This odd-shaped box holds many secrets
Some spill out too readily
Some aren't mine to tell
Some I hold too dearly
Some I lose indefinitely
Some I lose permanently
(which is probably for the best)
Viewing: Memories - View all posts
Secrets
Jesus isn’t a Dick, So Keep Him Out of My Vagina.

The sign read: “Jesus isn’t a Dick, So Keep Him Out of My Vagina”.
It's caused a bit of hub-bub and naturally it went viral. Some cowardly members of the religious right have attacked this young girl, calling her a slut and worse. You can read the whole story here.
Cain’s sign made me laugh this morning—you know how I love irreverent humor—but has a very serious side to it, one that inspired me to share this post. It’s true. Jesus ISN’T a dick. But for awhile I thought he was.
I was baptized Catholic and raised Pentecostal. I spent a considerable amount of time in church or engaged in religious activities: studying the Bible, memorizing scripture, singing about Jesus, practicing the “gifts of the spirit”—prophesying and speaking in tongues. I felt a deep connection with the story of Christ, how much he loved others and his ultimate sacrifice. It’s a story that’s very easy to connect to. In our heart of hearts, we are all looking for unconditional love.
Starting at age 17, I went through three periods of rebellion; a trio of rumspringa, so to speak. At the end of these backsliding stints, I realized many of the “facts” I had learned as a child didn’t add up. I started seeing the Pentecostal church as a glorified pyramid scheme, filled with tons of rules and judgment; taught through musical theatre, enforced through fear. Financed by people like me.
When I went to college, I met people from all cultures, backgrounds and religions and started seeing life as expansive, not restrictive. As full color, not black and white. I broadened my ideas about life and about God. As my newborn eyes began to open, I suddenly resented being told how to interpret the Bible, who to date, how much money to give, who I should vote for. Not being able to make my own moral decisions. Eventually I became resentful about my intensive religious upbringing (i.e. brainwashing) and I abandoned my faith in Jesus and my religion.

I also feel comfortable saying I DON’T KNOW if Jesus was a real person or not; there is historical evidence, but then again we know how corrupt the Catholic church was, and continues to be. To me, it no longer matters if he was the exact person of the scriptures; any way you slice it, the teachings of Christ are mind-numbingly beautiful. My attitude towards Jesus has softened. He wasn’t a dick. It’s not his fault many of his followers are dicks.
It’s ironic that the extreme right uses Jesus as their icon, their official spokesman, because if he were alive today, he wouldn’t have anything to do with them. The only people he seemed to hate were religious hypocrites. When he said crazy stuff like it’s impossible for rich people to get into heaven and threw businessmen out on their asses for making money off religion, Jesus really pissed off the religious conservatives. Jesus was the antithesis of religion and its laws. He claimed a higher law, one of radical love.
Many people intuitively understood the gospel of love and flocked to him; by making Jesus a messiah, they made him a threat. So religious and political forces conspired to murder him in the name of God and State. They crucified the Outlaw of Love. Nicely played, religious folk. Nicely played.
And that’s the angle of the story that gets missed: if you piss off well-to-do religious folks who have strong political connections (inevitably they do), you can end up in a world of pain. Or dead. It doesn’t matter their race, creed or religion. It’s about control. Jesus was in the way, at least he was when he was alive.
Jesus wasn’t a dick. He gave WITHOUT trying to control, which is the very definition of love. He didn’t go around preaching fire and brimstone, picketing soliders’ funerals, telling gay people they were going to hell or condemning women for having sex or an abortion. Abortion has been practiced since the very beginning; he never even mentioned it, just like he didn’t mention homosexuality. No, he wasn’t a dick. He emanated love at all times. People were changed in the presence of that love. He fed the hungry. Clothed the poor. Extended mercy to lawbreakers. Healed the sick. Willingly gave his life for others.
His life was a supreme example of love and peace; exactly the opposite of today’s so-called Church. And they wonder why “the world” makes fun of Jesus…it’s because his so-called followers have made a mockery of him, by loudly hating in Jesus’ name.
Seriously, we could all use a REAL Come-to-Jesus Meeting. And that meeting should dissolve religion in favor of love. If the collusion between religious powers-that-be and political powers-that-be killed Jesus—one of the most loving people ever written about—aren’t they likely to destroy us all?
Let’s at least separate these two troublemakers.
Let's practice love, not religion.
XOXO, Jezebel
The Great May Day Caper
Or…Spring Hath No Fury like a Pair of Lovesick 10 Year-old Girls
Every year on May Day I think of Stephanie. I think of our Great May Day Caper—so long ago—and wish her well. I know for a fact she’s back in my hometown, thinking of me today, too, remembering our conspiracy. Laughter and mischief and boys aside, there are certain experiences that bond girlfriends for life.
It had been nearly three years since I started attending St. Michael’s Catholic school. After a long, cold winter in Northern Minnesota, it was the morning of May 1 and Mrs. Clarke’s 4th grade class could barely able to sit still to recite their times tables; it was a beautiful spring day and we were oh so squirrely, full of energy and mischief.
That afternoon, the entire school would gather together on the lawn for the annual May Pole ceremony, a tradition at St. Michael’s. After a couple of classes, the rest of the morning was spent making paper May Day baskets for our classmates, teachers and of course, our would-be boyfriends/girlfriends.

Now Steph and I just knew one of us had a shot. After all, we were pretty cool for our almost-11 years; despite our thicker-than-was-fashionable glasses (specifically) and awkward looks (generally), we thought we were pretty hot stuff. Finally, here was a chance to express our deep, everlasting love.
Working together, we made a special May Day basket for Jason out of green construction paper; naturally it was covered top to bottom with crayola-ed hearts and flowers. We filled it with candy, and included a love note praising all Jason’s “totally awesome” qualities and littered with “I love you!!!”s and many more hearts. We didn’t sign it, thinking he’d know for sure. It’s not easy keeping a secret like that in a small town, let alone a small Catholic school.
Still, we did our best.
With bouts of stifled girl giggles, we tip toed upstairs, then hesitated in front of the 6th grade door. Here it was: our moment to let Jason know how we both felt. Should we do it? What would he do? Finally, we put the basket outside the door, knocked loudly then ran like the Devil! We knew everyone would be talking about our love-fueled act by the end of the day, and we braced ourselves for the inevitable fallout and shame.
By the afternoon all-school May Pole session, word had spread; it was the talk of the school. Rumor had it some girl had left a very “lovey-dovey” May Day basket for Jason. The whole 6th grade had read the note (before he did, not in the plan!) and was teasing him mercilessly about his anonymous admirer, speculating who it might be.
At the end of the day—after the final bell—all us Catholic kids took the bus to the public high school, transferring to our respective routes. We climbed aboard the school bus, and there He was in all His glory. Jason sitting in the back of the bus. Steph and I scrunched ourselves down in a seat quickly to avoid any accusations about this May Day mystery.
Just then, Anne Charlotte got on the bus. Anne was our nemesis. The Queen bee of the 4th grade, she was as cool as she was cruel. An upwardly-mobile pre-pubescent in expensive designer jeans, Anne could—and would—banish you from the girl pack in a Minnesota minute, if provoked. She was popular, poised and all the adults fawned on her. The sun seemed to always shine on her, no matter what.
But that May 1, the sun did not shine on Anne Charlotte. In fact, an ominous-looking nimbus cloud was gathering overhead.
As soon as she took a seat, the bus started buzzing… and the 6th graders began to accuse Anne of being Jason’s would-be May Day sweetheart. Naturally, she denied the crime. And naturally, the more she denied it, the less people believed her and the worse the teasing got. More kids got in on the act. By the time the bus pulled out, tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was sobbing in protest. “It was NOT ME!”
And no one believed her. Well, almost no one.
No one except two exceptionally silly, love-struck girls, whispering and giggling in a green vinyl bus seat. Vowing to keep this Great May Day Caper a secret.
And we did.
Happy May Day, Steph—our secret’s out. This one’s for you.
Happy May Day , y’all!
XOXO,
Jezebel
First Kiss
It was opening night at Hamlin
Christian Academy’s* First Annual Spring Musical.
Trepidation hung in the air, like the b.o. of 30 sweaty adolescents and teens too embarrassed to ask their parents for a stick of deodorant. It was just a week before Easter Sunday and the auditorium was buzzing with excitement, gossip and hellos as hundreds of parents, community members and church goers greeted one another and started to take their seats. The performance was about to begin.
Although the name of the musical is long lost in the pock-filled labyrinth of my adult mind, I do remember bits of the story and songs. The musical was an interpretation of Jesus’ life as seen through the eyes of a young orphan boy, Nathaniel.
The story went a bit like this…
Nathaniel lived in an orphanage and he, along with all the other orphans had this crazy pipe dream of being adopted one day. Specifically, he really wanted a Dad. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, right? Yeah, I know.
The role of Nathaniel was the lead and during tryouts a few months before, competition was fierce. It almost went to my crush, Bobby Nyberg*, who at 13 was an “older” boy. All the girls had a crush on Bobby. He was the most popular boy in the 7th grade. Athletic and smart, he had recently started sporting a whisper of a blond moustache.
The auditions were fierce.
And it was close. The role of Nathaniel almost went to Bobby, but in the end they choose someone else. In an unprecedented and gender-bending decision, they chose ME. And I became Nathaniel, the singing Jewish orphan boy (Bobby got a supporting role as a fellow orphan).
I don’t remember what the in’s and out’s of the plot—I think my character meets Jesus, is shocked at his death, overjoyed at the resurrection, gets adopted by a nice family and finally has the father he’s always wanted. It had a warm fuzzy ending and was followed up by an altar call or offering. Probably both.
But hell, the crowd didn’t know any of this yet. It was the first show, and from behind the curtain we could hear them whispering and stirring in their seats with anticipation. The auditorium lights dimmed and one of the drama teachers walked on stage to introduce the play.
Someone gave the two-minute warning from backstage. The curtain was about to go up and I was terrified with excitement. Something magical was gonna happen; we all felt it, waiting in silence.
And then…
Suddenly in the dark, a warm hand squeezed mine and as I turned to look. Bobby Nyberg. I turned and he pressed his lips to mine. I kissed him back. Softly. Behind the curtain. Magic.
I faintly remember the praises we got afterwards; the crowd really loved it and we added more performances. I’ve forgotten a lot of the details. The mementos of my childhood are all gone now.
But I’ll never forget the wonder of that well-timed first kiss. Tender lips, the jolt of adrenaline to my heart. And a hand—squeezing mine—in the dark.
*You didn’t think I’d use real names now, did you?

Trepidation hung in the air, like the b.o. of 30 sweaty adolescents and teens too embarrassed to ask their parents for a stick of deodorant. It was just a week before Easter Sunday and the auditorium was buzzing with excitement, gossip and hellos as hundreds of parents, community members and church goers greeted one another and started to take their seats. The performance was about to begin.
Although the name of the musical is long lost in the pock-filled labyrinth of my adult mind, I do remember bits of the story and songs. The musical was an interpretation of Jesus’ life as seen through the eyes of a young orphan boy, Nathaniel.
The story went a bit like this…
Nathaniel lived in an orphanage and he, along with all the other orphans had this crazy pipe dream of being adopted one day. Specifically, he really wanted a Dad. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, right? Yeah, I know.
The role of Nathaniel was the lead and during tryouts a few months before, competition was fierce. It almost went to my crush, Bobby Nyberg*, who at 13 was an “older” boy. All the girls had a crush on Bobby. He was the most popular boy in the 7th grade. Athletic and smart, he had recently started sporting a whisper of a blond moustache.
The auditions were fierce.
And it was close. The role of Nathaniel almost went to Bobby, but in the end they choose someone else. In an unprecedented and gender-bending decision, they chose ME. And I became Nathaniel, the singing Jewish orphan boy (Bobby got a supporting role as a fellow orphan).
I don’t remember what the in’s and out’s of the plot—I think my character meets Jesus, is shocked at his death, overjoyed at the resurrection, gets adopted by a nice family and finally has the father he’s always wanted. It had a warm fuzzy ending and was followed up by an altar call or offering. Probably both.
But hell, the crowd didn’t know any of this yet. It was the first show, and from behind the curtain we could hear them whispering and stirring in their seats with anticipation. The auditorium lights dimmed and one of the drama teachers walked on stage to introduce the play.
Someone gave the two-minute warning from backstage. The curtain was about to go up and I was terrified with excitement. Something magical was gonna happen; we all felt it, waiting in silence.
And then…
Suddenly in the dark, a warm hand squeezed mine and as I turned to look. Bobby Nyberg. I turned and he pressed his lips to mine. I kissed him back. Softly. Behind the curtain. Magic.
I faintly remember the praises we got afterwards; the crowd really loved it and we added more performances. I’ve forgotten a lot of the details. The mementos of my childhood are all gone now.
But I’ll never forget the wonder of that well-timed first kiss. Tender lips, the jolt of adrenaline to my heart. And a hand—squeezing mine—in the dark.
*You didn’t think I’d use real names now, did you?