Young patriarch tells it like it is: Woman indeed is the weaker vessel; Sodomites hate God, and infiltrate churches to spit in God’s face … Am I controlling for keeping my woman away from these evil men? Then so be it.

(Trigger warning: patronizing, misogyny, homophobia...)

Last night, a patriarch-in-training named “Matt” spent a lot of time reading and commenting on the NLQ FAQ: What Is Quiverfull?

It’s possible that Matt is a troll and his comments should be ignored or deleted – but his arguments are not at all unlike the “biblical” beliefs which I heard taught/preached regularly during my Quiverfull days. I am assuming Matt is a young man based on his immaturity and know-it-all attitude – of course, given that patriarchs rarely grow up, it’s possible that he is an old man – maybe he’s the pastor of an IFB church.

So, without further ado – here’s Matt:

I take it from your post that you are dead set on fornicating, although the Bible tells you not to do that.

“Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body.”

“Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing. Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish. So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.”

“This is a great mystery: but I speak concerning Christ and the church. Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband.”

You are mistaking voluntary submission with involuntary servitude. As a Christian lady you are commanded to be subject to your husband, it is asked of you to submit. It doesn’t say “men, oppress your woman to all costs!”. As a Christian woman who claims to believe in the Word of God, which is inspired/breathed by God, your Creator, is it alright for you to dismiss what that Word says?

A woman surrenders to a man so easily when he takes charge. That is the danger of having a matriarch with a man in subjection. The woman indeed is the weaker vessel, tossed to and fro, giving in to whims, and judges things according to her motherly instinct. For instance, she would say sodomite couplings are lovely, because love is blind. A man who is not of God would say “I don’t care, to each their own”, but not mention love in the equation. A man of God would not even let a sodomite in under his roof or in the vincinity of his children!! Let me tell you something, love is not blind! Even infatuation is not blind. But infatuation and love are two different things. Love is a choice. Hate is a choice. I will hate the wicked and their deeds. Yes, hate. Furthermore, sodomites hate God, and infiltrate churches to spit in God’s face. You might say, “sodomites love each other, so what’s wrong with that”? I love my siblings, does that mean I have sexual relations with them?! I love men, as brothers. I love women, as sisters. But by God, there is only one person I take sexual pleasure in! Love is not sex. Learn it, woman.

So, if you’re a Christian woman, your God that you supposedly love, tells you to submit and be in subject to your husband in every thing. Am I a jealous man? Every man of God should be jealous! Just as God is jealous, and wants us only to worship him.

And why am I jealous? Because the woman is the weaker vessel, and evil men who have acknowledged this takes advantage, to defile you.

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Snipped! – Part 2: My Little Years

by Incongruous Circumspection

I was born in Minneapolis as a boy.  Mama took one look at me and exclaimed, “I thought he was going to be Rebecca!”  Needless to say, I was scarred for life.  In those days, getting an ultrasound to determine the sex of a baby wasn’t a bygone decision and people essentially relied on the doctors and midwives to make educated guesses based on measurements, heart rates, and old wives tales.

Yes, I was born in a hospital.  My mother birthed all seven of us children before she entered the world of Bill Gothard (Billy Boy G.), i.e. no home births.   Thus, there were no complications when she had to have an emergency C-section with my younger sister (though she constantly attributed that sister’s rebellion to not being squeezed through the birth canal).

I was the middle child of seven.  I had an older sister, two older twin brothers, two younger sisters, and my baby bro.  We were all within 7.5 years in age, allowing us to be very close as we tried to navigate the hell that was to be our childhood and young adult years.

My father tells the story that he knew something was wrong with Mama when my older sister (I’ll call her Marie) was beaten at the ripe old age of six months – for crying.  This practice helped Mama fit in to her new-found faith once she found Billy Boy G in 1987, 10 years later.  Marie was beaten until she escaped at 25 years old, a fact you might remember from my previous installments.

The only memory I have of being beaten during my “little years” was when we were being babysat by an aunt.  The aunt was a good woman and allowed kids to be kids.  I climbed up on the dresser in the boys’ bedroom and knocked a bunch of clothes off of it.  As a young whippersnapper, I never cleaned up my messes – unless I was beaten.  Children tend to learn things like that quickly.  Mama came home and found the mess and lit into me.  I have no recollection of the beating –just the narrative.  And she never let me forget. Years later, she still used that incident as proof that I was a disobedient, evil, louse.

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The Destiny of a Virtuous Daughter ~ Part 5: Not My Will

by Starfury

Anthony and I maintained a long-distance courtship until shortly before I turned 18, whereupon he moved to where I was safely ensconced at a conservative Catholic university. Our arguments grew in number when we spent more time together, but I pretended nothing was wrong. After all, I should feel guilty. He was trying to encourage me to grow spiritually when I wasn’t willing to take chances and trust in God. Still, I loved him, and even though I hated how he told me what to do at times, I knew it was in my best interest.

That spring, he drove me home from school, where my parents were waiting. Unexpectedly, they called us in to discuss the state of our relationship. Having only received encouragement from them throughout the year, we were a little startled at this, but went willingly. They confronted us with concerns brought to them by a family we attended church with; we were not emotionally or spiritually mature enough, and our relationship was moving too quickly, especially physically.

My first reaction was anger and hurt that they would suggest I had broken my vows of purity (which I had not). The next concern was what was meant by too fast? We were courting, and as far as I was led to understand, that meant we were involved in a serious relationship with marriage as the goal. I was certain I wanted to marry him. Physically, we kissed on the cheek and hugged and held hands. Spiritually, I pointed out to my parents that he was challenging and encouraging me in my walk.

Undaunted by our arguments and defenses, my parents decreed that they did not feel we were ready for this relationship. To illustrate this point, and help us grow as respective individuals, they were instituting a one year moratorium on our relationship. We were not breaking up, but merely putting a pause on the way things were. During this time, we were to have absolutely no contact with each other, whatsoever. Flabbergasted, we had no choice but to accept.

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Bring Me The Flaming Head Of Barbie! – Adventures In Recovery

by Calulu

A few weeks ago I was witnessing internet wide that one thing is certain. Just about everyone has a strong reaction to the news that Michelle Duggar is enceinte again. Of course I snicked like the sarcastic wise-cracking gal I am and some of us tossed around those hoary old chestnuts we always say when discussing Duggar child bearing. “It’s a vagina not a clown car” and “Looks like Jim Bob tossed the hotdog down the well again”

In most of the online discussion of how dangerous her playing maternal Russian roulette actually is no one seemed to hit upon my first thought, how quickly would Jim Bob replace her with a newer, younger, prettier model.

I mean, really, it’s like shooting dice, eventually snake eyes is going to come up. Bad things happen if you keep repeating the same risky behavior. Look at the last of her pregnancies. Something did go wrong. It’s just simple statistics that sometimes things go haywire and we can’t do much about them. But why put yourself in those types of risky situations in the first place?

Back when I was with my old church I got to see this numerous times. Lady either gets pregnant that probably shouldn’t be or would contract a very serious illness. They’d start praying, asking for prayer but refusing medical monitoring or intervention by the medical world at all. They say the same things Michelle Duggar does about this is God’s will and God would either deliver her safely or He would heal her.

One of the saddest cases of this was a lady named Christina who contracted breast cancer and refused all medical treatments, saying only God alone would heal her. She wasn’t going to have any surgery, no chemo, no radiation, she would simply rely on God.

Everyone at church supported her decision. Except for me. I’d had a bout with breast cancer many years ago, had the joyous fun (it wasn’t fun, I’m just joking) of surgery, chemo, radiation till I beat the cancer. Oh heck, I had chemo four summers ago for my auto immune problems. Big deal, so your hair falls out, you get the excuse to wear lots of fun hats. It is what it is, a temporary season. If it turned out that solving my ongoing immune problems meant eating a bowl of cockroaches or something even more disgusting I’d say ‘Gimme a spoon and a bottle of Tabasco sauce right now!’

Not getting health care while you have children in the home to finish raising is just irresponsible.

But the men of the church always had medical intervention, and it never seemed to strike anyone there that was some sort of warped double standard. I never understood why that was so I’m guessing the lack of serious health care was because in the world of Fundy-Gelicals women were without intrinsic value and considered interchangeable.

Christina died after an agonizing torturous 18 months. What did did Mr. Christina do? He did what I’ve witnessed a number of Patriarchal men have done. He collected that big insurance check, bought a sports car and within six months married a much younger, better looking, newer model. And the cycle continued. Even our Pastor did it, boom, wife dies of cancer, 9 months later Pastor has another wife and life goes on as before.

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Daughter of the Patriarchy: Admissions

by Sierra

“When I was your age, my parents wouldn’t send me to college,” my mother was telling me. “I had to work my way through on my own. I don’t want you to have to stop. I will do everything I can to help you keep going to school. Your education is the most important thing to me.”

We stood in the kitchen, a printed letter lying on the counter between us. It was not good news.

I glanced up at my mother with a strained smile. I knew that if wishes could be cashed at the bank, I’d be writing my admissions essay to an ivy-coated castle. Instead, I was trying to find a way to pay the bill from my last semester of community college in time to register for fall classes. It was already August.

My work at Wal-Mart paid eight-fifty an hour: better than all the other work options for teenagers in the area. My schedule was already as close to full-time as it could be without requiring the company to offer me benefits. My hands were tied: I could take another part-time job, but when would I go to school? It was all I could do to keep our car paid for and insured while my mother handled the rent and utilities. College tuition had slipped between more pressing matters like food and transportation, and dragging it back to current status again would not be easy.

Still, I was grateful to have a mother who dared to disagree with the life track laid out before me. A Catholic turned evangelical, my mother was a radical believer in forging new paths. She had, after all, followed her heart out of her family’s religion when I was still a toddler. Going to college was my chance to discover what God had in store for me as an individual, she thought. I knew already that beliefs like these made my mother an outsider, a liberal and a radical in my church of stay-at-home daughters and unremitting parental supervision. What I did not yet know was how short and how tight the bonds were that held my friends.

“Why don’t you fill out your FAFSA?” my mother suggested. “Maybe you can get grants or student loans. They might offer you more if you apply to a four-year school. Let’s drive around and look for a college where you can transfer your credits.

I loved Rowling College on sight. The sprawling green lawn, ancient shady oaks and dark grey stone of its oldest building washed over me in a wave of color and charm. “It looks like a little Harvard,” I told my mother breathlessly. A more culturally adept young woman might have said it looked like Hogwarts.

The admissions counselor radiated warmth and hope. She beamed at my community college transcripts. No, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have SATs, she said. My grades proved that I could handle introductory classes. I felt a bubble of excitement rising in my throat, and firmly swallowed it. I would assume that this all was beyond my grasp, I decided. If it proved true, I would be pleasantly surprised. If it didn’t, I would not allow myself to feel the disappointment. I can go back to college later, I reasoned. There is a manager position opening at my store.

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