#instead of the author’s grievances against the catholic church

[berrywinkle]

«Can I have interesting and nuanced depictions of religion in fantasy?» I asked fantasy authors.

«Fuck you,» said fantasy authors, who proceeded to write the religious groups in their books as a group of oligarchs who rule the world from the shadows, violent warmongers from the desert, and strict patriarchal inquisitors who torture and kill heretics without hesitation.

[bathomet-writes]

confessions

summary: A church wasn't the most ideal place for a date, but there were certainly some things Donnie and you had to get off of your chests. What better place to do them than in a confessional booth?

relationship: 2012!Donnie x GN!reader

warnings: romantic, fluff, humor, secret dating, slight hurt/comfort, awkward flirting and confessions (lol), kissing, PDA (sort of)

word count: 5,972

author's note: a request from 🫐 anon!! i thought i could write a 2012 donnie fic without referencing april but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“Hello?”

You knocked gently against the oak doors. The Catholic church next to your apartment always loomed over you. The intricate stained-glass windows and crosses became fairly familiar to you over the years. The church was just a part of the tapestry of your life, but you never went inside. Not that you had any good reason to, but you still felt a little bad that the thought never crossed your mind. 

The unintentional guilt just happened to come to a head tonight, as you stood before the main entrance. It was a bit of an impulse decision, but you texted Donnie to meet you here instead of your usual hangout spot. You two had been spending a lot more time together, outside the lair. You really didn’t know why he didn’t want to just stick to his lab or the living room, there was plenty to do there. 

Maybe he just needed to get out of the sewers? Eh, whatever. 

You knock again, listening to the hollow sound echo inside. It was haunting. 

“Uh…sanctuary?” You inquire to no one in particular. 

Shouldn’t churches be open all the time? Reaching down to the handle, you were surprised to find it unlocked. What luck. 

“Woah,” you gasp, creeping into the main area. The nave, if you could recall your bible study lessons, was what it was called. It had been years since you’ve even stepped foot in a church. 

Looking around the pews, there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. No late night sinners praying for forgiveness or old ladies reading the bible. Just a huge, empty chapel. There were a couple candles flickering dimly in lanterns, at the ceiling and around the pulpit, so there must have been someone around. It made you feel a little better about barging in, at least there was an employee still here. An employee of God. 

You chortle to yourself as you get settled. The front row seemed the only appropriate seating option, and you ease onto the worn wood of the bench. The pew was a tad uncomfortable, or maybe it was just the awkward feeling of being inside a church. The holy beauty of the tapestries, the windows, the image of the Virgin Mary and Jesus statues staring wistfully into the audience: all of it sent a chill up your spine. 

“Jesus– I mean…Jeez.” 

Phew, that was a close one. 

You needed to relax. Maybe while you were here, waiting for Donnie, you could try and shake out the ‘ol praying hands. You were probably due for a talk with the Big Guy anyway. This was a judgment-free zone, just imagine Him sitting backwards in a folding chair and air your grievances. 

The kneeler groaned with your added weight as you shifted to get into prime prayer position. At least they had some velvet upholstery. The only comfortable way to sit in a church was apparently if you were on your knees in penitence. You fiddle with your hands, trying to find the best praying gesture. Folding your fingers, or the classic hands clasped together, palms flush? You kind of looked like you were trying to do some hand ninjitsu or something. 

“Just–” You take in a steadying breath, calming your nerves. “There.”

Once you have your hands positioned, you shut your eyes. For some reason, you felt a lot more relaxed now. Having to look at all the religious symbols was making you jumpy. 

And now, the moment of truth. 

“...”

Huh, that was weird. You didn’t even think anything, let alone say anything out loud. Let’s try that again. 

“...Ahem.” You cough.

Perfect. 

“Augh, this is so stupid. I don’t know what to say.” 

You sigh to yourself, reveling in your own self-pity. This was depressing. Sitting like this with your eyes closed was making you almost too relaxed, and you couldn’t think of a simple prayer. The only thing that came to mind was the bedtime one you used to do when you were a kid. Oh no, that was making it worse. 

How did it go again? ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,’ or something like that. Your eyelids grew heavier with every word. 

Maybe you could just sit here for a second, just to calm down. You fell asleep in church all the time listening to the pastor’s sermons. How was this any different? 

—

Donnie punched the coordinates you sent him back into his T-Phone. For some reason, the results kept popping up as a church! Surely you didn’t mean to send him to a place like that. It just didn’t seem like the kind of establishment you’d want to hang out in. Especially in a…romantic context. 

Plus, he wasn’t too sure how welcomed he would be going in as a mutant turtle. Sure, churches were accepting of all kinds of people, human or otherwise. Wasn’t everyone made in His image? Even Donnie? His brothers, dad, and all the other mutants he knew probably didn’t look anything like what God was supposed to look like. But who was to say? He was a man of science, not theology. 

“Somehow, I feel like everyday we stray further from God’s light.” He sighs, landing on the sidewalk from the perch atop your roof. He felt kind of corny saying that out loud, considering he was now standing face-to-face with the titular building. 

The church…in all its divinity. Donnie gulped, all of the sudden feeling quite small. 

Looking at the GPS, this was the right place. And the tracking pin from your phone pointed in this direction. Even though your apartment was right there, just a couple of feet away. He could see your window from here too. Maybe he could just convince you to move your little congregation to your room instead? It looked so cozy from here, so familiar. 

No, that was ridiculous. Wherever you wanted to meet was fine, it was more than fine! The topic of your hangouts was sort of a sore subject with Donatello. Not because he didn’t want to do what you wanted to do, it was just…

Complicated. That was the best way to put it. 

“Oh well, here goes nothing.” Donnie cracks his neck, putting on a tough face. 

Gathering up all the confidence he could, he bursts through the large double-doors.

“EEP–!”

That wasn’t exactly the entrance he intended on making. The doors were thankfully pretty heavy, so all they did was slowly creak open. At least they didn’t slam against the wall. The ancient hinges screech through the empty hall, announcing his presence.

Donnie’s newfound bravery was replaced with sheepishness. Chuckling, he takes a quick look around.

“No big deal, I’m sure nobody heard that.” He whispers, tip-toeing forward. 

Behind him, the large doors seem to swing back closed by themselves. The loud CLICK of them shutting makes Donnie spin around. 

“No…that didn’t just happen? Was that a ghost? A Holy Ghost?”

The church was empty, save for one person at the first row of pews. They must be a regular here, the way they were bent over in prayer. He walked on, furiously texting you. This place was giving Donnie the creeps. 

“Where are you? Being here feels…kind of sacrilegious.” He winces, glancing around. 

Mindlessly, Donnie made his way to the very end of the pews to stand at the pulpit. The podium cast a long, intimidating shadow over him. Tearing his nervous gaze away, he landed on the person sitting at the front row. They must be pretty deep in prayer, their head was completely slumped over onto their hands. 

Donnie’s heart skips a beat, caught off guard by the patron. He almost forgot someone else was there. He was usually a bit high-strung all the time, but the eerie silence was making his skin crawl. 

Giving them a polite, if not slightly awkward smile, Donnie backs away. “Sorry, thought you were someone else…”

The only response he gets is a muffled snore. 

“Wait—“

Reaching out, Donnie pulls them up by the shoulder. Your head lolls to the side, your eyes slowly blinking up at him. 

This was no patron, it was you!

“Hey! What are you doing?” He whisper-shouts, shaking you about. “I’ve been texting you!”

In your tired state, it takes you a second to realize who just woke you up. And to realize that you were fast asleep. 

“ACK–!” You shriek, practically jumping up. “I– Wait, how long have I been here?” 

Donnie shimmies past you and places his hands on your shoulders again, sitting you both down. 

“Quiet down! What is up with your sleep schedule anyway?” He jokes, giving you a small squeeze. 

You had been having trouble sleeping lately, but how did Donnie know that? You smirk up at him, rubbing at your eyes. 

“It’s kind of the middle of the night. Not all of us are night-stalking vigilantes. Some of us have real jobs…during the day.”

You let out a yawn, shamelessly stretching out into Donnie’s personal space. He rolls his eyes, letting you fall into his lap a bit. He couldn’t argue with that logic. Nor could he protest to you hugging him. 

“Are you into church now, is that it?”

Huffing, you kneel back down to resume your prayer. Donnie follows suit, albeit a bit hesitantly.

“Only when they’re open 24/7,” you frown. “I just wanted to…y’know.”

You really didn’t know why. But, you were curious to see if Donnie could tell. 

He hums to himself while mimicking your pose, kneeling over and folding his hands. Watching his oblong number of fingers interlaced with each other is far more interesting for some reason. 

After considering it, he shuts his eyes as well. “Like Mcdonald's.”

You choke on a giggle, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle yourself. 

“…God? Are you there? Can I get a #5 with sweet and sour sauce?”

Donnie sounds like he has to hold himself back too. Eventually the two of you just crack and give in to laughter. Being together seemed to make you both forget how alone you were in the church. 

You snort, covering up your mouth in shame. 

“Alright, enough! This is a sacred place. Have some respect.”

But, Donnie couldn’t help but laugh at you even more. 

“Aww, that was adorable!” He gushes, poking at your cheek. And he thought he had a dorky laugh!

Damn, you couldn’t resist when he teased you so playfully. But you wouldn’t break. He continues prodding at you, waiting for your stone-cold scowl to disappear. Any minute now. 

“How can the sacredness of this place compete with how silly and cute you are? Honestly? What if Mcdonald’s is my church?”

You have to bury your face in your hands. With a quivering lip and shaky shoulders, you can only shake your head. 

“S-Stop.” You sputter, warning Donnie. He sure knew how to wield humor like a blunt instrument. Not quite as well as his bo staff, but still. 

When he finally stops his jabbering and poking, you flit one eye open. You look to your right, finding him staring at your face, and with such a smug smirk too. 

There it was. 

“Okay, I give. Uncle,” you grin, hands falling to your lap in defeat. “You’re so annoying sometimes.”

“You have no idea.”

You turn to give him a more earnest look. It had almost slipped your mind that perhaps your dates with Donnie shouldn’t consist only of witty digs and banter.

Tonight was date number four, and it was honestly sort of a surprise to you. A week ago, you probably would have sworn up and down you wouldn’t make it to two. Maybe you could chalk the record up to your boundless charm and dashing good looks?

Unbeknownst to you, Donnie was feeling the same way. Call it rejection anxiety or imposter syndrome, but he just didn’t think he’d be so lucky. Not only did you agree to a date, you agreed to multiple dates. As in plural!

You two sit in a comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company. There weren’t any rules against just sitting quietly in a church at night, right?

“Thanks for coming here. My room’s kind of a mess right now, and the lair—“

You stumble over your words. That last part sort of just…came out. You cut Donnie off before he can comment on it though.

“Well, you know what I mean. It can get pretty crowded there anyway.” You wave your hand at him, dispelling any doubt. 

A tiny bit of sweat begins to form on Donnie’s brow. As if you actually think he didn’t notice your sudden change in tone, the way your voice hitched? He knew all your tells.

Still, he didn’t want to really talk about it either. He returns your small smile with his own.

“Yeah, crowded. Haha…” He chuckles. 

“Why must our rendezvous be hidden under the cover of night? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

The mood was getting a little too dour for a second there. Time to try to lighten things up.

“Ha-ha.” Donnie utters sarcastically under his breath.

“That’s it, you’re embarrassed of me. The public shame, the ridicule!” You throw yourself over his lap again, lying fully on your back. 

Your pathetic attempts to make Donnie flustered were admirable, but useless. Not even if you were making him sweatier. Calmly, he slides down an inch or two down the bench. “No, I just prefer the light of the harvest moon.”

As your head falls against the seat, you give him the stink eye. “We’ve got ourselves a real romantic here.”

You knew you guys couldn’t really go out on daytime dates. New York was still unfortunately not too keen on mutants. You suddenly felt sobered up thinking about it.

“Okay,” you sigh, sitting up. “Let’s just skip all that. How are you, what’s happening in the criminal underworld?” 

“Oh, you know. Foot Clan, petty thieves, same old, same old.”

You nod lazily along as he goes on.

“Actually, there was this fascinating article on genetic engineering I found! I was working on my retromutagen compound, trying to streamline the production process and whatnot. Just when you think you’ve used every kind of molecular centrifuge.”

Suddenly, he stops. He did have a tendency to rant about science stuff when allowed. His brothers usually shut him up after only a couple of seconds though. But you were silent. You were being so nice, it was actually making him blush. 

You cock your head to the side. “Lose your train of thought?”

“Uh, I don’t know?” He scratches the back of his head, looking over to you. “Just surprised you haven’t interrupted me yet. I know I can get kind of boring sometimes.”

Self-deprecation was sadly a part of Donnie’s core personality. You were used to it by now, but it was still a bad habit. Quickly, you slide closer to him and pinch at his bicep, snapping him out of it. 

“I’m sorry— Boo, boo.” You shove a thumbs-down in his face, mockingly wagging it around. 

He rolls his eyes, batting you away. “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

His tone was tired but not too stern. You pull away, throwing your arm over the back of the pew. 

“Seriously, I don’t mind. I don’t know all that much about science, but I do enjoy your infodumping. It’s like being back in Scholar’s Bowl.”

Donnie leans back, following your gaze with eagerness. 

“Do you really mean it?” He looks at you with awe. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

You stick your tongue out at him playfully and you’re rewarded with one of Donnie’s rare smiles. The one that’s wide enough to show off his tooth gap. 

Damn, that was cute. 

“But, uh…what’s Scholar’s Bowl?” He searches around the room, trying to look for the answer in his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

You shake your head a bit to rid yourself of the incoming wave of fluffy feelings. It was hard to focus on what he was talking about with his silly, adorable smile plastered on his face. 

“Just an after-school thing I did. It’s a bunch of quizzes, like a trivia competition?”

You watch as Donnie’s eyes fall back on you, and light up. You had a sneaking suspicion that he’d be interested. 

“So it’s like…a battle of intellect?”

“Yup, all the schools compete against each other. It’s fun and educational.” You muse, twirling a piece of hair between your fingers.

Weird, you didn’t usually do that. You drop the lock with an embarrassed smirk. 

Donnie, despite his reputation for being observant, overlooks your shy expression. The stars sparkling in his eyes must be obscuring his vision. 

“Educational and fun? That’s the best kind of fun!”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm, standing up to work out your restless legs. 

“I could have really used you on my team too. I was always shit at the science and math categories, my forte was pop culture.”

You feel a warmth spread through your fingers and toes, thinking about you and him like that. You two could absolutely demolish a trivia night, or Pictionary. With his book smarts and your…(arguably useless) pieces of random facts, your combined powers would be unstoppable. 

Donnie stands up too, walking behind you over to the side of the pews. There were plenty of hallways and rooms you two could explore, but the church didn’t have much else to offer. It was pretty, but that was it.

“Dang, I didn’t realize this place was so…” He trails off as he follows along. “What’s the word I’m looking for?”

You saunter over to the confessional booth nearby, peeking in to steal a look or two. You’ve never been in one of these things before either. 

“Ornate? Gaudy? Pretentious?” You slip past the corner to open up the curtain, beckoning Donnie to step inside. 

“I was gonna go with sanctimonious.”

He takes your invitation and takes a seat. The booth was only about as big as a cabinet, so it was awkward for him to sit in it. You whistle quietly before moving to the other side. 

“Nice word.” You admit. 

“Thank you.”

You shift around, finding yourselves in another old piece of wooden furniture. “You’d think they’d spend some of the tithes on more comfortable seats.”

Donnie kicks his foot against the built-in bench, shrugging. “You’re not wrong. Splinter used to have this saying: Riches are like the wind, you only feel it when it’s moving.”

You purse your lips together. “That’s profound. But you’re not the one who’s supposed to dispense wisdom right now.”

“Are you asking me to confess my sins?” Donnie sits up, trying to look at you through the privacy screen that separated you two. 

Shifting into therapist mode, you clear your throat and get into a more authoritative position. “I assume it’s been some time since your last confession?”

Ah, you weren’t joking. Donnie tosses you a perplexed look, his eye ridge lowering. Was this some kind of impromptu venting session? He decided to play along for now. There was surprisingly a lot he wanted to get off of his shell. 

“Oh boy, where do I start? I’m still grappling with the fact that I’m a young adult, with hangups and petty problems. I’m a recovering know-it-all, I’m overly-critical, I overthink and oversay basically everything–”

“Alright, let’s just slow down.” You shush, chuckling a bit. “I don’t think I’m qualified to handle…all that.”

Donnie sighs with relief, in spite of himself. He was thankful for you cutting him off, he was this close to oversharing too. He clutches at his chest, absentmindedly feeling his heart rate increase. 

“Sorry, I’m also a hypocrite.”

You raise your hands, trying in vain to pacify him from across the booth. This setup was a little too detached for your liking now, you wish you could go over and hold his hand or something. Anything to help him through his belittling talk. 

“No, you’re not. You can say whatever you want in here, that’s kind of the point.” You smile, peering through the screen. 

It’s hard to make out, but you think he shrugs again. You guess that was better than nothing. Donnie goes quiet on the other side, making you feel like you need to fill the silence. 

“Uh…my turn?” You venture. 

“Sure. Go for it.” His voice sounded only slightly less despondent. 

You take that as your cue. There was plenty for you to vent about too, but you might as well take this opportunity to voice some of your concerns. Nothing that pressing, just things that were lingering in the back of your mind. 

Maybe it would be best to phrase it in the form of juicy gossip. A spoonful of sugar. 

“Wanna know a secret?” You lean up to the thin material of the screen, whispering directly to Donnie. 

“What’s that?” He takes the bait. 

You take in a small breath through your nose. Hopefully he wouldn’t take this the wrong way. 

“I used to hate you.”

A beat of silence follows, Donnie going stock still. His brain seems to lag, like the internet connection cutting out for a second. He knew you were mostly kidding, but based on your shared rocky history, it wasn’t all that surprising. 

But, it was true. You two used to be more like frenemies, locked in a tense relationship of one-upmanship and bickering. It was cute, but rather exhausting for other people to endure. 

“Sounds about right.” That’s all he offers, causing you to take a pause. 

“I mean, only a little bit. I’m sure it was mostly the hormones, or the weird way I like to flirt. It’s more like bullying than flirting.” You scratch an invisible pattern into the side of the booth, sulking into your seat. 

“I know, I would have hated me too. If you think I’m a dork now, you wouldn’t believe how insufferable I was before.”

“I think everyone hates their past self, it’s not that weird.” You frown. 

The two of you look toward each other for a second before chuckling. To the uninformed observer, your laughs sound stilted, even a little forced. Donnie forgot that you two had that in common, the pessimistic tendencies. It wasn’t depressing though. If anything, it was comforting. You got one another, but you were never too enabling. 

“Guess we both have some sins to repent for.” He sets his head onto his hands, feeling slightly less agitated. 

You lick at your teeth, squeaking in response. “Yup.”

For a moment, you consider keeping the next confession to yourself. There was one more ugly thought that sat at the tip of your tongue, but it was embarrassing.

“I, uh…I also kind of hated April.”

Once you start, you don’t wait for Donnie to respond.

“We talked about it before, don’t worry. It’s all water under the bridge. But I knew I had a crush on you, even if it seemed like I didn’t.”

It pained you to admit, but it was true. You were actually pretty jealous of April back then, despite your active denial. Dealing with feelings was complicated for anyone, but being an audience to the love triangle of April, Donnie, and Casey was even more confusing. It was hard to be around them sometimes. You still don’t know how Casey worked into it, he didn’t seem like the type to get caught up in that kind of stuff. 

“It was a mess of unrequited feelings. That’s what it was. It’s actually kind of funny when I think about it now, hindsight and everything.”

You remember how diluted you were, so quick to reject your obvious feelings for Donnie in favor of resentment. You were convinced that you just didn’t like him, for whatever nebulous reason. Not because you secretly liked him and watching him rub his big, fat crush on April in your face made your blood boil. Those feelings were fleeting memories now, but they still weighed on you. 

Jealousy was just about one of the ugliest things to experience, and you feel the old guilt twist at your guts. Ugh, it was sickening. 

“Teenagers, am I right?” You quip, waiting for Donnie to chime in. 

Donnie takes in all your words, mulling them around in his mind before speaking. There was suddenly a lot more that he had to say to you. 

“I’m sorry for keeping this…whatever this is a secret.” He continues to hang his head in his hands, talking into his palm. “I know I’ve been avoiding talking about it–”

Even without the privacy screen, it didn’t take much for you to avoid looking at Donnie too. 

“You’re worried your brothers will tease you, I don’t blame you.”

“No, I’m a coward. It’s like– Why should I worry about what they think? I know they don’t mean to make fun, it’s just how we are. It’s not their fault though, I just don’t…” He leans back, vaguely waving his hands about. 

“Don’t want to–” You add. 

Finally, you both speak in unison. 

“Get my heart broken.”

The way your voices fold over one another, you swore it was like something out of a video game. You can see the little achievement banner now: ‘Embarrassing Backstory Unlocked.’

Your throat grows tight, and Donnie gulps. You both didn’t expect to be so on the same page. It was like you read his mind. 

“Spooky,” he concedes. “You’re really good at this confession thing.”

Slowly, your foot inches out of the side of the booth. You needed to get up again, the wooden seat was starting to make you really uncomfortable.

“You know me, always full of surprises.”

Donnie doesn’t hear the tiny shift of the wood or the sound of you sneaking over to his side of the booth. You stand at the other curtain, timidly rocking on your heels. 

“Same, only my surprises aren’t quite as charming. Some Mr. Right I turned out to be.”

He also doesn’t notice your presence just beyond the curtain. You were so close, maybe a little too close. You think you should stop yourself from overstepping a boundary, but you can’t help but reach a hand out to part the fabric. 

With a dry chuckle, Donnie shakes his head. This was supposed to be better, he was supposed to be different. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t stop the inevitable comparison to April. Why was he messing this up? The second-hand embarrassment made him cringe. 

Then, you grab his attention with the swift movement of your hand. You tear through the curtain and move to sit next to him. The small bench was barely big enough to hold Donnie, but you try to sit next to him regardless. 

“Uh!” He stammers, a redness coloring his cheeks. “I-I don’t think…”

This was definitely too close. 

But you don’t care. You needed to look him in the eye, no barriers or awkward feelings would get in the way.

“Why are you so concerned with being Mr. Right? Why not Mr. We’ll See, Mr. It’s Complicated.” You grab at Donnie’s face, urging him to keep his eyes on you. 

“Wha–?” He furrows his brow, his gaze trained on your lips. Eh, close enough. 

“What I mean is, why are you putting so much pressure on yourself?”

Saying it outloud, the answer was fairly obvious. But your question still stood. 

Donnie’s towering height didn’t deter you from leaning closer, craning your head up to maintain eye contact. Your steadfast and straightforward nature made him a little flustered sometimes, it was hard to keep up with you. 

But, he kind of liked it. You made him feel exhilarated, his heart hammering in his chest from both nerves and affection. His pulse echoes in his ears as he finds the right words. 

“Because I like you. I really like you and I don’t know what to do.”

His eyes go glassy for a moment, but this wasn’t the time to be sad. He couldn’t put all this pressure on you either. But it was the honest truth. He was smart when it came to science and inventions, but love? Real love was a mystery to Donnie. 

When you hear his honest, vulnerable confession, it rings true for you too. 

Slowly, you move your hands away from his face. Then you lean your head against his plastron.

Donnie moves only slightly to look down at you, an expectant expression on your face. Once again, you surprise him.

“I don’t know what to do either, if that helps?” Your lips draw up into a goofy smile. 

Seeing you look up at him so sweetly, Donnie’s heart thrummed even more. It was honestly making him a little dizzy. But there was no roadmap to a real relationship, and you were a completely different person from April. Certainly different from him, but that was good. He liked how different you were, even if you two had similar qualities.

“It does…” He sighs, his hand creeping up to palm at your cheek. “So, now what?”

Shifting the conversation back to the confessional, he smiles timidly and waits for you to answer. He could wait for however long you needed, the tiny room felt a lot less claustrophobic and a lot more relaxing all of the sudden. 

“Oh, right. Just do ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers and you’ll be fine.”

You flick your hand up to sign the cross at him, signaling the completion of your confessions. There had been enough atonement and self-punishment for one night. 

Donnie’s chest rumbles, his laughter making your head move. 

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” he grins, lifting your head up to meet his own. 

The lilt of his voice makes your throat tighten up again. You didn’t really know why, but his body language was so much more confident than before. And who knew his voice had such an effect on you? You didn’t, that’s for sure. 

“What do you mean then?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

Before you know it, you watch as Donnie lets his eyelids drop and leans in for a kiss. For once, he forgoes talking and allows his actions to speak for themselves. 

For the first time in a long time, you feel your face begin to heat up. You didn’t get flustered that easily, but Donnie was being so…

Brazen. 

You don’t know if you should slap him or smooch him. Maybe you could lean into it, crash your lips into his even harder. There was that old competitiveness again, it was like how you felt around Donnie when you were younger. If anyone was going to pull the first move in this relationship, it was you!

But, you were afraid of what would happen next. You really didn’t know what would transpire here if you let yourself get caught up in his advances. This was God’s house, after all. You could just feel the disapproving look from up above. 

“Hey, Don.”

Donnie stills, his lips ghosting over yours. His breath is warm, and oddly tantalizing. 

Fuck, you were turning into a simp with every passing moment. How uncouth. 

His words and movements are slow, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Yes?”

“Wrong kind of booth.” You smirk. 

You move your hand to his plastron to push him away, only from Donnie to catch you by the wrist. The bold gesture ignites a fire in your belly. 

“Eh, I’ll just do another Hail Mary or two.” He shoots an indignant, cocky smirk right back at you.

“Wait, wha–”

Donnie flips the script and shuts you up for once, pressing his lips softly against yours. You feel a series of hot flashes overtake your body. As you start to feel motionless, your limbs go slack and your eyes flutter closed. It just seemed inappropriate to look at someone while you were…kissing. 

Kissing. Donnie was kissing you. You have a moment of clarity before you feel his tongue slide hesitantly along your bottom lip. Then, your mind goes blank again. 

You’re somehow frozen in place. The only movement you can muster is your lips parting slightly, your neck angling in such a way that lets you lean into him. A gasp of surprise from Donnie hums against your mouth as you deepen the kiss. 

For what seems like hours, the two of you commit a rather sinful act in the privacy of the confession booth. You feel your eyebrows knit together, reeling from the shameful display. 

Another sound from Donnie, a low chur, makes your eyes open again. That wasn’t a sound you’ve ever heard from him before. You separate when you see his eyes are open as well, staring unabashedly at you. 

He blushes harder, knowing that he’d been caught. “I’m sorry, you just looked so–!”

“You’re so weird,” you cackle. “If I didn’t find you so cute, I’d slug ya!”

Donnie groans to himself as he watches you step out of the booth, leaving him a bashful puddle of a turtle. He bursts out of the curtain, making you shriek in surprise and run away. Bobbing and weaving through the pews, Donnie gives chase as you put up your dukes, playfully inviting him to spar with you. 

“Hey, no running in the church!” He shouts, tackling you to the ground. 

“No! No, don’t tickle me! This is torture!” 

Your manic roughhousing is promptly ended when Donnie’s eyes travel over to a pair of shoes standing before you two. He travels up, finding a rather perturbed-looking priest holding a douter. He must have been in the process of putting out the candles when he caught two strangers coming out of the confessional to candoodle on the floor. 

His face was etched in horror as he pointed to Donnie’s face. “Is that a frog?”

Suddenly, your head whips around to look up. “Oh, shit.”

With all the color drained from his face, Donnie gingerly stands up, pulling you along with him. He is at an utter loss for words, and all he can do is stand there and sweat bullets. 

Thinking on your feet, you grab Donnie’s hand and hightail it out of there before the priest can react again. You would hate to have to deal with the wrath of God right now. 

Donnie, thankful for your decision to make a speedy exit, gladly lets you drag him behind you. Laughing a bit too loudly, he picks up the pace. 

“Peace be with you!” He shouts behind him as you make your way to the main doors. 

Right before Donnie can shut them closed, the priest responds out of habit. Perhaps he was just too shocked to do anything else. 

“And with your spirit!”

With an ominous thud, the doors shut on their own again. They slam in your bewildered faces. 

You wheeze, catching your breath. “I…I thought it was ‘and also with you!’”

Donnie shakes his head, a distant look in the eye. “It’s ‘and with your spirit’ now.”

All at once, your body tenses up and relaxes as you let out shaky laughter. Donnie’s shell knocks against the door as he laughs too, sliding slowly down. 

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. 

“How dare you use the Lord’s name in vain!” You gasp, reaching out to take his shoulder. “Have you learned nothing?”

Donnie’s laughter dies down a bit as he picks himself back up, leaning closer to you. “Yes, I learned that I like kissing you.”

His suggestive (and frankly cheesy) attempt at schmoozing you makes your laughter stop as well. You bring your fist up to lightly punch his face away. 

“Dork,” you sigh.

“Jerk,” he smiles. 

taglist: @saspas-corner

[pamphletstoinspire]

Forgiveness and Contemplation in Prayer

One obstacle to beginning to pray and living within is the struggle to forgive. Whenever someone hurts us in a serious way, there is a spiritual wound that remains. As we begin to pray, we commonly find ourselves going back over these wounds again and again. What is most frustrating is that many times we thought we had already forgiven the person who hurt us. But when the memory comes back, we can sometimes feel the anger and the pain all over again.

What do we do with the wounds so that they no longer impede our ability to pray? The Catechism of the Catholic Church explains, “It is not in our power not to feel or to forget an offense; but the heart that offers itself to the Holy Spirit turns injury into compassion and purifies the memory in transforming hurt into intercession” (CCC 2843).

To pray for those who have hurt us is difficult. In scriptural terms, those who hurt us are our enemies, and this is true even when they are friends and close family members. Christ commands us to love our enemies and to do good to those who persecute us. Betrayal, abandonment, indifference, scandal, abuse, scorn, sarcasm, ridicule, detraction, and insult — these are all bitter things to forgive. The Lord grieves with us and for us when we suffer these things. He has permitted us to suffer them for a profound reason.

The Lord explained to His disciples that those who hunger and thirst for the sake of justice, those who are merciful, and especially those who are persecuted for righteousness and for the Lord are blessed. Their mysterious beatitude makes sense only when we see through the eyes of faith the injustice and persecution they have endured. Somehow, trusting in God in the midst of such things makes them in the likeness of Christ. Trusting in God means to pray for those who harm us, to seek to return good for evil. When this act of trust is made, the power of God is released in humanity. For two thousand years, this is what every martyr for our faith has revealed to the Church.

Why God Permits the Persecution of Those He Loves

In his mysterious wisdom and profound love, when the Father allows someone to hurt or oppose us in some way, He is entrusting that person to our prayers. When our enemy causes us to suffer unjustly, our faith tells us that this was allowed to happen so that we might participate in the mystery of the Cross. Somehow, like those who offered their lives for our faith, the mystery of redemption is being renewed through our own sufferings.

We have a special authority over the soul of someone who causes us great sorrow. Their actions have bound them to us in the mercy of God. Mercy is love that suffers the evil of another to affirm his dignity so that he does not have to suffer alone.

Whenever someone hurts us physically or even emotionally, he has demeaned himself even more. He is even more in need of mercy.

From this perspective, the injury our enemies have caused us can be a gateway for us to embrace the even greater sufferings with which their hearts are burdened. Because of this relationship, our prayers on their behalf have a particular power. The Father hears these prayers because prayer for our enemies enters deep into the mystery of the Cross. But how do we begin to pray for our enemies when the very thought of them and what they have done stirs our hearts with bitterness and resentment?

Here we must ask what it means to repent for our lack of mercy. The first step is the hardest. Whether they are living or dead, we need to forgive those who have hurt us. This is the hardest because forgiveness involves more than intellectually assenting to the fact that we ought to forgive.

We know that we get some pleasure out of our grievances. The irrational pleasure we can sometimes take in these distracts us from what God Himself desires us to do. What happens when all that pleasure is gone, when all we have left is the Cross? Saint John of the Cross sees our poverty in the midst of great afflic­tion as the greatest union with Christ crucified possible in this life: “When they are reduced to nothing, the highest degree of humility, the spiritual union between their souls and God will be an accomplished fact. This union is most noble and sublime state attainable in this life.” In the face of our grievances we must realize this solidarity with Christ and cleave to His example with all our strength.

Living by the Cross means choosing, over and over, whenever angry and resentful memories come up, not to hold a debt against someone who has hurt us. It means renouncing secret vows of revenge to which we have bound ourselves. It means avoiding indulging in self-pity or thinking ill of those who have sinned against us. It means begging God to show us the truth about our enemy’s plight.

The Work of the Holy Spirit

Here, human effort alone cannot provide the healing such ongoing choices demand. Only the Lord’s mercy can dissolve our hardness of heart toward those who have harmed us. We have to surrender our grievances to the Holy Spirit, who turns “injury into compassion” and transforms “hurt into intercession” (CCC 2849).

As with every Christian who has tried to follow Him, the Cross terrified Jesus. He sweat blood in the face of it. We believe that it was out of the most profound love for us and for His Father that He embraced this suffering. Because of this love, He would not have it any other way. Overcoming His own fear, He accepted death for our sake and, in accepting it, sanctified it so that it might become the pathway to new life.

Precisely because Jesus has made death a pathway of life, Christians are also called to take up their crosses and follow Him. They must offer up their resentment to God and allow their bitterness to die. Offering the gift of our grievances to God is especially pleasing to Him. It is part of our misery, and our misery is the only thing we really have to offer God that He wants.

This effort is spiritual, the work of the Holy Spirit. In order to forgive, we must pray, and sometimes we must devote many hours, days, and even years to prayer for this purpose. It is a difficult part of our life-long conversion. Yet we cannot dwell very deep in our hearts, we cannot live with ourselves, if we do not find mercy for those who have offended us. Living with ourselves, living within ourselves, is impossible without mercy.

There are moments in such prayer when we suddenly realize we must not only forgive but must also ask for forgiveness. A transformation takes place when our attention shifts from the evil done to us to the plight of the person who inflicted it. Every time we submit resentment to the Lord, every time we renounce a vengeful thought, every time we offer the Lord the deep pain in our heart, even if we do not feel or understand it, we have made room for the gentle action of the Holy Spirit.

The Holy Spirit does not take the wounds away. They remain like the wounds in the hands and side of Christ. The wounds of Christ are a pathway into the heart of every man and woman. This is because the hostility of each one of us toward Him caused those wounds. Similarly when someone wounds us, the wound can become a pathway into that person’s heart. Wounds bind us to those who have hurt us, especially those who have become our enemies, because whenever someone hurts us, he has allowed us to share in his misery, to know the lack of love he suffers. With the Holy Spirit, this knowledge is a powerful gift.

Once the Holy Spirit shows us this truth, we have a choice. We can choose to suffer this misery with the one who hurt us in prayer so that God might restore that person’s dignity. When we choose this, our wounds, like the wounds of Christ, no longer dehumanize as long as we do not backslide. Instead, the Holy Spirit transforms such wounds into founts of grace. Those who have experienced this will tell you that with the grace of Christ there is no room for bitterness. There is only great compassion and sober prayerfulness.

Saint Thomas Aquinas on Mercy and the Gift of Counsel As we go further into the discussion of Saint Thomas Aquinas on mercy, he explains that the Holy Spirit’s gift of counsel is a special prompting, or impetus, in the heart that brings every act of mercy to perfection. The gift of counsel, explains Saint Thomas, allows us to know and to understand the misery in the hearts of others. Once we know and understand their misery, we can bind ourselves to them in prayer so that those who have hurt us might feel the mercy of God in their misery, that they might find a reason to hope, a pathway out of the hell in which they are imprisoned.

It is by this same gift that Christ knew our hostility to God and allowed Himself to be wounded unto death by it. He wanted to bear this dehumanizing force in our nature so that it might die with Him. This way, when He rose again, He could free from futility all that is good, noble, and true about each of us.

Likewise with us, this same gift allows us to extend Christ’s saving work into the hearts of others. In particular, the gift of counsel allows us to understand the dehumanizing hostility others have unleashed on us and by understanding it in faith, to offer it to God in love. When we do this, our mercy, perfected by the Holy Spirit, makes space in the hearts of those who have hurt us, space into which God’s love can flow. It is the saving mercy of God, His love suffering our misery, which is the only hope for humanity.

BY: ANTHONY LILLES

[mtraki]

(Warning: Little bit of [terrible] smut in this one...  Also I don't have any personal grievance with the Catholic church, nor is my intention to offend!) 

 Storms had been building on the horizon for weeks.

They rolled through slow and continuous, one after another, and the thunder growled out across the dry lands, even though above the desert basin the sky remained bright blue and virtually cloudless.

 At night, Catherine watched the lightning flicker.  Sometimes the girls would join her-- usually Tilly or Jenny.  Sean would join them if Karen was there, and they’d share drinks and jokes.  Arthur and Charles would smoke in deep contemplation, eyes fixed on the flashing horizon, but only long enough for one cigarette.

 “You’d best get some sleep,” Arthur warned her, flicking the butt of his into the dirt before scuffing it out with his boot, “Hosea’s got us ridin’ into Tumbleweed to check in on his ‘friend’, Mister Graff.”

 Hosea often had them riding out to follow up on his leads.   Catherine was there as her ‘father’s’ representative, and Arthur was Hosea’s favorite choice for her guardian as he was more obviously physically capable at first glance than either John or Javier, and Dutch had Charles running another job.  Catherine suspected the old man was stirring up trouble after their talk about how he thought Arthur was in love with her. If Mister Morgan suspected anything, he didn’t share his thoughts with her.  Altogether, he was behaving much more aloof, and Catherine was certain Dutch’s recent behavior had much to do with it.  If not everything.

 “I remember.  I’ll be ready.”

 “Maybe bring a change of clothes this time?” He teased, corner of his mouth twisting ruefully, “Don’ want t’be delayed on account of rain.”

 “I suppose that would be best for both of us, then.  Goodnight, Mister Morgan.” She smiled back warmly.

 He avoided looking her in the face and instead turned away, heading for his tent, “‘Night, Miss Schofield.”

 It twisted in her guts like a sharp piece of metal, and she wasn’t sure exactly why.  At least this new arrangement suited Dutch’s sensitive pride better, it seemed, and so Catherine took it upon herself to bear it with quiet dignity.  As well as treat Dutch with the same cool aloofness.  She spent her nights with the other women, and did not entertain any of the outlaw’s flattery.

Lenny was having better luck.  He’d convinced Miss Kirk to ride out with him to try and shake out a lead somewhere.  Catherine found it decidedly encouraging that they were not back yet.  If any man in this world could treat Jenny right, it was surely Mister Summers.  His youth and inexperience were strengths in this regard, because he was open to education, which Jenny could surely provide if she only gave him the chance…

 With a sigh, Miss Schofield turned to retreat to her spot, settled between Tilly and Mary-Beth under the canvas, the lightning still flickering on the horizon behind her.

 They left early in the morning, and ate a light breakfast in the saddle.  Arthur was particularly withdrawn and taciturn, and the lady suspected he hadn’t rested well.  Or maybe Dutch had made a point to chap his hide over their being alone together?  She didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.

 Likely, the outlaw was determined to make it a long, quiet ride.  She let him, for about an hour and a half, but then her patience was exhausted and she began to make conversation, refusing to become discouraged by his resistance.  In the end, he was helpless before her. She was too well-trained in the arts of social discourse, and he was not nearly skilled or stubborn enough to resist her efforts.

 He’d spent twenty years learning all the best ways to rob, threaten, and kill people.  She’d spent nearly that long perfecting how to charm them.

 Arthur soon warmed to the conversation, and with Dutch and the rest of the camp so far behind them, relaxed into their former camaraderie.  As ever, it took a bit of work and encouragement to turn his thoughts and words from the immediate and practical, towards something they could both muse over.  Presently, they’d stumbled into a discussion about justice and capital punishment.

 “You know I don’ flinch away from killin’ at all, Miss Schofield.  Folks that need killin’ should be killed.”

 “So you are for judicial, summary execution, as it stands now?”

 “Well…” He laughed a bit, his humor dark-- as it often was, “I much prefer dispensation with a bullet instead of a rope.”

 “‘Dispensation’ is a good word, I approve.” She grinned at him, “But you must accept that a rope is altogether more economical.”

 “What are you talking about-- bullets come mighty cheap--”

 “--Bullets, sure, but to keep a gun in killing condition, for the number of executions a sheriff or other authority might need to dispense… These costs rack up swiftly as opposed to acquiring a rope which can be reused…”

 Arthur shrugged, “Sure, but you was talkin’ justice, not economics.  You want death on the cheap, jus’ cut out the throat or drown’ ‘em in a trough, or hell, just beat 'em t’death…”

 Making a thoughtful sound, brow furrowing, Catherine said, “So you contend that shooting a man is more just than hanging him?”

 “You been to many hangin’s, Miss?”

 “No.  I never understood the entertainment in watching someone die-- deserved or otherwise.”

 “--That’s a different discussion altogether, but I’ve seen a good number of hangings.  Civil and… outside the law proper.  Ain’t none of ‘em just from where I was standin’.  It’s a bad death, even if the end of the rope kills quick-- an’ it don’t always.”

 “... From my… limited study… the mode of execution is the severing of the spine-- the force breaks the victim’s neck.  I’ve heard that sometimes this doesn’t happen and the victim strangles to death.”

 “Your limited study bein’ readin’ about it?”

 “Mostly, though some of my peers back home have a grotesque fascination with the subject of execution and attend them as frequently as garden parties.”

 “Your books and rich, fancy gawkers ever talk about what it’s like to watch a man kick his legs while he spins helpless at the end of a rope, jerking up and down, before he starts seizing up?  Or how he looses his bowels in front of the crowd jeering for his blood before he blacks out?”

 Catherine looked at him to find he was looking at her.  Though his mouth was in a firm line, none of his displeasure was directed at her-- he didn’t blame her for her ignorance on the matter, he was simply trying to teach her, and express his point of view.  He wanted her to understand.

 If only Dutch talked to her this way… things could be so different.  So much better…

 “Alright, Arthur,” She said with a nod, “you’ve made your case against the noose.  Now explain how a bullet is better.  Death by firing squad was conceived very specifically in the military to diffuse the blood guilt.  So now we’d need five guns and bullets and men of courage with steady aim…?”

 The outlaw snorted, “Or just one.”

 “Not many men in this world can carry the burden of a hundred or more deaths, Arthur.”          “No,” He agreed, “Fortunately sheriffs are elected in an’ out, ain’t they?  After their term of service, they can retire quiet-like someplace.”

 “Even besides the shooter, there’s the crowd to think of.  You mentioned the indignity of a victim loosing their bowels, what about the horror of flesh and bone being ripped apart by a gunshot?”

 “I thought the point was to make an example…” He raised both eyebrows at her, as if surprised she didn’t understand this basic premise.

 Scoffing, Catherine shook her head, “If it is, then we aren’t talking about justice at all, and I stand even more firmly in my position against the supposed moral and legal superiority of capital punishment.”

 “So no hangin’s or shootin’s?  Whatchu gonna do with rotten folk like us, then?  Lock us up?” Arthur laughed.

 “Educate you.” She said frankly, looking him dead in the face so that he sobered and knit his brow together.

 “Educate us…?  You want to educate the killers and thieves and rapers?”

 “That should be the burden of the government, should it not?  Look at yourself, and most folks in the gang!  It’s a question of why you’re killers and thieves!  Surely if you had been taught necessary skills with which to integrate into society you wouldn’t feel like you’d been rejected by it like so much refuse--”

 “--You know, I don’ much follow news like this,” Arthur interjected suddenly, “but I heard tell the government is doin’ something like that very thing with the native peoples they’d rounded up.  The tribes.  Takin’ their kids an’ puttin’ them in these schools to teach ‘em how to be ‘American’ an’ ‘acceptable-like’…”

 Under his clever, pointed look, Catherine blushed, torn between embarrassment at her dangerous ignorance, genuine pleasure that he’d challenged her, and a small sense of pride in knowing it was her influence that had engendered this willingness to engage in a tête-à-tête at all.

 “...There’s a marked difference between educating and equipping the poor in one’s own culture… and destroying the culture of another people.  I’m not suggesting education can cure all the sins of man’s collective black heart, Mister Morgan, but I am suggesting that it’s clear that the current system only benefits the select few-- the rich.  For it is the poor who are turning to crime to satisfy their needs, and the poor who are summarily executed for it.  Yet we call it  justice and tell ourselves we’re doing very well.”

 Arthur shook his head, “Some folks are jus’ evil, Miss Catherine.”

 “Yes, but unless everyone has their needs fulfilled, we’ll never be able to tell the evil from the simply desperate.  The way they tell it, only God Himself has that power.”

 “I suppose the Reverend might agree we ought to leave justice in the hands of the Almighty…” remarked the outlaw dryly, “but I expect not much’ll get done either way…”

 This led to a discussion about the failings of the good Reverend as an individual, and the Catholic Church as an institution.  This more serious conversation quickly devolved into the trading of off-color jokes and humorous stories. Arthur’s humor was dry and dark as the tomb, but it was his sense of      timing     that threatened some inelegant, unladylike laughter out of Catherine.  Though she had little talent in entertainment, for her part, the lady had a small but efficient repertoire at her disposal, and soon discovered how much she liked hearing Arthur laugh unrestrained until he wheezed for breath.  She determined then and there to acquire greater skill in humor.

 It was then the arroyo opened around them, and Tumbleweed greeted them, starting with the chapel to their right, which caused them to shoot each other half-guilty, half-smirking looks.  But it was the tree standing in the graveyard that drew Catherine’s attention and held it.

 The thing was dead, as it had been the last time she’d seen it some weeks ago, but now half was torn away, broken off and lying at an awkward angle on the ground amidst shattered bits of branches.

 “What in the world..?” She murmured stunned and intrigued.  Never in her life had she seen anything like it.

 Arthur had, it seemed, for his tone, though interested, lacked the note of naked shock hers held, “Lightning.”

 “Really!”

 Smiling at her, he nodded, “Yes’m.  That’s lightning for sure.”

 Dismounting, Catherine could hardly stop herself from approaching the ruined tree, unconcerned with how Woden snorted and trotted toward the water trough in front of the saloon where he would be certain to drench the entire length of his reins getting a drink.   Chuckling quietly-- either at the horse, his rider, or both together-- the big outlaw dismounted as well, though his steed was well-behaved enough to stay where he’d been left on the side of the road.  All of it barely registered, the lady was fixated by the appearance of the tree and entirely engrossed in trying to piece together exactly how the lightning had done this.

 “... I’m certain we haven’t seen any storms this close…” She murmured.

 “Mhm…” Was Arthur’s quiet acknowledgement over the scratching of his pencil on paper.  He was in his journal-- sketching the image in front of them, she was sure of it. He’d never shared his drawings with her, and she’d never been so bold as to pry-- not with how quick he was to tuck away the journal any time her eyes rested on it longer than a moment.

 Her curiosity gave her an infamous reputation in many respects among those in the camp.

 “Does lightning really travel that far from its source?” She wondered aloud, instead, “...And isn’t it supposed to strike the tallest structure-- that church steeple is much taller!  Besides, I don’t see any scorch marks, do you?”

 Arthur was chuckling again, low in his broad chest, “Miss Schofield, if you don’ believe me it was lightnin’, you can come out an’ say so, plain…”

 “It’s not that,” Was her quick amendment, “You’ve seen it before, so I must acknowledge your greater experience in the matter… it’s just… the evidence here seems to contradict so many things I understood about the nature of lightning!”

 Snapping closed his journal, Arthur’s eyes were on Catherine’s face-- she could feel the weight of his gaze-- and his smile was warm, but there was teasing in his eyes when she turned her head to meet his look, “‘Things’?  Like thunderbolts bein’ thrown down from Olympus by Zeus?”

 “That would be a myth, Arthur, not a theory backed by scientific data documented in books,” She rolled her eyes, and he laughed.

 “What about ‘lightning don’ strike the same place twice’?”

 Blinking at him, she frowned, “You mean that’s not true?  The odds seem mathematically very slim.”

 “I dunno about mathematics, an’ I’m pretty good with odds, but--” He stopped suddenly, a strange expression crossing his face.   Catherine didn’t bother asking, she sensed it too, just for a moment: a strange smell in the air-- sharp and acrid on the tongue, and a queer sensation over her skin that raised the hair at the nape of her neck and tickled at the thin hairs on her arms.

 It lasted only a moment-- in the same moment she saw Arthur lunge for her-- and then everything exploded in white hot light flanked in boiling red, and they were thrown to their knees, shouting their shared alarm.  Slim gave a piercing whinny, the stout warhorse was unmoved by most threats, but this terrible      explosion     frightened him all the same.  The air around them seemed to tremble with the echo of a terrible, earth-shaking roar, and the lady wondered if she’d ever hear again as it reverberated in her ears and through every bone in her head enough to send her entire body trembling.

 She was not alone.  Once her vision bled back from the blinding flare of light, she saw Arthur, hatless, on his hands and knees nearby, shaking as well.  She could not hear him yet, but his mouth shaped words she knew to be vehement curses before his eyes turned toward her, worry chasing shock over his features.

 But her eyes went to the tree, where flames licked the sky.

 “Je-- Go--...  Shit…” Arthur whispered, and Catherine started to laugh, knowing what he’d started to say and why he hadn’t said it.

 Arthur Morgan, infamous outlaw, thief, and killer, was afraid to blaspheme the Name of the Lord here in front of the church and this tree that had been-- against all odds-- struck by lightning twice.  For all his teasing of her just a moment ago, Arthur apparently believed-- at least in this moment, at least a little-- the God of Abraham might strike down sinners with lightning from Heaven, should they incite his anger.

 Stranger still, she could think of no reason, in this moment, to contradict him.  Her laughter softened, but turned all the more hysterical as she felt his trembling hands take her shoulders.

 “... Catherine…?”

 She couldn’t stop laughing long enough to assure him she was unhurt, despite the quaking of her bones, and when she met his look, she understood that where the white-hot light had seared through her with terrible shock and amazement, it had set him ablaze on the inside.

 He was concerned for her, certainly, but just behind that concern--chasing like a hound on the heels of a hare--was something hot and desperate.  She reasoned she understood: though he was a man who’d faced death countless times, it was rare indeed to face death ordained by the Heavens themselves-- and see it thwarted somehow.

 Insane odds and a more pressingly desperate, mortal, desire to survive had reshifted priorities in Arthur Morgan’s mind, perhaps?  He wanted her-- had  wanted her for a long time.  Until now, he’d been willing to deny himself for the hundreds of reasons piled up inside and around him, perhaps forever.

 But now… now after facing the wrath and judgement of the Almighty...

 Perhaps not so long, after all?  Time was short.  Life was brutal and fleeting.

 Still gripped by the mad giddiness that caused laughter to spill from her lips, Catherine brought up her hands and traced both sides of his unshaven jawline with trembling fingertips, and watched as something dark and hungry framed the heat in his eyes at her touch.  In a rush, one of his hands moved from her shoulder to the side of her head, fingers threading into her dark hair, half-undone from its chignon, and dragged her in to meet his rushed, exhilarated kiss.

 Shock chased up her spine immediately.  Not because he’d kissed her, but for fear that someone might see them.  Tumbleweed was a small town, and the lightning and fire would certainly draw a crowd at any moment.  How long would it take for their lack of restraint, and disregard for modesty and propriety, to enter the usual rounds of gossip?

 How long before someone back at camp heard about it?  Until Dutch heard?

 Pressing her thumbs lightly against his chin, on each side of the cleft there, Catherine eased her face from Arthur’s.  Though he leaned eagerly after her, pressing against her fingers, he did not use his hands to drag her back or force another kiss upon her.  No matter the violence of his thundering desperation for her, he wasn’t going to force her.

 It was… surprising, given her experiences, and she found it-- like so many things on the growing list she kept in her head for Arthur Morgan-- terribly endearing.

 “...I…”

 “Wait,” She whispered, “... Not here.  Somewhere quiet.”

 He released her, to cover her hands with his, nodding, more to himself than anything.  Then he climbed to his feet and pulled her up after him.

 The burning tree was forgotten.  The horses forgotten.  His hat, there on the dusty ground, forgotten.  The job forgotten.  He pulled her after him direct to the gunsmith.  He wasn’t thinking, Catherine supposed, only doing-- driven by instinct or need, or both.  Her own thoughts were whirling in disorder so quickly she could hardly piece them together.   She’d always been aware that at any moment he might desire for her to make good on all her flirtations-- like every man before him-- but after Dutch’s threats…

 After Hosea’s accusations…

 The timing was certainly poor, but she wasn’t really concerned about it, now.  This was…

 … this was familiar territory.  She knew what to do.  She knew what was expected.  She could go through all the motions with hardly a second thought.  It was something of a relief, really, because she’d need her thoughts to decide just how to arrange things afterwards to prevent a disaster…

 She was too distracted by her thoughts to catch whatever Arthur had said to the proprietor-- maybe he hadn’t really said anything at all-- nor did she notice precisely how much money he set down on the counter-- though it looked like a rather large sum.  But then the man handed Arthur a key.  In a rush they were back outside and circling the building and climbing the stairs in the back.

 Arthur’s hands still trembled a bit, and he cursed them under his breath as he struggled with the key in the lock.  Catherine couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up-- he was still minding his oaths so as to perhaps not offend the Almighty-- but she bit her lips to hold it in.

 She couldn’t help the way her heart raced when the door opened and he pulled her inside the dimness after him.  Or the stuttering it made as the flat of his hand closed the door behind her again. This was familiar territory, certainly, but she had not done so well for herself by becoming complacent.  Every man was at his worst behind closed doors, when the lights went down.  It would be beyond foolish to not meet Arthur Morgan at his worst  with a touch of apprehension.

 But those large, calloused hands, shaped and scarred by a lifetime of violence, were gentle as they cupped her face like it was the finest china.  Even though there was a rampaging storm of urgency and desperation in his heated gaze, he did nothing more.  Not until she looped her arms over his broad shoulders and around his neck, tilting her face up toward him in invitation.  Then he met her like the breaking of a wave against the cliffs on the coast of the northeast, with a similar heavy sigh, and a great deal more care.

 He had no time or room for self-doubt now, and though sorely out of practice, Catherine could tell he knew how to conduct himself so as to please a lady while kissing her.  She wondered whether Dutch had taught him, or Hosea, or his previous lover-- Mary, wasn’t it?  Perhaps all three had their share in his education.  Maybe unknown others.  It didn’t really matter; she was quietly pleased that he was aware of how best to make use of his generous mouth.  Few men bothered to learn, and even fewer bothered to make use of the knowledge, in her unfortunately broad experience.  

 It was one of the things that had drawn her to Mister van Der Linde, initially.  For all his faults, the man knew how to use his mouth well.

 When she felt the outlaw’s fingertips brush down the smooth skin of her throat, she moved her hands as well, sliding over his shoulders and down the broad planes of his chest, quickly working open buttons as she went.  At the same time, she stepped into him, urging him backwards.  Bothering only to make a vaguely inquisitive sound in his throat while he kissed her, Arthur moved as she directed, until the back of his knees hit the bed frame.  By then, she’d gotten his shirt open-- perhaps far more swiftly than he’d expected-- and he’d torn his mouth from hers for want of air, gasping for breath.

 Apparently his education hadn’t included remembering to breathe through his nose whilst his mouth was occupied, or perhaps he was too wound up to remember.  He’d forgotten a great deal else outside, after all...

 He said nothing, just gazed at her like she was the only cup of water left in the desert, and he was already a man on fire, his fingers toying with the pearl button at the throat of her shirtwaist as if he was afraid any further efforts might break it.  Or break her.

 Or this-- that she might, in the end, reject him despite coming this far…

 Under her hands, and his heated skin beneath them, his heart galloped wildly in his chest.  He was shivering all over like a fly-stung colt, quaking as her fingers slid down his body toward his belt without her eyes ever leaving the storm in his.  There was something to be said about the satisfaction of having such a physically imposing man so wholly in her power.

 “Lie down.” She commanded in a soft voice, uncinching his gunbelt with both hands in two smooth motions.  He stooped slowly, the bed too short and too low for him to sit with any kind of real grace, considering his size, and especially with his focus elsewhere.  He stumbled, mumbling a soft curse as his legs and balance forsook him, but the lady used his momentum to push him to the side, so he might fall the length of the bed instead of the width of it to hit his head on the wall.  He flipped to his back in time to reach for her waist with both hands as she climbed after him, parting her riding skirt so her legs wouldn’t bind up together as she moved.

 The bed groaned beneath their shared weight.  Catherine wondered if the shopkeep downstairs could hear.  She wondered if he were listening on purpose.  It was still better than the middle of the street in front of the church and cemetery.  At least here they had plausible deniability for whatever accusations might be thrown…

 The pressure of the outlaw’s fingers kneading into the stiff bones of her corset at her waist sharpened her attention back on him and the task at hand-- he needed something to do with those hands, she supposed.  For whatever reason, he couldn’t find a proper task for them himself. With one of her own hands and a practiced twist of fingers, Catherine popped the pearl button at her throat open, noting how Arthur’s eyes followed their motion.  How the apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.  Her other hand guided one of his to her throat, willing to suffer his fumbling-- willing to sew buttons back on her own clothing for a change, if necessary-- to see this done, “Here.”

 While he worked the buttons open so slowly, one at a time, her hands found the buttons of his suspenders, and then the fasten of his pants.

 She only paused when she heard his voice, “Wh…?!”

 Her shirtwaist was only half open, and under it, he was pawing the material of her corset cover, confused by the additional row of buttons as an obstacle to get to her.  It was at this precise moment Catherine realized that whatever he might have done, or planned to do with his fancy ‘Miss Mary’, he’d never actually taken her to his bed, or even seen her under-dressed.

 Further, any women he might have taken his pleasure with were either not women of means and fashion, or he’d encountered them already undressed.

 She wondered if this were also the reason Dutch never bothered attempting to undress her: he didn’t want to risk looking a fool.

 Laughing again, Catherine leaned down to smother his frustrated incredulity with a kiss-- which he gladly, hungrily answered-- and opened his pants, sliding her fingers inside.  Moaning into her mouth, the outlaw’s hands clenched hard around the silk-wrapped bones circling and cinching her ribs and waist while his own contracted in a seemingly unconscious manner, rolling his hips to meet her hand.  She found him already hard and slid him free, throbbing heat.  The curious, whirring, analytical part of her mind noted that while his cock-- like the man himself-- was above average in size, it was his girth that made her insides clench and turn icy.  Even as… well used… as she might be, she could not help but feel apprehensive dread at how he might tear through her with his size and strength.

 But it wouldn’t do for her hesitation to show.  What a mess it would be if he were to question her willingness…

 Fondling the length of his shaft with light brushes of her fingertips, Catherine used her free hand to coax one of his to the laces for the waist of her skirt-- with a normal skirt, the hem could be pulled up around her hips to accommodate the joining of bodies, but that which made this garment more decent and ladylike for riding astride a horse made more difficult the riding astride of a man.  She felt his fingers clench suddenly into a fist around the laces and fabric when the second stroke of her hand around his member wrapped her fingers more firmly around him.  His mouth tore from hers again, his face sliding into the hollow of her shoulder while his hips bucked in frantic jerks.  He muffled his wordless shout of surprise, ecstasy, and shamed frustration into her body.

 Equally surprised, Catherine froze as hot ejaculate spattered against the inside of her forearm before dribbling heavily onto her wrist and into her hand.  They sat there a moment, trying to steady their breathing and thoughts.  Her shock wore off quickly.  He was far from the first man to reach completion early--always much to his embarrassment-- and in a way she was relieved.  If this was all it might take to satisfy him, then--

 But Arthur was moving.  Gripping her arms, he pushed her to the side, over his legs, and out of his way as he climbed unsteadily--but determined-- to his feet, hands busying themselves to put himself back in order.

 Thinking him shamed by his lack of performance, Catherine said, “There’s no reason for embarrassment, Arthur.  It’s a perfectly natural--”

 Her words stuttered, snapping into shards in her throat when she caught a glimpse of his expression, however.  He didn’t look embarrassed.  He looked angry.

Quite angry.

 Standing in the middle of the small room, his back to her, the outlaw started for the door, and Catherine was suddenly mortified that he might leave her here like this.  But he stopped halfway, then doubled-back across the room to the washbasin on top of the dresser in the corner, near the foot of the bed, with heavy footfalls that betrayed his emotion.  He took the drying cloth from where it was folded next to the basin and tossed it to her.  Watching the ragged cloth hit the equally ragged bedspread nearby, the lady blinked, mortification still brewing inside.

 This… this had never happened before.  She’d never lain with a man and had him angry-- or even displeased-- by the end.  Never once!  Opening her mouth to ask after him, he instead spoke, cutting her off with his low, disgusted voice.

 “This… this ain’t right…”  He shook his head, still refusing to look at her, presenting her only with his broad back.

 Mortification swelled, and it took only moments for it to give way to anger of her own.  Her tone turned icy, “... You must forgive me, sir, I was not aware my attentions were so displeasing--”

 “Woman, hush.” His scolding came in a sharp, but resigned tone.  “You ain’t stupid.  You know precisely what I’m on about.  You… you’re Dutch’s woman, dammit!  How can I…  I can’t…  This…  This ain’t right!”

 Anger bubbled inside, boiling thick and heavy like a pot of coffee, “Yes.  Dutch’s woman.  As much a possession-- an  object-- for his display to prop up his vanity and pride as all his others.  A pretty and gaudy trapping to use or set aside as he pleases! Is that ‘right’, Arthur?”

 He didn’t answer her.

 Her emotions strangled her, forcing her voice out so hushed it was almost a hiss, “He doesn’t love me.  He hardly cares for me.  He just wants to keep me.  Like… like a jewel.  But I’m not a jewel, I’m a woman with my own mind!  So don’t… don’t you dare try and shame me for this, Arthur!”

 Saying nothing in reply, Arthur turned for the door, still refusing to look at her.  She knew he was going for certain this time, and Catherine desperately tried to find words and voice-- something to say that might stop him.  Of his own accord, he paused in the doorway.

 “I’ll get the horses.  Clean yerself up an’ meet me in front.” His voice was the opposite of hers-- calm, quiet, dispassionate.  Businesslike.

 Mortification and anger fled in the wake of humiliation, and Catherine suddenly had nothing more to say.  How shameful that in this moment, Arthur Morgan be more composed than she.

 She did not watch him leave, instead turning her attention to the cloth and wiping his seed from her hand and arm.  The sound of the door closing behind him and his heavy, booted steps back down the stairs hammered against her turned back, and try as she might, the lady could not help but feel as if she was being isolated from the rest of the world.  Again.

 Determining the best and only way forward was to make the best of the terrible situation, Catherine endeavored to be nothing but sweet and agreeable, despite the pit of aching, gnawing emotion between her ribs.

 She waved and smiled at the gunsmith through the window, and he smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgement before she turned to meet Arthur and the horses.  The outlaw’s expression was a mask of granite, and his eyes rested on her only the moment it took to verify she could mount the tall thoroughbred well enough on her own.

 “I see you found your hat,” The lady observed cheerfully, “Thats a bit of good luck.”

 “C’mon,” Was his quiet reply, turning the solid Ardennes with a push of his knee,  “we still need t’find Mister Graff.”

 Hosea would be expecting a good report.  Stifling a sigh, Catherine followed the iron grey warhorse and his rider, smoothing her mount’s mane idly as her eyes turned back toward the tree in the graveyard.  Blackened by the fire, parts of it were still smoldering, though the flames had gone out.

[krypti]

Courtesy of Thought Crime Resistance, where it received over 300 likes and 4,000 shares.  Similar memes have been sporadically spread by some (though not many) voices on the right, including one by Ted Nugent that got over 100,000 likes and 75,000 shares.  Are these shooters all Democrats?  To find out, we’ll briefly go through each of them, and look at the evidence (if any) that they were.

First, a fair definition of “Democrat” is needed.  For that, we’ll use;

a person who is either a registered voter with, a member of, or a known supporter of the Democratic Party.

If the claim meets this criteria, the statement will be considered true or mostly true, depending on the strength of evidence.  If they can be proven wrong, it will be considered false or mostly false, and if there is no evidence either way, it will be unsubstantiated (which is a nice way of saying this meme is b.s., since the label would be uncalled for)

1. In 1865 a Democrat killed Abraham Lincoln

Mostly False. This refers to the infamous John Wilkes Booth.  Booth was a fairly successful actor, who was also very pro-slavery and anti-Lincoln.  A couple different sources, here and here, give accounts of his life and motivations.  While Booth became active in politics, his only known association with a political party was in the 1850s with the American Party, aka the Know-Nothing Party.  This party was known primarily as an anti-immigrant and anti-Catholic party, but ironically didn’t take a stand on slavery.  The party disbanded in 1860.  During the Civil War, Booth was a spy for the Confederacy, as his job as an actor let him smuggle goods throughout the country.

There is no evidence of Booth’s involvement with the Democratic Party, but he was anti-Lincoln and pro-Confederacy, which meant at the time, anti-Republican.  Therefore, he would most likely support and vote for whatever party opposed Lincoln, which some would consider the Democrats.  However, during the Civil War, even Democrats were split on slavery and the war.  Many in the north ended up supporting Lincoln and became Republicans.  In the south, the Democratic Party halted all operations from 1861-1865.  Booth shot Lincoln in 1865.  He would probably have fit into the racist Southern Democrat mold if given a chance, but labeling him a Democrat would be wrong.

2. In 1881 a Democrat killed James Garfield

Charles Guiteau

False. This refers to Charles Guiteau.  He was quite a character, seeming to annoy and creep out every group he became associated with.  He became involved with a small religious sect in upstate New York called the Oneida Community, lead by John Noyes, who labeled the practice “Bible Communism”.  The biased observer might take that to mean Guiteau was a leftist, but he was never really accepted by the group.  He ended up filing a frivolous lawsuit against them, and eventually wrote threatening letters to the group when that failed.  Noyes described Guiteau as “moody, self-conceited, unmanageable” and addicted to masturbation.  Later, he called him “insane”, and remarked, “I prayed for him last night as sincerely as I ever prayed for my own son, that is now in a Lunatic Asylum.”  Eventually, Guiteau took up politics, where he promoted the Stalwart faction of the Republican Party.

He wrote a speech titled “Garfield vs. Hancock”, which was filled with over-the-top arguments supporting the Republican nominee, Garfield.  After Garfield narrowly won the election, Guiteau deliriously concluded it was his speech that was responsible for the victory, and began incessantly bugging the administration about being appointed Ambassador to Paris.  The Secretary of State, James Blaine, finally told him, “Never bother me again about the Paris consulship so long as you live.”

Guiteau eventually became depressed, and decided Garfield needed to be removed from office because he was on a course to “wreck the once grand old Republican Party“.  He purchased a .45 revolver and shot President Garfield at a train station, who later died from his wounds due to the medical incompetence of the time.

3. In 1963 a socialist killed John F. Kennedy

True.  Putting aside all the conspiracy theories and assuming we’re talking about Lee Harvey Oswald, he was a self-described Marxist.  After being discharged from the Marines, he even traveled to the Soviet Union, and attempted to renounce his citizenship and become Russian.  After a short time in the Soviet Union, he seem underwhelmed with the system, and eventually moved back to the US.  He seemed to identify more with revolutionary Marxism after that, and started admiring Cuba.  Before Kennedy, he attempted to kill General Walker, an outspoken critic of Fidel Castro.

It’s interesting to note that this is the only person on this meme’s list not called a Democrat, but a socialist instead.

4. In 1975 a Democrat shot at Gerald Ford

Mostly False.  Two woman shot at Gerald Ford in 1975, both unsuccessfully.  The first was Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, who was a member of the Manson Family.  The other was Sarah Jane Moore.  While Moore was certainly affiliated with leftist groups, and would likely support a Democrat over a Republican, it would be a stretch to call her a Democrat, as she had no affiliation with the party.  It would be more accurate to describe her as a radical leftist, or Marxist.

5. In 1983 a Democrat shot Ronald Reagan

False.  There is no evidence that John Hinckley, Jr. was a Democrat.  He was clearly mentally ill, and fixated on the movie, Taxi Driver, where Robert DeNiro was a psychotic taxi driver, who contemplated political assassination, as well as rescued a young prostitute played by Jodi Foster.  He became obsessed with Foster, even enrolling in Yale to stalk her.  Initially, he began following President Carter (a Democrat) around, but never went through with an assassination attempt.  His mental health deteriorated at the same time Reagan became president, and Hinckley finally went through with his plan.  Before the attempt, he wrote a letter to Foster explaining how he was doing it for her.  Also, the shooting happened in 1981, not 1983.

6. In 1984 a Democrat killed 22 people in a McDonald’s

Unsubstantiated. There’s no evidence James Huberty, who perpetrated the San Ysidro massacre, was a Democrat.  As a kid, he contracted polio, grew up in Amish country, was abandoned by his mother, and reportedly blamed God for his mom’s absence.  Later in life he held several jobs, including a funeral home undertaker.  Eventually, he adopted conspiracy-type beliefs including a fear of Soviet Aggression, foreign control of the Federal Reserve and the imminent economic collapse of the economy.  He became a self-described survivalist, bought several weapons, and reported believing himself mentally ill shortly before the shooting, even calling a psychologist’s office.  However, due to a clerical error he was never called back, and one day left his family at home to carry out the McDonald’s attack.

7. In 1986 a Democrat killed 15 people in an Oklahoma post office

Unsubstantiated. There’s no evidence Patrick Henry Sherrill, the postal worker for whom “going postal” is known for, was a Democrat.  Sherrill served in the Marine Corps, was a member of the National Guard pistol team, and considered an expert marksman.  His motive for committing the Edmond Post Office shooting was likely his supervisor who had reprimanded him (along with mental illness).

8. In 1990 a Democrat killed 10 people at a GMAC office

Unsubstantiated.  There’s no evidence James Edward Pough was a Democrat.  He was an unskilled construction worker, who earlier in life had murdered his best friend in an argument.  Despite being banned from buying firearms, the authorities dropped the ball and he ended up buying several.  His motivation for attacking the GMAC office was likely because they repossessed his Pontiac Grand Am.

9. In 1991 a Democrat killed 23 people in a Luby’s cafeteria in Killeen, TX

Unsubstantiated. There is no evidence George Hennard was a Democrat.  There is evidence that he had an irrational hatred of women, calling them “female vipers”, but that doesn’t seem to be a political platform of either party.

10. In 1995 a Democrat killed 5 coworkers in a Texas Laboratory

Unsubstantiated. There is no evidence James Simpson was a Democrat.

11. In 1999 a Democrat killed 8 people at a church service

Unsubstantiated.  There is no evidence Larry Ashbrook was a Democrat.  He was an emotionally disturbed, likely schizophrenic man, who before the shootings thought the police was drugging him and the CIA was targeting him.  He had some issue with Christianity, as evidenced during the shooting, but no known link to the Democratic Party.

12. In 2001 a Democrat shot at the White House, aiming for George Bush

False.  No evidence could be found that Robert Pickett was a Democrat.  Furthermore, he didn’t “aim for George Bush”, he fired a shot at the White House, while behind the gates.  According to the Secret Service, Bush was never in danger.  As far as Mr. Pickett, he was a former employee of the IRS, and had lost lawsuits against them for grievances.

13. In 2003 a Democrat killed 7 people at a Lockheed Martin plant

Unsubstantiated.  No evidence could be found that Doug Williams was a Democrat.  Some attributed the workplace shooting to racism, as Williams had apparently made racist remarks at work, but the police stated it was likely random, as most of the injured were white.  The incident appeared to be caused by Williams becoming enraged at a work meeting.  Then, he went to his car for a shotgun and proceeded to shoot up the plant.

14. In 2007 a Democrat killed 32 people in Virginia Tech

False.  Seung-Hui Cho, the 23-year-old Korean student turned shooter at Virginia Tech was an immigrant, not a US citizen.  In Virginia, only citizens are allowed to vote, meaning Cho couldn’t have been a Democratic (or any) voter.  There is no evidence he was involved with any sort of political activity, instead being described as a loner.  In his ramblings prior to the shootings, he did rail against “rich brats” and against Christianity, but no coherent political ideology.

15. In 2010 a Democrat shot Rep. Gabrielle Giffords and killed 6 others

False.  Jared Loughner was a registered independent, who didn’t even vote in the 2010 elections.  While he didn’t discuss his political motives, his friend was quoted as saying, “It wasn’t like he was in a certain party or went to rallies.  It’s not like he’d go on political rants.”

16. In 2011 a Democrat killed 12 people in a movie theater

Unsubstantiated.  There is no evidence James Holmes, the Aurora, CO movie shooter, was a Democrat.  There was a Breitbart story claiming he was a registered Democrat, but that was later proven to be wrong, and retracted. Holmes considered attacking an airport initially, but decided against it as it might be confused with terrorism.  He wrote, “Terrorism isn’t the message.  The message is, there is no message.”

17. In 2012 a Democrat killed 7 people in Minneapolis

Unsubstantiated.  This refers to the shooting at Accent Signage Systems, where 5 people (not 7) were killed, including the gunman Andrew Endeldinger.  There is no evidence to support Endeldinger being a Democrat, only a disgruntled employee who was a loner, mentally ill, that recently lost his job there.

18. In 2013 a Democrat killed 26 people in Newtown, CT

Unsubstantiated.  There is no evidence that Adam Lanza was a Democrat.  He was often described as a troubled and fidgety loner that likely suffered from Asperger’s, among other issues.

19. In 2013 a Democrat shot 12 at a Navy Shipyard

Unsubstantiated, but possibly true.  On CNN, one of Aaron Alexis’s friends said the following:

“Aaron wasn’t conservative like I am.  He was more of a liberal type; he wasn’t happy with the former [Bush} administration.  He was more happy with this [Obama] administration- as far as presidential administrations.”

This is the only evidence supporting the claim, and it’s certainly not rock solid, so it couldn’t be reliably claimed.

Conclusion:

Looking at the profiles of all these shooters brings up many common characteristics.  Loner, mental illness, violent outbursts and general creepiness.  Political ideology is generally non-existent or incoherent, particularly among the mass shooters.  Regardless of one’s view on politics or gun control, associating these killers with the Democratic Party (or conversely, with Republicans or Tea Party ideology) is a low blow that’s not backed up by facts, and the argument should be removed from any rational discourse.

[mnesiptolema]

Want to learn more about terrorism?

I think terrorism and religious extremism are one of the most misunderstood issues in the world today. It is hard to combat regardless, but nigh impossible if you don’t understand where it comes from, how it works, and why it exists.  Today my Middle Eastern Studies lecture was on this topic.  If you’re interested in learning a little more about religious extremism (specifically Islamic extremism in the Middle East), I’ve summarised my notes below. They barely scratch the surface! Here are the contents:

Why is the Middle East so strongly influenced by Islam?

What is jihad?

How were Islamic traditions radicalised by jihadis?

What is jihad like today?

Why do jihadis hate the US so much?

Where did ISIS come from?

What do ISIS actually believe?

Has ISIS been defeated?

Why is jihadism so difficult to end?

Enjoy! (and if you want any more information on a certain area, please ask)

Why is the Middle East so strongly influenced by Islam?

The Arab states’ decisive defeat in 1967 shattered the morale of many Muslims and left them questioning how they lost so badly.  Many concluded that they needed to be better Muslims.

The Middle East has developed very unequally, with high rates of inequality.  This has exacerbated class, ethnic, and sectarian divides. Muslim symbols and institutions have been used to organise dissent, especially where political oppression prevents other forms of dissidence.  Modernisation has also brought the adoption of Western values, which has changed the social fabric of M.E. societies.

Finally, closed political systems encourage leaders to support their rhetoric by using Islamic language and ideas, to which their citizens can relate.

There have been two reactions to these factors.  The first are political Islamists, who seek to apply Islam to social and political institutions through elections and other existing political frameworks.  We never hear about these guys in the Western media, but they’re all over the place in the Middle East.  

The second group are the violent extremists, who we know as jihadis.  They endorse the use of violence to force Islam on populations.  

What is jihad?

“Jihad” is derived from the Arabic word “jahada”, which means “to strive”.  There are two types of jihad:

Greater jihad is one’s struggle against their own baser instincts.  This is the form of jihad endorsed mostly by the Qur’an, and which practising Muslims follow.  

Lesser jihad is the kind of jihad we hear about in the news. It’s the spread of Islam.  

Lesser jihad was never declared by the Prophet.  It was instead declared by jurists (Islamic scholars) in the 8th-10th centuries, during the age of the caliphate.  If you don’t already know, this caliphate stretched across North Africa, up into Spain, across the Middle East, all the way over to Pakistan in Central Asia.  Known as the “Golden Age of Islam”, during this time period, the caliphate was massive.  The Crusades, which came shortly afterwards, galvanised support for jihad.  

Over the centuries, jurists came up with specific criteria and doctrinal justification for jihad.  The rules were extremely strict, and you were only allowed to retaliate if you were attacked first.

How were Islamic traditions radicalised by jihadis?

As previously noted, Islam has been politicised.  Its language and symbols have been used to support autocratic leaders.  One example is Saddam Hussein, who added the takbir (“Allahu akbar”, or “God is great”) to the Iraqi flag, when his regime was failing.

An influential figure is Sayyid Qutb, a Sunni Egyptian.  He came up with the idea that it’s legitimate to attack self-proclaimed Muslims, who aren’t actually Muslim (“unbelievers”).  He based this on a verse in the Qur’an, which reads “those who do not judge according to Allah…are unbelievers”.

What is jihad like today?

Lesser jihad underwent a transformation.  It was internalised: used as an effort to remove corrupt rulers, as well as enemy “unbelievers”, within the state.  Al-Qaeda started out this way.  Originally the Mujahadeen, it was formed to oppose Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. Funnily enough, the CIA were very happy to fund the group for their original purpose!

Some jihadis believe jihad is the 6th pillar.  To them, it is an individual, not a collective, obligation, which means that all Muslims must participate, or be labelled nonbelievers and treated accordingly.

Why do jihadis hate the US so much?

Bin Laden began a new approach to jihad.  Whereas the previous focus was on domestic enemies, he looked farther afield to find a target to blame for the plethora of issues plaguing the Middle East.  His eyes settled firmly on the US, who he blamed for the privatisation of Islam.  It is now mostly practised separately to the politics and social sphere.  Naturally, to a jihadi, this is terrible, because Islam should permeate all aspects of life and the state.  

Bin Laden saw the US as the most aggressive form of imperialism, and also blamed them for the abolishment of the caliphate (i.e. Ottoman Empire) in 1924.  All jihadis are very obsessed with the idea of returning to a caliphate, though none can clearly articulate why it would solve any grievances.

He also believed that the US wants to fragment the Middle East into “statelets”, which they can then control.

The rules of lesser jihad make it very clear that you should limit civilian casualties as much as possible, but bin Laden argued that they should be suspended for 9/11 (despite being entirely uneducated in Islamic law).  He said that because the US is a democracy, its citizens are all directly responsible for the decisions of its leadership, and thus constitute legitimate targets.  

Bin Laden also considered 9/11 both self-defence, because the US attacked the Middle East first, and revenge, which is a concept supported in the Qur’an.

Where did ISIS come from?

As with all jihadi groups, they were enabled by their environment.  Iraqi Sunnis felt victimised by the corrupt and oppressive government, were targeted by brutal Shia militias, and used Islam as a unifier against US invasion.  It was the perfect storm.

Abu Mus’ab al-Zarqawi, a member of al-Qaeda, hated the Shia a lot.  Like, a lot.  Enough to start beheading them, despite the admonishment of bin Laden.  In 2006, his supporters attacked a sacred Shia shrine. The Iraqi Shia finally retaliated, launching the country into the tragic civil war we’ve all heard about.

The Syrian uprising was the perfect opportunity for the Shia-hating group to travel and fight against the Assad regime (who, aside from being awful, are also Shia – well, Alawite, but allied with the Shia).  They were incredibly successful fighters, and even worked alongside secular rebel groups like the Free Syrian Army.  This bunch formed the Nusrah Front.

Eventually, some of the Nusrah Front became ISIS under al-Baghdadi, though some refused to join up.  ISIS began massacring all other rebel groups, and jihadi groups, as well as the Assad government.  To them, it’s ISIS or nothing.

Even other jihadi groups have denounced ISIS, saying they hope they repent and “come to their senses”.

In 2014, ISIS attacked Mosul.  Some Sunnis, especially Ba’athists (Hussein supporters who were heavily oppressed after 2003), cooperated!

What do ISIS actually believe?

Firstly, all Muslims must pledge allegiance to the caliph.

Anti-Shiism is dominant, of course.

You must not collaborate with infidels, i.e. anyone except ISIS.

They have imposed Islamic criminal law, known as “hudud”, without also imposing its limitations. For example, they behead people, but only using a small knife, which causes unacceptable suffering under Islamic law.  Saudi Arabia also beheads the convicted, but they have to use a sword so that it’s more humane – at least, as humane as being beheaded can be.

Unlike al-Qaeda, ISIS want to establish a state and return to the Golden Age of Islam.

So, has ISIS actually been defeated?

Getting there! Its revenue in 2016 was $890 million, compared to $1.99 billion in 2014.  It also receives only 50 fighters a month, whereas in 2014 it received 2000.  The US-led coalition killed about 10 000 fighters in 2016, and the Iraqi government has regained control of eastern Mosul.  ISIS fighters are being forced to retreat into the desert.

Nevertheless, it’s kind of like Whack-a-Mole until the underlying problems which cause religious extremism are solved.  That will be very, very hard to do.  At the moment, Syria, Libya, Iraq, and Yemen are most vulnerable to jihadism.  

Why is jihadism difficult to stop?

The first reason people turn to religious extremism is disenfranchisement.  People have nothing to lose by joining, and it’s often the only option of political dissent left in authoritarian states.  Governments would have to become stronger and change their entire political system to fix this problem.  Plus, the changes would have to actually be effective.  At the moment, that’s not very feasible.

The other main reason is a fragmentation of authority.  Unlike, say, the Roman Catholic Church, where there’s a Pope in his own literal country handing down religious rulings left right and centre, there is no one Muslim figurehead who can speak for all Muslims.  There isn’t even one per country.  Islam is a very individual religion: it’s all about yourself and God.  There are plenty of religious scholars, but they’re all government loyalists, so disenfranchised Muslims don’t care what they have to say. This is a systemic factor and very unlikely to change.

I hope you found my notes interesting and learned something.  Thanks for reading.

[rosecorcoranwrites]

Why it’s not okay to be okay with punching Nazis: PART 3 – Free Speech

This is the last part I promise XD Then it’s off to fun happy book things :D

3) Free speech, or, “ideas cannot hurt you”

So I’ve already discussed the idea of mob mentality taking over and the idea that what constitutes a "unacceptable” ideology might very well include those ideas we hold as normal today, so normalizing the idea of harming people for having unpopular opinions is dangerous, but what if we could guarantee that only Nazis will be punched, not people mistaken for being Nazis, not people with other ideas. What is we could 100% guarantee that Nazis, and only Nazis, were the ones being punched.

You still shouldn’t hurt people for the ideas, because their ideas are not actually hurting you.

“But Nazism was responsible for not only 11 million people in the Holocaust, but also arguably, all the other fatalities of WWII, at least in the European Theater,” I here you say, and that is true. But to be perfectly fair, one could make the same arguments, with much higher death tolls, about Communism/Marxism. I even think that because of its subtlety and its basis in solving real economic problems, Communism/Marxism is actually more pernicious than the in-your-face Nazism, but you don’t see me jumping up to punch Marxists. Why? Because a single person holding an idea, no matter how dangerous of an idea, is not harming anyone.

I’m of the school of thought, the one currently in vogue in American law, by the by, that one should only harm another person in self-defense/defense of others, and only when the threat is imminent. If a Nazi is about to hurt an actual, real, live person, you bet I would support punching them. I’d do it myself! If I know that he’s planning some sort of violence, I’ll do the smart thing and call the police. And if a Nazi says something like, “I’m glad the Holocaust happened,” I’ll be repulsed and call him on it, but I wouldn’t punch him.

Because as ugly as his words are, as hideous as his ideas are, as much as I hate them and think that they are 100% wrong, they are still just ideas, which are oddly powerful, while at the same time, powerless. This idea, I think, fits in with how we interpret the First Amendment to the US Constitution:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Why are those the first few rights we talk about? Surely rights that prevent bodily distress, like being free from cruel and unusual punishment or search and seizure are more important, right? Well, I think it’s because you can’t really have a free society without freedom of the speech and religion. In fact, you can’t have a free person without free speech and religion. “Religion” or beliefs and philosophies are essentially the inner-most thoughts of a person, how they view the metaphysical/spiritual world, and their place in it, while “speech” is how they express those thoughts. To curtail that is not just to try and control a person’s action, but a person’s very being. A person’s beliefs affect every aspect of their life, from how they vote to what they eat to what they consider right and wrong. The government should never be allowed to tell you what you can and cannot think, and cannot prevent you from speaking about those beliefs. Furthermore, no one ought to live in fear of violence for holding a certain view.

And yet, as important as the First Amendment is, I would say it is probably the most hotly contested today, because people say they believe in free speech and religion… but only as far as they agree with those beliefs.

Let’s take religion, and then bring it around to speech. In recent years, there has been massive government, business, and social pressure on various religious groups and individuals to in one way or another violate their beliefs. From trying to force Catholic nurses to aid in abortions to forcing Jehovah’s Witness kids to say to pledge to denying Muslims the right to wear the veil or pray in public, our society, both in America and Europe, has a real interest in policing the lives of religious people. When these infringements upon religious rights happen, rational people rightly point out, respectively, that you wouldn’t force a Muslim to eat pork, wouldn’t force a Christian kid to pray to a pagan god, and wouldn’t deny a Jewish person the right to wear a yarmulka, so you don’t have a right to infringe on this other group’s similar religious beliefs. Generally, we can all agree on that, more or less.

But what about unpopular religions, like Satanism? People often get upset when Satanists perform rituals or construct displays, but the thing is, if we curtail their rights, then we ought to curtail the rights of all religious groups. Now I personally find Satanists rather silly, largely because most of them will admit that they don’t actually worship Satan, but like the ideas he represents, like rejection of authority and organized religion. Why that translates into a three-edgy-five-me Unitarianesque diabolism and not, say, sleeping in on Sunday mornings, is anyone’s guess. But I digress: most Satanists seem to be in it for purely aesthetic purposes, like “Catholics” who don’t agree with anything the Church teaches, but Love the RitualTM. But let’s say that there are certain real diabolists out there who do worship Satan and do dark rituals to summon his power. M’kay. I actually believe in demonic powers, and do believe such people are putting their own souls at risk, but I can’t stop them from believing that Satan is the bee’s knees. As long as they aren’t hurting people, sacrificing pets, or stealing consecrated Hosts, then they have every right to their practice of religion. Again, if they could actually curse you, yeah, we would have a bone to pick, legally, with such a religion. But we all know they can’t, and they aren’t hurting anyone by constructing goat statues or placing pentagrams next to crèches during Advent. They have as much right to their belief system as any Christian, atheist, Muslim, pagan, etc.

The same is true of speech. Even if the ideas are dangerous—like selling your soul to Satan or thinking your race is superior—so long as the person isn’t acting on those ideas in such a way as to actually harm someone, they have a right to speak freely without fear of violent repercussions. If they start stealing property from churches for their rituals, or destroy Jewish storefronts, or burn crosses on people’s lawns, then you can get the law involved and sue the freaking pants off them or throw them in jail. Again, if they physically attack you or someone near you, you are obviously in your rights to fight back, the same as you would against anyone who is attacking you for any reason. If you know they are plotting to harm a group of people, again, call the cops. In the grand scheme of things, though, punching Nazis because they’re Nazis really isn’t going to solve anything. It’s not gonna make them suddenly not be Nazis anymore. All it does is make you into the sort of person who thinks that it’s okay to assault certain people for their beliefs and the things they say, which… is actually really dangerous, as I hope I’ve shown in Parts 1 and 2 of this post.

Knowing that a Nazi is walking the streets, free and unpunched, probably isn’t going to make you feel very good. It might make you angry, or even scared. But the same could be said of having sex-offenders out on parole. Knowing they live in your neighborhood would make you justifiably angry and scared, but last I checked, it’s still illegal to assault a sex-offender who isn’t committing a crime. That person’s actions scarred someone irreparably, just like how the Nazi’s ideology was responsible for millions of deaths. But at the moment, all they are doing is existing and believing things. What gives you a right to stop them from doing that? What gives you a right to police the thoughts and ideas of others? Nazism is truly a dangerous thing, but other equally-dangerous ideologies have come and gone and come again, and many of those begin with the idea that all speech should be protected, but some should be protected more than others.

I don’t think it’s okay to punch Nazis. And I don’t think it’s okay for people to be okay with punching Nazis. I think it’s giving in to a mentality that can lead to more and more acts of violence against a larger and larger group of other-ed “thems”: Nazis, Trump supports, people who kinda seem to be Nazis or Trump supports, people who we can write off as irrational instead of trying to reason with. I don’t think that this sort of violence-espousing mentality will lead to anything good. But for now it’s just an idea, and I hope in these three little essays that I might have changed someone’s mind.

Part 1: Mob Mentality

Part 2: Unpopular Ideologies

[jobsearchtips02]

Trump campaign struggles to discover coherent method throughout demonstrations

President Donald Trump and his campaign have yet to discover a strong strategy for dealing with the huge across the country protests against police violence.

Trump and his project have actually ping-ponged between messages focused on shoring up his base in the Christian right and assaulting previous Vice President Joe Biden to siphon his support amongst black citizens.

A 2016 Trump aide stated the president’s Monday check out to St. John’s Church was a missed out on chance.

President Donald Trump and his campaign are having a hard time to find a meaningful strategy with the clock ticking toward Election Day.

That’s the takeaway from interviews with a half dozen members of the president’s circle of patriots, who see a reelection effort throwing out various messages by the day in a battle to restore the narrative amid the double whammy of the coronavirus pandemic and across the country demonstrations over the Memorial Day death of George Floyd after a Minneapolis law enforcement officer knelt on his neck for almost 9 minutes.

It’s been a whirlwind 72 hours, even by Trump requirements. The president has actually ping-ponged between a concentrate on his piousness, attacks on former Vice President Joe Biden’s lengthy record with African Americans, and a promise that he is the “law and order president,” which is akin to Richard Nixon’s rhetoric during his effective 1968 bid for the White Home.

As the president hemorrhages support– his existing and former Defense secretaries joined the list on Wednesday– individuals near to the 2020 project say they are frustrated at the lack of a clear technique.

” They think they had a pretty great narrative up until all of this occurred,” a Trump 2016 project adviser in touch with the reelection effort said.

White House consultant Jared Kushner led an overhaul inside the campaign last week, installing former White House political director Bill Stepien as its brand-new de facto project supervisor. And campaign aides have actually been talking up how to get Trump back to his in-person project rallies, potentially as quickly as next month.

Trump hasn’t done himself any favors.

Consider his journey to St. John’s Church on Monday and after that to the St. John Paul II shrine on Tuesday. The president’s objective in the two Washington, DC, getaways was to showcase his ties to the conservative Christian base and appeal to suburbanites and independents with his “law and order” pronouncement.

However the forceful elimination of protesters camped outside the White Home by federal police rather drew criticism from across the political spectrum, consisting of an admonition from the well-known televangelist Pat Robertson

On Wednesday, Trump tried another technique. He pivoted to attacking Biden over his assistance for the 1994 criminal offense expense that increased the variety of minorities locked up throughout the country while promoting his assistance of historically black institution of higher learnings.

The objective was to undercut African American assistance for Biden, a critical demographic for Democrats if they’re going to win back the White House.

However he stepped on his own message once again as military soldiers for a 3rd straight day cordoned off federal structures from looters and activists objecting authorities violence versus black individuals in the wake of Floyd’s death.

Pat Robertson criticized Trump on Tuesday, saying he ought to be uniting and recovering the nation.

Win McNamee/ Getty Images.

Concern No. 1: keeping the Christian best pleased

Trump’s walk to St. John’s Church, his consultants stated, was likewise a nod to Christian right voters, among the greatest groups the president need to hold to win in November.

However the journey, which the White House memorialized with a campaign-style video, drew criticism from a sample of spiritual figures, from Robertson to the bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, which manages St. John’s Church, and the Catholic archbishop of Washington.

The previous Trump advisor stated those grievances might be brushed off easily due to the fact that the church leaders are left of center and Robertson has lost an action with the Christian right during the Trump era to leaders like Franklin Graham.

” He must have gone over there and examined the damage, or if he was going over there with a Bible, he must have hoped,” the 2016 Trump adviser said.

‘ Casting doubt’ on Biden’s record with African Americans

Trump advisors have actually also been urging him for months to launch the kind of attack that he leveled Wednesday on Biden over his assistance of the 25- year-old criminal offense costs.

” It’s also about him casting doubt about them electing Biden. From that standpoint, it can be efficient,” Spicer included.

Former Defense Secretary James Mattis stated Trump was tearing the country apart in a design akin to the Nazis’.

Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images.

Trump advisor: St. John’s see wasn’t intended for the blue seaside states

The concentrate on messaging “law and order” plays well to an essential crowd of Americans who are angry at the looting and destruction of companies that has actually often overshadowed the demonstrations against cops violence, Trump advisors informed Insider.

” The president’s going to act and stand,” a 2020 campaign adviser stated.

She said Trump’s walk to St. John’s and cleaning of the protesters wasn’t meant to appeal to people who reside in blue states on both United States coasts. The president instead was speaking with his fans, consisting of the business owners who have actually had their services looted.

” If the media is going to be outrageous versus us and not get the pulse of the real people, he will head out and talk to them directly,” the Trump adviser said.

But Trump’s shocking law and order action to the protest however drew sharp criticism from even his most ardent fans.

Robertson stated Tuesday Trump need to be uniting and recovering the country which dislodging protesters “isn’t cool.” And Trump’s defense secretary, Mark Esper, stated he opposed sending in military troops, adding that they might even leave their posts– though he later reversed course after a conference at the White House.

Another shocking reaction came from James Mattis, Trump’s former defense secretary who stated in a statement sent to The Atlantic that Trump was tearing apart the nation in a design similar to that of the Nazis.

“‘ Instructions given by the military departments to our troops prior to the Normandy intrusion reminded soldiers that ‘The Nazi motto for damaging us … was ‘Divide and Dominate,'” Mattis wrote.

” Our American answer is ‘In Union there is Strength,'” he added. “We must summon that unity to surmount this crisis– confident that we are much better than our politics.”

Paul Winfree, a former top deputy for domestic policy at the Trump White House and now with the Heritage Structure, summarized the campaign’s problem as a simple one that leaves the burden on the president.

” Biden is not going to beat Trump on policy,” he said in an interview. “Biden is going to defeat Trump on not being Trump. Trump knows that.”

%%.

from Job Search Tips https://jobsearchtips.net/trump-campaign-struggles-to-discover-coherent-method-throughout-demonstrations/

[christinaepilzauthor-blog]

The Reformation: Henry & Luther

By Samantha Wilcoxson

Martin Luther and the 95 Theses by Ferdinand Pauwels, 1872

On October 31, 1517, a monk named Martin Luther nailed his 'Disputation on the Power of Indulgences' to the door of Castle Church in the village of Wittenberg, Germany. He had no way of knowing that his desire to discuss and debate the Catholic Church practice would cause his name to go down in history. Five hundred years later, Luther's name is boldly emblazoned upon the facades of thousands of churches, and his call for discussion is better known as the 95 Theses. Some historians have questioned whether Luther really posted his comments on the eve of All Saint's Day, wondering if the meaningful date is correct or whether it is a task that the professor of theology would have carried out himself. However, the events and changes that resulted from Luther's actions and writings cannot be denied, even if the theses nailing to the church door may be myth posing as history. Thanks to the boldness of one German monk and the innovation of the printing press, what it meant to be a Christian changed across Europe. Because of the Gutenberg printing press, Luther's ideas did not remain quietly within the village of Wittenberg. They were translated from Latin into German, and eventually other languages, and spread like wildfire. Unlike reformers of the past, who were often limited by their own geography, Luther became a voice against the corruption of the Catholic Church far beyond his little corner of the world. By the following year, Luther was charged with heresy and had to return from his hearing in Augsburg under the protection of Friedrich III of Saxony.

Martin Luther's On the Babylonian Captivity of the Church

In England, Luther's ideas were countered by the king himself. Henry VIII wrote his 'Defense of the Seven Sacraments' in response to Luther's treatise, 'On the Babylonian Captivity of the Church.' It was this work of Luther's more than the 95 Theses that outlined his grievances against the Catholic Church. (Some historians question whether the work in Henry's 'Defense' can be completely attributed to him, but we shall assume here that it can.) In 1521, Martin Luther was excommunicated while Henry was awarded by the Pope with the title of Defender of the Faith. Excommunication did not slow Luther down. He translated the Bible into German (helping define and unite the common German language), attended the Diet of Worms where he made his famous 'I neither can nor will recant' statement, and got into a bit of an argument with the King of England. The 'little monk,' as Henry had called him in his 'Defense' did not hesitate to respond to his detractor. Luther was perhaps the first to publicly question Henry's authorship of the treatise, claiming that it should not be taken seriously for the king did not even write it. Soon afterward, Luther apologized for the accusation and attacked Wolsey, 'the scourge of thy kingdom,' instead. This, of course, did not earn Henry's forgiveness, but only spurred him to defend the minister he depended upon so heavily at that time.

Henry VIII's Defense of the Seven Sacraments

In typical Henry VIII style, the king used Luther's accusation later when he wished to dissolve his marriage with Katherine of Aragon. Claiming that it was Wolsey's hand behind his defense of the sacrament of marriage, Henry appealed for support. Luther, who in his booklet 'Against Henry, King of the English' had been open-handed with insults for the king, gave his support to the devoutly Catholic Katherine. Among other choice words, Luther accused the king of being 'a fool,' 'effeminately querulous,' and 'stupid.' Henry began as a staunch supporter of the Catholic Church while Luther hoped to reform it. Despite their original intentions, it was Henry who broke with Rome while Protestants took up Luther's name to apply it to their own movement. These two men's motivations were completely different, although they led to the same result. Henry began the Church of England to exert his own authority over that of the pope, while Luther had not intended to start his own church but to correct the corruption in Rome. Both men took their important places in Reformation history, though neither began with the goal of separating from Rome. With the benefit of 500 years of hindsight, we can see how each of these men helped lead the Protestant movement. Henry set the stage for reformation in England, despite the fact that his faith was Catholic in all tenets besides papal authority, with his 1534 Act of Supremacy. Once the break had been made, it was easy for his son, Edward VI, or advisors acting with his authority, to usher in full Protestantism.

Henry VIII and the Barber Surgeons by Hans Holbein the Younger

Luther agreed with Henry that the Pope was not the highest or an infallible authority. However, while Henry wished to place himself above all others, Luther preached that the Bible alone - sola scriptura - could offer the authority of God. They would have also agreed upon the true presence of Jesus' body and blood in the sacramental bread and wine. Henry had subjects punished for denying transubstantiation, and it was a point that Luther refused to budge on despite the urging of other reformists. Christians today remain divided on the topic. These two giants of the early 16th century died less than a year apart, Martin Luther on February 18, 1546, and Henry on January 28, 1547. One can only imagine what they would think of the impact that their ideas and actions continue to have on our society 500 years later. Additional Reading Martin Luther: Renegade and Prophet by Lyndal Roper Various writings of Henry VIII and Martin Luther All images in the public domain through Wikimedia Commons ~~~~~~~~~~

Samantha Wilcoxson is the author of the Plantagenet Embers series featuring women of the Wars of the Roses and Tudor England. An incurable bibliophile and sufferer of wanderlust, Samantha lives in Michigan with her husband and three teenagers. You can connect with her on her blog or on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Goodreads.

Hat Tip To: English Historical Fiction Authors