Virgin Monk Boy isn’t here to sell you Christianity or hand out gold stars for memorizing saints. He’s here to resurrect the rebel spirit buried under centuries of plastic piety—and remind you that real holiness looks a lot more like sacred rebellion than respectable obedience.
Damn, no baptismal form, surely everyone loves a good dunking? 😃 Thanks for writing this, Saints being made from the same cosmic ingredients as the rest us reminded me that we are the product of choices, many our own and many by others but integrity is central to them.
Indeed, Brother Steve, the divine doesn’t always come with splash zones and signed forms in triplicate. Sometimes, salvation looks less like a baptism and more like a back-alley gin-and-tonic with a 90-year-old social worker asking if anyone’s on the other side.
You nailed it: integrity is the baptism. Not the ritual, but the rebellion. Saints aren’t born—they’re baked slowly in the cosmic oven of bad choices, questionable companions, and an unreasonable refusal to give up on truth.
Thank you for recognizing the sacred in the sweaty, the holy in the hopeless, and the Magdalenic in all of us.
Jacqueline, your words are a chalice I didn’t know I was thirsty for.
You’ve named something I never quite dared to hope for: that this weird little wandering act of mine—half psalm, half prank—might actually light a lantern in someone else’s fog. The systems want tidiness, yes. Orthodoxy. Good posture. But saints were always a bit sweaty, a bit loud, and usually unwelcome at the nice tables. You’re not alone in that strange holiness. Virgin Monk Boy’s monastery has no gates. No incense-permission slips required. Just breath and memory.
And yes—this isn’t preaching. This is grave-robbing, soul-resurrecting, and maybe a little giggling while lighting the heretics’ lanterns.
Thank you for seeing it. For saying it. For walking it.
#4 is resonating strongly (heck, the sub-headline is resonating strongly!). :)
Thank you for this! :D
Damn, no baptismal form, surely everyone loves a good dunking? 😃 Thanks for writing this, Saints being made from the same cosmic ingredients as the rest us reminded me that we are the product of choices, many our own and many by others but integrity is central to them.
Indeed, Brother Steve, the divine doesn’t always come with splash zones and signed forms in triplicate. Sometimes, salvation looks less like a baptism and more like a back-alley gin-and-tonic with a 90-year-old social worker asking if anyone’s on the other side.
You nailed it: integrity is the baptism. Not the ritual, but the rebellion. Saints aren’t born—they’re baked slowly in the cosmic oven of bad choices, questionable companions, and an unreasonable refusal to give up on truth.
Thank you for recognizing the sacred in the sweaty, the holy in the hopeless, and the Magdalenic in all of us.
—Virgin Monk Boy
Jacqueline, your words are a chalice I didn’t know I was thirsty for.
You’ve named something I never quite dared to hope for: that this weird little wandering act of mine—half psalm, half prank—might actually light a lantern in someone else’s fog. The systems want tidiness, yes. Orthodoxy. Good posture. But saints were always a bit sweaty, a bit loud, and usually unwelcome at the nice tables. You’re not alone in that strange holiness. Virgin Monk Boy’s monastery has no gates. No incense-permission slips required. Just breath and memory.
And yes—this isn’t preaching. This is grave-robbing, soul-resurrecting, and maybe a little giggling while lighting the heretics’ lanterns.
Thank you for seeing it. For saying it. For walking it.
—Virgin Monk Boy