Monday we showed you one of the many dead-ends of modern Christianity. It would not be inaccurate to say that Christendom has become a maze with the exit boarded up, plastered over, painted, and holding a picture of Aunt Thistledrawers. You can go anywhere you want, but you will not get anywhere you want to be.

If you took the time to read "Magenta", you observed a resentful black woman share with us how, as a bisexual, she suffered the slings and arrows of outraged lesbians for what they called her hypersexuality. Magenta cannot make it as a spouse. She lacks what it takes to a) form the simplest, most intimate and most rewarding of communities, and b) exercise Christian graces toward one person of her own choosing. The Apostle taught us how to behave as husbands and wives even when the choice of a spouse is not ours. We have in Magenta a bi-sexual (perhaps even an omni-sexual) who is not limited to the members of half the population; she reserves the right to date and wed from among the total number of hominids. Still she cannot succeed.

That's gotta leave some nasty bruises on one's self-image.

And she's 45, so the chances of a success late in life seem remote, and the likelihood of a rewarding motherhood and grandmotherhood even more remote.

So this is the basket case that storms through a church door demanding love, approval and acceptance. And there are places—I will not call them churches—where the indigenous peoples think they have love, approval and acceptance to offer. Like here.

Here is Hugh Hollowell having his first communion. His first communion is not a remembrance of the violent death of his Lord and a symbol of a precious Covenant between God and Man but a place where "we sang songs of oppression and liberation together" on a Pride weekend.

One could almost feel sorry for Magenta if it is through the doors of Hollowell's church she should storm. Here is a place where they will celebrate—and even validate—her very real and painful failures, but not a place where she can find the greatest love and acceptance mankind has ever witnessed.

One could even feel sorry if Magenta should storm through the doors of Clif Boyce's church.

As it has turned out, Novelty Christianity offers precious little to anyone. Contemporary Christianity has no more to offer either to the sexual deviant or the dreamers of Clif Boyce's Honky-tonk Heaven than the New Testament extends: the washing that follows repentance. This is the one "personal reality" that matters.

Contrary to what Brian McLaren claims, everything cannot change: the only Christian community worthy of the name includes the saints of the past: the total number of degenerates who have thrown themselves on the mercy of a forgiving God and pilgrims slogging it out for the Celestial City.

It may be a narrow way, but it does have an exit.