Yesterday evening I was utterly exhausted after a hard day’s Doctrinal Warfare, and went to bed early, without undertaking my customary late night research into the sin that pervades religious affairs everywhere. Sure General Convention is generating more apostate outrageousness than usual, but GAFCON leaders like me can find plenty to be offended at irrespective of what’s on, and I needed to sleep.
During the night I was roused a number of times by what sounded like cheering coming from the Rectory lawn, as well as by the irritating sound of Evangelical Eric howling in his crate, but so great was my tiredness that I simply rolled over, and was soon once again nestled in the sweet arms of Morpheus.
Upon awakening this morning I discovered there had been a party. Bishop Quinine raced into my bedroom (referred to in these parts as “The St. Onuphrius’ Boudoir of Ministry”) with tears of joy streaming down his face, whereupon he presented me with a refreshingly large glass of champagne before running off again, shouting something about “justice at last” and “about bloody time”.
Coming downstairs I found Brother Richthofen semi-concious and singing “Great is thy faithfulness” while clad in a rainbow flag and with the kind of smile normally found only in naïve icons of St. Francis. Strewn through the parish grounds were the slumbering forms of young seminarians, elderly Rotarians who like musicals, women who know everything there is to know about dogs and cats, parents who are more concerned about ensuring their children grow to be the people that God made them to be than they are are about indoctrinating them into hating and fearing anything beyond their own comprehension, and just about every other sort of ne’er-do-well one might imagine Christ unwisely associating with.
Try as I might, not one of them could offer any explanation of this mysterious out-pouring of celebratory joy. I’d shake them, demand to know what was going on, threaten, cajole – I even offered to show them nude pictures of their least favourite conservative blogger. Yet nothing seemed to bring them back down to earth. The only thing any of them could do is keep repeating the same cryptic code: D025.
And whatever this else means one thing is certain; a letter and three digits prove the Church has taken one small step into the future, but one giant leap closer to God.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.