
Walk Under Every Ladder · Charity Mile
A sponsored mile beneath a corridor of ladders. Every safe step raises funds for the food bank. Hard hats optional; courage mandatory.

A sponsored mile beneath a corridor of ladders. Every safe step raises funds for the food bank. Hard hats optional; courage mandatory.
Bring a lawn chair. We aim actual glass at the actually-real sky and confirm, once again, that the stars are not texting you.
Nine casseroles, zero horoscopes. The tuna schism is officially resolved. Label your allergens; do not label them “cursed.”
Rehearsal for Sunday’s repertoire. This week, three-part harmony on “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Manifested.” Bring water; mockery is thirsty work.
The weekly rite: hymns that lovingly mock absurd beliefs, a sermon on Not Falling For It, and the passing of a real collection bucket — we…
Astrology takes the stand. The verdict is decided by evidence, not by which sign you are — that is, in fact, the entire point.
Standard poker, tarot deck. The Death card is a two of clubs and it owes nobody anything. Snacks provided; fortunes are not.

Certified cursed, statistically fine. We gather beneath the number the world fears and calmly, deliberately, do nothing bad for one full hour.
Same rite, new week, identical quantity of the supernatural (zero). Newcomers welcome, skeptics adored, casseroles blessed in the strictly metaphorical sense.

Season your food, not your fears. Toss the salt into the brisket, not over your shoulder. Judges score flavor and rational technique.

Children safely break a mirror and receive precisely zero years of bad luck, plus a lesson on probability and a juice box.

A support group for recovering wood-knockers, followed by a barbecue. Step one: admit the table has no opinion on your future.
A midweek evening liturgy. We read peer-reviewed abstracts aloud in a solemn voice until they stop sounding scary. Citations are sung responsively.
Waffles and citations. A friendly RN answers every question, however wild, without a single eye-roll (she has practiced).

The regular service, plus an optional De-Baptism for any wishing to formally un-join a thing. A towel is provided. Unblessed grape juice follows.
Only songs with no supernatural claims. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” permitted strictly as astronomy. Tambourine of Doubt provided.
Field training in kind, curious science-evangelism. Role-play scripts included. We do not debunk rudely — we debunk with snacks.
Six rounds of logical fallacies. Ad hominem is worth double. Heckling encouraged, provided it is well-sourced.
No rites match thy seeking. The universe offers no signs — but the filters do.
Nail it to thy timeline so the Congregation may witness thy joining?
Thy plate is emptyA soul without relics is just a soul. Pass the plate — fill it immediately.
Behold the Relics