The Inquisition that murdered tens of thousands.
Burnt “witches”.
Burnt Joan of Arc for dressing like a man.
Burnt a scholar for translating the bible into English so the masses could read it for themselves.
Denied the Holocaust.
Denied the thousands of rapped children by priests.
Hordes massive wealth while millions of its devoted suffer starvation and disease.
As a devoted catholic I remember many of their teachings, like this one at seven years old:
The nun said, “Thou shall not kill includes oneself. A long, long time ago there was a man suffering from a very strange disease causing him to fall into a deep, deep sleep where his heart quieted to a soft undetectable murmur. The people thought he was dead. They placed him into the tight confines of a coffin and nailed down the lid, lowering him into a six foot pit and filled it with dirt.
He woke up in his cramped wooden casket, unable to move, realizing his predicament, terrified, he began to scream. But in the blackness, six feet under the ground, he knew no one could hear his cries. Unable to withstand the horror of it, he drove the forefingers of his hands into the temples of his head to kill himself. Even he today is burning in the everlasting fires of Hell. A Hell where the flesh is continually reborn so that he could feel the agony for all eternity”
That night when I went to bed I could not sleep. If I slept, I was sure someone would think me dead. Finally, in the wee hours of the night I had an idea. I got up, stumbled over to my little desk and switched on the light. Searching around in the drawers I found my drawing book and ripped off a little piece of paper and wrote out a short note and quietly crept down the hall to the bathroom where my mother kept the safety pins. A few hours later she came in to wake me up for Sunday church. Pinned to the middle of my pajama shirt, where no one could possibly miss it, was the note: “Pleese do not berry me, not dead.”
You must understand that I believed the Holy Sister Mary Margaret’s story, absolutely. I had not the slightest doubt that was exactly what Jesus did. Only the effect of the story was not what the Holy Sister hoped for.
The next morning at church, sitting at my mother’s side as she dutifully focused on the word of God, I was staring above the alter where Christ was draped on his cross, thinking, “You Asshole!”
Trump is itsy bitsy, when it comes to the detestable.
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