REPLY TO MOM WHO GIVES HER SON TO THE DEVIL: Why are you talking to Satan, Madam?

Yes, this is long, and yes, it’s pointed, and yes, the woman at whom it’s directed will be offended if she sees it. But she’s the person who put her business all out there on the interwebs, and when you do that, sometimes people read it and get all huffy at you, especially when you write what she wrote. To which I react:

Recently I became aware of a Christian mother who is bemoaning the loss of her son to the quicksand of sin that is taking him inexorably to Hell. Turns out he’s gay and Mom cannot even deal. In fact, she used the occasion of his supergay wedding to release a blog post in which she details her agony. You see, son’s gayness means she can never ever see him again. Because Jesus.

Jesus says (apparently) if your kid goes all gay on you, you have to yell at him all the time, or at the very least litter the house with “Gay Blade” Chick tracts when he comes over. Which he doesn’t. Because Chick tracts are gross and porny.

“I pray,” this mom says to her readers, “that you never have to make such a sacrifice, but I also pray that you love the Lord enough to choose Him over your children. This is where we find ourselves. This is our life.”

It’s their life not to be pleasant to this adult man who happens to be gay. No, they must lob Gospel bombs at him. Also, crying a lot is required. All the time and everywhere, but most especially it’s necessary to publish a hate-piece about his gayness on his wedding day. Awkward!

Speaking of choosing your children over Jesus, what does that even mean? Does that mean we won’t hang with our kids if they take to drinking? Or will we turn our backs if they are preggers-sans-marriage? What if they embezzle? What if they speed? Of course not, you judgy thing you! Not just any sin will do. It’s just the creepy gay sins that break the ties that bind, amirite?

Cuz, seriously, gay sex is so gay, she can’t even.

“In spite of our all our attempts, he refuses to repent.” What this means is simply, “He won’t stop being gay, so we’ve washed our hands of him,” which allusion doesn’t pull up images of Pontius Pilate with her, no one knows why.

I wonder if this dear lady has read any of the literature. Any of the testimonies of tormented gay kids who strive with all their hearts to please God, who beg God to make them straight, toggle the hetero-switch, fix them. No one gets fixed. Gay people stay gay same as hetero people stay hetero and bi people stay bi. You is who you is, all your parents’ “attempts” (translate: screaming, hauling you to pastoral counseling, various invasive therapies) notwithstanding.

What Mom should do here, of course, is realize that her son is an adult, adult enough that one of the 50 states granted him and his husband a marriage license, and she should treat him like any other adult with whom she comes in contact: with civility and pleasantness. There’s no need to be super-duper-closies, but by the same token there’s no need to vomit your sobbing broken heart all over the internet on your son’s wedding day. Why not just send a card?

“We have no fellowship,” Mom continues. “Fellowship” is a churchy word that indicates hanging out. They used to hang out. Now they don’t. Cuz son is too gay for words. They don’t even text! He’s so gay she can’t even trade emojis with him!

“Our son has turned his back on everything he ever believed.” This is likely true. He used to believe in his foolish little-boy heart, “Mommy will always love and accept me no matter what.”

“He has no respect for the Lord or the church.” Don’t worry, Mom. He’ll find a supportive, affirming church. Rest easy. It’s okay. It won’t be your church, but since you can’t even stand to text him, you’re probably relieved.

“He has chosen a life of sin rather than the hope of salvation.” Please. There are lots and lots of gay Christians. Don’t believe me, ask around. More importantly, if he’s concerned about this, he will ask around, and the biggest obstacle to his joining a group of affirming believers, Madam, is you and your hateful wedding day rant which even I—who have no relation to you and have never heard of you and only just happened to hear about through friends of friends who were all equally appalled—happened to read!

“Do we overlook his practice or sin . . . or withdraw ourselves from him as the Lord instructs?” Here, you’re just looking for people to pat you on the shoulder and say, “Well, honey, you’re right. You’ve got to separate from him. Here, have a special hug.” But the fact is, if you look around carefully, you’re going to find that all sorts of Fundamentalist and Evangelical and WhateverDenominationYouAre people happily include their LGBT relatives in their lives. They may rant away in the pulpit, but the kid comes home for Thanksgiving.

I could give you names on that one, but I’m committed to not outing people. But here’s a morsel of info: I know an administrator at an uberfundamentalist school whose kid is like yours—maybe even gayer!—and the parents do Thanksgiving and even (I know, it’s shocking) Christmas with this kid!

Speaking of other people’s kids, I’m always amazed/horrified when people take to the Internet to shame their kids. You know those parents who post pics of their kids wearing the “Get Along” shirt or standing on the street corner holding some sign that says how bad they were. These sorts of parents deserve what they get from these kids. When you shame a child in public, serves you right when the grandkids don’t know who you are and don’t care.

She goes on: “I know the pain of ‘giving our son to the Devil.’” Seems to me he gave himself, in your estimation, a long time ago.

More importantly, are you aware, madam, that he’s not yours to give, and that, anyway, the Apostle Paul is speaking figuratively here? His meaning is quite clear, if you think about it—leave the person alone who isn’t behaving as you’d like, and let things shake out on their own. You realize, don’t you, that you don’t have the authority to allow Satan authority over your son, right? I mean, seriously, who do you think you are? And besides, even if that were the case, what could Satan possibly do more to him than make him gay, and you yourself did that by bringing him into the world all gay and stuff.

Would you have aborted him had you known that fetus was one gay fetus? I mean, from what you’re saying, it seems that sometimes we have to separate from our children when they make these “choices”! It’s reminiscent of Andrea Yates, that very disturbed woman who drowned her five children before they could reach the age of accountability, or that man I once saw on Forensic Files who killed his family because they were becoming worldly. Ironic!

Speaking of choices, have you ever talked to 50 or 100 gay people? Asked them when they chose to be gay? Did you imagine, Ma’am, that your son, in some pubescent moment of Shakespearean indecision—To be gay or not to be; that is the question!—made a list of pros and cons, took a survey of his friends, or otherwise deliberately determined his sexuality by making a decision, as you might decide whether to have toast or oatmeal this morning? Rather, did not his pulse quicken when he laid eyes on a cute boy, and did this and other experiences not continue to happen without his consent merely because he is gay? He has always been gay, your son. You could not have stopped this. You could never have stopped this. You should realize then that you are absolved from the incredible guilt you are obviously feeling and flinging all over the internet, and which your friends in your comments are soothing with their kind words of “oh, how awful for you.”

“Until now, I have only shared with a couple of close friends . . .” But today on his wedding day, you’ve decided to go full Pentagon Papers and tell the entire world. Good on you, gal!

Some days you shed only a tear. Other days are full of gut-wrenching cries of despair. I wonder if sonny-boy has this same experience. Maybe you should ask him: “Hey, Buddy, some days I am gut-wrenchingly despaired that you’re not in my life, but other days not so much. You?”

Many days she drives into her driveway with tears blinding her eyes, literally screaming and wailing in grief, desperate, hopeless. Ummmm, he’s not dead, Ma’am. Pick up the phone and give him a call if you don’t believe me.

“I’m devastated by our loss; his loss.” Oh, you are, are you? Are you devastated by his loss—that his mother won’t speak to him? That his mother chose his wedding day to issue this global emotional rant about her embarrassment about his life? That his mother has chosen not to speak to him for the past three years? To remedy this, bake a pan of brownies and go over there and apologize for your obtuseness. Say sorry.

Does everyone in your life have to live by your religious rigors? Or is it just your son? Do you distance yourself from every LGBT person (your barista, for example), or is it just your son and his husband? Indeed, do you distance yourself from everyone who is involved in a “life of sin” (your neighbor who lives with her boyfriend and their respective children, for example?) or is it just the sinning fruit of your own womb you can’t bear to have in your life?

“I don’t know this person I once thought I knew so well. Was I blind to things that I should have seen?” Yes. You were. You didn’t notice your sweet boy was gay. And once you were apprised of this, you were blind to the fact that it wasn’t your business. And now that he’s married, you’re blind to the fact that you have on purpose tossed him out of your life because he’s not sexually attracted to girls.

You made this all about you. Indeed, you know that. “I feel embarrassed by what my son has done.” And there it is—we have a winner! Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery. You’re embarrassed. It’s so gay, after all! How could a gay child have come out of your womb, your home, your faithful teaching of the Bible? How could anyone, brought up by YOU possibly be GAY?

“I believed our relationship was so close. I adored this child. Was the love our son expressed to us all a lie? How does one go from being a respectful obedient child to flagrantly disregarding everything we taught him and everything that we stand for?”

Holy crap! Do you even hear yourself? You’re saying that because it turns out your son is gay he was lying about his love for you. Wait wait, there’s more. You admit that he was such a perfect respectful obedient child who went all gay and flagrantly so. This respectful, obedient, loving child—so it happens!—is gay! That’s all! He’s a good boy. He’s a loving boy. He’s a respectful boy. Who, as it happens, is gay.

All the anger and animosity and hate and wailing and tears and hopelessness and anger and blasphemy and nontexting and never-see-ums are not because he’s gay; they’re the results of your response to his being gay. He’s a respectful, loving person. You’re the one who freaked out. You’re the one who wasn’t prepared for the news and went loony tunes when you heard it. You’re the person who lost it.

He used to help you peel potatoes and now he’s all gay. He used to look at you all adoringly and now he’s gay. He used to stir ingredients into the batter. MOM! He grew up! Do you really want him to stir the stew and adore you now? Really? Sounds like someone needs to get a life, and I have three sons and know whereof you speak. Stir your own stew already. The boy is grown.

As to your inability to sleep through the night, maybe get a prescription. I mean, there are mothers whose kids are in San Quentin who are coping better than you are.

“I try to picture where my son is now and what he may be doing . . .” Okay, did you just say that? Stop with that nonsense. Do you want him to imagine what you and his daddy are doing right now? No, because that’s gross. We do not go around imagining the sexual habits of others. We just don’t, because that’s creepy and stalky. Ask Miss Manners if you don’t believe me.

And speaking of stalky, you can’t keep yourself from lurking his social media. Stop that, too. Not your beeswax, okay? If you can’t even text him or send him a Congrats on Your Wedding card, you don’t get to stare at his Facebook all the time.

“I remember singing harmony together in the kitchen. I remember the pride I felt when he led singing or gave a talk at young men’s night at church. Those memories are all I have left now. There are no more to make.”

Sure, but that’s your choice, Mom. It’s way more your choice than it is his. He’s gay. He can’t help that. But you’ve chosen not to see him, and every day that you don’t see him you are choosing that.

By the way, that thing about the singing and the men’s talks—seems like maybe you were super invested in his ministry potential. You need to let that one go. There are lots of things about our kids that we don’t get to choose. Whether they’ll be pastors and whether they’ll be gay rank among those.

“He was such a handsome boy, an excellent student, a talented musician.” What? Did his gayness make him ugly or stupid or cause him to forget the notes?

“He was so kind and thoughtful of others.” And now he’s a monster?

“He loved his siblings.” And now he hates them? If so, whose fault is that?

“We used to receive the most precious cards” on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. And now you don’t? Go Figure! I just can’t imagine why he isn’t handmaking cards for you right now! Maybe it’s the bit about how he’s going to hell and the part where you’re wondering about his sexual habits. Gross, lady.

“I remember his infectious laugh.” Now he just grunts.

“Now any correspondence from him are filled with anger, blame, hateful words. Even worse are the sarcastic and blasphemous words used toward his heavenly Father.” Aside from your syntax freaking me out (is correspondence plural?), I have an inkling of an idea why he might be angry. For starters, he was the perfect child—he sang harmony with you in the kitchen, for crying out loud—and you tossed him out for being who he is.

You’re the loser here, you realize that, right? You missed his wedding, and you’re going to miss his children, his successes, his hopes, his dreams. He would have participated in your family memories if you’d been kind, but you weren’t kind. You decided God didn’t want you to be kind. You decided Satan was at your beck and call to “take over” the life of the son you birthed out of your own body, and you made the call.

I mean, seriously. What kind of spiritual clout do you imagine you have: “Yo, Satan, my son is gay. Can you whack him around a little?” Seems Satan is a little too busy these days to deal with your son, or maybe he’s waiting til after the honeymoon. And anyway, why are Christian people talking to Satan? What is up with that?

“Self-evaluation, guilt, despair, fear . . . I know we were good parents. We loved our son, spent time with him, encouraged him, and taught him God’s word.” Yeah, sure, and good job, Mom! But this isn’t about you. I think we’ve covered that.

“I don’t know what the future holds for our son or our family.” Oh, but I do. He’s going to be fine, and you’re going to be fine, and what is keeping you from being fine together is your insistence on being separate, on being unwilling to talk, on hating his gayness so much that you refuse to see the sweet, caring son who adored you and sang harmony with you in the kitchen.

Your belief that God wants you never to see your son again unless he stops being gay (he won’t), is what keeps you from peeling those potatoes with him ever again. Keeps you from hearing that infectious laugh. Keeps you from making those memories.

The empty place at your table is there because you haven’t invited him to sit there, and frankly you don’t get to now. Unless you put out two chairs and say, “Come, both of you. We love you and want you in our lives.”

Or cry in your driveway. It’s your choice.


Fundamentalist and Affirming: Your Guide to Loving LGBT People

Of course you can.

Of course you can be a Christian Fundamentalist and still affirm the LGBT people in your life–your friends, your relatives, your neighbors, your co-workers and yes, your fellow worshipers.

By “affirm,” I don’t mean “tolerate.” I don’t mean standing at a distance and attempting a sad sort of alternative wave that could be mistaken for your flicking a stray lock of hair out of your face. I mean walking up, shaking hands, and saying loudly enough for others to hear, “Hey, Mike, how’re you doing? And how’s Roger?” I mean not being embarrassed. I mean putting yourself out there as someone who loves the underdog, the minority, the “other” in the way Jesus told us to: as you love yourself.

The reason you don’t currently do this is simple. The voices telling you to be unaffirming are louder than the voices begging you to affirm. Pretty much the loudest anti-affirming voice is that of your pastor who has likely been rather insistent that your affirmation of your neighbor’s existence, relationship, marriage, and adoptions is somehow to participate in these activities, and that such participation will land you in hell.

Do you get how silly that is? Let’s say my neighbor is Sikh. Am I participating in his Sikhism by not railing against it every time I see him, not asking pointed, invasive questions about his turban, not stealth-witnessing (with candy!) to his little Sikhlings when I catch them minding their own business playing at the neighborhood park? Am I participating in my other neighbor’s paganism by buying essential oils from her? I’m just saying. Being nice to people is not participating in their lifestyle. You do not become gay by being nice to gay people. Rest easy, none of this is your fault, if fault there is, which there isn’t, but just to let you breathe a little easier.

Another reason you don’t currently affirm your niece’s marriage to her wife is that you are simply embarrassed by it. You don’t want to be called a gay-lover. Sit with that and ask yourself, “Why not?” Why would you not want to be known as someone who loves and affirms people who are in the minority? See two paragraphs above for the answer: you don’t want to hear from your pastor that you are going to hell, because somehow, a Christian pastor is going to tell a Christian believer (perhaps even a tither!) that affirming her son’s marriage to her son-in-law–an affirmation that will bring her close to her son and allow her more interaction with the grandchildren who may enter this home–that she is going to hell for her kindness.

It is time, my friend, that you exercise a little strength with your pastor and perhaps others at your Fundy church. Not by leaving, if you enjoy the church and are happy there, but by simple verbal clarity. “This is my son Mike. This is his husband Roger. Roger is a forensic odontologist.” When confronted later, as you surely will be, it is enough to hold up your hand to stop the speaker and say, “I have determined to love my son with kindness,” followed by, “And how is Calliope’s eating disorder?” You know by now how to converse with your friends in such a manner that you come out on top socially.

What’s needed is out loud affirmation. Not outing someone. That’s different. It is never your business to out someone who is closeted. But when the person opens the door and steps out into the light of day, having decided no longer to deny who she is and whom she loves, then you do the out loud affirmation: “This is my daughter Jayne and her partner Bea. They are graduate students. We’re very proud of them. Bea, tell the Morrisons about your dissertation topic.” The Morrisons can and will talk about this later, possibly with smelling salts. Whatever. You don’t care. You care about Jayne and Bea.


I know. I know. There, there. It’s okay. I’m patting your back now, if you can’t tell. It’s true that some people, when you affirm your nephew’s husband and their three adorable children as a real family who can sit with you in church or sit by you at the family picnic, will gasp in horror and believe down to their marrow that you have “sold out” and have climbed the steps of the slippery slope ladder and are ready to don a boa yourself. You are going to have to take this. You can calm yourself by realizing that there are a lot of bad things in the world–African famine, ISIS, the opioid epidemic, and North Korean nukes–and that Joe and Johnny and the three little J’s (Jaye, Johnzy, and Jax) are just a normal American family.


The “Clobber Passages” are those very few sections of Scripture that can be read in a way that might indicate homosexuality is sinful. But, as you very well know, you Fundamentalist you, lots of passages can be read to make all sorts of things sinful. For example, Ma’am, do you keep a menstrual chart with the days marked off so your husband knows which two weeks out of the month he may not approach you to lie with you? You do not, Mr. Gothard’s insistence notwithstanding.

The “Clobber Passages” are those about which I get books in the mail when I write an article like this. People imagine I haven’t read the Bible, or, having read it, have specifically ignored those passages. What’s being ignored, however, is that there may be unexamined context. I’m not going to exegete anything here, but I will say, as an example, that when the Apostle Paul notes that it is wrong to visit the ritual prostitutes at the pagan temple once one has professed Christ, I would agree with him. Indeed, were I to find that my own husband was frequenting ritual prostitutes at pagan temples, I would take issue with it, and you can hold me to that.


What about it? Why is he even talking about it? And why so often, and why in front of minor children? Why is the Christian church so obsessed with this topic? Why are they not, for example, working to positively impact their local communities? Who even decided that a young man gets to tell you what to believe about anything? Have you not been taught about the priesthood of all believers? Do you not read the Bible? Have you not read, “Love your neighbor as yourself”? Have you not read, “By this shall all men know that you are my disciples–that you love one another”? The poor man is just saying what others have said to him, but maybe someday someone should mention to him: “Yo, Pastor Jared! Do you realize you’ve preached on the fictional Gay Agenda twelve times this year and only three times on how we can impact our neighborhood for Jesus? Dude! What is even up with that?”


If you want to talk to the LGBT people in your life about spiritual things, of course, certainly do that, but don’t do it based on what you believe is their failing. And don’t try to tweak their Christianity, if any. What I mean is this: if you start your finely-honed witnessing tactics with the old, “If you died tonight, do you know for sure you would go to heaven?” and the person answers, “Why yes, I do! I’m a born-again believer in Jesus Christ who died for my sins and is my risen Savior, sitting at the right hand of God, interceding for me!” then your work here is done and you can say, “Praise Jesus,” and grab the coffee-cake. No need to push further by (for example) asking “but WHICH Jesus are you trusting, the lame one who lets sodomites like you off the hook without obedience, or the strict Old Testament Jesus in whom I trust but actually I still go 70 on the freeway because some sins are not as bad as others, especially in Texas.” Don’t press onward into that well-rutted road of Lordship Salvation and/or Easy Believism. Just don’t. Have your coffee and ask about Jaye, Johnzy, and Jax and their potty-training, science project, and first crush, respectively. Also Johnny and his CPA business, especially if it’s near tax time. In fact, if it’s March or early April, wrap up the coffee cake and send it home. Johnny’s going to need it later.


Ya think? Okay, I’m busted. Because, yes, I am. Fundamentalism was about “whatever the Bible says is so.” We’ve got the word of the Chief Hoo-Ha himself, Bob Jones, Sr., on that: “Whatever the Bible says is so.” In his inimitably simple style, he lays it out and even says, “We might disagree on what the Bible means, but we agree that whatever it says is so.”

It’s so that Jesus wants us to love each other.
It’s so that Jesus wants us to be kind to one another.
It’s so that people who confess with their mouths the Lord Jesus and believe in their hearts that God has raised him from the dead can be called Christians.

It’s your job to affirm the LGBTQIA people in your world, especially as to those who are in your church and your family.


Stop it already. On this issue of sexuality, you need to stop.
Stop asking your minor child if he masturbates. What is the matter with you? Are you crazy?

Stop telling your adult child anything about sexuality and how he or she should conduct his or her sexual life. It is not your business.

ATTEND your gay child’s wedding. Bring a lovely gift. Hug everyone. You are not going to hell for this. You are going to a party.


I know (more pat on the back). You’ve been horrible. You’ve gone after her with Romans 1 and I Corinthians, all the while ignoring true problems like the increased desertification of Africa and the annexation of the Crimea by Vlad the Invader. You’ve made your son cry. You’ve made his husband cry. It’s partly not your fault. You were misled by well-meaning people who told you it was your duty in the Lord to be cruel. That somehow, when you yelled, “Get outta my house, you faggot!” It would translate in your son’s mind to, “I love you so much it hurts, oh my god, I’m going to die because of this, I love him so much, Martha, help me.”

You might even be one of those awful people who has prayed over your child thusly: “God, whatever it takes for Mike to turn from this lifestyle . . . ” when what you mean is you’d like Roger the forensic odontologist to drill a hole through his own eye in a fit of remorse, or even that you’d like Mike himself to be hit by a car, as if God Above runs into people with vehicles to get their attention. Didn’t we learn in kindergarten Sunday school that God speaks through His Word and not necessarily via the neighborhood Mercedes Benz?

Indeed, why is it that people who pray that God will use “whatever it takes” never stumble onto the thought that the loss of a parent might be just the thing to get a child wondering about the hereafter? No one ever prays, “Lord, kill me if that’s what it would take.” No, it’s more like, “Lord, and could you rearrange Mike’s sexuality fast because Robert and I are going to renew our vows this August, and it would be so great if all the kids could be there? I’ve planned the loveliest luau, Lord. There will be roast pig if it’s Your will!”

You’ve been awful, okay. Here’s how to fix it. Say sorry. Call or go over there with a pan of brownies and say sorry. If your own spouse doesn’t want to go with you, who cares? Tell him or her, “I’m going to Mike and Roger’s to say sorry. I want them in my life. Are you coming or not?” And then just go. There’s no need to have a long conversation with anyone about this anymore than you would if you wanted to say sorry for anything else. You’ve been horrible. Go say sorry. If he gets all huffy and throws a fit over it, remind him about the upcoming luau. Does he want the roast pig or doesn’t he? Then go see the boys, share the brownies with them. And then never ever again be unaffirming.


A problem has arisen in America. We’re divided. Philosophically, religiously, and culturally, between those who celebrate diversity, multi-culturalism, and an expanding electorate, and those who long for the simpler days of America First. We need unity of purpose, religion, language, background, and culture.

To accomplish this, we need a national registry, a big beautiful wall, strict guidelines for who can come and go, how they should comport themselves while here, and of course, an undergirding principle of Us First.

First, registry and self-deportation

English-speaking White Christians who wish to self-deport to the new nation, which we will call The Enclave, need to register their intentions with the United States department tasked with handling the internal migration. Once resettled in The Enclave (which will be located in the central part of the “Red Wall”–think Louisiana Purchase, roughly, but pushed slightly west), they will be safe from Muslims, Jews, atheists, LGBT people, feminists, and liberals in general.

Think the Pilgrims here. They are your muses and guides. They self-deported from England, then Europe, then England again for their own religious purposes. Be like them, but be cautioned that no non-Christian Native Americans or other pagans will be allowed in The Enclave to help when times get rough and famine or disease looms.

Of course, while safe from rubbing shoulders with actual Jews, the White Christians of The Enclave will be required to support the State of Israel financially and philosophically against all her enemies, being particularly careful to teach their children that the Dome of the Rock mosque must be destroyed before Jesus can come back.

Clearly, in order to provide enough room for the self-deporting White Christians, a great number of people will need to leave what is currently known as the American Heartland and themselves be resettled in coastal “Blue States.” Simple trading may make this easier than it sounds, the self-deporters being eager to get away from “the Others” (as they like to call the rest of us).

Second, build a big beautiful wall

The big, beautiful wall will keep you safe by keeping others out. Once your insular culture of isolationism is intact in The Enclave, no one else will want to be there, and at that point you can dismantle the wall, though you won’t want to. Its presence will be comforting to you by then. You will need it surrounding you, keeping you in.

Third, make sure you’ve said good-bye to all your LGBT friends and relatives. You won’t see them again.

No LGBTQ people are allowed inside the wall. You and your children will be safe from their harmful agenda.

Furthermore, electrocution sites will be set up to shock the gay out of any young person (or indeed older person) who comes to believe his or her “chosen” sexual orientation veers from heterosexual or whose gender identification varies from the traditional binary understanding of male and female based on visual inspection of genitalia.

Other sexual rules will include (but not be limited to) the following:

Men may use porn. Men may seek divorces. Women who are sexually assaulted will be charged with immodesty and with “causing their brother to stumble.”

Fourth, make sure everyone is armed. Concealed carry will be required in the new nation.

Peaceful protest isn’t allowed inside the wall–protesters will be given a chance to “stop whining and go home,” but after that will be investigated and jailed. Nor may a free press operate if there is any hint of disrespect of or disagreement with the ruling powers within The Enclave.

Fifth, in addition to keeping out all Muslims, no Muslim invention or procedure will be permitted. This will remind the young people of the superiority of all things White and Christian.

The children will appreciate this, since Algebra will be outlawed. There will also be no Universities, since the first Universities were started by Muslim women in the late 9th century. Surgery, first developed by a Muslim doctor, Al Zahrawi (whose 1,500 page book became the go-to surgeon’s how-to for centuries), will be outlawed. Coffee will not be available.

Sixth, no woman may terminate any pregnancy for any reason ever.

There are no exceptions. The Enclave is exceedingly pro-life, therefore any woman or doctor circumventing this rule will be executed for murder. A man assisting his wife in this crime–for example, if he foolishly believes he is saving her life by so doing–will be charged as an accessory to murder.

Last, all residents of The Enclave shall wear a special signification–a noticeable patch of some kind, or even a branding–when they have occasion to travel outside The Enclave. This will aid in identification by others who wish to avoid them or refuse to serve them during their short times on the outside, that is, the United States of America, that progressive, liberal place founded on the simple and radical notion that all people are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

HACKSAW RIDGE, starring Andrew Garfield

I don’t usually write about movies I can’t sit all the way through, but I have nothing else to do, and I want to save you the two hours and $10 you would otherwise spend. Wait for the streaming version if you must watch it at all. My guess is, you don’t need me to tell you this. With Doctor Strange already out and Fantastic Beasts coming out this week, no one is going to see Hacksaw Ridge anyway.

(Parenthetically, the trailers. What is up with Matt Damon starring in a movie about the Great Wall of China? Oh wait, it’s 2016. That’s why. End parenthetical rant.)

Since it was marketed as the best war movie since Saving Private Ryan, I had high hopes for this movie. Figured I would cry and have all the America feels.


It isn’t enough to make a movie about a real war hero who saved lots of lives while himself in dire peril. That’s enough to earn the Medal of Honor, as our hero Mr. Doss did, but it’s not enough to make a great movie.

A great movie needs not to wallow for over an hour in hokeyness and cheesey grins. Needs to not have a hero who stands there gaping and whispering as if there is something more wrong with him than pacifism or never having met a girl before. Played by Andrew Garfield, Private Doss is a cartoon of a hero, and not well-drawn. Nearly everyone else is also a cartoon. Flat characters playing parts with predictable lines. Soldiers who don’t drink, smoke, or swear. What’s an R-rated war movie without the language, I ask you? Disagree if you like, but I’ve known some soldiers in my time, and it’s unrealistic to scrub them this clean. It felt like Opie Goes to Boot Camp and Sees a Naked Man and is Startled. I realize they got the R for peril and war scenes, but we left before any of that happened, so maybe there was also some language later.

We gave up after an hour of wanting something to happen and being nearly drowned in the predictability and sappiness: “Oh, she gave him a Bible. Betcha it saves him in the end,” and “Oh, right, just at the exact moment he’s going to be Court Martialed, an important man walks in with a letter that saves the day.” I mean, seriously, the gavel is on the way down when Important Man with Important Letter muscles his way into the courtroom. Puh-leez.

There’s a naked man being predictable, put there of course so that there’s a naked man–neither he nor his nakedness advances the plot. There are also some rough soldiers doing rough soldiery things. Because Private Doss, who is a conscientious objector and a Seventh Day Adventist, won’t touch a rifle, and they really want him to so that they don’t all get punished. Which made me wonder if Drill Instructors are really like badly-trained third grade teachers: “One of you acted out, so all of you miss your recess,” which is supposed to be a lesson in class loyalty or unity, but really just makes people angry.

Weirdly, we don’t hear that Private Doss is a Seventh Day Adventist until he is all the way at boot camp. I’m not sure, but I think his family sits down to a meal that includes meat. Maybe it’s the Loma Linda meat substitute that comes in cans and you can buy it at your local grocery store above the tuna and canned salmon. Or maybe their kind of Adventism is different from the vegetarian kind I know about. They never talk about being Adventists. They don’t pray or attend church. There is no Bible reading or Ellen G. White reading. The Adventism is just something he brings up far too late to be believable. And in fact, his Adventism, if any, actually is not the reason he is averse to weapons, a fact that comes out in a jail-induced nightmare/flashback. Maybe the religious angle was put in there to make the movie one of those “Take your youth group!” films people make when they wonder if the movie itself is too sappy to make any money, and if that is the case, it should have been PG-13, since even youth pastors can’t haul groups of teenagers to R-rated movies without having so many chaperones the kids would refuse to go.

This movie could have been great. It needed more grit. Less sap. More realism. Less, “Oh goody, I met a girl, I’m in love, let’s get married.” There was a great true story. I wish they had told it better. From the beginning.

Fascinatingly, Mr. Doss, who is presented as the most Christian of everyone in the movie, believes antithetically to nearly all the Evangelical Christians I personally know. He’s a pacifist, won’t touch a rifle, has no use for the right to bear arms. That being said, I don’t know to whom this movie is marketed or how it will get any “likes” (we call those kinds of likes “dollars”). Christians who “stand their ground” are all about their guns and–I know this because I see it daily on Facebook–would call this young man a coward and disgrace, while hippies and other pacifists will think this hero is too shallow and unthinking.

It’s a Nicholas Sparks movie with guns. Or not guns. At least for the first hour and some. Our movie started at 6:40. We left at 8 and nothing had happened yet of any interest whatever. They had arrived at Okinawa, and were looking around wondering what was going to happen. I knew what was going to happen–he was going to save a bunch of people and then be saved by the Bible or with the Bible, and everyone was going to be proud.

Maybe the last half hour makes up for the rest. I’ll never know.

What I do know is that it doesn’t compare to Saving Private Ryan. In any way. At all. Nor does it come close to Fury. Or Monuments Men. Or Inglourious Basterds. Or even Pearl Harbor–not even close, and that had a lot of hokey and sappy.

Another thing I know is that I should leave before the people in front of us get all mad and turn around to give me stink eye because I’m whispering, “How stupid is this?” and Brian is saying, “Is this movie ever going to get going?” one too many times.


DOCTOR STRANGE, starring Benedict Cumberbatch


I needed escape today. I needed gravity-bending. I needed my mind taken off the horrible. In short, I needed Doctor Strange, the latest from Marvel Studios.

I also needed to know whether Benedict Cumberbatch could carry a movie using an American accent. I wasn’t sure he could, the whole British-accents-make-everything-better thing, you know. The accent is irrelevant. It’s the characters that are intriguing. In fact, character is the main deal here–all the special effects and Inception-on-steroids building-folding is way cool, but the central theme of the film is the evolution of Stephen Strange, M.D.’s character. He moves from brilliant neurosurgeon to super hero in one little movie, and that’s saying something.

Here’s the story: Brilliant neurosurgeon gets hurt, can’t doctor anymore, wants to get healed, finds a possible path to that, meets some remarkable people, achieves a measure of control over his life, decides to follow his bliss. Or his fate. Or his doom. You pick.

Some of this you’ve seen before. The building-folding mentioned above, in Inception, the time loop, reminiscent of one particular scene in Edge of Tomorrow, the whole bit about how the wand picks the wizard from Sorcerer’s Stone, (except here it isn’t a wand, but something quite like the Whomping Willow), but much of it is new and fascinating. I particularly enjoyed the references to American and Marvel culture throughout.

And the music. I usually don’t notice the music in films, or if I do, I sort of forget about it. Not so with this music. Much of it was haunting and emotionally charged.

Some of my readers may be put off by the Eastern mysticism/New Agey stuff, but really, we need to understand that this is a movie about magic and super heroes and by now you (if not your children) should be able to watch a movie without hiding behind your popcorn. You should, by now, be able to watch a movie for the joy of it and be able to untangle what is joyous and inspirational and good for you from that which is chaff-y and discardable. Indeed, I would contend that much is said in this movie that a Christian could take to heart. Especially today: Don’t give up. Keep working. There is much good to be done.

Benedict Cumberbatch is as handsome as ever, as is Chiwetel Ejiofor. Tilda Swinton is as White Witchy as ever, perhaps even more so. I love her bald head far more than I should.

As with all Marvel movies, you need to stay to the very end of all the credits.

MONEY MONSTER, starring George Clooney and Julia Roberts

money monster

Money Monster is directed by the great Jodie Foster with the exact amount of finesse necessary to let you know that everything is totally screwed up, but no one really cares, and we can all get back to our ordinary lives, you know, the ones in which you have this supposed money in your supposed accounts, but it’s all just zeroes and ones in a program somewhere that someone could take and fritter away at a moment and not have to explain why.

Yeah, it’s that movie. A public service announcement for Bernie Sanders and against fiscal corruption in the corner offices where it’s all about their CEO’s zillions and no one cares about the poor slob who is investing his pathetic little fifty-grand inheritance in some loser scheme. The poor slob loses his money. Nothing happens to the corrupt CEO, and all is back to America As We Knew It.

The beautiful people are all beautiful here. Jodie Foster, as mentioned above, balances the emotions and drama and underlying tension perfectly, leaving you with this empty, frightened, “oh no, everything we’ve worked for is going to be flushed in one glitchy second by someone who won’t have to pay for it” thought. And then, as you walk to the car afterwards, you sort of giggle and chuckle and fling about full-denial statements about how it couldn’t happen again, and there are safeguards in place now, and yada yada yada.

I was all in from the get-go. It’s very well done, and you should see it.