These are the generations of Jesus Christ. My grandmother begat my mother, my mother begat me, and I begat Jesus, but Jesus didn’t beget crap-all, so I had to rely on my other kids to give me grandchildren.

Now, in those days, there was much sexism and much stoning of women who “spoke their truth.”

And so it came to pass that after the blessed infant was born unto me, it was fulfilled that two dudes named Matthew and Luke came into the land and easily secured the gig of writing gospels that told my birth story.

Yea, even though I am the mother of Jesus Christ, blessed among women, full of grace, and 100 percent that holy bitch, my first-hand account of the greatest story ever told has never been told.

And when my eyes beheld what Matthew and Luke had written, and how little they understood about human reproduction, the need for reproductive rights, and why the large amounts of dung in a stable make it an exceedingly unsanitary place to give birth, great was my lamentation.

I cried out, “O, Lord, hear my prayer! I am the voice crying in the wilderness that no one seems to pay attention to because I am a woman.”

But God, not being a strong advocate for women, decided that my talents would be put to better use by giving comfort to the downtrodden, granting intercession on behalf of sinners, and assisting with desperate last-minute forward passes in the ridiculous game of American football.

Yet I remained troubled day and night, for Matthew and Luke were in no way suited to bring the message of the birth of Jesus to the world. These were two guys who had never swaddled a newborn, let alone witnessed an infant’s head emerging from the vaginal canal.

O beware these false prophets and mansplainers!

Matthew and Luke knew less about the process of giving birth than Judas knew about being a loyal friend.

I say unto you that those two wouldn’t know an episiotomy from the epiphany.

In truth, they thought a Cesarean section was a neighborhood in Rome.

Matthew believed that a woman couldn’t become with child if her Red Sea tide was in.

Luke believed a woman couldn’t become with child if she douched with holy water.

They both believed a woman could not become with child in cases of “legitimate rape.”

But perhaps their most deadly sin of all is that these two were the ones who coined the phrase “bros before hoes.”

O take heed, holy women, lie with these blasphemers and you will not be well pleased.

They have blind faith that every bush is burning for them, but I heard they couldn’t find a clitoris if one struck them in the face on the road to Damascus.

Talk about casting your pearl before swine.

Open your tent flap for them at night, and I prophesy that before the cock crows three times, you will end up as dry as the desert wind. Much like Moses on the mountaintop looking at the promised land, you’ll be able to see your orgasm out there in the distance, but you will never reach it.

However, verily, I will confess that those guys spake some truth. Yes, God did impregnate me, a teenage girl living in a land more oppressive than even Texas or Oklahoma, without my consent.

O don’t act shocked ye of little faith! This part is canon.

God did not inquire of me if I was inclined to be used as his vessel. He just sent his angel Gabriel who materialized in my bedroom, hovering and shouting.

“Greetings! The Lord is with you! You are now knocked up!”

And yes, Matthew and Luke spake the truth when they wrote that I gave birth in a stable, but their lackluster prose and total sanitization of the story fail to capture the gritty reality of laboring on all fours between a cow and a sheep.

I say unto you that I was exceedingly concerned about catching an infection.

And there are cubits more of information that Matthew and Luke completely left out.

I had hoped that God would work one of his signature miracles and spare me from his also signature “horrible pain in childbirth” curse. I mean, I was begetting his only beloved son.

But God hardened his heart against me, and my labor lasted twenty-seven hours with almost no one to help me.

Joseph departed outside to smoke with some camel traders.

I confess that he was basically a good guy, but it’s hard to expect much from a man who got cock-blocked by God.

And yea, God saw that great was my pain, yet doula I had not! Lactation consultant, I had not! All I had was a midwife, and she was a complete ass.

Truly! My midwife was the donkey I rode into Bethlehem.

And when it came to pass that the baby crowned, I cried out, “O God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

But the Lord, hearing my prayer, only sent some shepherds and three clueless magi with perhaps the worst gifts ever brought to a baby shower.

I didn’t need three wise men. I needed three wise women to bring hot water, towels, industrial-strength sanitary pads, and some of those awesome mesh panties they have at the hospital.

Indeed, I would not have said no to an ice pack for my war-torn holy land either.

Take heed of my story, O people of good sense, for I prophesy that all manner of misinformation and curtailing of women’s rights shall grow and multiply whenever it comes to pass that those who know not of what they speak are called to tell the stories of women and to rule over them and their bodies.

And when you see the light, gather together, arise and declare before God and man that the personal is political and reproductive rights are human rights!

Hear my words and do not turn away, because I have a feeling that this is going to be pretty crucial for generations to come!

In the name of women and birthing people everywhere, Amen.