Well, you may ask, who said I should?
My grandparents, mother, father, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, godparents, a good many teachers, childhood friends, a former therapist, myriad internet strangers who felt compelled to try to divert the flames approaching my immortal soul, an astrologer I met once, innumerable people encountered on public transportation and sidewalks, all of my exes’ parents, and, of course, the Roman Catholic Church — an institution of such enormous weight as to have crushed frames far sturdier than my own.
If you think this a short list, I can only conclude that you are unfamiliar with the number of Catholic children produced in parts of the Midwest during the middle part of the last century. My paternal grandmother managed 13 between the years of 1943 and 1963 — all level-headed, good-natured, God-fearing, socially productive people of the sort to provoke my childhood fear of having been adopted. Though no need to get bogged down in aunts and uncles: I only mention them because you asked.
I never know when I’m going to hear about this guy, Jesus, including where least expected. (See: astrologers.) The sacred heart, bridegroom, good shepherd, king of kings, lord of hearts, bread of life, son of man, son of God, lamb of God, alpha, omega, light of the world, prince of peace, and — according to one Medium author — “the coolest f*cking dude who ever lived.” Oh, and savior. Messiah, redeemer, et cetera.
Once upon a time that grows increasingly murky with the passage of years, I used these words myself. I remember the feeling of seeking. I remember equal parts shame and comfort in believing this man knew my every thought and was deeply vested in its outcome. I remember some euphoric Eucharistic experiences, which I now understand as the power of communally directed focus. Mostly, I remember guilt.
It is not a relationship that stuck. I am not convinced, in fact, that it ever was a relationship. Seeing images of the pale-faced Jesus now, delicate fingers raised in blessing, is like encountering a mirror into the empty parts of myself. I thought, once, He would fill them.
And that is why I really do not want fucking Jesus. (No asterisks for the deconverted.) Not as Jehovah. Not as Christ Consciousness. Not on a scapular and assuredly not as a pantomime of women’s labor on two pieces of wood. (See: Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor. ◊)
I am no longer waiting to be filled.
~
Christian coach Tiffany Hogle announces “Jesus Isn’t Your Boyfriend,” only to assure readers:
“Jesus is the greatest, truest Husband. He is our ultimate Lover. He is our dearest Friend. All of what we desire in the warmth and love of an earthly husband has been forever found in the sacrifice and embrace of our Savior. … He’s never let a birthday, an hour, a minute or a moment go by without whole-heartedly proclaiming his love for me.”
This sentiment is unsurprising. Men are the North Star we are oriented toward from birth, through stories young and old, through subtle expectation and crushing force. Men are where we are prompted to seek comfort and worth, pleasure and meaning: not in each other, and certainly not within ourselves. Men are the promised reward for good behavior and feminine grooming, the happily ever after, the point. They are also the source of a majority of violence in our lives.
Predictably, then, women flock to the figure of the perfect man in the only place we can find him: our own minds. Whether in romance novels or Christian blogs, this man never disappoints on a birthday. He loves where all others failed. He doesn’t have to be told.
Because our conditioning is so total, and the threat of violence so constant, it’s difficult to break that mental groove ever moving toward salvation by male. The worse our lives, it seems, the larger the fantasy looms. The deeper the devastation, the stronger the desire to have one man fix it all — an ultimate do-over for the traumatized mind. The one true love. The tall, dark, and handsome. The bridegroom. The one who loved first. The prince roaming forests. The king in disguise. The greatest husband. The Immanuel.
It must work this way, or else. Or else we must ask why the mirror is empty.
~
As a young woman, I attended a Womenpriests’ Mass in New York City. Expecting to be thrilled at the sight of women in the act of public transgression, claiming what they wanted, pope be damned. Instead, I felt sadness. As I listened to the homily from a figure in a familiar gown, desperately twisting some Old Testament words to mean anything but what their author so obviously intended, I could only ask: Is this all there is for us?
Donning men’s garb, borrowing men’s book, just to make it turn out a little better in the end?
Over a decade later, I am able to ask the next question: Is this not exactly where they want us? Ever in reaction to their atrocities, forever defined in reference to their symbols? Still, excommunicated or not, on our knees?
I cannot see women bowing before a man (even a less-sexist-than-his-contemporaries man) as anything but grotesque. I cannot consider my appearance in bridal gown at age seven, ready to take the coolest f*cking dude who ever lived into my body, as anything other than abusive. And I cannot make the Garden of Eden come out good for us, chapter one notwithstanding.
How many years of further education must a person complete to arrive at a benign interpretation of these events? How many “fresh” new renderings of Jesus must be produced in our exodus from the obvious? How fringe of a biblical translation must be sweated from another woman’s pen? How far must we contort to make this man mean something other than what he so tirelessly insists on meaning?
In sum, how much global female labor must be sacrificed to redeem Christ?
~
No, I don’t want fucking Jesus. More controversial in some circles: I don’t want Mary Magdalene either. And I see no tangible benefit to a mother who is a virgin.
I don’t want palm branches imported from Guatemala and I do not like all the words in red, either.
If the three Marys are the fates why not go talk to the fates instead? Ditto, saints. Ditto, holy water. Ditto any beautiful, let alone bearable, aspect of this Goddess-forsaken religion, which was invariably stolen from the pagan backs it broke.
If Catholic kitsch makes you feel closer to the ancestors, I can only ask: Which ones?
So this guy Jesus. The bridegroom. Though also — not creepily — your father. Though also — no need to get all literal about it — the one who renounced his mother. Still coded just feminine enough to be less intimidating, like your favorite K-pop star, though necessarily still masculine enough to matter.
Is this all there is for us?
I persist in believing there’s something more, like an entire galaxy of meaning without subjection. Where creatresses do not curse their creations, snakes are known to tell the truth, salvations transpire without child sacrifice, and fig trees grow unmolested. I see no reason to dig through men’s trash when another world is ever at my elbow. After all, as any level-headed, God-fearing Midwestern aunt or uncle could tell you: there’s no use beating a dead horse.
◊ The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth, 1987, pages 353-54
BIO: Katherine Rose Wort is (if that wasn’t clear) an ex-Catholic and current pagan. She talks to goddesses in public at Goddess & Grimoire.
feminismandreligion.com 
There were things in here that I hadn’t thought to even notice. Like girls dressed as brides to accept Jesus. That is really sick. Ironically, I am a Christo Pagan. So it’s not that rare for an occultist of any kind to believe or work with Jesus.
But that being said I work with a bunch of different Gods and Goddesses of different religions. Including Ponompuan (Humindon) who I consider to be the first Messiah ever. She saved humanity from a famine her parents unleashed on the world. Unfortunately there’s elements of human sacrifice there too. As her own mother tears her apart (at her father’s command) so her flesh and blood would become the food resources of the world.
A different type of salvation by blood but it’s still there. I worship her all May Long. And even beyond May. The Great Queen herself who is compassion, abundance, and prosperity. Messianic Gods and Goddesses all seem to die and rise from the dead as part of their destinies. But I thoroughly enjoyed this regardless.
I especially loved the gratuitous use of the word “fuck” and “fucking”. And the strange catharsis I felt at hearing the author rebel against the religious patriarchy. I’m a man but I agree with what was said for the most part. Obviously I use a lot of Catholic sorcery and necromancy so to me it’s not a contradiction. But you rock.
I grew up as a Jehovah’s Witness and my family tried to pressure me several times to beg baptize and dedicated my life to Jehovah already. In their minds something bad to be wrong with me if I didn’t feel the need to baptize. I have family who won’t talk to me because I left. Imagine if they knew I was a Pagan lol.
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As a protestant who suddenly found herself teaching in a very old fashioned traditional Catholic school in the 1980’s I was astonished to witness the whole First Communion thing. At that time, where I lived in the UK it was the fashion for the little girls to wear full antebellum Scarlet O’ Hara dresses complete with gloves and parasol and lace handbag. There was an uproar the year that the priest banned all the accessories…
I found the whole notion of Christian (of any denomination) girlhood quite noxious that was taught in schools. Girls started off at 4 as normal children but by 10 they had transformed into bashful, sweet versions of themselves, who stepped back so that the boys could have the limelight. It made me grind my teeth!
I love your description of seeing no reason to “dig through mens trash” and I totally know what you mean. Also, about your disappointment in seeing the women priests. We now have women priests in the Church of England and they’re just female bodies reading the same OT and NT passages written by men about men.
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I love your post, the fierceness, the pithiness, the truth of it. That said, I spent a long time writing a series of novels about a feisty, outspoken, unrepentant, unconverted pagan Celtic Magdalen named Maeve who lets us know up front, it’s HER story, not his, though he figures in it. When her pal blasted the fig tree, she restored it then threw figs at him while he preached in the temple porticoes. She–and I–had so much fun. She called him out on just about everything, including how he treated his mother. And she also loved him, as I still do, too. To each her, his, their own. Right on, write on, sister!
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But that is not the history of Mariamma of Magdala.
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Elizabeth, I love your writing so much. You had me reading and marching right along with Maeve. I love that it is HER story. We need more of these. And to add in the element of fun. Amen and delicious! Still laughing at the fig tree and all that the story represents.
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I have a friend (we’ve been good friends for 25 years) who is a newly-minted priest in the Episcopal Church. I love to hear him preach–although it’s harder and harder for me to sit through the misogynist, patriarchal liturgy, and get to the sermon part of the service where my friend shines. We’ve had many conversations over the years about God, Jesus, Church, etc. When I ask him how in the world can he sit/stand through (and sometimes lead) such narrative from the Book of Common Prayer, he responds every time, “I just love Jesus.” Of course, we delve into and search around for what that means to him. He’s always loved the “revolutionary Jesus” who breaks through man-made, hierarchical boundaries in order to bring about justice. His work involves spear-heading a series of events having to do with gun control, bringing in and involving community leaders. His church has an extensive (and lively) food pantry. In other words, my friend’s passion for Jesus is bringing comfort and a degree of ease for people while pursuing a just society. My larger point: Jesus is who we say Jesus is. It’s what we do as humans to find meaning in our lives–we ascribe symbols (Jesus) with our own needs, wants, and “truths.”
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great point Esther –
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meaning that last sentence
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If I were you I’d spent a bit of time in Nature…
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Sounds to me like that is exactly what she does. And chooses that over reframing old patriarchal constructs. Back to the Root, baby!
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Really? Where exactly is Nature present in this diatribe? I understand the rage for sure but the take away for me is disconnection. I think many of us on FAR experienced anger/rage during our leave-takings from organized religions – I sure did – it’s part of the process – but I also left it behind – and hatred of some man who probably was a healer and definitely had a powerful nature connection and was surely not a monster seems extreme.
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I’m curious how anger is discussed in spiritual places. Tolerable so long as it’s temporary, somewhere in the beginning of the story, with the moral being to transmute it into something more respectable.
Why? What is so undesirable, immature, and obscene about anger? It seems the most natural and desirable response to the situation we’re in, and no amount of communication with my landbase has led me to understand differently.
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I certainly did not say that anger was obscene etc – it’s part of a process but not the whole – we are living in very dark times and it’s going to get worse which makes it so easy to rage on insensibly…As a naturalist I experience rage/sorrow every day – and I express it too -I think you should see what I posted for mother’s day – but my point is that we can’t afford to live in rage – it fuels collective hatred which is mushrooming out of control – there’s a fine line here – we are walking a knife edge…
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I love this! You raised many great points. I recently left my liberal protestant denomination because I could no longer stand worshipping a God, who was usually described as male, and Jesus who I believe was a great teacher and healer, but not divine. Now I worship the Goddess and nature. I belong to a feminist women’s singing circle and recently joined a Unitarian Universalist church. Many of the women I sing with are also members of the church and the church honors all religions, including pagan ones.
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Yeah, little girls dressing up as brides, what? God, as men, women coming from men’s ribs, you can not make this stuff up…and endless guilty sinner and poverty promoting sermons, endless guilt. Wow. The catholic church has much to answer for, let’s begin with pedaphilia.
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Your post is a fierce blast against religious patriarchy. Your anger is still so livid after 10 years that it burns the paper it was written on. I’ve been a Pagan for 48 years and I’m at a point in my life where interfaith alliances are possible for me AND necessary. The climate crisis called me to work with Christians, Jews, Moslems, atheists, Bahais, and of course Pagans to save our species and many others that are at risk because of global weirding (I personally believe the Gaia will persist in a diminished form to begin with, but She’s resilient and will rejuvenate). In order to do that, I bite my tongue at times. But I also learn about how others find meaning in religions that I cannot participate in. I also find that in my Unitarian Universalist congregation, which we recently described in a PSA as “a community of belonging, for kindred spirits of many beliefs and none in particular, dedicated to building a world nourished by love and justice for all.” And in my “all,” women stand tall and proud.
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What do Universalists “do” when they congregate? Does it vary by congregation?
Thank you. It’s been perhaps 20 years since I deconverted, and I am only more angry about it over time.
And when not in feminist spaces, I spend so much time biting my tongue I’m worried it’s going to fall off.
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Dear Katherine (and commenters): Thank you for writing and publishing your piece. Once upon a time, I was that Christian who “just loved Jesus” and wanted to share his love with everyone (and did so, for years) because, really, who doesn’t want to share an amazing sunset or starry night sky or feeling of unconditional love with others? I still want to share those things with others, but neither Jesus nor any G/god or G/oddess is a necessary ingredient for being a human being who chooses love over hate, who chooses to donate to or work in a food pantry, who makes a difference in the lives of her students, clients, family, and strangers busking on the street. I am writing a memoir about how walking away from a life defined by others (i.e., dogma of religious faith) is necessary to find faith in oneself. But it doesn’t end there. Walking away (from racism, Catholicism, missionary work, patriarchal systems, etc.) is the beginning. Like you, “I persist in believing there’s something more…” and for each of us, that “more” will take different forms. For me, the “more” is the challenge of learning and growing in human/spiritual awareness–how we treat one another, how open we are to love–and for that I have many teachers: nature, community, individuals, and words others (like you) have written and spoken. Peace for the journey.
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My feelings as well. Why repackage the stale dominant religions, or look in the corners of their scriptures for shreds, when the vast and deep spiritual legacies of the world are there to be discovered.
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Thank you. I keep your “Vyed’ma Baba” painting next to my front door.
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I commend you for dumping your guts onto the page and sharing it with us. I remember when I was filled with that same rage. It lasted many years after being raised catholic and then getting into a fundamentalist church – can you say frying pan/fire? Well, these days I just ignore him mostly and all he stands for. It got too tiring to stay that angry for that long. I am no longer spuing as vehemently against it all but do appreciate those of you who still have the stamina to do so. Someone has to keep it up until all women wake up and stand on their own spiritual feet and stop washing those of someone who could give a damn about us. (See, I can still spue a bit.)
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Some much to comment upon here, I’m going to limit myself to a couple to things. Regarding your observation that allowing women clergy to lead worship didn’t really change anything when they used the same liturgy and rituals–all patriarchal. I totally agree. I immediately thought of this quotation from Rosemary Mason of the Unitarian Universalist Women and Religion group: “We do not want a piece of the pie. It is still a patriarchal pie. We want to change the recipe!” Maybe we even want bread or cake instead.
I’m also very fond of the poem “Applesauce for Eve,” by Madge Piercy. https://jwa.org/media/apple-sauce-for-eve-by-marge-piercy It gave me a whole different way of looking at the Eve & Adam story.
Thanks for letting us see your truth.
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