Crosses and Shame, just in time for Easter

God doesn’t play an especially important part in my life. She lets me do my thing and I let her do hers. My relationship with God might well be summed up as one of mutual disinterest, not unlike my relationship with the Easter Bunny (though I well admit to having a little more resentment toward the Easter Bunny, after a childhood of lame presents.)

So moving to the Biblebelt, as is known this region of the Southern US, has been an interesting experience. Disinterest is difficult to maintain when “Jesus is the Lord” is loudly proclaimed at public events, on roadside placards, on bumper stickers and license plate holders, and even napkin dispensers at the local taco shop.

Ambivalence is especially difficult to maintain in St-Augustine, a small town that houses “America’s most sacred acre.” Tradition holds that the first mass in the new colony was held here in 1615. A mission church was built not long after. A sign at the site proudly proclaims “Indians were signing hymns in Latin by the 17th century.”

Having successfully converted the natives centuries ago, the local church has decided to spend its resources harassing and shaming women audacious enough believe that they control their own reproductive rights (I say reproductive rights because the word uterus was recently banned in the Florida House of Representatives). The local church has filled a field with 4000 crosses (representing the number of “babies” aborted every day in America), as well as some pictures of adorable and (we are supposed to assume) murdered babies. 

I’ve included some pictures here for those of you who live in countries without the benevolent tyranny of God.


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