1999, But I’m a Cheerleader is truly an iconic, camp-filled queer film ahead of its time. I remember stumbling across this film when I was 13. Perfect timing for someone questioning their sexuality, and life in general. I was immediately hooked so watching But I’m a Cheerleader has become a ritual of sorts; it has become my favorite queer film. Uneducated and unfamiliar with queer media, the younger me was immediately drawn to the B-movie chick-flick aesthetic (I was, and still am, a devourer of chick-flicks). Little did I know I was about to watch a genius concoction of satire that subverts the heteronormative by whimsically playing with outrageous queer stereotypes.

Played exquisitely by Natasha Lyonne, the protagonist Megan is sent to a conversion camp by her devout Christian parents, believing her to be a lesbian (oh no). In denial, Megan exasperates: “I’m not perverted. I get good grades. I go to church. I’m a cheerleader!”.

Arriving at the camp, we see two outrageously exaggerated gender roles of men and women. The men are dressed in baby blue uniforms, while the women are adorned with pastel pink skirts. On top of the artificially binary gender roles, we also have all the typical stereotypes of queer people: the flamboyant gays, closeted homophobes, goth and butch lesbians, and our very own lipstick lesbian protagonist. The introduction of the camp already reveals the absurdity of heteronormative stereotypes and their enforcement. The film continuously jabs at such norms while Megan begins her journey of self-discovery – coming to terms with her sexuality – in an overtly ridiculous yet candid way.

And on top of tackling such heavy topics humorously, the film also manages to have a very adorable and genuine romance between Megan and Graham (oh Clea DuVall, my bisexual awakening).

Graham, a rebel, and unwavering lesbian is everything pink-loving, ‘girly’ cheerleader Megan is not. They bicker constantly about ideals, and what it means to be gay or straight. With such contrasting personalities, the romantic sparks that fly is undeniable and beautiful to witness. I remember crying; it was the first unapologetically queer film I watched after all. This intricate play into different queer stereotypes stylistically subverts the heteronormative, showing how all types of queer people are valid and inevitable, regardless of their appearance and interests.

Perhaps my favorite aspect of the film, is how Megan's ‘lesbianism’ was to be forced out by the conversion camp, but instead, she learned to accept her sexuality, fall in love, and ended up queerer than ever. The film’s message may be told in a satirical and quirky way, but it is simple: being gay is okay. After years of relentlessly (and yummily) consuming queer media, this is still one of (if not) the only sapphic films with a happy ending. Despite the traumatic backstories of everyone, they all learn to accept themselves, and the world around them. But I’m a Cheerleader was pivotal in the discovery of my own sexuality, and it did it in such an endearing and understandable way that together with Megan, I also learned to accept my sexuality.

#but im a cheerleader #clea duvall #natasha lyonne #film review #queer

[dathwan]

Be steadfast and persevere in this most blessed undertaking to live a devout life.

St. Francis De Sales, Introduction To The Devout Life, Pg. 205

#Favorite Saint Quotes AJD #Introduction To The Devout Life AJD

[fearless-eagle]

Introduction to the Devout Life—PART IV—CHAPTER XIII. Of Spiritual and Sensible Consolations, and how to receive them

Introduction to the Devout Life—PART IV—CHAPTER XIII. Of Spiritual and Sensible Consolations, and how to receive them

The order of God’s Providence maintains a perpetual vicissitude in the material being of this world; the day is continually turning to night, spring to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to spring; no two days are ever exactly alike. Some are foggy, rainy, some dry or windy; and this endless variety greatly enhances the beauty of the universe. And even so precisely is it with man…

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#and how to receive them #Introduction to the Devout Life—PART IV—CHAPTER XIII. Of Spiritual and Sensible Consolations

[snapdragonsimming]

Author's Note and Transcript Under the Cut

(AN: Hello! Thank you for stopping by and checking out my fledgling fundie simblr. I’m by no means new to simblr, but because this blog and story is new, I figure an introduction is due.

So: hey, I’m Talia! I had another fundie simblr a few years back (it’s now inactive for a multitude of reasons), but like a certain someone, I have risen again! My fundie sims obsession was reignited over the summer after I joined a wonderful fundie sims-themed Discord server. Somehow they convinced me to make a new blog, and a few months later, here we are! In the intervening years I continued to lurk, so if you’re an active fundie simblr, I’m probably a fan of your story.

I’ve been playing the de la Cruz family for a while now and they have a special place in my heart- I can’t wait to share them with everyone else! Get ready for lots of God-honoring drama, mildly dubious baby names, and leopard-print modesty undershirts. Note that as the de la Cruzes are fundamentalists and this story is satire-heavy, there will be some viewpoints expressed that I very much disagree with. I’ll trigger tag certain sensitive subjects (e.g. physical violence, miscarriages) as ‘tw [thing]’ but fundie-typical bullshit will go untagged for the sake of my sanity.

Some basic housekeeping stuff to wrap up this far-too-long intro note: I have a queue full of posts ready to go, but I’m a busy student with unpleasant things like homework and AP classes, so I’m still not sure how frequently I’ll post. I’ll do my best to ensure that stays consistent, though, and if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to reach out via my askbox or DMs!)

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PRAISING HIM!

Every Sunday, Praising Him! features a family dedicated to spreading the Word. Today we meet the de la Cruzes, a San Sequoian family of 16.

When Alejandro and Alina (née Fletcher) de la Cruz married at nineteen, they could not have imagined what would come next! Over the past twenty-six years, the couple has made faith the centerpiece of their lives, and has continued to “Praise Him!” through the ups and downs of busy family life.

Read more about their family below!

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Alejandro, 45, works as a programmer at United Christian Publishers, and holds a Distinguished Degree in Computer Science from Foxbury Christian University. He began his journey into higher education not at 18, like many students, but at 26, shortly after the birth of his seventhborn, Cecilia! Owing to his unique circumstances, he chose to enroll in a six-year program that enabled him to work full-time as a freelance programmer in addition to his courseload. Though money was tight at times, the Lord provided, and Alejandro welcomed five bundles of joy (including a darling set of twins!) with wife Alina while enrolled at Foxbury. Whew!

Alina, 45, has chosen to fulfill God’s design for women by staying at home with her family. Raised in a devout household, she always knew He was calling her toward marriage and motherhood, and she says the “greatest blessing” in her life was the day she gave birth to her eldest son Gabriel, ten months after her wedding day and just shy of her twentieth birthday. In addition to raising and homeschooling the seven de la Cruz children who have yet to graduate, Alina is active in her church and in Institute for Strong Christian Standards (ISCS) circles, and enjoys spending time with her four (soon to be five!) beautiful grandbabies. A true Proverbs 31 woman if we’ve ever seen one!

You may recognize Gabriel de la Cruz and his lovely wife Esther, 23, from last summer’s print edition of Praising Him! At just 25, Gabriel is a rising star in the Christian legal world, coming to the aid of innocent Simericans simply trying to practice their faith. Ten months ago, they welcomed their first little girl, Abigail, and just last week they announced the upcoming arrival of their second child! Congratulations to them.

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Althea Brown (née de la Cruz), 24, is following in her mother’s footsteps and proud of it! The young woman, who wed husband John-David, 28, three years ago, resides in Newcrest and is a content stay-at-home-mother of two.

Jasmine Booth (née de la Cruz), 23, known to friends and family as “Jazzy,” is enjoying the bliss of new parenthood alongside her husband of two years, Jason!

The first set of de la Cruz twins, Joshua and Sofia, 21, are both unattached and living at home. Sofia is pursuing a calling in missionary work, and Joshua is hard at work saving money and praying for his future family. “If you’re reading this as a young Christian woman,” Sofia jests, “have your father write into Praising Him! and I’ll set up a date with Josh!”

Caterina de la Cruz, 20, is diligently knitting, crocheting, sewing, embroidering, and cross-stitching her way through her season of singleness! Though she prays every day for her Prince Charming (nonbelievers need not apply!), she assures Praising Him! that she’s quite content to assist her mother in running the busy de la Cruz household in the interim.

Cecilia de la Cruz, 18, the only unmarried de la Cruz not living at home, declined to comment.

The rest of the de la Cruz children, who range in age from 8 to 17, are kept busy with homeschooling, ISCS conferences, music practice, and Bible study.

If you would like to get in touch with the de la Cruz family, click here to send a message!

#** #fs #de la cruz family #booth family #brown family #portrait #media #recap #fundie sims #quiverfull sims #homeschool sims #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #ts4 story #sims 4 #sims 4 story #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #maxis match simmer #new simblr #intro post #the sims #the sims 4