A young radical on the evils of blueberry muffins

It is so easy and sanitized in that kitchen.

A trail of misery, a web of terror.

The baker’s disconnection does not absolve him.

It does not change the fact that he is the arachnid at the center of it all.

Consider the blueberry muffins he is making this morning.

The sun is not yet up, and yet…

Already the brutality, the brutality.

The powder clings to him like blood on Macbeth.

The smell, can’t you smell death beneath that sweetness?

The ingredients come together

and lose their independence,

that last measure of dignity.

Somewhere, in the wilds of Maine.

Stand blueberry bushes stripped of their fruit and their dignity.

The fruits that they were once so proud of…

They are now in a glass container on a stainless steel shelf.


And there are fields somewhere that are now barren.

It was not enough, that reaper-like

We scythed them all down.

We crushed them up next.

Boxed them up.  Called it flour…

A homonoym to a symbol of living beauty.

We robbed the cows children of their mothers milk.

With uncaring machines.

Can’t you hear that haunting, pained, longing

“MOOOooooo.”  Trailing off into nothing,

because it is pointless to resist.

It is all so pointless.

When they come and take your milk away.

And the eggs, oh the eggs.

They could have been somebody.

They could have been some chicken.

If only they’d been fertilized.

They would not sit in that styrofoam container,

terrible in their simalarities.

And the sugar…

We did indeed raise Cane.

Only that it might be chopped down, down, down.

It is speciesism only

that prevents us from calling it what it is

Vegetable Genocide

How could something so sweet come from this.

Do not hide

behind the fact

that it was all made for this and raised for this.

Does that make it better

or worse?

Your blueberry muffins.

They are a symbol of your decadence.

They are the epitome of your arrogance.






We must stand with our muffiny brothers.

We must rise up with our confectionary sisters.

Join me!

The revolution is now.


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The stories that speak to our soul begin at a home where things are good. Cinderella is happy with her father. The three little pigs have grown up and are ready to move on. Bilbo Baggins knows his shire. Adam and Eve walk with God in the garden. My story isn’t much different. There was a time and a place where it was so good. There was a community for me. And there was joy. We were filled with a sincere desire to do what God wanted us to do. We possessed explanations and understandings that went a certain distance. We offered security and tradition and laughter. For a lot of years, that was enough. I have this sense that it was also necessary. I have this surety, now, that it certainly wasn’t everything. There were some things that became increasingly problematic as time went by. There was a desire to package things up so very neatly. Sunday morning services were efficient and strategic. Responses to differences of opinion were premeditated. Formula began to feel more important than being real. A real desire for everybody to be one of us, but also a real sense that there is an us, and there is a them. They carried a regret that it has to be this way, but deeper than this regret was a surety that this is how it is. I began to recognize that there was a cost of admission to that group. There were people who sat at the door, collecting it. Those people wished they didn’t have to. But I guess they felt like they did have to. They let some people in, and they left others out. There was a provisional membership. My friends did possess a desire to accommodate people that are different… But it would be best for everyone concerned if they were only a little bit different. I did make many steps forward in this place. Before I went there, there were lies that I believed. Some of the things that I learned there, I still hold on to. But that place is not my home anymore. Those people are not my community anymore. There were times it was hard. I am engaged in a different community now. And I am working hard at finding a place in many different places now, embracing many different kind of families. I don’t always get it right. I am trying and I am learning and I am moving foreward. I have this sense that I am not alone in these experiences. I believe that we are tribe and we are growing. We are pilgrims, looking for a new holy land. Perhaps we won’t settle on the same spot of land. But if you’ve read this far, I am thinking that we are probably headed in the same general direction. I have begun this blog to talk about where my journey is taking me. In every space, we find people who help us along. And maybe we can get to know each other, here. We embrace ideas that provide a structure for the things we believe, and perhaps we can share these too. Maybe we can form a group, a tribe, a community, if we can figure out a way to work through the shadow of these kinds of groups, if we can bigger than the us-and-them ideas that have caused so much trouble in the past. As important as they are, I think the very nature of online interactions will lend itself to something equally powerful. I am stumbling onto these practices that my grandfathers and great grandfathers in the faith engaged in. I am learning about these attitudes and intuitions are so different than the kinds of things we call doctrine today. I don’t know about you, but I am running out of patience, and even interest, in conversations about doctrine. I hope that maybe you’ll share a little something about where your journey is taking you, and maybe our common joys and challenges might help each other along, and we might lift each other up. Thanks for doing this journey with me.

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