This is not an online comic. Once, I had dreams of fame for my Protestant Reformation doodles, but I gave that up when it quickly became apparent that:
1. I can’t draw. And
2. Protestant Reformation comics kind of have a limited audience. (For the record, when I told my Reformation/Counter-reformation professor that I thought he looked like Johann Froben, he thought it was hilarious.)
But I still draw things in the margin of my notes, and I’m just conceited enough to put them online for the world.
Today, in the American lit class that feels like a history class (because the literature we’re reading is pretty much a bunch of Puritans griping about how hard it is to save people’s souls), the prof informed our class that, quote: “When I was your age, I thought Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God would be a really cool name for an indie rock band.” Probably not what Johnny Edwards had in mind. And cool, of course, is used in a very loose sense.
I’m an atheist, and that sermon still provoked some serious existential dread. Let me share a passage:
And though he will know that you cannot bear the weight of omnipotence treading upon you, yet he will not regard that, but he will crush you under his feet without mercy; he will crush out your blood, and make it fly, and it shall be sprinkled on his garments, so as to stain all his raiment.
So… what happened to “Jesus loves you”? Anyone? Anyone? Buehler?
Meanwhile (and by meanwhile I mean mid-17th century), Goody Bradstreet the poet’s missing her husband, absent upon public employment. The prof says it’s as close to Puritan erotica as you’re going to get:
… My Sun is gone so far in’s zodiac,
Whom whilst I ‘joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heat I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father’s face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest …
Which is all nice and sweet, but we know what she’s really saying is: