We never talk about our complicity. How, in some ways, we’re glad the horror was perpetrated by someone with some influence and some money. Our children, then, have a more practical, material use: as meal tickets rather than as lights. Isn’t that why we still attend services even after we know that our churches conspire to rape our children on a mass scale — become rape factories draped in religious symbols and dogma — and cover it up?
Isn’t that what Corey Feldman told us? That his parents knew he was being raped by wealthy heads of studios and his parents told him to endure it for the money, and the millions would be their own cure?
R. Kelly married Aaliyah when she was 15 years old, stalked middle school playgrounds for “fresh meat,” and peed on the face of a girl who still wore pigtails and barrettes — and had the gall to record it. And yet, we went down to the courthouse, proud for no reason, with signs held high above our heads that read: “R. Kelly is innocent!” not knowing that also written on those signs, in invisible ink, was the postscript: “But we ain’t!”
I guess this is how it works in churches, too. We’re good with the pastor fucking our children as long as he wines and dines them first; shows them the same “favor” Jehovah showed a little girl named Mary; grooms them for who knows what, unloading puddles onto them and into them, before discarding them for the next, younger, fresher batch.
Then, when we look into the eyes of those children and the shine is gone, we pretend it was never there to begin with; that they were born with that dullness and the dullness is a good thing because now nothing they endure can tarnish them any further. You cannot debase the already debased. And this is our gift to them.

In this country, we love ovum and sperm. We love zygotes and embryos. We even love fetuses. But we do not — no, we absolutely do not — love children.

https://medium.com/SonofBaldwin/bishop-eddie-long-is-dead-c6021e55ac9b