#conservative lutheran

[everedempti]

happy new year and may the Lord be with us in this gentle new year

[sophieinwonderland]

I may be a former believer in Lutheranism now, but I can definitely see God as plural in my former beliefs. I didn't know about plurality back then, but if I did, I'm sure I would have viewed God as plural too.

Also, is it just me or is the "Religious Traditionalist" on the conservative subreddit basically dodging your questions about God's plurality?

Thanks for the addition!

To anyone out of the loop, here's the context for the religious traditionalist.

And yeah, pretty much.

It's just "the Trinity is vague and mysterious and we can't understand it, so shut tup about it."

I didn't pursue the topic further because I don't think it would do any good, but I feel they're making a lot of assumptions themselves.

The question was why the idea of plurality feels out of the question to them based on God being plural and making humans in their likeness, and the "religious traditionalist" instead goes on to say that this would mean each human has exactly three persons within them. And... I don't think that necessarily holds up. The likeness of the Trinity could simply be interpreted as a propensity for plurality. The potential to be multiple.

Additionally, there are no credible claims of people with omnipotence, but there are of humans having multiple people or agents in one body.

You could also actually make the argument that most humans do have semi-omnipotence within their own minds, able to create advanced mental simulations that they have control over. If we interpret the world as God's imagination or "inner world", then our own imagination could be considered part of our likeness of God we were made with.

And I mean, if God is everywhere in the universe, then surely that necessitates that the world is inside God, and the inner world interpretation must be at least somewhat accurate.

One more interesting fact on this is that the specific line is one of the few times God is referred to as plural within the Bible, with the original text even using the plural word "Elohim" which refers to multiple gods.

And finally, I find the argument of the Holy Trinity being this impossible-to-understand enigma with no analog in nature to contradict a core aspect of Christianity, the idea that God's invisible characteristics are manifest in nature and the world God created.

From Romans 1:20

For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse:

Surely if this was the case, and the Trinity a core part of God's existence, God would have also designed a way for human beings to understand the Holy Trinity as well.

[zeroaddzero]

i watched an hbo documentary about steve today and it was super interesting but what i'm mostly shocked about is that i just now found out about lilyhammer! i immediately had to renew my netflix subscription and start watching it

Haha yess! In Norway Little Steven is practically a household name because of that show. We love him! ❤️

Also, it is VERY funny hearing him pronounce Norwegian names 😂

[buggie-hagen]

Church does not conserve or progress; it neither seeks to attract the will to a new desire nor to convince the world's power to take a new direction. Its change is drastic and cosmic. Even though it is only the simple gospel word, God's promise changes everything in the most radical way--from death to life. ~Steven Paulson, Luther's Outlaw God, vol. 2: Hidden in the Cross, 152.

[jasper-borealis]

Personal post time babyyyyy

did I just bomb a crap ton of reblogs after not going on this site for almost 3 months, and now I'm going to rant? you betcha!!!

ok sooooooooo, I'm not having a good time with my faith. I have grown up my entire life as a member of the Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod (or WELS for short) and for awhile now I just…I can't say I agree with their stances on…a lot.

what kinda scares me is that there are some folks who follow me who are highly involved members, and I'm honestly kinda scared of them sending this post to my family…so you know who you are, please please don't share this post with my family.

honestly if I tried to put all my grievances with the WELS in this post, it would be the length of the journal entries I write in a fugue state, so I'm not going into all of it. But my biggest issues I have are A. they way they go about reading the holy texts, B. how strongly political they get (some are better then others, but others…), and C. their internal synodical doctrines (Prayer fellowship is one of the biggest for me)

How they read the holy texts. as I've been studying theology, and the bible, more and more, I've been finding I take massive issues with a litteralist reading of the western cannon of the bible. I find that the bible makes much much much more interal, spiritual, and logical sense, when you read a majority of the bible as Wisdom Literature. I still read the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John) as basically inerrant, and the Pentateuch (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy) and mostly inerrant with stories/parables mixed in. The WELS' official way to read the bible is as 100% literal, and thus must be applied to our modern day directly [except those pesky verses about slavery, those they don't take literally (although some do…and it's terrifying), because ya know…they aren't hypocritical at alllllllll] and I just do not see strong reasons for reading the texts that way, I understand why they do…but I don't agree with it.

-How Strongly Political they get "a few years ago, some black robed heathens announced that gay marriage was totally fine. are you going to listen to some black robed heathens? or the eternal God who instituted marriage in the first place"…….this is a almost direct quote from a sermon a month ago, so ya know…totally Apolitical and able to reap those fun tax except status perks… this was just one thing…while the WELS is better then a lot of churches, and the church body mostly stays out of things…they don't do much to stop pastors and individual churches from becoming a propaganda branch of the political right wing…

-their internal synodical doctrines The WELS is full of internal doctrines on how things work…and the biggest one I have issue with is their doctrine of "Prayer fellowship" it basically states they WELS members are not to ever pray, or worship, and any non WELS members. the only exception is when the member themself is running the worship service, or leading the prayer. the WELS gives biblical verses that "support" this doctrine (just like the verses they use to say women can't vote in any internal church affair, or hold any religious position, I.E Pastor, Elder, President.) I have looked at these verses for a long time, and while I understand why they get those positions from those verses, I just don't agree with them at all. It all comes from a literalist (and context blind) understanding of the texts, and I just can not say in good faith that I agree with them in any way shape or form.

This all comes in tandem with the knowledge that I am going to be Excommunicated sometime this year…why? because I'm a big ol fruit. I tried for YEARS, to not be queer. I did everything, I prayed night and day, I self harmed constantly, like some kinda Augustinian monk, to purge these "fleshly lusts" from my body…for two years. I begged God to kill me almost every night…the only reason I didn't do the deed myself, was because I was afraid if I took my own life…I would end up in the fires of hell…I also didn't want my family to be heart broken…cause I love them all so much, and I just didn't want to hurt them… To say that these years left lasting scares, is a understatement. I have only recently, through the help of friends and a therapist God put in my life, have been able to live with a sliver of hope in my future. every time I get punched…or slap myself…I am instantly reminded of my self harm (I hit myself with my fists as my main source of pain). to say that I will be working on undoing this mess for years so come, is obvious, but fortunately, I see light at the end of the tunnel, and every day had been getting better. I accepted my Queerness about 9 months ago. I changed my mind, when a friend sent me some theological sources, and talked to me about it…and it took awhile, but I eventually changed my mind about how I was destined for hell for something I tried, and couldn't change. Initially…it was terrifying…what was I going to do? basically everything I ever thought was true was under question…and even after basically spending every day of these past few months in furious study…I still don't know all the answers, but I am confidant enough to say I do not think that God has any issue with queerness.

So now my life has changed, from one of intense self hatred and depression, to one of constant low boiling fearand terror…I am closeted, because my mother and father are very homophobic and transphobic, and I am terrified of what will happen when they find out…do you know what that does to somebody? to love your family so deeply, and your parents to love you deeply back…but behind every hug, is the knowledge…that they hate so vehemently, something so thoroughly ingrained in who I am…that they don't know about…it honestly sucks so much. I cantor (lead the hymns) at my church, and my church loves me for it, and I'm very popular over all with my fellow parishioners…but knowing that every smile, and "thank you so much for singing today!" or "Oh you did so well! I always love your voice"…will be wiped away when I come out of the closet…

I am planning on coming out sometime later this year…when? I'm not sure…but I know I can't keep this mask up for much longer…because while I don't self harm, and my mental health is slightly better over all…living a lie to your family because you know they will hate you…is kinda a drag on the ol brain. I've come out to two of my siblings, I have 6, so I came out to the two sisters closest to me ( I love all my siblings hugely, but these two I have just been slightly closer to) and both of them are chill, one of them made it very clear that she was here for me, and that when the time comes, she will do her best to do damage control….and the other basically went "Ya no shit Sherlock" and has been chill about it (both reactions where kinda hilarious, and I love them even more for it) Once The WELS hears of my coming out…I will immediately be called for a "Church discipline meeting" aka a inquisition with the elders and pastor, where they will try and get me to recant my "sins"…but as a famous theologian said-

"Unless I am convinced by the testimony of the Holy Scriptures or by evident reason-for I can believe neither pope nor councils alone, as it is clear that they have erred repeatedly and contradicted themselves-I consider myself convicted by the testimony of Holy Scripture, which is my basis; my conscience is captive to the Word of God. Thus I cannot and will not recant, because acting against one’s conscience is neither safe nor sound. Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise. So Help Me God. Amen" -Martian Luther, Diet of worms, 1521.

-so I honestly don't think I will even bother to go to that meeting…because I don't want to go through that hurling of fire and brimstone. I honestly think I will just send a email in response…and just let them decide how to go about it. Will there be consequences for this? yes… but God is with me…amen.

[over-roaming-waves]

heck, even the pastors can be gay!

you guys should really try talking to older people sometimes. like anyone over the age of forty. it would cure you i swear

[aprilsjesusblogging]

The first church I ever went to, where I was baptized when I was seven, always smelled good to me

And I sometimes wonder how much of my falling in love with my current church was because I walked in and it had that smell I associated with churches

Wood and carpet and old books

[catsnuggler]

I don't care for Zionists, and I don't care for Wahhabists, and I wouldn't make common cause with either.

I'm also scared that criticism may go too far, against sects to whom that doesn't apply, and be used to justify oppression against good people.

I'm also concerned that, eventually, if Christofascism goes far enough, eventually, pagans, who are today mostly seen as a joke, but occasionally accused of Satanism and harassed, will see genuine oppression that is, at present, reserved for other groups, rather like the Niemöller poem first, they came for the communists; then, the Muslims; then, the Jews; and, somewhere along the line, the pagans. I have no illusions that we're at the top, but I'm sure we're somewhere down on the list. The best way to never have to find out if I'm right about that is to stop the fascists at the start.

[thehmn]

I was listening to a non-religious podcast where an Evangelical Lutheran priest was talking about Satan and he was like “If you take away everything about the devil that isn’t in the Old and New Testament what do you have? An angel who isn’t anti-God but anti-human. He loves God. He sees God and the world He created as perfect, but by placing humans over angles the perfect order of things were cast into chaos. All Satan ever does is point out how dirty and disgusting and unworthy of God’s love humans are. When God is excited about Adam and Eve the snake, who admittedly may or may not actually be Satan, goes out of his way to expose them. When God gets excited about Job Satan tries to prove that Job doesn’t actually love God. When God chose a new leader for the Jews Satan says he is unworthy because his clothes is filthy. When God himself becomes human Satan is besides himself with disgust. Satan is at the heart of his being a conservative”

And I know this is probably going to turn into a religious debate or whatever but I’m just so tickled by the mental image of conservative Satan getting nauseous and throwing up a little in his mouth at the sight of his perfect beautiful God in a disgusting, smelly human body. Just fucking keeping a bucket nearby every time he talks to Jesus because it’s the worst fucking thing he has ever been exposed to.

[theweirdestroller]

Homeschooling sucks. Like, I'm sorry, but my teachers couldn't care less about their students. I had no idea what a normal student-teacher relationship looked like until I was thrown into public school in my senior year. And it's not like I had a park I could just walk to. No, my social interactions were so incredibly limited.

When I was supposed to be in middle school, my youngest older sister (step-sister, technically) told me funny stories she had experienced at school. All the rambunctious and crazy things her peers got into. Things she got into. She was living a completely normal teen life. I didn't know I was even missing out on anything until it was too late. I never wanted to be homeschooled, but we moved when I was a bitty little thing, so my parents thought it best to take me out of the public school system. Which was the worst mistake of my life. My grades suffered, I suffered. I can't explain how bad things got for me.

Entering my final year of high school was like a breath of fresh air. I was around kids my age again. There were varying opinions and so many people I could listen to and befriend. Not every interaction was good, but it was better than staying home every day, typing away on my computer for a teacher who wouldn't grade stuff unless I went out of my way to ask.

It was the first time math just clicked for me in a long time too. Like, little me was good at basic math. I loved it! But, without teachers, or anyone I could ask questions to, really, I started to hate it. But my math teacher was incredible! Like, I could rant about this guy for ages. He knew exactly how to teach his subject. He wouldn't directly give you the answer if you asked for help, he would walk you through the steps until it clicked. He did this for any student who asked for help. And I got good grades in his class. I was attentive and started taking notes.

I feel like in the time I was homeschooled, I forgot that I loved to learn. Now I want to go out of my way to get a degree that requires in-person hours to achieve. I don't even want there to be the option to go back to how it was before.

unlike you fools, I didnt go to middle school. i suffered at home like a REAL MAN. i didnt need people OUTSIDE MY HOUSE to bully me and ruin my life, that's what your fucking siblings and parents are for!!

nah but fr i always smile when someone's like "we all knew that one kid who-" no, i didn't. i didn't leave my house until i was 13. I didnt know anyone for more than a few weeks at a time, and this inability to get to know anyone at all persisted far into my high school career. there is a reason i am abysmal at remembering names. AWAY WITH THEE.

[schizosusie]

this like. literally doesn't matter so im putting it under the cut.

so, im at an evangelical lutheran retreat, yeah? and im in an adult's group, with five other adults. these are three men and two women, all middle aged. all three men are pastors, both women are church council members. so i walk in, 19 years old, visibly queer, stupid ass haircut and wack ass eyeliner. id never really intentionally hung out with other christian adults above the age of. like. 25? so you can understand my terror.

the first guy, a bald bearded guy, shakes my hand, introduces himself as jonathan, says it's great to meet me. the second guy, scott, remembers me from the time he was a youth leader for my middle school group at another retreat. the first woman is sitting there silently knitting and the third guy is reading over his bible quietly. and then the second woman walks in. she's short, she's fat, and she's butch. she knows all the others, hugs them and talks about how good it is to see them again.

the conversation starts. i mention my fiance, no one bats an eye or says anything. the butch woman mentions her wife and the fact that she's on disability. everyone nods along. the first guy mentions his queer daughter and how he's so concerned for her future. and then the first woman, who looks very normal and conservative, puts down her knitting needles and says "this country is going to shit."

everyone goes quiet. we're all looking at each other. and then she's talking about how she's a middle school teacher and two of her student may be deported, and her school's funding is getting cut and she's so tired of being scared for her friend's lives.

everyone starts pitching in, talking about how they're so sick of our religion being used as a weapon, how it's become a pathetic excuse to get away with atrocities. and then someone points out how the church may not be around much longer, and it all gets quiet.

i love being a christian so fucking much. i love my community. but the elca isn't guaranteed to last. it's not guaranteed to be around in four years. i know no one else cares. i know no one else even knows about this. but fuck.

one of the pastors had to go back to college to pursue computer science, just in case his church goes under, in case he's fucked. i know christians aren't popular around here, but. augh

[girlactionfigure]

Young Friedrich was born in the German Empire on January 14, 1892. His father was a Lutheran pastor, and he grew up in a very conservative home. He would grow up to become an officer of the Imperial Navy, then returned to his roots, becoming a Lutheran pastor.

As a national conservative, he would support the accession to power of a man he believed would make his country great. He would say nothing as the man he supported began persecuting various targets within their country, group after group. He didn't agree with all his policies, but he continued to support the leader for what he believed was for the greater good of the country.

The list of groups began to increase and expand, from Communists to the incurably ill, to Jews and Jehovah's Witnesses, then foreigners, followed by schools and the press.

When the list of groups expanded to German Protestant churches, he finally started speaking out. But, it was too late. He would be arrested along with other pastors and people who opposed the policies of the leader of the country - Adolf Hitler.

The pastor's full name was Friedrich Gustav Emil Martin Niemöller.

Martin Niemöller, as he would be more commonly known, spent time imprisoned in concentration camps, where he would express his regret for not speaking out before and helping out the first victims of the Nazis.

When the Western Allies advanced, Niemöller was scheduled to be killed, along with other high-ranking prisoners who opposed Hitler. Fortunately, regular German troops would halt the execution just as the U.S. Seventh Army reached them.

Niemöller would abandon his former nationalistic beliefs and help initiate the Stuttgart Declaration of Guilt, becoming a vocal pacifist and anti-war activist.

He would write:

"First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me."

The poem would become a rallying cry against fascism, repeated many times in different versions by Niemöller and others. Some versions exchanged "Socialists" with "Communists." Niemöller has also been denounced because of his earlier antisemitic views and his initial support of Hitler.

He would say, "I am paying for that mistake now; and not me alone, but thousands of other persons like me."

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page  

[mossadspypigeon]

Jumblr doesn't wanna talk about this but there is a privilege that comes with being Reform. Reform Judaism is framed as the more woke form or "human" form of Judaism which makes sense since it is more assimilationist which isn't an inherently bad thing.

The more religious you are, the more of a threat you are. Reform Jews are shamed for not being Jewish enough but they are also embarrassed with the existence of Orthodox Jews who are more likely to be "traditional" aka homophobic racist etc. There are many overexaggerations and lies by Reform Jews trying to report on the flaws of these type of communities. "Oh these Jews are in cults save them!" Energy towards more religious Jewish sects which is upsetting because these communities do need to improve but their flaws are approached with antisemitic hatred. In places like New York the more religious or visible Jews are viewed as scum.... they're leeches parasites etc.

Sorry for this rant. I am tired of Jews on Jumblr seeing conservations about Orthodox Jews and bringing in "we Reform Jews suffer too" energy into it.

no you’re right, and i went to a reform synagogue for years bc it was closer lmao. everything you wrote here is exactly it.

jumblr reform jews like to act like they are shit on by everyone else and yes, there is a disdain for reform that some people hold, but reform is privilege. it was created to help us assimilate. it is a pure diaspora movement. from the music to the service to the move to mixing english or german with hebrew, it was an attempt by us to say “hey our synagogue looks kinda like your church. maybe if you see that you wont kill us.” and then it went to rabbis wearing lutheran priest robes and having kids make wimples in hebrew school.

also reform rabbis fed conservative rabbis pork and shrimp without their knowledge or consent at a banquet in the 1900s…and that underlying feeling of disrespect for tradition has continued to this day.

it’s also funny to me that you are more likely to find reform synagogues than chabad houses in many areas in america. like most of the places i lived as a teenager. we had no option but reform. hmm.

i respect reform as long as that respect is given by them to other movements. however, i hear too much nonsense and slander of more traditional forms of judaism from too many reform jews and prospective converts. that needs to stop. it isn’t cute, it isn’t funny. and it makes the reform movement look stupid honestly.

watch how quickly i’m told i’m evil and anti reform for this 😂😂 shrug emoji.

[czech-hunter-reject]

every time I visit my very sweet but very conservative Lutheran Christian grandparents, I walk into their livingroom and is confronted by this piece of lead they got from a tour in some kind of lead mine

and every time I see this piece of lead my gay ass brain immediately goes "that's a buttplug. my grandparents have really been displaying a little lead buttplug for over 20 years now". I often send pictures of it to my friends, and every single friend I've ever sent a picture of it to always responds with "BUTTPLUG! That's a buttplug!". And I haven't the heart to tell my poor old grandparents. I think it's best to let them live in dumb Christian ignorance on this one.

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

��

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

[featuresofinterest]

i've been reading a lot of kamala vp pick speculation and man i hope she picks tim walz... for a lot of reasons but also because i'll get to yell "HE'S LUTHERAN!!!!" at my conservative lutheran family. please please pleaseeeee