A MESSAGE FROM FATHER NATHAN MONK

Of all the unkind bullsh+t I’ve ever had to deal with, I never had this on my bingo card.

I am home recuperating from one of the most beautiful and chaotic weekends of my life. It was also a time of deep healing and connection, spending time with other leaders on the front lines of fighting against injustice.

When I returned home, I shared how much this time meant to me, only to be lobbed with this most ridiculous accusation ever: that I was paid to protest. This didn’t come from some right-wing troll but from supposed liberals. Normally, I wouldn’t even dignify such a statement with a response, but I am so f+cking tired that I’m just not putting up with this type of shenanigans anymore.

This year has been a struggle. I have had major health issues, financial setbacks, and *gestures broadly at everything*

I have been involved in activism and protests for two decades now. I have been punched, kicked, spit on, detained, arrested, and dealing with TSA is never boring. In all my years, I’ve never been compensated for anything.

Frankly, I had no business going this weekend, but I did so because my kids have to live in the world I leave behind. This direct action felt important, and when I was told that the FUNDRAISER I was invited to do comedy at would help fund the whole weekend so they could get all the permits, security, and food they needed to make this a success, I said yes. Being there was a sacrifice. I am still not at 100% with my health. Being there meant our holiday plans would fundamentally change. I had to cancel a long-standing engagement with my kids, I turned down a well-paying gig on the same day, and I spent $1,500 of my own money on travel, food, etc.

Someone said I did this for clout? I helped fill a 600-seat theatre with my own fans; clearly, clout isn’t something I am lacking. I was there because I knew my presence would help bring more folks out to the march.

Days before the event, I offered a signed Christmas photo to help offset some of the cost and support my family to get set for the holidays. Someone responded that I should get a job as a janitor and stop begging on the internet. My brother in Christ, selling merch is a goddamn job. Not to mention, going back into the private sector isn’t really an option for someone like me anymore.

50+ activists, artists, congressional candidates, and influencers showed up this weekend, at their own expense, so that others would see what was happening and show up to march for change. Guess what?! Over 20,000 people arrived with signs and their voices raised so high that they heard us all the way on The Hill.

We made sacrifices to be there. We missed moments with our kids, some of us can’t travel to be with our family this holiday season as a result, and a few folks were assaulted during the march because we are the visible targets in these situations.

We didn’t do it for clout or financial gain.

We did it to save the republic.

We did it to fight for our rights and yours.

We did it for justice, freedom, and change.

I am proud of every one of you who showed up. I am proud of having been there. I am honored to have linked arms with y’all this past weekend. And I would do it all over again.

But if you are someone who is going to share false information about me or any of the wonderful people who made those personal sacrifices to be there, I am not going to waste any more time arguing with you, I’ve got work to get done, and I will sweep you away with the broom faster than you can say George Soros.

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If you want to support someone who actually bleeds for the causes people only hashtag about, go subscribe to Father Nathan Monk’s Substack and buy his photos; the man documents activism the way war correspondents document firefights, except he does it with more heart, better jokes, and significantly fewer expense accounts. His writing hits like truth with a side of bruised-knuckle tenderness, his photos carry the receipts of a country mid-meltdown, and every subscription or print you buy helps keep a real advocate on the front lines instead of leaving the storytelling to people who’ve never marched farther than their refrigerator.