A Frightening Thought: The Official Christian Embassy in Washington, D. C.


I recently heard of an unusual seemingly political agency in Washington, D. C., The Christian Embassy, which must be something like the official residence of an ambassador sent by one ruler or country as its formal representative to the United States, right?  Wrong. When I searched in vain for just one picture of this particular embassy building in D. C., the closest thing that I could find was a suburban Virginia address, which turned out to be the home of The Christian Embassy’s leader (or ambassador).

What I have learned is that Washington’s Christian Embassy was established in 1975 as an evangelical branch of The Campus Crusade for Christ, and it zealously brings the gospel to major governmental/political leaders in Washington, D. C.  It’s staff members facilitate over 40 weekly Bible studies on Capitol Hill, in the White House, at the Pentagon and inside various foreign embassies.  Through its outreaches, seminars and events, this ministry claims to have been winning, building and sending our elected national governmental representatives, including President George W. Bush and other top members of his administration, on a mission to make a national political impact for Jesus Christ.

Some of you might find the video presented below to be somewhat unsettling. I know that I certainly do.


Dissident Christmas Poems: ‘Tis The Season…


The following accounts of poems by Sylvia Plath and Allen Ginsberg are apparently fabrications, created by Frank Gannon (in the spirit of Ebeneezer Scrooge) and recently published in McSweeney’s.  The poem by George R. Sims is, however, authentic and was written as a protest against conditions in the English system of workhouses for the poor during the early 1900s.

By Sylvia Plath

On this month they call December,
On this street of filth,
A girl with her latest suitor
Is walking through the filthy snow
Piled on the sidewalks by the still-eyed men
Who call her “slut”
From their wretched street-sweeper machines.
And she hears the sound
Of Jack Frost nipping at her nose
And the man next to her
Drunkenly stumbles along
Thinking of a television set
That he saw in a window surrounded by fake snow
And the falsehood she has walked through
Her whole reindeer life, daddy.
Oh, Curse this idiot and his television.
Oh, father!
Curse your life with your driveway!
And your brick barbeque pit
And your American wet saliva
That sticks to your disgusting American face
With Perry Como in it
With a green face
Because they cannot get
The “tone” control right.


By Allen Ginsberg

Wear your red suit and your boots
And that repulsive white beard
With the hardened saliva of sick nights in countless tenements,
That same red suit you bought at Woolworth’s
With the money you made
From the flesh of the elves.
From their blood and their sweat
And their flesh that would scream if it had a voice,
Their tiny cries are not heard
Because of the jingle bells.
And your twisted sick appetite
That feeds on the young with
Firm buttocks.And that “elf look.”
Damn you, you big fat man in a red suit.
Goddamn you, you grotesque fat man with
Inflamed loins.
Your sickness is the sickness
Of the flesh merchant,
The Industrial man who lives
Above the elves.
Oh, damn you,
And your sick enchained animals with antlers!


George R. Sims

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for — with the rates.

%d bloggers like this: