Once upon a time, a bishop named Marianne Budd decided to turn the pulpit into a stage and deliver what she touted as a heartfelt sermon to none other than Donald Trump. Now, she wasn’t just any bishop; she was an Episcopal Bishop, the kind who wraps their words in flowery prose and sounds like they’re perpetually issuing a divine proclamation. But hold on, because as the plot thickens, it turns out she might have been more interested in a different kind of proclamation—like those cheerful taxpayer-funded checks that her church has been cashing.
Imagine a church raking in a cool $53 million to resettle 3,600 individuals in 2023 alone, while the rest of us are just trying to figure out how to afford gas. It begs the question: was her sermon inspired by the spirit, or was it more of a “let me not bite the hand that feeds me” kind of moment? Because, surprise surprise, her congregation of migrants seems to be a direct source of income for her church. It’s like a theological version of cash for clunkers, just with a lot more incense and a more extensive application process.
Here’s where it gets even juicier. While we’re out here worrying about our monthly budgets, the bishop finds themselves at the helm of a splendid federal contracting operation. Yep, her church is processing migrants faster than a fast-food drive-thru, and not just any migrants—these are individuals eligible for all the taxpayer-funded goodies right off the bat. They’re coming in like it’s Black Friday at the welfare office. It’s astounding how newcomers get all that generous support while some of our own folks are still waiting for a helping hand. It’s like a VIP access pass to the benefits buffet!
And let’s not forget how the church plans to “sponsor” more friends and relatives once the new arrivals settle in. This sounds suspiciously like a referral program for disasters, where both parties benefit from the government paycheck. It’s almost like they’re handing out “Bring Your Friends” coupons that come with a side of extra government cash! In the meantime, folks who’ve been grinding away at the system for years are left to watch from the sidelines like they’re at the worst concert ever. You thought the baseball stadium had a figure on the Jumbotron? Wait till you see the billboards announcing who gets the welfare next!
But the cherry on top of this entire pie is how she almost pulled a fast one with that whole look-at-me-I’m-so-holy act. She graced major media channels during her time in the spotlight, preaching with the fervor of someone who just bagged a mega-deal on their latest book on theology. Spoiler alert: nobody’s buying her books. They might as well have printed blank pages to save on ink.
Oh, and the comments section of those articles? Pure gold. It’s like reading a stand-up routine where the audience is brutal yet hilariously honest. From folks reminiscing about leaving the Episcopal Church because of a misfit priest to those connecting the dots between her hypocritical podium performance and the hefty profits, it’s all there. Clearly, the only revelations happening in her sermons come with a price tag attached.
So, here’s the takeaway: the whole scene is a fascinating experiment in faith, political theater, and a fun little game of Monopoly where the church seems to be the one rolling doubles every turn. It raises eyebrows, especially since the church’s advocacy for immigration seems less about compassion and more about monitory motivation. In the end, maybe it’s time for a new sermon—not just one focused on saving souls but perhaps one on balancing the holy books without drowning the country in debt. Now, isn’t that as refreshing as a cool glass of unflavored water?
