Have you noticed how a priest has an automatic platform for his voice? Through no gift of his own or his own message to give, he goes to school for a few years and viola, he gets to stand before tens, if not thousands, and they listen to him. His message might be shit, or his words the same old sermon they’ve heard a million times, but still they listen. The priest did nothing to deserve this, and nothing to earn it.  He simply gets a platform from which to speak simply by virtue of his collar, and the penis that got him there.

Not so for women. Not so. Instead, there is no place for our voice or our own message except that which we’ve wrestled for ourselves – in back alleys, in dark corners of coffee shops or bars, between bookstore and library shelves where the women’s literature hides. A hasty, hushed whisper is all we’re allowed while priests gather flocks through no merit of their own.

Were it not for the vagina, I might have been a priest. Thank Goddess The Mother knew better. My skin crawls over the harm priests have caused – those who are men, and more recently those with breasts who also strive to wear the collar. Only slaves wear collars. In the case of the Church, slaves that seek to enslave.  No Thank You!

How can one preach freedom within an institution that enslaves? You can’t! This is why freedom-speaking women are rarely given a stage – especially those who point out the hypocrisy of those who tell freedom lies. The Institution’s response instead, is to silence these women.

The Church doesn’t want us to be free.

And yet, we persist. Speaking of love and the promise of freedom til the very day we die, even if all who ever hear us are the desert’s grains of sand.