Trans Christian

"In a tight-knit community, such as the early Christian community was: a community where people called each other "brother" and "sister" -it would be expected that one would find more examples of informal communism than one would expect in the wider society. In a sense we could say that the early Christian community was formed as a fictive kin group; and generally speaking, communism is the natural relationship among people who consider each other to be kin."

Roman A. Montero | All Things in Common; Economic Practices of the Early Christians

Remember, oh most gracious Virgin Mary….. that sometimes I’m an idiot and need your help

I was yesterday years old when I found out Jesus had as many as if not more than 6 siblings

just. john the apostle. john the beloved. john the youngest. john who rests his head on jesus' shoulders while he speaks. john who stayed with the women during the passion & wasnt ashamed of sharing their pain. john who got to the empty tomb before anyone else. john the patron saint of love & friendship & loyalty & writers & poets. my good friend john

Merry Christmas sleepyheads !

The Chapel of Our Lady of the Snows in Antarctica, the southernmost church in the world

do you guys think jesus, the son of a carpenter, smelt the wood of the cross & temporarily thought of home

St Michael the Archangel and St Joan of Arc

i don't know what gay draping themselves sensually while bleeding out needs to hear this but st sebastian survived the arrows. let yourself be tended to and let the holes scar over. we have work to do. you need to harangue every empire in your path, to prophesy to your archers. you must become irene and nurse others bleeding back to health. yes spoiler alert we'll all be beaten to death if we keep it up but so it goes. we've never claimed to have a practical religion, just one that looks good suffering in paintings and then comes back to life. the second bit is longer and harder than the first. may as well start today

John sleeps. 

He’s the youngest, the sweetest, the one who picks up flowers to put them in your hair, who joins in every time Mary starts to sing, who kisses the back of your ear when you’re stressed.

He’s also the one who drinks too much wine very early in the evening & passes out accordingly. & hey, you say, it happens. He looks at you with half-lidded eyes & a lopsided smile. He’s tired, he says, & you put a hand on his forehead & let him go. The remaining eleven will tease him mercilessly once he wakes, but for now they’re too busy passing bottles of wine around. 

Before God took him by the hand this cherubin-faced fisherman would spend the hours down the dock with his father. Sunrise to dawn, the sun hitting his naked back, turning soft skin into gold. Sharing with his brother jokes only they could understand. Calloused hands where there should only be gentleness. But then again, only time for resting was time for prayer, & you swear you can see him: fresh-faced & even younger, on his knees asking for his neighbours to have something to eat that day, for the ache in his father’s back to diminish, for his brother to sleep soundly for one night.

The wind makes the curls in his head dance, & there’s a phantom ache somewhere inside you, a divine calling to let your fingers card through them. Wake him up. Ask him to pray with you. Kiss the palm of his hands. Rest your head on his shoulder.

There are so many things a body can do when it loves. So many things this skin will long for once it is all done. 

Tonight the light disappears down the garden, as it always does. Tonight you get to carve the edge of his nose for the last time. Tonight, alone & frightened, you have nothing but the memories of warm bodies against your own, & it should be enough. The soft caress of a memory, it should be enough. 

Tonight, the night you know will be the last night, he’s there, peaceful & beautiful & surrounded by the golden evening light. 

It should be enough, it isn’t. 

But you know that, just like the rest of you, he doesn’t get to sleep much these days. 

John sleeps, & you let him. Your only wish that God doesn’t wake him before you’re gone. 

⁠— John Sleeps, Dante Émile