Eagle-eyed observers of these strange-but-amusing days have noticed big Pete Akinola’s uncharacteristic silence on the inauguration of little Bobby’s sect. Perhaps in response to this astonishing turnaround from “the mouth of the south”, little Martyn Minns has come out from under the covers and posted a ‘Q & A’ on the CANA web site.
Now the problem with these sort things is they never address the questions one would really like to hear asked, such as “How do keep a straight face while saying this nonsense?”, or “Has becoming a pretend-bishop finally satisfied the strange psycho-sexual craving for power you’ve obviously had for years, or are you sometimes woken up in the middle of the night by a niggling itch for something more substantial?”. Even so little Martyn’s piece is still most revealing.
Firstly, he makes it quite clear that border-crossing is here to stay: “CANA… will continue to maintain our own identity”. Only now the borders will be those of a deluded sect, as well as those defined Canterbury. When asked if CANA congregations will have two Archbishops - ++Akinola and Layman Duncan – little Martyn explains the reality (in so far as the noun “reality” can be applied to any of this) will be a third option – himself: “CANA congregations will continue to be under my leadership as Missionary Bishop” So - according to Minns, at any rate – if things ever come down to a choice between Bobby’s way and his way, faux-Nigerians should be in no doubt where their loyalties will have to lie. Pointy hat or no pointy hat, little Martyn’s the boss – at least when Big Pete isn’t around.
Even more interestingly, we’re told “CANA congregations will have a ‘dual citizenship’. They will be members of the Church in Nigeria and as a result of that relationship, full members of the global Anglican Communion. CANA congregations are also members of the Anglican Church in North America.” in other words Minns is saying that those members of ACNA not under his control aren’t members of the Anglican Communion. And if that doesn’t get Pittsburgh’s angriest eyebrows twitching nothing will.
Granted, this scenario isn’t claimed to be a permanent one, but will only be in place “for a time” However long that is. “In time” we also told, some of the faux-Nigerian “districts” will come out from under Minns’ brooding thighs and “apply for recognition” as dioceses in their own right. “In the coming months” he threatens, he “will be working with groups across CANA who are wanting to explore this process.” - a process which sounds awfully like it may involve taking down names and addresses and forwarding them to some of Big Pete’s enforcers. Because there’s certainly nothing he says which implies they’ve any chance of getting their application approved.
Then again, Bishop Quinine and the Ministry Team think Big Pete might be just laying low so as to not fall victim to the latest outbreak out of Nigerian penis theft. In which case getting little Martyn to stick his head above the parapet makes a lot of sense. What’s he got to lose?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Shameless Michael Jackson Google post.
Since the intertubes are melting down with excitement at Michael Jackson's sadly predictable passing I'm feeling forced to say something about the matter lest my Google ranking slide. After all, this wouldn't be the world's leading conservative blog if I didn't seize every opportunity that comes along to get down in the gutter and promote myself.
Now I've got to admit I've always much preferred Jackson's early material to all that stuff he did after his nose started falling off and he began sharing his bed with children in a way that the academic literature generally describes as "creepy", but in my opinion history will show his greatest legacy was having paved the way for the most talented group of all, The Osmonds. To see what I mean just spend a moment watching and listening to Michael and his brothers here on Soul Train before grooving on down with this classic footage of The Osmonds at the 1972 Ohio State Fair:
Just look how well theses fine young Mormon boys in Elvis jump-suits were able to build upon the Jackson's choreographic foundations: don't miss the moment at 0:28 when Donny and his brother collide or, as it was colloquially known back in those wild and crazy days, "bump". Oh! Be still my beating heart!
I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Now I've got to admit I've always much preferred Jackson's early material to all that stuff he did after his nose started falling off and he began sharing his bed with children in a way that the academic literature generally describes as "creepy", but in my opinion history will show his greatest legacy was having paved the way for the most talented group of all, The Osmonds. To see what I mean just spend a moment watching and listening to Michael and his brothers here on Soul Train before grooving on down with this classic footage of The Osmonds at the 1972 Ohio State Fair:
Just look how well theses fine young Mormon boys in Elvis jump-suits were able to build upon the Jackson's choreographic foundations: don't miss the moment at 0:28 when Donny and his brother collide or, as it was colloquially known back in those wild and crazy days, "bump". Oh! Be still my beating heart!
I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Life goes on.
Well Bishop Quinine and I are back home in Ichabod Springs, having returned from Bobby Duncan’s big show,and to be perfectly honest things here are exactly the same as they’ve always been. Nothing’s changed, the sky hasn’t fallen in, the Episcopal Church is exactly the same as it was a week ago, and when asked the average person on the street still doesn’t say that the reason they didn’t go church last Sunday is because some wicked apostate liberals want to stop persecuting men and women who’d just like to be as God made them.
You see despite all the fuss this has generated in Anglican circles, the reality is that aside from a few charming rent boys and girls who’ve made small fortunes for themselves over this past week (even though conservatives are notoriously stingy when it comes to tipping), most folks living in Bedford thought we were all just a gathering of sartorially challenged Shriners. As the their City web site shows, Free Dumping Saturdays and the Sidewalk Project on Savannah Way are what people really care about: pseudo-bishops are ten a penny these days, but you try finding somewhere to leave your old washing machine on the weekend that doesn’t involve a midnight trip to the rear lane behind the local Presbyterian manse. And besides, the new fence the forsaken Calvinists built after my last visit means it’ll take at least four of us to heave anything over into their yard, proving the citizens of Bedford - like most people uninterested in this fuss - do indeed have their priorities right.
Which, when you think about it, is a reminder to us all. Just because there’s a new sect – and everyone knows how much America is crying out for another new sect – doesn’t mean the world has become the slightest bit different to what it was when little Bobby didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of becoming a primate of anything. Sure, he can claim his motley band comprise province #39, just as he can also claim he’ll be establishing 1000 new churches in the next five years (What do you mean that’s “outlandish”? It’s only between 3 and 4 a week. Every single week.), but the reality is most people not in the clutches of a few histrionic clergy couldn’t care less. L. Ron Hubbard said he heard tomatoes recount past lives and Scientology’s numbers are also falling. People don’t care what anyone says: they want to see what you do.
So far we’ve heard more talk than an Amway meeting, but all that’s happened is a larger version of every other Anglican beak-away has occurred. Time has shown how successfully these reached the great unwashed: I’m still waiting for someone to show why this will be any different. Still, who knows? Maybe the Cardinal Newman/Rick Warren synthesis really will catch on. If people believed L. Ron could talk to tomatoes…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
You see despite all the fuss this has generated in Anglican circles, the reality is that aside from a few charming rent boys and girls who’ve made small fortunes for themselves over this past week (even though conservatives are notoriously stingy when it comes to tipping), most folks living in Bedford thought we were all just a gathering of sartorially challenged Shriners. As the their City web site shows, Free Dumping Saturdays and the Sidewalk Project on Savannah Way are what people really care about: pseudo-bishops are ten a penny these days, but you try finding somewhere to leave your old washing machine on the weekend that doesn’t involve a midnight trip to the rear lane behind the local Presbyterian manse. And besides, the new fence the forsaken Calvinists built after my last visit means it’ll take at least four of us to heave anything over into their yard, proving the citizens of Bedford - like most people uninterested in this fuss - do indeed have their priorities right.
Which, when you think about it, is a reminder to us all. Just because there’s a new sect – and everyone knows how much America is crying out for another new sect – doesn’t mean the world has become the slightest bit different to what it was when little Bobby didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of becoming a primate of anything. Sure, he can claim his motley band comprise province #39, just as he can also claim he’ll be establishing 1000 new churches in the next five years (What do you mean that’s “outlandish”? It’s only between 3 and 4 a week. Every single week.), but the reality is most people not in the clutches of a few histrionic clergy couldn’t care less. L. Ron Hubbard said he heard tomatoes recount past lives and Scientology’s numbers are also falling. People don’t care what anyone says: they want to see what you do.
So far we’ve heard more talk than an Amway meeting, but all that’s happened is a larger version of every other Anglican beak-away has occurred. Time has shown how successfully these reached the great unwashed: I’m still waiting for someone to show why this will be any different. Still, who knows? Maybe the Cardinal Newman/Rick Warren synthesis really will catch on. If people believed L. Ron could talk to tomatoes…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Leading Anglicans ingnore ACNA!
When it comes to being recognized, it’s not who knows you, it’s who doesn’t. You can always tell the really big names when it comes to religion by the way they’re not continuously dropping names in an attempt to show they do more than just run a break-away sect founded this week in suburban Texas.
Let’s face it, you don’t hear the Archbishop of Canterbury boasting of having received a email from Elder Peepstone of the Salt Lake City Tabernacle, do you? Nor does the Pope get excited about senior Christadelphians knowing who he is. And you can say what you like about the Presiding Bishop, but authority her office depends on more than a letter of recognition from a family of snake-handling Appalachians.
Consequently it’s all very well for ACNA to get terribly excited because a few pointy hats on the periphery of the Communion have wished them all the very best, but if little Bobby and his merry men are planning on being around for the long haul it’s going to take more than a few kind words from the usual suspects. Sure ++Anis is a big shot in his corner of the world, providing you’re not part of the 99.9% of the population there who are Muslim, Maronite, Roman, Coptic, Orthodox or Whirling Dervish, but let’s face it; think “Anglican heartland” and Egypt is not the first place that pops into your mind.
Nor should anyone place too much faith in a letter of approval from little Peter Jensen: he’d have a kind word to say about the Klan if they started seriouslyax hating liberals and stopped wearing robes. Which leaves us with what? A couple of English evangelicals, and two others from a group calling itself “Mainstream” which says all anyone needs to know; if you feel the need to hide behind a name like that you're probably anything but mainstream. Nor could it be said with any certainty that you're safe to trust with carving the Sunday roast.
Which leaves poor little Bobby with Rick Warren, and he’s not even an Anglican. Then again, come to think of it, neither is little Bobby anymore.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Let’s face it, you don’t hear the Archbishop of Canterbury boasting of having received a email from Elder Peepstone of the Salt Lake City Tabernacle, do you? Nor does the Pope get excited about senior Christadelphians knowing who he is. And you can say what you like about the Presiding Bishop, but authority her office depends on more than a letter of recognition from a family of snake-handling Appalachians.
Consequently it’s all very well for ACNA to get terribly excited because a few pointy hats on the periphery of the Communion have wished them all the very best, but if little Bobby and his merry men are planning on being around for the long haul it’s going to take more than a few kind words from the usual suspects. Sure ++Anis is a big shot in his corner of the world, providing you’re not part of the 99.9% of the population there who are Muslim, Maronite, Roman, Coptic, Orthodox or Whirling Dervish, but let’s face it; think “Anglican heartland” and Egypt is not the first place that pops into your mind.
Nor should anyone place too much faith in a letter of approval from little Peter Jensen: he’d have a kind word to say about the Klan if they started seriouslyax hating liberals and stopped wearing robes. Which leaves us with what? A couple of English evangelicals, and two others from a group calling itself “Mainstream” which says all anyone needs to know; if you feel the need to hide behind a name like that you're probably anything but mainstream. Nor could it be said with any certainty that you're safe to trust with carving the Sunday roast.
Which leaves poor little Bobby with Rick Warren, and he’s not even an Anglican. Then again, come to think of it, neither is little Bobby anymore.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Flock's all here.
A most joyous beloved sinner from the heartland has kindly sent me some fascinating material about the undisputed winner of the ACNA Assembly’s Best Bonnet competion. As one of the links she sent makes quite clear, Metropolitan Jonah shows the new schism really is attracting Christianity’s best and brightest.
Alright, so there’s the small matter of his hands dripping with the innocent blood of a brilliant young man called by God (isn’t fascinating how Biblical literalists can conveniently forget that passage about those causing little ones to stumble getting thrown into the sea with a dirty great rock around their neck whenever the subject of compensation gets raised?). And little Bobby’s new friend clearly shows the same financially-creative spirit as Don Armstrong (How long before he’s a bishop? 7-10 years, depending on how the Parole Board are feeling) – it’s interesting that Metropolitan Jonah hasn’t brought many of his parishioners along to watch him basking in this moment of glory: I dare say he’s frightened some of them might unintentionally let the ANCA faithful know about this web site, outlining their own battle against corruption and misconduct.
No, just because ACNA has began with the heartfelt support of a hierarchy clearly doing its best to ignore the sufferings (and bravery!) of those martyrs almost certainly entitled to compensation (read some of the accounts here: but be warned - you will come away angry) doesn’t mean things are necessarily down-hill from here. Although they probably are: how did that old proverb about birds of a feather go again?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Alright, so there’s the small matter of his hands dripping with the innocent blood of a brilliant young man called by God (isn’t fascinating how Biblical literalists can conveniently forget that passage about those causing little ones to stumble getting thrown into the sea with a dirty great rock around their neck whenever the subject of compensation gets raised?). And little Bobby’s new friend clearly shows the same financially-creative spirit as Don Armstrong (How long before he’s a bishop? 7-10 years, depending on how the Parole Board are feeling) – it’s interesting that Metropolitan Jonah hasn’t brought many of his parishioners along to watch him basking in this moment of glory: I dare say he’s frightened some of them might unintentionally let the ANCA faithful know about this web site, outlining their own battle against corruption and misconduct.
No, just because ACNA has began with the heartfelt support of a hierarchy clearly doing its best to ignore the sufferings (and bravery!) of those martyrs almost certainly entitled to compensation (read some of the accounts here: but be warned - you will come away angry) doesn’t mean things are necessarily down-hill from here. Although they probably are: how did that old proverb about birds of a feather go again?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Just a little man-kiss...
Isn't the fellow on the bottom right suffering the worst case of sceptre-envy you've ever seen?
I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Little Bobby Duncan takes matters in hand.
It looks like Bishop Quinine and I aren't the only ones to have recently felt the spirit guide our hands in interesting directions. I would never have never guessed little Bobby prefers a double-handed technique, but there's no denying his smile proves it's working.
Although one can't help wondering: how much trouble could we all have been spared if little Bobby had taken Mr. Lonely for a nice calming gallop before getting everyone worked up into this current mess?
I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Safe on the ground again.
Well we’ve finally landed, we’re all in one piece, and not even the nun playing guitar in an attempt to calm some sick kid in economy was killed, although she was rendered unconscious by a group of angry passengers sitting nearby: nobody deserves to hear Kum By Yah when they're only a few thousand feet above certain death.
It seems our navigational problem was caused by somebody on board using a high-powered satellite internet connection – a little matter Bishop Quinine has agreed not to mention if I don’t tell who spiked the pilots’ coffee, but now everything’s safe it’s time to explore our temporary location, which instead of Bedford, Texas happens to be Patpong, Thailand (doesn’t the spirit guide one’s hands in interesting directions?).
Funnily enough, while taking a brief constitutional to stretch my legs I noticed a number of other ACNA delegates also seem to have to accidentally ended up in places they hadn’t told their wives and parishioners they were heading to. Indeed, while viewing a brief local liturgical presentation I could have sworn there were dozens of my fellow conservatives mistakenly somewhere other than where they’d intended to travel. Which by coincidence reminds me of something that one of Brother Richthofen’s friends from seminary once told me: conservative men are always accidentally visiting similar liturgical performances when travelling on business.
Anyway, after a brief stay here to soothe our shattered nerves (at the airline’s expense, of course), and a consultation with an appropriately experienced lawyer to commence action for our indescribably expensive damages, we’ll be on our way again. My Viagraville friends need not worry, we’ll most certainly arrive in time for the big meet-up on Tuesday afternoon. I hear little Bobby’s already polishing his sceptre in anticipation of the big day – speaking of which I believe it’s time for my massage.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
It seems our navigational problem was caused by somebody on board using a high-powered satellite internet connection – a little matter Bishop Quinine has agreed not to mention if I don’t tell who spiked the pilots’ coffee, but now everything’s safe it’s time to explore our temporary location, which instead of Bedford, Texas happens to be Patpong, Thailand (doesn’t the spirit guide one’s hands in interesting directions?).
Funnily enough, while taking a brief constitutional to stretch my legs I noticed a number of other ACNA delegates also seem to have to accidentally ended up in places they hadn’t told their wives and parishioners they were heading to. Indeed, while viewing a brief local liturgical presentation I could have sworn there were dozens of my fellow conservatives mistakenly somewhere other than where they’d intended to travel. Which by coincidence reminds me of something that one of Brother Richthofen’s friends from seminary once told me: conservative men are always accidentally visiting similar liturgical performances when travelling on business.
Anyway, after a brief stay here to soothe our shattered nerves (at the airline’s expense, of course), and a consultation with an appropriately experienced lawyer to commence action for our indescribably expensive damages, we’ll be on our way again. My Viagraville friends need not worry, we’ll most certainly arrive in time for the big meet-up on Tuesday afternoon. I hear little Bobby’s already polishing his sceptre in anticipation of the big day – speaking of which I believe it’s time for my massage.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
You can land anywhere once.
This live-blogging thing is really quite exciting, my dearly beloved wicked sinners. Just after posting my last message all of the aircraft's electronics started playing up again, which was while Bishop Quinine was on the flight deck being shown there was nothing to be afraid of. Since he is at heart a compassionate man, and observing the pilots' concern at this latest development, he decided to help them in their time of stress by slipping a little something into their coffees to help them relax.
As they aren't men of the cloth their livers are naturally unaccustomed to whatever it was Bishop Quinine gave them (he's not too sure himself), and it was only a matter of minutes before the entire flight crew were rendered unconscious - and didn't that cause a bit of panic here! Dear me, I haven't laughed like that in years: nothing teaches unbelievers' a little respect like realizing their only hope is a Doctrinal Warrior who not only holds a pilot's licence (even if it is forged: if you can't hack a leading evangelical's frequent-flyer account pretending to be an airline pilot is the next most effective way of obtaining an upgrade to first class), but has also seen every film in the Airport franchise at least five times.
Indeed, what I can't teach a terror-struck flight attendant about flying a plane hasn't been filmed. With my soothing hands of guidance upon them, and their youthful fingers upon the joystick we'll have this thing down in no time. Just where is something of which I'm not so certain, but you can be sure it'll be somewhere I later claim God wanted us to be all along. After all, in these astonishing times does any GAFCON leader really have the slightest idea of where he's heading? You'd better believe little Bobby Duncan doesn't. And if he can get away with bluffing so can I.
I'm Father Christian: come fly me.
As they aren't men of the cloth their livers are naturally unaccustomed to whatever it was Bishop Quinine gave them (he's not too sure himself), and it was only a matter of minutes before the entire flight crew were rendered unconscious - and didn't that cause a bit of panic here! Dear me, I haven't laughed like that in years: nothing teaches unbelievers' a little respect like realizing their only hope is a Doctrinal Warrior who not only holds a pilot's licence (even if it is forged: if you can't hack a leading evangelical's frequent-flyer account pretending to be an airline pilot is the next most effective way of obtaining an upgrade to first class), but has also seen every film in the Airport franchise at least five times.
Indeed, what I can't teach a terror-struck flight attendant about flying a plane hasn't been filmed. With my soothing hands of guidance upon them, and their youthful fingers upon the joystick we'll have this thing down in no time. Just where is something of which I'm not so certain, but you can be sure it'll be somewhere I later claim God wanted us to be all along. After all, in these astonishing times does any GAFCON leader really have the slightest idea of where he's heading? You'd better believe little Bobby Duncan doesn't. And if he can get away with bluffing so can I.
I'm Father Christian: come fly me.
Up, Up & Away!
Well we're off at last! I decided to turn off my PC and take a little nap, and while I was sleeping it seemed the problem sorted itself out and we were clear to fly. Isn't technology a tricky little thing that way?
A flight attendant has just come by and, seeing Bishop Quinine's obvious discomfort, asked if he'd like to accompany her to the flight deck, where they'll be happy to explain to him what goes on up there in an effort to help soothe his fears. They'll have their work cut out for them, that's for sure, but it's attentiveness like that which makes fraudulently obtaining an upgrade truly worthwhile. And now for another glass of champagne, I believe...
I'm etc.
A flight attendant has just come by and, seeing Bishop Quinine's obvious discomfort, asked if he'd like to accompany her to the flight deck, where they'll be happy to explain to him what goes on up there in an effort to help soothe his fears. They'll have their work cut out for them, that's for sure, but it's attentiveness like that which makes fraudulently obtaining an upgrade truly worthwhile. And now for another glass of champagne, I believe...
I'm etc.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Still on the ground...
Dear me, but they're not making aircraft like they used to.
We're still sitting here on the runway: after almost taking off we had to return since it seems there's some sort of intermittent problem with the communication & navigational equipment. I'll keep you all posted as to what happens.
I'm Fr. C & etc.
We're still sitting here on the runway: after almost taking off we had to return since it seems there's some sort of intermittent problem with the communication & navigational equipment. I'll keep you all posted as to what happens.
I'm Fr. C & etc.
Bedford here we come!
Just a quick not to let you know Bishop Quinine & I on our way to the ACNA Inaugural Assembly, and have just boarded our plane. Bishop Quinine keeps insisting I shouldn't use a computer during take off, and that my wireless internet connection will upset the aircraft's navigational equipment, but we all know how he is when it comes to flying. Besides, he only agreed to join me so that he could spend another hour or so sniffing his crotch in the crash-brace position.
I'll post more after the flight attendant has finished serving our canapés and champagne (we hacked +Wright's frequent-flyer account for an upgrade). In the meantime would anyone like to help me answer an email concerning a dispute between two young men attending on behalf of Nashotah House? The sender wants to know if it still counts towards membership of the mile-high club if the aircraft is still on the runway? And does one have to have someone in there with you, or is a picture of Matt Kennedy and a small Mary Poppins figurine ok?
I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
I'll post more after the flight attendant has finished serving our canapés and champagne (we hacked +Wright's frequent-flyer account for an upgrade). In the meantime would anyone like to help me answer an email concerning a dispute between two young men attending on behalf of Nashotah House? The sender wants to know if it still counts towards membership of the mile-high club if the aircraft is still on the runway? And does one have to have someone in there with you, or is a picture of Matt Kennedy and a small Mary Poppins figurine ok?
I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
ACNA ignores Scripture.
Regular readers will know that Judges is one of my favourite books of the Bible. A gentle work of direct revelation, it speaks of a time and society with values exactly like our own. Indeed, I’ve often considered the account in Chapter 19 of a Levite who hands his concubine over to be pack-raped and then afterwards carves her into 12 pieces has the makings of a tremendous Broadway musical, although for reasons I’ve never been able to understand my sola scriptura colleagues always seem to prefer I don’t raise this passage when campaigning for compulsory Bible reading in schools.
So it’s with a heavy heart that I discovered the Communion's latest road-show, Little Bobby Duncan and the ACNA Experience has chosen to ignore the core message of this part of Our Sacred Canon – that without some form of centralized authority things devolve into chaos.
To see what I mean please take the time from your otherwise irrelevant lives to examine the finally released list of ACNA dioceses. Yes, for those of you who had doubted, it not only achieves their earlier claim of 28 dioceses, but exceeds it, listing 29 – although I’m not too sure what to make of a diocese with only 510 congregants, and since the criteria seems pretty hazy I can’t for the life of me see why things weren’t just split up some more to create thousands of dioceses, which would really have shown the apostate TEC a thing or two.
Yet regardless of how many dioceses they end up with, the point is that the lines of authority between those dioceses is about as clear as Don Armstrong’s personal account-keeping – and five of them are listed as being “in formation”, which mans they don’t even exist yet! What’s going to happen when, for example, one of little Bobby’s congregations in Pittsburgh decide they no longer like girl-cooties and what to join an AMiA cluster? Or if at some point in the future the Rwandan primate (the real one, not a faux-Rwandan) should through some strange work of the Spirit detect a certain hypocrisy in the fact that while his national church ordains women to the Priesthood, his faux-Rwandan bishops will only do so to the Diaconate, and decides to order his U.S./Canadian “mission” to display a little consistency? What then? What’s the difference between the “Anglican Diocese in the Southeast” and the “Diocese of the Southeast”, and can a minister and their parish flick between them according to whoever’s currently offering the best deal?
Four times the Book of Judges reminds readers that "there was no king in Israel in those days" (Judges 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25) by way of an explanation for the anarchy it recounts: in the absence of any clear structure of leadership there was no rule of law. Much of Anglicanism’s historic success have been due to its ability to place check and balances on extremists of any persuasion; the reason clergy like me can’t attain the income of, for example, Kenneth Copeland or the reach of the delightfully named Creflo Dollar is because we have been called to serve with a hierarchical framework which imposes a measure of control upon our ministries and schemes. This leash attached to our collars may at times be restrictive, but it also helps stop us from running out into the traffic and getting bowled over by a passing truck, and – even worse – from taking our congregations along with us. As a system of church governance Episcopalianism has its flaws, but a predilection for serving cyanide-laced Kool-Aid has never been one of them. Under ACNA I'm not certain the old restraints will remain.
Far from bringing a “New Israel” to North America, ACNA looks suspiciously like reintroducing a very old one. My recommendation is we all give thanks we’re not Layperson Minns’ concubine.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
So it’s with a heavy heart that I discovered the Communion's latest road-show, Little Bobby Duncan and the ACNA Experience has chosen to ignore the core message of this part of Our Sacred Canon – that without some form of centralized authority things devolve into chaos.
To see what I mean please take the time from your otherwise irrelevant lives to examine the finally released list of ACNA dioceses. Yes, for those of you who had doubted, it not only achieves their earlier claim of 28 dioceses, but exceeds it, listing 29 – although I’m not too sure what to make of a diocese with only 510 congregants, and since the criteria seems pretty hazy I can’t for the life of me see why things weren’t just split up some more to create thousands of dioceses, which would really have shown the apostate TEC a thing or two.
Yet regardless of how many dioceses they end up with, the point is that the lines of authority between those dioceses is about as clear as Don Armstrong’s personal account-keeping – and five of them are listed as being “in formation”, which mans they don’t even exist yet! What’s going to happen when, for example, one of little Bobby’s congregations in Pittsburgh decide they no longer like girl-cooties and what to join an AMiA cluster? Or if at some point in the future the Rwandan primate (the real one, not a faux-Rwandan) should through some strange work of the Spirit detect a certain hypocrisy in the fact that while his national church ordains women to the Priesthood, his faux-Rwandan bishops will only do so to the Diaconate, and decides to order his U.S./Canadian “mission” to display a little consistency? What then? What’s the difference between the “Anglican Diocese in the Southeast” and the “Diocese of the Southeast”, and can a minister and their parish flick between them according to whoever’s currently offering the best deal?
Four times the Book of Judges reminds readers that "there was no king in Israel in those days" (Judges 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25) by way of an explanation for the anarchy it recounts: in the absence of any clear structure of leadership there was no rule of law. Much of Anglicanism’s historic success have been due to its ability to place check and balances on extremists of any persuasion; the reason clergy like me can’t attain the income of, for example, Kenneth Copeland or the reach of the delightfully named Creflo Dollar is because we have been called to serve with a hierarchical framework which imposes a measure of control upon our ministries and schemes. This leash attached to our collars may at times be restrictive, but it also helps stop us from running out into the traffic and getting bowled over by a passing truck, and – even worse – from taking our congregations along with us. As a system of church governance Episcopalianism has its flaws, but a predilection for serving cyanide-laced Kool-Aid has never been one of them. Under ACNA I'm not certain the old restraints will remain.
Far from bringing a “New Israel” to North America, ACNA looks suspiciously like reintroducing a very old one. My recommendation is we all give thanks we’re not Layperson Minns’ concubine.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Bishops: Cheaper by the dozen.
Following a comment by one of my much esteemed and dearly beloved sinners at Preludium, it occurred to me that evil apostate liberals will suggest +Okinola’s latest ejaculation of “bishops” is just a last minute effort by little Chuck Murphy to get his numbers up before Bobby Duncan’s ACNA Assembly assumes the right to determine who or what gets to wear pseudo-purple north of the Rio Grande.
This is of course nonsense; there can surely be no doubt that in the future little Bobby is going to be just as happy to see Bishops of dioceses and provinces outside of ACNA appointing their own men to serve in “his” church as he was when they were when it was happening as part of ECUSA. Can there? And isn’t it just ridiculous to think there could be any rivalry between the different Primates of African regions which have hitherto disliked each other for millennia? Or that this rivalry could one day be expressed by stacking Bobby Duncan’s show with enough “bishops” of one’s own to control the voting? Not to mention all the juicy U.S. lucre certain to start flowing once the current economic crisis has passed.
No, the whole endeavor is purely altruistic, as little Chuck explained: "Rwanda is a beacon of hope. It has saved Americans from a state of quagmire," My dear sinners, have truer words been spoken? After all, the very first thing that comes into any American’s mind when hearing mention of Rwanda is “beacon of hope”. Try it for yourself: just grab the nearest machete and hold it against the throat of the next person you meet in the street while asking “Is Rwanda a beacon of hope?” You’ll find as I have that they invariably answer in the affirmative. After which they normally hand over their valuables in a respectful state of fear and trembling.
With this sort of support behind the faux-Rwandan prelates I’m certain it’s only a matter of time till believers in states where Chuckie’s met with a measure of success (such as Alabama and Georgia) start importing their own reunited Hutus and Tutsis to lead their congregations. And then I’m just as certain little Bobby Duncan’s new show will be delighted to pick up the cost of obtaining R-1 visas for their new clergy, happily recognizing their qualifications as valid irrespective of whoever they were purchased from. Suggesting otherwise is just too foolish for words.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
This is of course nonsense; there can surely be no doubt that in the future little Bobby is going to be just as happy to see Bishops of dioceses and provinces outside of ACNA appointing their own men to serve in “his” church as he was when they were when it was happening as part of ECUSA. Can there? And isn’t it just ridiculous to think there could be any rivalry between the different Primates of African regions which have hitherto disliked each other for millennia? Or that this rivalry could one day be expressed by stacking Bobby Duncan’s show with enough “bishops” of one’s own to control the voting? Not to mention all the juicy U.S. lucre certain to start flowing once the current economic crisis has passed.
No, the whole endeavor is purely altruistic, as little Chuck explained: "Rwanda is a beacon of hope. It has saved Americans from a state of quagmire," My dear sinners, have truer words been spoken? After all, the very first thing that comes into any American’s mind when hearing mention of Rwanda is “beacon of hope”. Try it for yourself: just grab the nearest machete and hold it against the throat of the next person you meet in the street while asking “Is Rwanda a beacon of hope?” You’ll find as I have that they invariably answer in the affirmative. After which they normally hand over their valuables in a respectful state of fear and trembling.
With this sort of support behind the faux-Rwandan prelates I’m certain it’s only a matter of time till believers in states where Chuckie’s met with a measure of success (such as Alabama and Georgia) start importing their own reunited Hutus and Tutsis to lead their congregations. And then I’m just as certain little Bobby Duncan’s new show will be delighted to pick up the cost of obtaining R-1 visas for their new clergy, happily recognizing their qualifications as valid irrespective of whoever they were purchased from. Suggesting otherwise is just too foolish for words.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Sneaky Dobby! Bad Elf!
My Dearly Beloved Sinners:
Some of you may already be aware that little Dobby Ould - one of the Jensen Family's impressive collection of house-elves - has started redirecting links from this blog, probably in a pathetic attempt to save costs on bandwidth given his master's recent spectacular misplacement of a few dollars; something which could easily happen to any clergyman, but not surprisingly hasn't.
Instead of permitting my dearly beloved evil-doers to view Dobby (also known as David Ould for the purposes of getting this post to show up in Google searches) and his novel refutations of reason and its role in Anglicanism, my links are instead pointing on to a video of Dobby's favorite artist performing what his Master considers traditional liturgical song.
Naturally it takes more than that to defeat the World's Greatest Doctrinal Warrior, and until Dobby's Master orders him to display a little more maturity, and a little less fear of those whose minds and spirituality didn't come down in the last shower, Dobby's site will first pass through an anonymous redirection service.
You can read more about these services here - or if you'd rather visit David Ould directly (thank you again Google!) just paste www.davidould.net (and again!) directly into a new browser window and find your own way to whatever it is I'm talking about.
I'm Father Christian and nothing stops me teaching the Bible.
How dare anyone doubt Dobby Ould!!
As Evangelical Eric will tell anyone who asks, I am a peaceful man; gentle, tolerant, and slow to anger. I abhor violence, and I’m not ashamed to say I’ll personally thrash the living daylights out of anyone who says otherwise. Yet something’s happened to get my doctrinally-pure old blood boiling, and unless something drastic happens heads will roll, even if I have to travel to other side of the world to make them.
Faithful sinners will recall my recently announcing that little Peter Jensen’s accidental misplacement of a paltry one hundred million dollars of his parishioners’ hard-earned assets. As I probably said at the time, accidents will happen, and anyone can lose that sort of money. Afterall, the world’s favorite pseudo-primate could have easily left it on the bus while travelling home from Bible study. Or perhaps it was stolen by a passing kangaroo, or a dingo: I believe things like that happen all the time down there.
Following my homily, delivered out of compassion for those whom like big Pete Akinola have been left devastated by their sugar-daddy’s loss of his diocese’s most important contribution to the Glorious Global Schism, one of the Jensens’ house elves, a delightful little pixie known around the world as Dobby Ould posted on behalf of his owners the definitive statement on the matter at Viagraville.
This should have been the end of things: the usual Viagravillains made the usual appropriate noises; Mari explained how after Googling around for a while she’d discovered that in 1934 an Australian named Jefferson Scorey was charged with investment fraud, and wasn’t this too much of a co-incidence to be co-incidental? Then somebody followed up with a story about homosexual liberals secretly wanting to take his guns, and a moderator warned them about all straying off-topic. Then the exquisite little harpy from South Carolina brought a measure of balance to the whole affair, explaining that since Australian liberals are all billionaires they couldn’t care less about losing the money, but were really just using the whole affair as an excuse to criticize a fine Conservative who just happens to believe she shouldn’t be permitted to read the Bible aloud when in the presence of a man. And that Viagraville would never attack +KJS if she misplaced a similar amount.
But now the troubles unfortunately began. A great number of Dobby Ould’s Sydney readers are prohibited from visiting Viagraville on the account of the very real danger they might catch Anglo-Catholic germs (which they fear almost as much as Gay Cooties) from some of the sub-Christians gathered there, or at very least come into contact with those holding to such heretical notions as a belief in the Efficacy of the Sacraments, or Infant Baptism. Thus he’s obliged to also post any approved squeezings on his own blog, where the local elect can read them without risking accidental contact with anything historically Anglican.
And it has been on this same Portal of Puritanism (my little friend is clearly trying to protect readers from his critic's wickedness, so he's trying to block links from here. Consequently you'll be detoured via an anonymizer. Yes, I know... but you've got to understand house-elves are twitchy little creatures) that an outrageous, wicked apostate Vegemite encrusted son-of-perdition has dared to keep asking questions! Not only has he the impudence to question Lord Jensen’s wisdom on his own disgraceful blog, he even pesters an obvious better about the same paltry issue on their own exegetically infallible pulpit.
Normally I enjoy watching Moore College graduates quarrel: it’s like cock-fighting but legal since the combatants lack the same degree of sentience. Yet this (ditto) is simply disgraceful. Time after time little Dobby explains (sigh - but at least his master will be proud) how Sydney is run along perfectly fair and democratic lines, and that it’s simply a blessing of God (in much the same way as occurred in the recent Iranian elections) that only those whose surname is “Jensen” happen to win everything, and time and again his terrible antagonist dares suggest that processes might be somewhat less than perfectly accessible to all believers, and wonders why the Archbishop won’t deign to answer such esoteric questions as “How did you lose our money?”
As I’ve said, the whole performance is sickening, and Dobby should immediately beg his master to order some of The Family's clumsier members to pay this troublemaker a visit. Everyone knows Orthodox GAFCON heroes can do whatever they damn well want to with their diocese’s money. So they choose to gamble it? So what: their intentions were good and who is anyone to say the end wouldn't have justified the means? Further, just because any process systematically excludes those not agreeing with the men in charge, or who refuse to lie about their sexuality, or happen to be women not prepared to sit at the back of the bus and remain silent until spoken to doesn’t mean it’s not democratic!!!
Will somebody please club those basic facts of Bible-believing ministry into that rogue's dreadful duck-noodle filled head? Fiercely and painfully, but in love, of course.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Faithful sinners will recall my recently announcing that little Peter Jensen’s accidental misplacement of a paltry one hundred million dollars of his parishioners’ hard-earned assets. As I probably said at the time, accidents will happen, and anyone can lose that sort of money. Afterall, the world’s favorite pseudo-primate could have easily left it on the bus while travelling home from Bible study. Or perhaps it was stolen by a passing kangaroo, or a dingo: I believe things like that happen all the time down there.
Following my homily, delivered out of compassion for those whom like big Pete Akinola have been left devastated by their sugar-daddy’s loss of his diocese’s most important contribution to the Glorious Global Schism, one of the Jensens’ house elves, a delightful little pixie known around the world as Dobby Ould posted on behalf of his owners the definitive statement on the matter at Viagraville.
This should have been the end of things: the usual Viagravillains made the usual appropriate noises; Mari explained how after Googling around for a while she’d discovered that in 1934 an Australian named Jefferson Scorey was charged with investment fraud, and wasn’t this too much of a co-incidence to be co-incidental? Then somebody followed up with a story about homosexual liberals secretly wanting to take his guns, and a moderator warned them about all straying off-topic. Then the exquisite little harpy from South Carolina brought a measure of balance to the whole affair, explaining that since Australian liberals are all billionaires they couldn’t care less about losing the money, but were really just using the whole affair as an excuse to criticize a fine Conservative who just happens to believe she shouldn’t be permitted to read the Bible aloud when in the presence of a man. And that Viagraville would never attack +KJS if she misplaced a similar amount.
But now the troubles unfortunately began. A great number of Dobby Ould’s Sydney readers are prohibited from visiting Viagraville on the account of the very real danger they might catch Anglo-Catholic germs (which they fear almost as much as Gay Cooties) from some of the sub-Christians gathered there, or at very least come into contact with those holding to such heretical notions as a belief in the Efficacy of the Sacraments, or Infant Baptism. Thus he’s obliged to also post any approved squeezings on his own blog, where the local elect can read them without risking accidental contact with anything historically Anglican.
And it has been on this same Portal of Puritanism (my little friend is clearly trying to protect readers from his critic's wickedness, so he's trying to block links from here. Consequently you'll be detoured via an anonymizer. Yes, I know... but you've got to understand house-elves are twitchy little creatures) that an outrageous, wicked apostate Vegemite encrusted son-of-perdition has dared to keep asking questions! Not only has he the impudence to question Lord Jensen’s wisdom on his own disgraceful blog, he even pesters an obvious better about the same paltry issue on their own exegetically infallible pulpit.
Normally I enjoy watching Moore College graduates quarrel: it’s like cock-fighting but legal since the combatants lack the same degree of sentience. Yet this (ditto) is simply disgraceful. Time after time little Dobby explains (sigh - but at least his master will be proud) how Sydney is run along perfectly fair and democratic lines, and that it’s simply a blessing of God (in much the same way as occurred in the recent Iranian elections) that only those whose surname is “Jensen” happen to win everything, and time and again his terrible antagonist dares suggest that processes might be somewhat less than perfectly accessible to all believers, and wonders why the Archbishop won’t deign to answer such esoteric questions as “How did you lose our money?”
As I’ve said, the whole performance is sickening, and Dobby should immediately beg his master to order some of The Family's clumsier members to pay this troublemaker a visit. Everyone knows Orthodox GAFCON heroes can do whatever they damn well want to with their diocese’s money. So they choose to gamble it? So what: their intentions were good and who is anyone to say the end wouldn't have justified the means? Further, just because any process systematically excludes those not agreeing with the men in charge, or who refuse to lie about their sexuality, or happen to be women not prepared to sit at the back of the bus and remain silent until spoken to doesn’t mean it’s not democratic!!!
Will somebody please club those basic facts of Bible-believing ministry into that rogue's dreadful duck-noodle filled head? Fiercely and painfully, but in love, of course.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Bishops for Everyone!
Sadly not every parish is as blessed as we are to enjoy the presence of our own personal pet Bishop, but a wonderful report from Rwanda shows Archbishop Emmanuel Kolini is doing everything he can to help redress this problem by appointing three new Bishops to serve in Big Pete Akinola’s least favourite competitor, the Anglican Mission in the Americas. This brings the number of faux-Rwandan prelates in the U.S. to nine, as well an additional quasi-purple pretender with specific responsibility for pseudo-East Africans labouring under the delusion they are in fact Canadian.
Now getting details of the precise number of Rwandan congregations in North Amerca isn’t easy, since the AMIA website only lets one view parishes on a state-by-state basis. However as there was nothing else to do around here except listen to Bishop Quinine complain of his morning sickness and how the rumbling in his nether regions has nothing to do with the previous evening’s case of burritos and beer, but is actually the first sings of little baby Venaballs kicking, I decided to spend a bit of time crunching faux-Rwandan numbers, and the results are truly inspiring!
On face value +Kolini has 91 U.S. congregations, and 18 Canadian ones. That translates to 10.1 and 18 “bishops” per congregation respectively. But, as anyone who’s ever tried to do business in a country like Rwanda well knows, the figures are always a bit more complicated when you start looking at them more closely.
Firstly, the U.S. pretend-prelates are also parish Rectors, which means a marvelous 9.9% of U.S./Rwandan congregations now have their own bishop-in-residence, although Canada lags behind somewhat at 5.6%. Yet as 13.2% (Canada 22.1%) of parishes are described as “Emerging Works” this figure starts to look really impressive indeed.
I’ve got to admit I’m not sure exactly what the is meant by “Emerging Works”, since I couldn’t find any definition on the Reasserting Rwandans' site, and +Kolini’s staff aren’t exactly reliable when it comes to returning emails, but in my experience terms like “emerging” only ever mean one of two things: either it’s a group meeting in a trailer led by someone calling himself “Father Randy” whose only qualification is a correspondence certificate in square-dance calling obtained during his last prison sentence, and who realized founding a church would be a great way around the Parole Board’s order that he not approach Girl Guides; or it’s part of the “Emergent” movement, which means it comprises two skinny young men with goatees and a girl giving thanks she’s no longer cutting now Jesus permanently healed her three weeks ago (although things could turn nasty in another few days when one of the guys says the Spirit’s shown him they shouldn’t get married after all, but instead “just be brother and sister in the Lord”). Either way, it’s a safe bet that these “churches” aren’t being run by senior ministers - meaning that when it comes to satisfying the purple itch lurking just beneath a great many clergymen’s skin, pretending to be Rwandan is probably the most effective strategy with almost 11% of U.S. (6% Canada) senior clergy having received the big hand-laying.
All of which shows things are right on track for the ultimate goal: the prelacy of all believers. Or at least the prelacy of those who pee standing up - +Kolini wouldn’t want to break with tradition now, would he?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Now getting details of the precise number of Rwandan congregations in North Amerca isn’t easy, since the AMIA website only lets one view parishes on a state-by-state basis. However as there was nothing else to do around here except listen to Bishop Quinine complain of his morning sickness and how the rumbling in his nether regions has nothing to do with the previous evening’s case of burritos and beer, but is actually the first sings of little baby Venaballs kicking, I decided to spend a bit of time crunching faux-Rwandan numbers, and the results are truly inspiring!
On face value +Kolini has 91 U.S. congregations, and 18 Canadian ones. That translates to 10.1 and 18 “bishops” per congregation respectively. But, as anyone who’s ever tried to do business in a country like Rwanda well knows, the figures are always a bit more complicated when you start looking at them more closely.
Firstly, the U.S. pretend-prelates are also parish Rectors, which means a marvelous 9.9% of U.S./Rwandan congregations now have their own bishop-in-residence, although Canada lags behind somewhat at 5.6%. Yet as 13.2% (Canada 22.1%) of parishes are described as “Emerging Works” this figure starts to look really impressive indeed.
I’ve got to admit I’m not sure exactly what the is meant by “Emerging Works”, since I couldn’t find any definition on the Reasserting Rwandans' site, and +Kolini’s staff aren’t exactly reliable when it comes to returning emails, but in my experience terms like “emerging” only ever mean one of two things: either it’s a group meeting in a trailer led by someone calling himself “Father Randy” whose only qualification is a correspondence certificate in square-dance calling obtained during his last prison sentence, and who realized founding a church would be a great way around the Parole Board’s order that he not approach Girl Guides; or it’s part of the “Emergent” movement, which means it comprises two skinny young men with goatees and a girl giving thanks she’s no longer cutting now Jesus permanently healed her three weeks ago (although things could turn nasty in another few days when one of the guys says the Spirit’s shown him they shouldn’t get married after all, but instead “just be brother and sister in the Lord”). Either way, it’s a safe bet that these “churches” aren’t being run by senior ministers - meaning that when it comes to satisfying the purple itch lurking just beneath a great many clergymen’s skin, pretending to be Rwandan is probably the most effective strategy with almost 11% of U.S. (6% Canada) senior clergy having received the big hand-laying.
All of which shows things are right on track for the ultimate goal: the prelacy of all believers. Or at least the prelacy of those who pee standing up - +Kolini wouldn’t want to break with tradition now, would he?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Shock, Horror, Scandal!
Lately I’ve been having that dream again – the one in which Ruth Gledhill is walking towards me, sensuously licking her lips and saying “Indaba”.
I don’t know why that should be so, although there might be some connection to her latest article. Titled “Money, Sex and the Anglican Communion”, my blood quite naturally started racing from the moment I saw the headline: few nouns entwine as seductively as these.
Yet further reading spoiled the beautiful moment – all our cheeky little Tinkerbell of the Times had done was uncritically cut & paste the latest pen-squeezing from Ralinda B. Gregor and her bosses, the wild and crazy guys at the American Anglican Council. Even the frisson inducing headline wasn’t Ruth’s! And let’s face it, nothing coming from the mouth (or anywhere else) of Messrs. Anderson, Beckwith or that lovely little layman Philip Ashey, who really does look like more than a few fellows I’ve known on the fringes of the bear scene - although he might just be trying to look like Kenny Rogers.
Now I can’t deny I’ve a lot of time for some of these fellows at the AAC. Certainly, a few are hotheads, but others like +Beckwith have admirably embraced my policy of having a foot in both camps with delightful enthusiasm. Rather than leave the Church, or shooting off their own feet like little Matt Kennedy, they’ve been happy to sit tight and see which way the wind ends up blowing. But still - Money, Sex and the Anglican Communion?
For goodness sake: their side of the argument hasn’t had any serious money since little Peter Jensen lost a squillion pretending to be the smartest guy in the room, you’ve only got to take one look at them to see sex doesn’t rate too highly on their list of preferred leisure activities (except Ashey, of course, but perhaps he’d rather I didn’t go there), and as for the Anglican Communion… having spent the better part of three years working to tear Anglicanism in two it’s a bit rich for them to now speak of the “Communion” as if it’s something they place any value upon. So given this admirably over-publicized rant came from people without much obvious experience in any of the matters discussed (and again want to stress I’m making an exception of “Fuzzychops”), it’s hard to see why it rated a whole post in The Times when releases like the one I sent, announcing the imminent launch of my major new humanitarian charity - Leaf-Blowers for Africa - are ignored.
And that’s without even beginning to address the content of release; the gist of which seems to be that a wicked apostate Episcopalian woman chose to give a large amount of her own money for the purpose of facilitating discussion on a subject of interest to her. What’s more the powers that be have had the temerity to ask someone not famous for their rabid homophobia to oversee a committee examining the issue of homosexuality. Which is, of course, outrageous, but is it really that big a story? After all, I engaged a person familiar with washing to machines to fix ours last week, and tomorrow the parish office microwave will be repaired by a man who not has not only studied electronics, but whom actually likes electrical gadgetry.
I realise it’s terrible that people with that sort of money sitting are around are free to donate it to whomever they wish, whereas in a truly Christian society it would be forcibly taken from them and given to Bible-believers like myself, but what can you expect in a world that didn’t have the sense to appoint George W. Bush as Supreme Ruler for Life? That the discussion process will also be open to those who’ve studied historical attitudes to sexuality and concluded that people living two thousand years ago sometimes saw things differently to ourselves is just a small part of this much bigger problem. Which is not to say that these “experts” and their findings aren’t ridiculous: everyone knows that Christians in the first century near-east thought exactly like middle-class white Americans. How could it be otherwise? After all, homosexuality was only invented by twentieth-century liberals.
Still, there is one valid point being made in all this: who knows how the fact that this money has been thrown Canterbury's way will influence the outcome. Just look how the money little Peter Jensen thew around Britain in the good old days influenced the Church of England, where Chasubles are now banned, the Sacraments can only be administered by laymen, and Walsingham now reduced to the site of an annual conference on Ephesians...
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
I don’t know why that should be so, although there might be some connection to her latest article. Titled “Money, Sex and the Anglican Communion”, my blood quite naturally started racing from the moment I saw the headline: few nouns entwine as seductively as these.
Yet further reading spoiled the beautiful moment – all our cheeky little Tinkerbell of the Times had done was uncritically cut & paste the latest pen-squeezing from Ralinda B. Gregor and her bosses, the wild and crazy guys at the American Anglican Council. Even the frisson inducing headline wasn’t Ruth’s! And let’s face it, nothing coming from the mouth (or anywhere else) of Messrs. Anderson, Beckwith or that lovely little layman Philip Ashey, who really does look like more than a few fellows I’ve known on the fringes of the bear scene - although he might just be trying to look like Kenny Rogers.
Now I can’t deny I’ve a lot of time for some of these fellows at the AAC. Certainly, a few are hotheads, but others like +Beckwith have admirably embraced my policy of having a foot in both camps with delightful enthusiasm. Rather than leave the Church, or shooting off their own feet like little Matt Kennedy, they’ve been happy to sit tight and see which way the wind ends up blowing. But still - Money, Sex and the Anglican Communion?
For goodness sake: their side of the argument hasn’t had any serious money since little Peter Jensen lost a squillion pretending to be the smartest guy in the room, you’ve only got to take one look at them to see sex doesn’t rate too highly on their list of preferred leisure activities (except Ashey, of course, but perhaps he’d rather I didn’t go there), and as for the Anglican Communion… having spent the better part of three years working to tear Anglicanism in two it’s a bit rich for them to now speak of the “Communion” as if it’s something they place any value upon. So given this admirably over-publicized rant came from people without much obvious experience in any of the matters discussed (and again want to stress I’m making an exception of “Fuzzychops”), it’s hard to see why it rated a whole post in The Times when releases like the one I sent, announcing the imminent launch of my major new humanitarian charity - Leaf-Blowers for Africa - are ignored.
And that’s without even beginning to address the content of release; the gist of which seems to be that a wicked apostate Episcopalian woman chose to give a large amount of her own money for the purpose of facilitating discussion on a subject of interest to her. What’s more the powers that be have had the temerity to ask someone not famous for their rabid homophobia to oversee a committee examining the issue of homosexuality. Which is, of course, outrageous, but is it really that big a story? After all, I engaged a person familiar with washing to machines to fix ours last week, and tomorrow the parish office microwave will be repaired by a man who not has not only studied electronics, but whom actually likes electrical gadgetry.
I realise it’s terrible that people with that sort of money sitting are around are free to donate it to whomever they wish, whereas in a truly Christian society it would be forcibly taken from them and given to Bible-believers like myself, but what can you expect in a world that didn’t have the sense to appoint George W. Bush as Supreme Ruler for Life? That the discussion process will also be open to those who’ve studied historical attitudes to sexuality and concluded that people living two thousand years ago sometimes saw things differently to ourselves is just a small part of this much bigger problem. Which is not to say that these “experts” and their findings aren’t ridiculous: everyone knows that Christians in the first century near-east thought exactly like middle-class white Americans. How could it be otherwise? After all, homosexuality was only invented by twentieth-century liberals.
Still, there is one valid point being made in all this: who knows how the fact that this money has been thrown Canterbury's way will influence the outcome. Just look how the money little Peter Jensen thew around Britain in the good old days influenced the Church of England, where Chasubles are now banned, the Sacraments can only be administered by laymen, and Walsingham now reduced to the site of an annual conference on Ephesians...
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Bishop Quinine & the Siren Song of Mommy Blogs.
To be perfectly honest I’m getting a little worried about Bishop Quinine. The story of little April Rose and Beccah Beushausen seems to have affected him more than might be considered normal.
Last night he began ranting obsessively about “Mommy blogs”, and how they were the key to internet fame, wealth, and gratuitous casual sex. Normally as avid a reader of the Anglican/Episcopalian blogosphere as can be found, he instead began insisting that the real voices of new journalism can only be found in those sites dealing with the minutiae of such issues as breast feeding, infant regurgitation, and the challenges of home-schooling children with names like Jeremiah, Keziah, and Rake. Warming to this theme, my poor Prelate then starting dreaming of a day when GAFCON offers homespun remedies for infantile gastroenteritis (“Tie three feathers and a fermenting jackfruit around your little one’s neck, then read Galatians together every evening until the problem clears”) instead of hard-hitting Biblical exposition.
Not that Mommy blogs don’t have their place. Take Hostillium, for example: the smoldering sensuality beneath her passive-aggressive veneer not infrequently touches me in ways I haven’t experienced since accidentally setting fire to my dromedary costume. Yet I dare say the signs were there a few weeks ago, when Bishop Quinine began insisting she was sending us secret messages, which could only be deciphered by writing each word of her posts onto small pieces of paper, then drawing them randomly from a hat to reassemble them into new sentences. Clearly the seeds of his Mommy Blog delusion were already taking root, although to be fair there was an uncanny poetry in the results, and it did accurately describe the obvious yearnings for me that I know the little Calvinist Cutie keeps hidden deep inside – a yearning which must forever remain unrequited, but which will nevertheless always burn beneath the surface of her writing. Not to mention the way she calls it “Homescholing” in her blogspot labels (perhaps putting two “o”s in the one word violates some secret orthodox moral precept?).
Still, on a more prosaic level, the local Police have just phoned to say dear old +Quinine’s been caught attempting to join a Titus 2 Birthing Class, insisting that the pillow stuffed down the front of his shirt is really “a precious little miracle-baby” that the Spirit has told him is to be christened “Venalballs”. Since he doesn’t appear to have profited from this delusion (other than having persuaded some kind-hearted old lady to start knitting him a pair of size 10 pink woollen booties), they’ll be bringing home without pressing charges – but I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the end of this…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Last night he began ranting obsessively about “Mommy blogs”, and how they were the key to internet fame, wealth, and gratuitous casual sex. Normally as avid a reader of the Anglican/Episcopalian blogosphere as can be found, he instead began insisting that the real voices of new journalism can only be found in those sites dealing with the minutiae of such issues as breast feeding, infant regurgitation, and the challenges of home-schooling children with names like Jeremiah, Keziah, and Rake. Warming to this theme, my poor Prelate then starting dreaming of a day when GAFCON offers homespun remedies for infantile gastroenteritis (“Tie three feathers and a fermenting jackfruit around your little one’s neck, then read Galatians together every evening until the problem clears”) instead of hard-hitting Biblical exposition.
Not that Mommy blogs don’t have their place. Take Hostillium, for example: the smoldering sensuality beneath her passive-aggressive veneer not infrequently touches me in ways I haven’t experienced since accidentally setting fire to my dromedary costume. Yet I dare say the signs were there a few weeks ago, when Bishop Quinine began insisting she was sending us secret messages, which could only be deciphered by writing each word of her posts onto small pieces of paper, then drawing them randomly from a hat to reassemble them into new sentences. Clearly the seeds of his Mommy Blog delusion were already taking root, although to be fair there was an uncanny poetry in the results, and it did accurately describe the obvious yearnings for me that I know the little Calvinist Cutie keeps hidden deep inside – a yearning which must forever remain unrequited, but which will nevertheless always burn beneath the surface of her writing. Not to mention the way she calls it “Homescholing” in her blogspot labels (perhaps putting two “o”s in the one word violates some secret orthodox moral precept?).
Still, on a more prosaic level, the local Police have just phoned to say dear old +Quinine’s been caught attempting to join a Titus 2 Birthing Class, insisting that the pillow stuffed down the front of his shirt is really “a precious little miracle-baby” that the Spirit has told him is to be christened “Venalballs”. Since he doesn’t appear to have profited from this delusion (other than having persuaded some kind-hearted old lady to start knitting him a pair of size 10 pink woollen booties), they’ll be bringing home without pressing charges – but I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the end of this…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Introducing GAFCON Explained.
Lately I’ve noticed an increasing number of visitors here who aren’t Christians. Some of them appear to be Southern Baptists, or from the Sydney Anglican Diocese (which is the same thing, except Baptists are generally better dancers), while others come from more orthodox and peaceful cults, like Scientology or Aum Shinrikyo. Either way, much of what appears here is beyond the capability of an unredeemed and sinful mind to comprehend.
Normally when encountering such people I simply brush them aside. Unless of course they're wealthy, in which case I toady up to them in the hope of extracting an impressive Surplice fee for officiating at a society wedding or funeral. Yet given the global financial crisis, and increasing reluctance ofrich suckers affluent unbelievers to be separated from their money, wise clergymen like my good self (is there any other type of wise clergyman?) are growing reluctant to discard potential converts, irrespective of how unimpressive their social standing may be.
Consequently I’ve decided to commence an occasional series which will eventually comprise a practical tool for evangelizing those whom might in less austere times be legitimately dismissed as worthless. It will not only explain Orthodox Christianity and the Glorious GAFCON movement to those destined for eternal torment, but it will even do it in such a way as to render those drawn by the spirit to read it as absolutely without excuse for not agreeing with everything I’ve ever said – or ever will say.
Over the coming month I intend covering the following topics:
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Normally when encountering such people I simply brush them aside. Unless of course they're wealthy, in which case I toady up to them in the hope of extracting an impressive Surplice fee for officiating at a society wedding or funeral. Yet given the global financial crisis, and increasing reluctance of
Consequently I’ve decided to commence an occasional series which will eventually comprise a practical tool for evangelizing those whom might in less austere times be legitimately dismissed as worthless. It will not only explain Orthodox Christianity and the Glorious GAFCON movement to those destined for eternal torment, but it will even do it in such a way as to render those drawn by the spirit to read it as absolutely without excuse for not agreeing with everything I’ve ever said – or ever will say.
Over the coming month I intend covering the following topics:
When we’ve finished I’m sure you’ll all agree I’ll have blessed you with something that may even come to outrank the Alpha Course - although if it does you’d better believe I won’t be sharing any royalties with Charles Marnham. Not that I believe dear little Nicky Gumbel has either, but it’s always best to be clear about these matters from the outset.
- Who are GAFCON Christians?
- The Bible
- The Gospel
- The Sacrament of Homophobia
- Bigotry
- Ordination & the Penis
- Acronyms: Religious Shortcuts Explained
- Church Realignment And Planting
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Beccah Beushausen - The Ideal GAFCON Woman!
Here at St. Onuphrius’ we've all been devasted to read reports that Beccah Beushausen (aka "April's Mom") and the touching story of her pregnancy and baby April Rose is a fraud.
Naturally as faithful anti-choice campaigners we were overcome with emotion as we followed the story of this brave young Christian mother-to-be’s determination to give birth, and prayerfully supported her each step of her heart-wrenching journey. At times like these I especially love the way Christians who couldn’t care less about a young lady’s spirituality when she’s busily knowing boys in the Biblical sense around the back of the bicycle shed suddenly act as if they’ve discovered the next Agnes of Rome if she chooses not to terminate the pregnancy, only to dump her again when it comes to the crass economic facts of feeding, housing, and providing health care for her and her child. As Brother Richthofen always says, how could the American sex industry satisfy it’s voracious appetite for confused and vulnerable young women if there was a reduction in the number of single mothers desperate to support their unplanned children? Especially given that in light of the the current financial crisis the narcotics trade simply can’t be trusted to produce enough victims to fill the gap.
One only has to take a look at sweet Beccah Beushausen to see how successful a contribution she could have made to the glamorous world of adult-videos and online strip-cam work in the course of supporting a terminally-ill child, and why the anti-choice lobby was so quick to support her. You’d better believe me when I say that right across America Conservative men (and more than a few women) were thinking about her future as they gazed upon her insouciant cheekbones and unwittingly praised her selfless decision to prey upon their gullibility, and I will not tolerate anyone who suggests she wouldn’t have received the same degree of support if she was Black, or Latino. Or an illegal immigrant.
What’s more, despite having now been outed as no more legitimate than those parishioners of Big Pete Akinola who claim their billionaire relatives keep dying intestate, the plucky Illinois pseudo-Madonna is showing her true GAFCON spirit by continuing to lie. Speaking about the scam to a reporter from the Chicago Tribune she claimed to be a social worker, although the National Association of Social Workers say she’s no such thing. And to make everyone feel better she also announced she “plans to write one final blog post, coming clean and apologizing to her fans”. Except she’s already deleted her blog (here’s a cached copy) and Facebook page, which might make that last apology a little difficult to post…
Lastly, I’m especially enjoying the way so many of those taken for a ride by this delightfully firm-breasted charlatan are insisting here that we all need to keep praying for her –without ever making mention of praying for those whose lives get messed up taking by anti-choice fraudsters at face value. As Bishop Quinine says, as long as people keep responding like this we can be confident decisions concerning women’s bodies will continue to be made by old men like us. Meaning that the blessed craving for power and control that called so many of us to the ministry in the first place should continue being satisfied for many years to come.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Naturally as faithful anti-choice campaigners we were overcome with emotion as we followed the story of this brave young Christian mother-to-be’s determination to give birth, and prayerfully supported her each step of her heart-wrenching journey. At times like these I especially love the way Christians who couldn’t care less about a young lady’s spirituality when she’s busily knowing boys in the Biblical sense around the back of the bicycle shed suddenly act as if they’ve discovered the next Agnes of Rome if she chooses not to terminate the pregnancy, only to dump her again when it comes to the crass economic facts of feeding, housing, and providing health care for her and her child. As Brother Richthofen always says, how could the American sex industry satisfy it’s voracious appetite for confused and vulnerable young women if there was a reduction in the number of single mothers desperate to support their unplanned children? Especially given that in light of the the current financial crisis the narcotics trade simply can’t be trusted to produce enough victims to fill the gap.
One only has to take a look at sweet Beccah Beushausen to see how successful a contribution she could have made to the glamorous world of adult-videos and online strip-cam work in the course of supporting a terminally-ill child, and why the anti-choice lobby was so quick to support her. You’d better believe me when I say that right across America Conservative men (and more than a few women) were thinking about her future as they gazed upon her insouciant cheekbones and unwittingly praised her selfless decision to prey upon their gullibility, and I will not tolerate anyone who suggests she wouldn’t have received the same degree of support if she was Black, or Latino. Or an illegal immigrant.
What’s more, despite having now been outed as no more legitimate than those parishioners of Big Pete Akinola who claim their billionaire relatives keep dying intestate, the plucky Illinois pseudo-Madonna is showing her true GAFCON spirit by continuing to lie. Speaking about the scam to a reporter from the Chicago Tribune she claimed to be a social worker, although the National Association of Social Workers say she’s no such thing. And to make everyone feel better she also announced she “plans to write one final blog post, coming clean and apologizing to her fans”. Except she’s already deleted her blog (here’s a cached copy) and Facebook page, which might make that last apology a little difficult to post…
Lastly, I’m especially enjoying the way so many of those taken for a ride by this delightfully firm-breasted charlatan are insisting here that we all need to keep praying for her –without ever making mention of praying for those whose lives get messed up taking by anti-choice fraudsters at face value. As Bishop Quinine says, as long as people keep responding like this we can be confident decisions concerning women’s bodies will continue to be made by old men like us. Meaning that the blessed craving for power and control that called so many of us to the ministry in the first place should continue being satisfied for many years to come.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Sheer Brilliance
Spend some time clicking around here.
Relive the dream of only last year, and keep your eyes focused on what can still be achieved in 2012...
Relive the dream of only last year, and keep your eyes focused on what can still be achieved in 2012...
Friday, June 12, 2009
Stand Firm Meet-Up in Bedford
Over at Viagraville they’re planning a little soiree as a pleasant interlude in the upcoming ACNA assembly, which I think sounds a fabulous idea. Honestly, what could be more enjoyable than sharing cocktails with the lithe Matt Kennedy and his gang? If the thought of little Sarah Hey or the cuddly-but-firm Greg Griffiths seductively twirling their miniature parasols and whining about how unfairly little Don Armstrong has been treated doesn’t send shivers down your spine then I’m afraid it’ll take more than just Viagra to get your juices flowing.
Unfortunately the Viagravillains aren’t too good when it comes to organizational details, and it appears their thread has devolved (that’s a first) into an inconclusive discussion about where to go, and how difficult it is working out split bills (here’s a tip cheapskates: count how many people you’ve got, divide the total bill by that amount, and round up the result so your long-suffering waitress gets a decent tip. If you’re a big eater throw in an extra $10 at the start, and if you’re not find more important things in life to worry about than being stingy: maybe try rejoicing that you’ll probably outlive most of us).
Anyway, I’ve decided to take things into my own hands and organize things for them. The best time for the meet-up will be Tuesday, June 23rd, when here is a 3-hour break beginning at 4:30pm, so we now have a booking for then in the name of “Hostillium” at ”Hooters” in North Richland. About five miles from St. Vincent's Cathedral (see maps) it should be far enough from the nosier delegates for even some of the most lemon-faced regulars (yes Mari, I do mean you) to be able to let their hair down, and to simplify matters I’ve arranged for the “Frat-Boy Feast” special: a bowl of soggy fries, a few stringy chicken wings and all the kegs we can drink. I predict even the Calvinists will enjoy themselves, and goodness knows they look like they need the chance.
Finally, as a special treat for all of you, my dear wicked sinners, whom I know can often feel a little intimidated by your weaker Viagravillain siblings, I’d like to invite you to join us as guests of St. Onuphrius’. Although strictly speaking it’s not my parish who’ll be paying, since one of Brother Richthofen’s friends from seminary has hacked the ACNA registration pages, giving us a marvelous list of attendee’s credit card details. Consequently once you arrive just make yourself known to either myself or Bishop Quinine (he’ll be easy to recognize – he’s going to be experimenting with a camera on a stick he’s developed specifically for the purpose of the historic assembly, so just look for any gentlemen wearing shorts and he’s bound to be lurking nearby) and we’ll allocate you your new identity for the evening. Don’t worry: there’s no way any of the righteous men those card numbers belong to will ever raise a quibble about a tab from Hooers appearing on their account. You’d better believe they’ll just pay up and keep it all hidden. Along with all the other stuff their self-righteous alter-egos get up to while they’re in Texas playing at being church fathers, and far, far away from Martha, Mildred and Daphne...
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Unfortunately the Viagravillains aren’t too good when it comes to organizational details, and it appears their thread has devolved (that’s a first) into an inconclusive discussion about where to go, and how difficult it is working out split bills (here’s a tip cheapskates: count how many people you’ve got, divide the total bill by that amount, and round up the result so your long-suffering waitress gets a decent tip. If you’re a big eater throw in an extra $10 at the start, and if you’re not find more important things in life to worry about than being stingy: maybe try rejoicing that you’ll probably outlive most of us).
Anyway, I’ve decided to take things into my own hands and organize things for them. The best time for the meet-up will be Tuesday, June 23rd, when here is a 3-hour break beginning at 4:30pm, so we now have a booking for then in the name of “Hostillium” at ”Hooters” in North Richland. About five miles from St. Vincent's Cathedral (see maps) it should be far enough from the nosier delegates for even some of the most lemon-faced regulars (yes Mari, I do mean you) to be able to let their hair down, and to simplify matters I’ve arranged for the “Frat-Boy Feast” special: a bowl of soggy fries, a few stringy chicken wings and all the kegs we can drink. I predict even the Calvinists will enjoy themselves, and goodness knows they look like they need the chance.
Finally, as a special treat for all of you, my dear wicked sinners, whom I know can often feel a little intimidated by your weaker Viagravillain siblings, I’d like to invite you to join us as guests of St. Onuphrius’. Although strictly speaking it’s not my parish who’ll be paying, since one of Brother Richthofen’s friends from seminary has hacked the ACNA registration pages, giving us a marvelous list of attendee’s credit card details. Consequently once you arrive just make yourself known to either myself or Bishop Quinine (he’ll be easy to recognize – he’s going to be experimenting with a camera on a stick he’s developed specifically for the purpose of the historic assembly, so just look for any gentlemen wearing shorts and he’s bound to be lurking nearby) and we’ll allocate you your new identity for the evening. Don’t worry: there’s no way any of the righteous men those card numbers belong to will ever raise a quibble about a tab from Hooers appearing on their account. You’d better believe they’ll just pay up and keep it all hidden. Along with all the other stuff their self-righteous alter-egos get up to while they’re in Texas playing at being church fathers, and far, far away from Martha, Mildred and Daphne...
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Thank you... and a rebuke.
In my haste to announce the Glorious Global Schism’s urgent need for my return I must admit I forgot to thank the guest bloggers who pathetically tried to cover for my absence.
Special thanks has to go to Torquemada, Ernest Hemingway, and George Herbert: crossing over isn’t easy at the best of times (which is probably why John Edward can only ever seem to get in touch with people who’s name starts with “M” and who seem to be saying they may have been born in a month with “a” or “e” in its name – the more lucid deceased know it just isn’t worth the effort), and I really do appreciate the time they took.
On that basis I suppose little Dean Phillip Jensen also deserves a special mention: while not exactly “over there” he certainly hasn’t been on this planet for years either, and so checking in with reality from wherever it is he does inhabit can’t have been easy.
Having said that, I must also apologise for the standard of one of my locum tenens, who clearly upset a few of you. I believe the criticism made was that he was “nasty”, and, to be perfectly honest I must agree.
I’m speaking, of course, of little Bishop Tom Wright, whom I’d anticipated would simply give us a brief advertisement for whatever book he’s currently hawking, followed by an honest-to-goodness rebuke of homosexuals, same-sex-marriage, replete with the juicy threats he’s made against any clergy in his diocese prepared to bless those whom God has already obviously blessed. Perhaps if we were lucky, I’d thought, we might even get a subtle-but-unmistakable condemnation of the apostate TEC for having dared to permit the believers of New Hampshire to follow the Spirit’s call (and, more importantly, their Diocesan canons) to install Bishop Robinson – thereby tearing the fabric of the Communion so irreparably that the future’s only hope is to make dear +Durham the next Archbishop of Canterbury.
Yet instead of all this juicy rhetoric all we got was a series of incomprehensible phrases cut and pasted from essays of his already freely available online. Granted, a few of them had been juxtaposed in a refreshingly post-modern fashion, but I know for a fact whole lines – sentences even – had been lifted with no attempt at originality.
Google it yourself should you be wicked enough to doubt me, and then please accept my apologies for the nastiness of Bishop Wright’s words. As I’ll be telling him when the next form-letter arrives asking me to bus my faithful to bolster the numbers at nearby book-signing: the people who visit this blog deserve more that just a little esoterically-expressed neo-orthodoxy. They want condemnation, shunnings, and brutal buttock-slapping rebukes. Anything less just isn’t the GAFCON way. Just ask our brothers facing the very real danger posed by child witches in Africa.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Special thanks has to go to Torquemada, Ernest Hemingway, and George Herbert: crossing over isn’t easy at the best of times (which is probably why John Edward can only ever seem to get in touch with people who’s name starts with “M” and who seem to be saying they may have been born in a month with “a” or “e” in its name – the more lucid deceased know it just isn’t worth the effort), and I really do appreciate the time they took.
On that basis I suppose little Dean Phillip Jensen also deserves a special mention: while not exactly “over there” he certainly hasn’t been on this planet for years either, and so checking in with reality from wherever it is he does inhabit can’t have been easy.
Having said that, I must also apologise for the standard of one of my locum tenens, who clearly upset a few of you. I believe the criticism made was that he was “nasty”, and, to be perfectly honest I must agree.
I’m speaking, of course, of little Bishop Tom Wright, whom I’d anticipated would simply give us a brief advertisement for whatever book he’s currently hawking, followed by an honest-to-goodness rebuke of homosexuals, same-sex-marriage, replete with the juicy threats he’s made against any clergy in his diocese prepared to bless those whom God has already obviously blessed. Perhaps if we were lucky, I’d thought, we might even get a subtle-but-unmistakable condemnation of the apostate TEC for having dared to permit the believers of New Hampshire to follow the Spirit’s call (and, more importantly, their Diocesan canons) to install Bishop Robinson – thereby tearing the fabric of the Communion so irreparably that the future’s only hope is to make dear +Durham the next Archbishop of Canterbury.
Yet instead of all this juicy rhetoric all we got was a series of incomprehensible phrases cut and pasted from essays of his already freely available online. Granted, a few of them had been juxtaposed in a refreshingly post-modern fashion, but I know for a fact whole lines – sentences even – had been lifted with no attempt at originality.
Google it yourself should you be wicked enough to doubt me, and then please accept my apologies for the nastiness of Bishop Wright’s words. As I’ll be telling him when the next form-letter arrives asking me to bus my faithful to bolster the numbers at nearby book-signing: the people who visit this blog deserve more that just a little esoterically-expressed neo-orthodoxy. They want condemnation, shunnings, and brutal buttock-slapping rebukes. Anything less just isn’t the GAFCON way. Just ask our brothers facing the very real danger posed by child witches in Africa.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Your Prophet Returns!
Well, well, well: nobody can ever say that life isn’t full of surprises when you’re the World’s Leading Doctrinal Warrior. One moment I’m enjoying a balmy 80 knot sub-zero gale in the Peri-Antarctic, and the next the satellite phone is ringing with little Peter Akinola on the line in a terrible state, utterly distraught at learning the manna that’s been falling on his expense accounts courtesy of little Pete Jensen’s Diocese of Sydney is about to be no more.
Naturally I reminded him that that this was something I’d warned everyone about last December - but you know kids today: do you think any senior Gafconeers paid me attention? No, I'm afraid it was just a case of Business Class as usual while little Peter Jensen tried to bluff his way out of trouble. the problem is that while you can hide cash, bullion, and Blood Diamonds for as long as you want providing one's bodily cavities can stand the strain, bills and creditors always refuse to remain invisible. Even concrete boots offer only a temporary solution: eventually tell-tale body parts invariably break off and float to the surface. Unless a problem wants to stay hidden, (like Jimmy Hoffa, our head of Parish Security and Construction, or Lord Lucan, the St. Onuphrius’ HR coordinator), you’d better believe some nosey blogger will start making a noise about it.
Since poor big Pete was incoherent with grief, it was thanks to a link from Father David Heron that I was able to make sense of the latest fuss: a little further research dished up this article which a Sydney prisoner-of-conscience has emailed, saying it was actually on the front page of their leading newspaper. Just as I'd warned everyone, little Pete Jensen has managed to misplace an awful of lot his parishioners money in the course of trying to prove he’s the smartest guy in the room.
Despite my trying to calm big Pete by explaining the loss wasn’t as bad as it might have been: in reality it only amounted to the paltry sum of 100 million Australian dollars, which at current exchange rates is a mere US$81,662,200.00, he didn’t seem able to stop screaming hysterically. When, in an effort to make things clearer, I said that’s about 12 Billion Nigerian Naira he fainted. One of his assistants then grabbed the phone, demanding to know if Little Pete Jensen had been caught in some kind of internet scam, but I fear the lad couldn’t believe that there are far more efficient ways of separating the foolish and their money than simple-but-good old-fashioned 419 frauds.
Since then you wouldn't believe how many calls I've received from terrified Gafconeers pleading for my help, and so as an indication of my immeasurable pastoral compassion, I am – even as I write these words – on my way back to dear old Ichabod Springs, where I’ve no doubt I’ll be able to concoct a way for the Lord to sort out all this mess.
After all, while this might seem to you like a simple case of a few evangelicals getting carried away after finding a way to enjoy all the thrills of the roulette wheel with none of the risk of being caught inside a sinful casino, the reality is it’s going to have serious implications for the global schism. Sure little Bobby Duncan’s show isn’t going to be too troubled: indeed, anything that curbs continued African incursion into what he’s already seeing as “his” territory will bring a smile to his face when he thinks no one’s watching, but you’d better believe little David Short’s hope of funding an appeal should Vancouver courts take the same view of theft as those in New York and Colorado have just vanished. And it’s more likely than not that naughty little Archbishop Mokiwa of Tanzania is going to “have other obligations” next time there’s a Primate’s Council junket; given the choice between ensuring the extensive network of Sydney missionaries in that country can continue eating, and whizzing the Dude of Dodoma to some ritzty conference I rather suspect little Pete will announce that he’ll be speaking on ++Tanzania’s behalf.
Oh it’s great to be back! I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible!
Naturally I reminded him that that this was something I’d warned everyone about last December - but you know kids today: do you think any senior Gafconeers paid me attention? No, I'm afraid it was just a case of Business Class as usual while little Peter Jensen tried to bluff his way out of trouble. the problem is that while you can hide cash, bullion, and Blood Diamonds for as long as you want providing one's bodily cavities can stand the strain, bills and creditors always refuse to remain invisible. Even concrete boots offer only a temporary solution: eventually tell-tale body parts invariably break off and float to the surface. Unless a problem wants to stay hidden, (like Jimmy Hoffa, our head of Parish Security and Construction, or Lord Lucan, the St. Onuphrius’ HR coordinator), you’d better believe some nosey blogger will start making a noise about it.
Since poor big Pete was incoherent with grief, it was thanks to a link from Father David Heron that I was able to make sense of the latest fuss: a little further research dished up this article which a Sydney prisoner-of-conscience has emailed, saying it was actually on the front page of their leading newspaper. Just as I'd warned everyone, little Pete Jensen has managed to misplace an awful of lot his parishioners money in the course of trying to prove he’s the smartest guy in the room.
Despite my trying to calm big Pete by explaining the loss wasn’t as bad as it might have been: in reality it only amounted to the paltry sum of 100 million Australian dollars, which at current exchange rates is a mere US$81,662,200.00, he didn’t seem able to stop screaming hysterically. When, in an effort to make things clearer, I said that’s about 12 Billion Nigerian Naira he fainted. One of his assistants then grabbed the phone, demanding to know if Little Pete Jensen had been caught in some kind of internet scam, but I fear the lad couldn’t believe that there are far more efficient ways of separating the foolish and their money than simple-but-good old-fashioned 419 frauds.
Since then you wouldn't believe how many calls I've received from terrified Gafconeers pleading for my help, and so as an indication of my immeasurable pastoral compassion, I am – even as I write these words – on my way back to dear old Ichabod Springs, where I’ve no doubt I’ll be able to concoct a way for the Lord to sort out all this mess.
After all, while this might seem to you like a simple case of a few evangelicals getting carried away after finding a way to enjoy all the thrills of the roulette wheel with none of the risk of being caught inside a sinful casino, the reality is it’s going to have serious implications for the global schism. Sure little Bobby Duncan’s show isn’t going to be too troubled: indeed, anything that curbs continued African incursion into what he’s already seeing as “his” territory will bring a smile to his face when he thinks no one’s watching, but you’d better believe little David Short’s hope of funding an appeal should Vancouver courts take the same view of theft as those in New York and Colorado have just vanished. And it’s more likely than not that naughty little Archbishop Mokiwa of Tanzania is going to “have other obligations” next time there’s a Primate’s Council junket; given the choice between ensuring the extensive network of Sydney missionaries in that country can continue eating, and whizzing the Dude of Dodoma to some ritzty conference I rather suspect little Pete will announce that he’ll be speaking on ++Tanzania’s behalf.
Oh it’s great to be back! I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible!
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Guest Blogger: Dean Phillip Jensen.
Pithy opening sentences are a great way of masking a following nasty diatribe.
It’s a technique I use all the time. Of course most of you were hoping to see my brother the Archbishop of Sydney here, but he’s busy travelling the world in attempt to disrupt your churches while his own evangelism program fails miserably. So it is right and proper that I take his turn guest-blogging for Dr. Troll.
Who, you’ll see if you turn your Bible with me to the book of Romans, is not to be called “Father”. In this Word of Scripture, resting at the very heart of the Gospel (unlike the gospels, which evangelical scholars have conclusively determined were not written by Paul) you’ll find no mention of the popish superstition of addressing clergy as “Father”. Anyone doing so is in real danger of suddenly becoming a Roman Catholic. Just like what happens if you don't wear a business suit in church.
Interestingly, addressing someone as “Dean” was also an unreformed pagan superstition prior to my own appointment as Dean of Sydney. Which was made entirely on the basis of my own abilities. That it occurred just after my older brother became Archbishop (another title I correctly denounced as a popish anachronism until doing so became inconvenient when my brother's political chicanery gloriously trashed his opponents), is purely coincidental, and had nothing whatsoever to do with nepotism. As was also the case with my brother’s wife, or his son, or his son-in-law, or all the other members of our extended family now enjoying well-paid and secure appointments.
That understood, it should also be understood that the last time my brother (the Archbishop) let me speak to people outside of Sydney I did not call the Archbishop of Canterbury a prostitute. Even though the liberal media maliciously said I did, this was nothing more than an evil atheist conspiracy to misreport what I really said, which is that the Archbishop of Canterbury is a prostitute and King’s College is a temple to paganism. Is that understood?
As I say halfway down the page in an essay here on my modestly named new website www.phillipjensen.com, “There is no point complaining about trial by media.”. Although I’ve done just that in Synod, but then the circumstances were different. It was me on trial.
So putting that behind us, let’s examine the book of Romans. Did you know practicing homosexuals have almost led to the collapse of the worldwide Anglican Communion and the open persecution of orthodox faithful congregations and ministers.? If we look at the Bible, or better still, listen to me talk about it, we see that it is truly marvelous gift from God, who gives us the freedom to pick and choose whatever we like. Providing we do so in a way that demeans and intimidates those whom are different to ourselves. The more random and disjointed our style appears when written down the better. And that we bitterly criticize others who do exactly the same thing we do, but in order to arrive at a different conclusion.
Take for example the question of women: time and time again I hear the accusation that Biblical Christians are “misogynist”. This is of course nonsense; we love women. This is why we deign to give them such important roles as preparing our meals, cleaning up after us, washing our clothes, and having sex for procreative purposes. Our understanding that the church’s best paid jobs can only be filled by men has nothing to do with “misogyny”. As is plainly obvious to anyone who’s taken the time to agree with every word I’ve taught them.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Guest Blogger: George Herbert.
The sweetest bud on the church’s rose,
Is Father Christian’s gin-blossom’d nose.
The GAFCON sneer, his righteous sight,
The crazed assurance that he is right.
Where lesser Priests doth fear to go,
Our Doctor Troll strikes sinners low.
Smiting with his subtle hands,
From Ichabod Springs, across all lands.
His Adsense links are sweet and true,
And generate much revenue;
While each day’s message causeth all to think,
Beneath his light, the mortal blink.
Viagravillains, full of bile,
Come by each day, and stay a while
Hoping that they might find on view
Sufficient libel for which to sue.
Yet never think that they will catch
This noble Priest beyond their match.
Each word he posts has been first checked
By a Council of Angels, in flowers bedecked.
His word is straight, if not his staff,
Sorting wheat from tares and chaff.
Indeed, his mind is never idle,
He’s Father Christian, and he teacheth the Bible.
Is Father Christian’s gin-blossom’d nose.
The GAFCON sneer, his righteous sight,
The crazed assurance that he is right.
Where lesser Priests doth fear to go,
Our Doctor Troll strikes sinners low.
Smiting with his subtle hands,
From Ichabod Springs, across all lands.
His Adsense links are sweet and true,
And generate much revenue;
While each day’s message causeth all to think,
Beneath his light, the mortal blink.
Viagravillains, full of bile,
Come by each day, and stay a while
Hoping that they might find on view
Sufficient libel for which to sue.
Yet never think that they will catch
This noble Priest beyond their match.
Each word he posts has been first checked
By a Council of Angels, in flowers bedecked.
His word is straight, if not his staff,
Sorting wheat from tares and chaff.
Indeed, his mind is never idle,
He’s Father Christian, and he teacheth the Bible.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Greetings from the Peri-Antarctic!
My Dear Wicked Sinners – The clouds have broken long enough to get a signal through on the satellite phone, and I know you will all be inspired by news of the great works being accomplished here on God’s behalf.
Firstly we flew down to Ushuaia, Tierra Del Fuego, where we met the support ship chartered to take us out to what will soon become Christendom’s most southerly cone. The flight was wonderful, since by affecting terrible hacking coughs, and claiming we were all swine-herds (technically not that far from the truth given we are a GAFCON ministry team) all the other passengers cancelled, giving us the plane to ourselves.
Bishop Quinine is simply terrified of flying, and he spent the entire trip with his head between his knees, braced for a crash which of course never occurred. I’ve often wondered about the “emergency position” flight attendants demonstrate, since I’ve never actually heard of anyone saying “thankfully I survived our collision with a mountain because I was bent over double and attempting to sniff my genitals”. Then again, as I watched Bishop Quinine it became clear how comforting it must be for men to spend their final moments gazing at their favourite possession. As a GAFCON Priest, however, I would be called to serve others to the very end; I’d be collecting the offertory and ranting about homosexuality.
On boarding our ship I was delighted to see our new helicopter mounted on the aft deck as per my instructions. Purchased from the estate of a recently deposed dictator and only used to take outspoken persons of integrity on short one-way flights over crocodile-infested rivers, it really is a marvellous machine. Flying it looks far easier than the manual makes it appear: obviously it’s just a matter of pulling a few levers and turning a switch or two. However during the course of my morning devotions I felt the Spirit calling me to forgo the opportunity to acquire this new skill as an act of devotional humility. Instead it became clear I should give the manual to Evangelical Eric and order him to fly around on my behalf. While I’m certainly no Charismatic, it’s always useful to remain open to the Spirit’s voice, as it can from time to time be quite convenient. In accordance with the Scriptures this Word was subsequently confirmed by my Ministry Team (with the exception of Eric, but Curates never count), although Brother Richthofen rightly pointed out if anything were to happen to Eric there’d be nobody to pedal the generator at night.
In which case we I can think of a few Bishops who’d be delighted to receive the helicopter as a gift, and who’re also arrogant enough to believe they can fly the thing. After all, if they think a secret committee can solve the mystery that is sexuality…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Firstly we flew down to Ushuaia, Tierra Del Fuego, where we met the support ship chartered to take us out to what will soon become Christendom’s most southerly cone. The flight was wonderful, since by affecting terrible hacking coughs, and claiming we were all swine-herds (technically not that far from the truth given we are a GAFCON ministry team) all the other passengers cancelled, giving us the plane to ourselves.
Bishop Quinine is simply terrified of flying, and he spent the entire trip with his head between his knees, braced for a crash which of course never occurred. I’ve often wondered about the “emergency position” flight attendants demonstrate, since I’ve never actually heard of anyone saying “thankfully I survived our collision with a mountain because I was bent over double and attempting to sniff my genitals”. Then again, as I watched Bishop Quinine it became clear how comforting it must be for men to spend their final moments gazing at their favourite possession. As a GAFCON Priest, however, I would be called to serve others to the very end; I’d be collecting the offertory and ranting about homosexuality.
On boarding our ship I was delighted to see our new helicopter mounted on the aft deck as per my instructions. Purchased from the estate of a recently deposed dictator and only used to take outspoken persons of integrity on short one-way flights over crocodile-infested rivers, it really is a marvellous machine. Flying it looks far easier than the manual makes it appear: obviously it’s just a matter of pulling a few levers and turning a switch or two. However during the course of my morning devotions I felt the Spirit calling me to forgo the opportunity to acquire this new skill as an act of devotional humility. Instead it became clear I should give the manual to Evangelical Eric and order him to fly around on my behalf. While I’m certainly no Charismatic, it’s always useful to remain open to the Spirit’s voice, as it can from time to time be quite convenient. In accordance with the Scriptures this Word was subsequently confirmed by my Ministry Team (with the exception of Eric, but Curates never count), although Brother Richthofen rightly pointed out if anything were to happen to Eric there’d be nobody to pedal the generator at night.
In which case we I can think of a few Bishops who’d be delighted to receive the helicopter as a gift, and who’re also arrogant enough to believe they can fly the thing. After all, if they think a secret committee can solve the mystery that is sexuality…
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Guest Blogger: Ernest Hemingway.
It was the first week of summer. This is how it was in the first week of summer when the cafés were open until the early hours of morning, filled with couples drinking true and honest sangria and laughing and nobody seeing what was around the corner. Gertrude Stein introduced a very handsome young Priest who kept trying to sell Florida swampland to the waitress. She wasn’t interested and he turned his attention to a constipated young man on his own, wearing a uniform. He said his name was “Franco” and everybody laughed, but he ended up buying everything the Priest had to sell, although he returned very angry a few weeks later, wanting his money back. Little anyone realise were this would lead because it was the first week of summer and had been the first week of summer since the Spring had ended.
I remember that Picasso was still a damn fine writer, but the Priest kept insisting that art is where the real money lies. With my last 50 peseta I purchased some true and honest sangria; I took a pull from the bottle. It was good. It burned my mouth and felt warm and faithful in the dusk. The next time I saw Picasso he had taken the Priest’s advice and started painting, although he refused to follow his instruction to concentrate on kittens with big eyes, dogs playing poker, or Marilyn, James Dean, and Humphrey Bogart sitting at a diner where Elvis is working the soda fountain.
Later that evening the Priest explained he intended to become a Matador and everybody laughed, which made him angry. A few days later I took him in a borrowed car to Seville where Ordóñez was fighting. The bulls were terrified of the Priest, and the old men spat and made the sign of the cross. When the Priest realized the Banderillero was to put the banderilla in the bull, and not in what the Priest called as “the dubious fellows in man-lace on horses” he grew enraged, and left in a stolen aeroplane. Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald told us the Priest had said something about Argentina and founding a Province called “the Southern Cone” which would oversee churches in Pitsburgh, Western Illinois and Texas. Ezra Pound thought the whole idea surreal, and said you might as well expect Kenya or Nigeria to be calling the shots in New York or Virginia, but a young artist we called Dali thought it made as much sense as a floppy clock and created a whole new way of painting that would become almost as popular as the pictures the Priest had spoken of, although Dali never moved from canvas to black velvet and flock.
With my last 50 peseta I purchased a flask of true and honest sangria and drew deeply from the bottle. It was still the first week of summer and in the evening warmth we remembered how the ancient women in the marketplace had screamed whenever the Priest came near, and how they made the sign of the evil eye before crossing themselves, and how he’d kept telling everyone that he was Father Christian and he taught the Bible.
Tiananmen Square - Justice Never Forgets...
Twenty years? Try twenty thousand, and God still won't have forgotten the tears of those murdered.
Nor will we.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Guest Blogger: Tomás de Torquemada
”I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger”: here in Hell the only Rod Stewart permitted is from his later years, but because this features the Corrs it was allowed, and believe me I’m not the only one around here who just can’t get the tune out of their head.
Granted, since internet access here is limited to 14kb dial-up (it is Hell, after all), not everyone has the patience to download everything they’d like: if MadPriest were to ever see how frustrated Joseph Smith gets waiting for the OCICBW Deviant-Disco numbers to play he’d be posting 70’s funk three times a day! And there shouldn’t be anyone surprised to learn that both Cromwell and Matthew Hopkins work themselves into fits of rage over everything Leonardo Ricardo and Cany write.
Still, there’s one blog everyone here always thinks is worth the wait: GAFCON. Partly that’s because we all love seeing the tradition of using Christ’s name to persecute those whom He came to liberate is alive and well, but also because it’s always so exciting to see today’s Inquisitors building upon the foundations we laid down so long ago.
Back in the day we tried to convince people that things we didn’t like or understand outraged God. Conservative leaders could enjoy the power-rush that comes with a good auto-da-fé because they’d convinced the masses that the minority-de-jour infuriated our loving heavenly Father. Modern Conservative leaders, however, have managed to leave this middle step out altogether, or at least to reduce the notion of God’s involvement in the process to a mere afterthought. Unlike us, they rarely try and claim the sinner is offending God – in the principal of “keeping it simple” they just say the sinner is offensive.
It’s a subtle shift, but you’ve only got to see how miserable it makes countless people’s lives to know how effective it is. This way it doesn’t matter if potential allies share one’s own theology – or even if they don’t believe in God at all. Just as long as they aren’t prepared to stand up for your chosen victims one is free to enlist any supporter one can find: Mormon, Dominican, or Baptist, God can be pushed into second position behind whatever your common bigotry might be.
While we tried to fabricate some kind of intellectual and theological justification for the terror we caused, today’s Inquisition looks as though it’s going to be founded on nothing more than prejudice and hot air – who knows what I and the Brothers could have achieved if we’d realised all you need to do is, like Father Christian and his imitators (speaking of whom: has everyone heard that David Virtue’s name is down for the cell next to Messalina’s? Which means it’s not only you lot up there who sometimes wonder…), talk about how you talk about the Bible. “Ooh la la”, as Rod Stewart warbles: the hours of work we could have spared ourselves…
But that’s enough for now: Jerry Falwell is about to present a new “family” musical he’s been working on since joining us, and attendance is compulsory. It is Hell, after all.
Granted, since internet access here is limited to 14kb dial-up (it is Hell, after all), not everyone has the patience to download everything they’d like: if MadPriest were to ever see how frustrated Joseph Smith gets waiting for the OCICBW Deviant-Disco numbers to play he’d be posting 70’s funk three times a day! And there shouldn’t be anyone surprised to learn that both Cromwell and Matthew Hopkins work themselves into fits of rage over everything Leonardo Ricardo and Cany write.
Still, there’s one blog everyone here always thinks is worth the wait: GAFCON. Partly that’s because we all love seeing the tradition of using Christ’s name to persecute those whom He came to liberate is alive and well, but also because it’s always so exciting to see today’s Inquisitors building upon the foundations we laid down so long ago.
Back in the day we tried to convince people that things we didn’t like or understand outraged God. Conservative leaders could enjoy the power-rush that comes with a good auto-da-fé because they’d convinced the masses that the minority-de-jour infuriated our loving heavenly Father. Modern Conservative leaders, however, have managed to leave this middle step out altogether, or at least to reduce the notion of God’s involvement in the process to a mere afterthought. Unlike us, they rarely try and claim the sinner is offending God – in the principal of “keeping it simple” they just say the sinner is offensive.
It’s a subtle shift, but you’ve only got to see how miserable it makes countless people’s lives to know how effective it is. This way it doesn’t matter if potential allies share one’s own theology – or even if they don’t believe in God at all. Just as long as they aren’t prepared to stand up for your chosen victims one is free to enlist any supporter one can find: Mormon, Dominican, or Baptist, God can be pushed into second position behind whatever your common bigotry might be.
While we tried to fabricate some kind of intellectual and theological justification for the terror we caused, today’s Inquisition looks as though it’s going to be founded on nothing more than prejudice and hot air – who knows what I and the Brothers could have achieved if we’d realised all you need to do is, like Father Christian and his imitators (speaking of whom: has everyone heard that David Virtue’s name is down for the cell next to Messalina’s? Which means it’s not only you lot up there who sometimes wonder…), talk about how you talk about the Bible. “Ooh la la”, as Rod Stewart warbles: the hours of work we could have spared ourselves…
But that’s enough for now: Jerry Falwell is about to present a new “family” musical he’s been working on since joining us, and attendance is compulsory. It is Hell, after all.
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