It’s been three days since my last argument with a Facebook asshole about LGBTQ stuff, and I’m still simmering from it. I think I let things like that affect me way more than I should. Maybe I really am a bleeding heart hippie.
Can’t we all just sing “Kum-Ba-Yah” together?
It’s not easy for me to sit back and just take it when randos are slinging homophobic/transphobic slurs, suicide jokes, and even pedophilia accusations against you and your favorite people. Why are some folks so eager to say disgusting, slanderous things about entire groups of people they don’t even know? It literally baffles me — I can’t wrap my mind around it. I wouldn’t say things remotely as heinous against strangers I simply don’t agree with. My momma raised me better than that.
I’m tempted to call these people evil, but I won’t. I will call it as I see it — their actions are evil —-but to borrow a phrase so often weaponized against the queer community, “love the sinner, hate the sin.” You see, the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s fear. And these people are lashing out like scared dogs at things they don’t understand.
The Bible itself says “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). When you don’t understand something, the human tendency is to fear it. And often, that fear becomes hate. When I was a kid, I was afraid of the dark because I didn’t know what was hiding in it. I hated being in the dark for that reason. But the dark was never bad — I just didn’t understand it.
I think these people who blindly hate those who are unlike them simply don’t know love. I understand that many people didn’t have a lot of love growing up — maybe their families were abusive, or perhaps they were bullied. That will lead to a life of fear, and a life of fear is a life of hate. The antidote is love.
Whenever I see transphobic memes online, I think of my girlfriend Olivia. I can’t wrap my mind around how anyone could possibly hate her. But they don’t know her like I know her, because to know her is to love her. I wish everyone had an Olivia to show them what love means.
So instead of letting fear win, let love in. Show love wildly, recklessly, with no remorse. Love your enemies. Love the people who persecute you. Love the people who call you names or make nasty accusations or tell you to kill yourself.
Welcome to my inaugural Sunday morning coffee, where I take a spiritual lesson I’m learning and share it for everyone. I’m not going to pretend I’m this enlightened guru or pastor — I’m just a random weirdo with a blog who likes to write about this kind of stuff. But I feel like I can bring an interesting perspective to the metaphorical table when it comes to scripture, spirituality, and the like, being a queer eclectic Christian married to a mostly agnostic Jewish woman.
So I was doomscrolling through my Facebook updates when I noticed a friend posted this:
I don’t even have a witty caption for this.
To say I was livid would be an understatement. My blood is still boiling as I type this, and anyone who knows me will tell you I don’t anger easily. To compare my right and my loved ones’ rights to simply exist as ourselves to the most heinous crime against humanity is fucking disgusting and nearly irredeemable in my eyes. And then I clicked on this so-called friend’s profile. He was a Christian?! This man is claiming the name of Christ while posting shit like this? Nothing short of sickening.
What does the heart of God say about anger? It’s easy to fall back on the “seven deadly sins” as a measure of what’s right and what’s wrong, and wrath is right there in that list. But anger isn’t necessarily wrath. When our rage is directed toward something totally justified, we call it righteous anger. In Matthew 21, Jesus Himself demonstrates this.
Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. “It is written,” he said to them, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it ‘a den of robbers.
Matthew 21: 12-13
Maybe we need to start flipping some tables. Maybe we need to start using this anger at how our supposed brothers and sisters in Christ are treating people and cheating people. Maybe we should be calling out posts like the one above when we see them pop up on our timelines. Silence never changed anything. Righteous anger makes us want to speak out for the oppressed and the downtrodden, the “least of these.”
I made the mistake of deleting the person who made that post, because I knew I was going to tear them a new one if I didn’t. But what I should have done was use my anger to call them out, gently but firmly. Anger when unchecked turns into wrath, and things can be said that legitimately hurt others (and hurt our own case in the process). On the other hand, righteous anger, when channeled by a spiritually mature person, can be used for good. Open discussions, engage in debates, and let people see the light of Christ through you. If you have to flip some tables, flip those tables, but remember the person behind them. They’re broken too.
Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?
The platform I use to publish this website gives me little daily writing prompts as inspiration. Sometimes I use them immediately, sometimes I save them to write about later (and in all actuality, leave them to languish in my “drafts” for eternity). When this one popped up on my screen, I knew exactly what I needed to write about, because as much as I try to live without regrets, this is one of the few that I still cling to for some reason.
I cut my teeth as a musician and performer in the worship team of the church of my youth. Normally I’d leave it unnamed, but honestly, Metro City Church doesn’t deserve that dignity. Not after the events of this story, at least. I will be honest — my time on the team was an amazing once-in-a-lifetime experience. I had the honor of playing with some of the best musicians I’ve ever met, and on the largest stage I’ve ever played. Imagine a slightly scaled-down version of whatever comes to mind when I say “megachurch,” and that’s basically what we were. A mini Hillsong in the heart of Downriver, with one of the largest congregations in the entire area.
OPEN UP THAT PIT
Every week or so, I’d stand up on that stage and play my heart out for the Lord, which is still one of my favorite ways to connect with the divine. Giving credit where credit is due, I think Metro lit a fire for music and worship in me that still burns to this day. In fact, I still play in my current church’s worship band every now and then. But playing on Metro’s stage was nothing short of amazing. We had all the lights, fog machines, a state-of-the-art audio system, we had in-ear monitors for Christ’s sake (literally!). My point is, for all the smack I’m about to talk when it comes to this church, they did do something right, and that something was music.
The downside was that the church’s politics leaned a bit further right than I would have liked, but in the pre-Trump days, this was easy enough to ignore. Like, I’d get the occasional unprompted “ew, you like Bernie Sanders?” from the pastor or his kid, along with a lecture on why Bernie Sanders sucks. Again, this was entirely unprompted — it’s not like I was wearing a Bernie Sanders shirt, or had a Bernie Sanders sticker on my guitar case, or even brought up Bernie Sanders in conversation, ever. They just knew I was one of the small tribe of progressives, mostly fellow musicians who’d giggle irreverently at the post-worship breakfast about sappy “pro-life” messages or whatever subtle jab the lead pastor decided to throw at the libs that day.
For the most part, though, I could look past it. Sure, the church supported anti-choice measures and preached the dreaded “love the sinner, hate the sin” message when it came to the queer community, but these topics came up so rarely that I didn’t mind. Metro was one of those insidious religious institutions that disguised itself as a “come as you are” church, welcoming everyone and trying to cast as broad a net as possible, as to not alienate anyone. But beneath the surface, those ideologies still lurked. I know way too many gay/trans folks who were duped into feeling safe at Metro, only to get hit with a nonchalant homophobic or transphobic quip from a member of the congregation.
“Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!”
I wasn’t out at the time, and I was married to a male member of the church, so I was marked safe from most of these comments. As far as anyone knew, I was a regular, God-fearing, heterosexual woman. But I knew in my heart I wasn’t straight, not entirely, or even mostly. I had to push down a lot of my gay fee-fees to fit in with the rest of the church, which is why I came out as late in life as I did.
Everything changed in one moment, though.
I still remember the burn of the stage lights and the eyes of the congregation as I stood on the stage, guitar in hand, while the pastor rattled off a list of upcoming events. It wasn’t unusual for him to come up and make announcements between songs like this. But one of the upcoming events he named this time shook me to the core: a conversion therapy class for young women.
Here’s where I should have done everything differently. I should have thrown my guitar down and walked off that stage. Screw subtlety — I absolutely should have made a scene. Instead, I froze. I stood there complacent in my own oppression and complicit in the abuse of these girls.
Thankfully, this was the beginning of the end of my time at Metro. As controversy swept over the church throughout the local (and even national) queer community, I found myself torn between the church I loved, who I thought loved me, and my own gut instinct that this was not fucking okay. I even posted a tone-deaf defense of the church, claiming not all of us were raging homophobes, and my ally friends (rightfully) called me out for trying to defend them at all. I knew I had to do something.
So I came out. In front of everyone. I’m queer. I’m one of those girls. I’m on your side. And I’m so glad I did, because the act of finally admitting it to myself led me to leave a marriage my heart wasn’t in and marry my best friend instead. I left the Metro and never looked back, settling on a truly inclusive Methodist church that practiced what Christ actually taught, instead of the Americanized evangelical crap propagated by hipster megachurches.
But I still wonder what would have happened if I’d walked off the stage that morning. It still eats at me that I was silent in the face of oppression and hate. What does that say about my integrity? I’d like to think I’ve grown exponentially since then. I’d like to think that should I be placed in that situation now, I’d stand up for myself and for those girls. The Bible teaches that real love is laying down one’s life for their friends; the least I could do is lay down my pride (and probably get excommunicated, but as they say, que será será).
I don’t hate Metro, at least not the people there. They’re lost in the sauce just like I was. Love the sinner, hate the sin, as those circles always say, and while I hate what Metro stands for, I know there’s still some decent people there fighting the good fight to make it the loving, affirming safe haven it could be.
Well, maybe if the lead pastor would stop doing this.
Yeah, I’m being too optimistic.
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Another post I originally shared as a FB status but figured it warranted its own post on here, especially since I haven’t posted on the blog in a minute. It’s been a crazy few weeks of coursework but my classes are over after this upcoming week, so expect more ramblings on here soon!
I see people posting their “I was gay but THEN I FOUND JESUS” testimonies all the time, but never any “I found Jesus but THEN I WAS GAY” testimonies. So allow me to share mine.
I used to attend an evangelical megachurch, first in my teens and again when I reached my lowest low after graduation. I was so broken and jaded I needed somewhere I could call home, and the church of my youth seemed right. I started going back, got deeply involved in the music ministry, and even married a man with an intention of starting a family, because that’s what you were “supposed” to do. But I wasn’t truly happy. I had to drink wine just to make household chores bearable. I had such a bad mental breakdown I had to go to a psychiatric emergency facility. I isolated myself from the people I loved and tried so hard to break my own bones to fit into a box that didn’t feel right to me. Even my own mom saw that I was miserable.
The breaking point came when my church announced a conversion therapy class for teenage girls — while I was standing on the stage about to lead worship. I should have walked off that stage, and I still kick myself for not doing it in the moment. But it planted a seed — something wasn’t right. I started to realize I was one of those girls! I’d been attracted to people of every gender, but I had to crush the parts of me that weren’t straight because I wanted so desperately to fit in and be “normal” by these people’s standards.
I was tired. And so I came out.
I’m so glad I chose to live my truth as a pansexual woman. I ended up leaving the marriage I rushed into for the sake of “staying pure” and married my best friend, who I realized I was in love with the entire time. I have a family of fellow queerdos who are truer friends to me than anyone at that church I left. My blood family even sees how happy I am now and is happy for me! And I didn’t have to leave behind my faith in Christ to embrace my true self — I found an affirming church that accepted me and my gay and trans siblings for who they are.
Being queer and following Christ aren’t mutually exclusive things. My faith is stronger for having been tested. God works all things together for the good of those who love Him, and He truly blessed me with so much. I love who He made me to be, and I’m glad I can finally live in the light.
Feel free to share if my story reaches you in some way. I want the world to know it’s okay not to fit into the mold of American evangelical Christianity. God doesn’t love you any less. You are exactly who He created you to be ❤️
I started researching my family history during the lockdown. Genealogy is an endeavor my cousin beat me to, though, so I asked her some questions about our ancestors. Turns out, we’re descended from Appalachian witches! You see, before there were doctors in the remote areas of the mountains, wisened granny witches would serve as both apothecaries and spiritual leaders in the community. And it made sense — there were some weird things my family did that I never realized were weird, like being able to tell when a rainstorm was coming by the leaves and using tobacco as an antidote to insect stings. I guess normal families don’t rip up a cigarette and apply it to their child’s feet when they step on a bee.
SCREW URGENT CARE.
One thing that struck me as interesting was the fact that these Appalachian witches drew inspiration from the pagan traditions from the British Isles where they once originated, the indigenous traditions of the folks they often intermixed with, and, to my surprise, Christianity! You can be a Christian and a witch?
It makes sense when you throw out the demon-summoning, hex-casting preconceptions people often have about witchcraft and break it down into what it really is — taking charge of your own spirituality. It’s sitting on your bathroom floor with nothing but a candle and praying directly to your higher power. It’s going against the grain of organized religion and interacting with a god or a spirit by yourself, without the interference of a church or priest or pastor. And that’s what spirituality should be, in my humble opinion — a very personal affair, and one that’s unique to you. Everyone has their own interpretations of their sacred scriptures, and while it is wise to seek counsel from people you admire spiritually, no one should have the power to tell you what to believe. The second you succumb to dogma, you check your brain at the door. This is how dangerous groupthink and cults start.
The second you succumb to dogma, you check your brain at the door.
So how can a witch be Christian? Part of witchcraft is communing with a spirit guide of your choice, whoever speaks to you. Some witches work with members of the Roman or Greek parthenon, some with ancient Egyptian or Celtic deities, and others with fae or other spirits. I just happen to believe in the God of the Abrahamic faiths, specifically the Trinity, or the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (who I often interpret as the personification of wisdom, who is often characterized as feminine). So when I mix together oils to anoint a candle, or hold a crystal that’s supposedly imbued with a virtue I want to manifest, or use my cedar smudge stick to purify my spaces, that is the deity whom I am consulting. Additionally, Christianity and witchy spiritual practices are often intertwined in various cultures. Look at Haitian voodoo, Dia de los Muetos, and, most personally to me, the Appalachian spiritual tradition. Even a lot of standard Christian traditions are essentially witchcraft under a different name. Consecrating bread and wine and consuming to honor a deity? That’s witchy as heck, man.
The Pope: Head Witch In Charge
Full disclosure: I’ve always been a skeptic, even when it comes to Christianity in and of itself. I don’t claim to know everything, and I think it’s foolish to assert that any human has all the answers to the big spiritual questions. If we could understand our God, He wouldn’t be God. Part of embarking on a spiritual journey is accepting you’ll never know everything, and the truth is, this could all be bunk. But I know my spiritual practices give me a sense of inner peace, so even if I’m praying to absolute nobody in the end, the mental and emotional benefits I receive from my practice are worth it. And a lot of “witchy” practices are rooted in things like self-care and intention setting, which are helpful to me as the proud owner of the absolute worst case of ADHD my therapist has ever seen. If burning a candle or holding some rock gives me that extra motivation to create and do what I love, so be it. I’ll gladly psyche my brain into doing what I want it to do for once.
So that’s a little overview of where my beliefs and spiritual journey have been leading me lately. I’ll share some of my rituals and advice on this blog in upcoming posts. Until then, peace out, y’all. I’m off to eat unsuspecting meddling children and absorb their energy to maintain my eternal youth. The usual, you know?
I remember sitting through a sermon about…I don’t know, helping the needy or something. I should remember exactly what it was, because it was one of those important messages, like the stuff Jesus really cared about. The reason this sermon sticks out in my memory was the illustration the pastor used, though. The thing that made it powerful. A little four-letter word that made the entire auditorium freeze. And the kicker:
“You all probably cared more about the fact that your pastor just cursed than the fact that there are people out there suffering.”
That moment stuck with me. We make an idol out of not saying certain words because hey, that’s not what “good Christians” do. But is there any truth to the old “no cussin’” rule that’s been shoved down our throats since childhood? Do we all need to rinse our mouths out with soap?
Let me preface by saying this: Christian or not, there are certain situations where we should use nothing but clean language. If you’re around children, absolutely do not drop an f-bomb! Same with formal meetings — can you imagine asking for a mother-effin’ raise? You’d be fired on the spot, or at least laughed out of the workplace.
But Christians should never, ever, EVER say bad words! Right, Jess? RIGHT?!
In Philippians 3:8, Paul describes the things of this world as garbage compared to the worth of knowing Christ. Except, that’s not what he said. The word he used for “garbage” was “skubalon,” an old, crude Greek word for dung. In other words, shit. He called it all shit. And is he wrong to compare all worldly things to shit, especially when compared to the greatness that is Jesus? That’s a strong, but not necessarily unfounded, comparison.
Ephesians 4:29 says “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” Like I said before, there’s a time and a place for strong language. After all, words have power. We need to think about the context in which these words are being used. Obviously, things like racial slurs are never acceptable, but the traditional “four-letter words” are a little more ambiguous. Spongebob eloquently described them as “sentence enhancers,” and there’s some truth to that. Because of the power of these words, they draw attention. Sometimes they draw attention to things that need attention, like the example at the start of this post. Sometimes, they’re used to cause harm. But like most words, they’re just…neutral.
You don’t need to be Mister Rogers in your speech around absolutely everyone all the time. When the Bible says to build people up “according to their needs,” maybe they need to hear that they’re “fucking awesome,” or that they’re “a badass.” If you’re not comfortable with such language, no one’s saying you HAVE TO talk that way, but as Christians, I feel we need to loosen the “no cussing ever” rule to account for situations where strong language is used positively. No matter what we say or how we say it, it should not be words intended to break someone down. Telling someone to “fuck off” or calling them a “piece of shit” is absolutely unacceptable and has no place in a Christian’s vocabulary. Even phrases that don’t contain profanity can be hurtful. If someone said “I hope your mom dies,” I’d be way more offended than if someone called me a “bitch.” Again, it’s all about context and intent.
Whatever you say, and whoever you say it to, do it with love. That’s one thing I think we can all heckin’ agree on.
You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.
My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.
So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.
I remember the first time I became aware of the male gaze.
I was twelve.
It was at a Rite Aid with my mom getting some film developed (which definitely just dated me). I saw a pair of older guys talking about something, and laughing, but I didn’t know what was happening. My mom shot them a look and pulled me away quickly.
“Those creeps were looking at you,” she said.
I was twelve. Twelve. Like, all I cared about was Pokemon and my stuffed animals. But I didn’t look it.
The film wasn’t the only thing that was developed.
If you follow literally anyone in the exvangelical community, you’ve probably heard of “Modest is Hottest,” the Matthew West track that’s been setting the Christian music scene ablaze. It’s a silly tongue-in-cheek song — I’m not too cool to admit that I laughed at “a sensible pair of slacks.” But after taking a moment to consider the culture that birthed this tune, it left a sour taste in my mouth. And judging by the backlash it’s received, I’m not alone in that sentiment.
My family never pushed purity culture onto me; rather, it was the churches I attended. The modesty talks were ubiquitous, at least among female leaders. Judging by the gendered sermons we sometimes had to endure, girls had two main problems — not feeling pretty enough, and not wearing enough. I never cared too much about the former as a kid, but as my own body made me painfully aware, I had to care about the latter, lest I get embarrassing lectures from youth leaders and mocking chants of “modest is hottest” from other girls. Yup, there’s that phrase again.
Here’s the thing — I never intentionally dressed to, as these talks put it, “cause my brothers to stumble.” I was just wearing what all of my friends were wearing. But because of the way I was built, my body was inherently dirty, inherently sexual. And people behaved differently because of this. I’d be groped by other students at my school because they thought my reactions were funny (which is doubly fucked up considering I was on the autism spectrum). When swimming with others, I’d be given the “t-shirt of shame” for exposing too much of my breasts, even though I was wearing the same kinds of bathing suits as other girls my age. And of course, I was made to feel like I was this filthy sinner for garnering looks from guys, because hey, it’s the girl’s job to keep guys from stumbling. Even when that girl is — let me reiterate — twelve.
It honestly messed me up for a while. At first, I tried to run away from my sexuality, playing the part of the innocent, virginal ingenue. When I inevitably couldn’t keep up that facade, I learned into my own sex appeal, feeling it was the only real thing I had to offer. No one cared about my intelligence or creativity. I was a walking pair of double D’s.
If you’re in a similar place to me, I’m here to tell you that there is nothing dirty or shameful about your body. Your body is a beautiful gift, every single bone and tendon and nerve and glob of fat! 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 says “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” Conversely, should we not honor other people’s bodies by respecting them, no matter what shape or size they are, if they are indeed temples of the Holy Spirit?
I don’t think modesty is necessarily a bad thing. My philosophy had always been “if it brings you closer to God and hurts no one else, you do you.” My point is that someone’s inherent worth doesn’t come from how much skin is exposed. Forcing modesty on girls as if their worth depends on it isn’t healthy. Rather, we should be teaching young men to honor and respect women whether they’re cloaked in Amish garb or doing their best Cardi B.
Let’s make one thing clear: I despise Harry Potter. Absolutely loathe it. I can’t follow it to save my life, the creator sucks, and Pokémon is the superior millennial franchise in every way. But sometimes I fondly remember a sermon I saw many years ago talking about it. No, they didn’t go on a rant about how it’s Satanic and all that crap (surprisingly). Instead, they viewed it as an allegory for the way God calls us to certain things in our lives, and the absolute ridiculous lengths He’ll go to in order to owl-airdrop that Hogwarts acceptable letter to your front step. I think about that scene with the with all the letters flying around a lot still, even though I’m not a huge fan of my old church and certainly not a fan of Harry Potter.
From a young age, I always imagined that Hogwarts letter to be an acceptance into a doctoral program. My joke is that I refuse to die before adding the letters “Dr.” in front of my name. It just made sense. I was (almost) top of my class and had a passion for learning and academia like none other. And full disclosure, a good part of why I wanted this so badly was to prove to everyone I was actually smart! To be honest, it was more than a little vain — I craved the status that came with the title.
So I decided there was no way around it. I was going to become a doctor of something or other. Medicine, psychology — trust me, I’ve cycled through all the aspirations. But every time I try to commit to something, life gets in the way. Too much money, mental health issues, parents convincing me to pursue classical guitar instead of premed (no regrets; music school was the time of my life).
Maybe it’s not in this season of life to pursue such things. Or perhaps — even scarier — I’m not supposed to pursue them at all.
Jesus Himself said to deny yourself and take up your cross (Matthew 16:24). What does that even mean for my own life though? Do I really have to give up on my futile attempts to glorify myself, to add a little pizzazz to my own name, to hold the coveted title of “doctor” I’ve dreamed about my entire life? And it hit me.
Maybe I’m supposed to be Pastor Jess instead of Dr. Jess.
It’s perfect. I get to learn theology (which I’m already a huge nerd about), play music, write, interact with and help people on a personal level, and perhaps most importantly, further the Kingdom of God. I keep going back to a certain phrase: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I keep complaining that there are so few affirming churches, but what am I doing to change that? I personally know so many queer folks who feel disenfranchised by their churches and the Christian community at large. Maybe it’s my job here on this little blue planet to help give them a community who loves and accepts them as they are while leading them home to a God who loves and accepts them as they are. I know I’m not a perfect person by any means, but God uses imperfect people all the time. I’ve prayed about this for a while now and all signs seem to point in this direction. I feel like I finally got my Hogwarts letter.
Maybe being a pastor isn’t as glamorous as being a professor or doctor. But if I can help just just one gay or trans kid feel like God hasn’t abandoned them, it will all be worth it.
Ah, premileenial dispensationalism, the eschatological position that boils down to “God sweeping away his chosen few in preparation for ending the world or some garbage.” It’s a divisive theory held by many American Evangelicals and not many other Christians, including many of those affiliated with the Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Anglican, Episcopalian, Methodist, and Lutheran churches. Despite all of these well-established organizations having different interpretations of the Good Book and generally calling bullshit on this theory, it persists to this day, unsurprisingly perpetuated by the same population that thinks COVID is a hoax and left-leaning politicians drink children’s blood.
But it makes for some damn good reading. Sharknado good.
Enter the Left Behind series, literature’s answer to delicious cringe. Penned by Jerry B. Jenkins and Tim LaHeye, it was beloved (or hated) enough to score not one, but two film adaptations, one of which starred Evangelical darling Kirk Cameron. Not content to just pollute the minds of adults, the series was expanded to kids with the aptly titled series Left Behind: The Kids.
My good friend Luke of the ex-Pentecostal blog Unlearning Together (IG: @unlearning_together) mentioned re-reading the kids’ books as a project for their blog, and the idea seemed genius. Unpacking some deep-rooted religious trauma while shooting the shit about some cringy book from years ago? It sounded like a great time to me. We found some used copies on Amazon and so the games began. In several upcoming posts, we will read and discuss this literary tire fire. Below is our pre-reading discussion. Digressions include terrible fanfiction.
Luke: Hell yeah, I’m hype for this.
Jess: Right? Like I remember there being no likable characters. Or even memorable ones.
Luke: Yeah, they were barely even tropes. It was “the rich one,” the youngest one,” “the black one,” “girl.” Featuring “adult.”
Jess: I vaguely recall looking through the TVTropes page for the original books and thinking that all the characters had really awkwardly porny names.
Luke: Bahaha, yup.
Jess: RAYFORD STEELE. BUCK WILLIAMS.
Luke: RAYFORD STEELE IS 100 PERCENT AN 80s PORNSTAR NAME. Also, Nicolae Carpathia is absolutely a character in bad vampire porn.
Jess: The rule 34 almost writes itself.
Luke: Honestly.
Jess: Has Rayford Steele/Buck Williams slash been written?
Luke: If it hasn’t…it’s about to be.
Jess: THAT ship hasn’t been written. Buck/Nicolae, however…
Luke: Oooooh, spoicy. I want to look it up but I’m afraid.
Jess: There’s also an *NSYNC crossover fic. I think I found our next project.
Luke: YESS.
Jess: Oh god, the first chapter has a very explicit JC Chasez/Lance Bass love scene. I’ve seen too much.
Luke: NOOOOOOOO. Someone sat down to make this a reality.
Jess: IMAGINE BEING ONE OF THE MEMBERS OF *NSYNC AND FINDING THIS.
Luke: I wonder if Lance knows. He’s pretty active on TikTok. Hmmm…
Jess: I mean, I’d read slash of myself. Just because morbid curiosity.
Luke: Fair. Probably same. The weirder the pairing, the better to be honest.
Jess: You should see some of the Queen fanfics I’ve seen. Again, morbid curiosity. I declare myself cleared of all charges.
Luke: Bahaha. But have you been on the Property Brothers side of fanfiction?
Jess: I…don’t think I want to know.
Luke: It’s amazing.
Jess: I shall take your word for that. Anyways, any final words before we dive into this trash fire of a book? It’s not too late to turn back.
Luke: No turning back. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
