Cant Pray My Way Out Of It But I Can Pray My Way Through It Thats How This Works

in a situationship w God

lord above blessed be the queer kids this Easter. for you died to save each and everyone of us. our queerness is not a sin, but a gift, and you rose again to let us live a life in love. I love you I love you I love you.

Podgórski Cemetery in Kraków, Poland on the evening of All Saints Day.

Read more about the origins of the custom in Poland here: Dziady / Zaduszki / Pominki.

Photos © Krzysztof Kalinowski / LoveKraków.pl

thinking about when my friend found a book from the 70s in a church office with truly some of the most insane prayers I have ever heard

from Philadelphia Gay News, 1976

Jesus, appearing to the disciples after the crucifixion: peace be - stop screaming, it's just me - peace be unto you

i am obsessed with janet mckenzie’s art.

jesus did not appear to his mother first. some may say that, but the title of the first seeing, the apostle of apostles, belongs to mary magdalene, the saintly penitent-- the bible tells us so. god in flesh appeared not to his rock, but to little magdalene. she is quick to tell all, even when others look at her with disbelief and, maybe, even a little fear. she's seen him! the christ! how could she keep her lips sealed? it would be like asking her heart to stop in her chest.

when she tells mary, mary weeps. mary believes-- always has, ever since the savior of all was but an embryo in her womb. since he was a helpless infant at her breast. a mischievous child. the boy who would pierce her heart. yes, mary knows that her son has risen, believes the magdalene with her whole heart.

but

but where was he? why had the other marys seen him, and the rock, and the beloved, why had he appeared to them all but not her? and mary, mother of god, the mother of humanity, doubts. not in her son's brilliance. not in his resurrection, or in his love of her. she doubts herself. why would he not come to her? had she failed him so on calvary, standing and weeping, that he no longer wished to see her? was he angry? she knew he loved her, as he loved all, but it hurt, hurt to see the magdalene's happy tears and know not if he smelled the same reborn as he did when she first held him.

mary weeps. not in front of the others, her children, her boys and girls, beloved disciples of her christ, but alone, as she prays.

"woman, why are you crying?"

the voice is soft, and mournful. there is guilt hidden there, that only a mother could hear. and at once, she is back, back with her embryo, back with her baby, her mischievous child marred with holes. he is wounded, scarred, perfect, and he is alive.

transgenderism isn’t an ideology it’s a gift from God actually