Georg Poppe Joan Of Arc Burning At The Stake

well first of all we’re supposed to conform ourselves to Christ, not to gender, so jot that down—

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

cat with orthodox icons

not a day passes where i don't think of this butch mary magdalene painting

St. Mary Magdalene (oil, 2009) by Jim Vogel

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.

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

I think this is the comfiest my art has ever been. Every time I look at it I want to take a nap

No one is beyond compassion or mercy. This is a basic Christian fact