Good evening. I see so many young and fresh faces, bright-eyed, happy, wide-awake,

laughing, giggling, like you right here, playing your games with one another. But they are fools.

Each and every child here, an idiot, stupid, and adequate.

So say the words with me.

The story must be told.

The story must be told.

This week we tell the story of Mary.

Her Uncle Matthew is here in the front row.

Stand up. Behold the people and embrace

their sin, for they will see Mary's story. And the story is her just ruining. And the story is

nothing. Oh, poor Mary, if only you are here as we told your story. And your fate reminds me of one of my favorite psalms by St. Rick the Quake.

We'll have Brother Reed read the psalm, and then we will read our story.

It was two years ago, Susan went fucking nuts, stood up on her desk at work,

plunged her finger in her throat, pushed hard and vomited like the world was ending.

She said she was seeing ghosts.

She'd walked through town with her hand out at her waist,

swinging side to side, clasped to nothing.

Said she was holding hands with a good ghost,

and that they were in love.

We were polite, nodded, agreed with anything she'd say.

But then three months in, she was showing, pregnant like a seahorse.

She kept saying the father was a ghost and the ghost her husband.

...