It's (Almost) Party Time!

Holy Week is well and truly upon us, and despite all the work that entails for a Priest as Doctrinally Flawless as myself, there’s still a sense of the holiday spirit upon us that all the incomprehensible misery people insist on associating with Good Friday can’t dampen.

In keeping with the festivities has been the arrival my son Brad Evans: his crate is currently sitting on the Rectory lawn until he’s calmed down enough for us to risk ordering Evangelical Eric to open it. As I’ve revealed elsewhere on the intertubes, Brad is the issue of an entirely professional counselling relationship between myself and Joan Crawford during the early days of her career, when she was allegedly performing in stag films. At the time of his incarceration in the Rhode Island Institute for Incurable Pratts the Matron advised us to in future refer to him by his middle name in order to protect the esteemed name of Troll from being sullied by his ravings - he was christened “e-Vans” after a early virtual removal service I founded: sadly my franchisees lost their investments on account of the internet having not yet been invented, but you can't say the venture didn't prove me to be a man of vision.

Nor is Brad is the only who’s packed his golf shoes for a holiday (not that the boy actually has any golf shoes, since the spikes would be far too dangerous, but he does have a lovely collection of tassels he tapes to the front of his slippers). As was first revealed by one of My Beloved Sinners in the comments of an earlier homily, as soon as some of the Communion’s most excitable Primates, along with a number of other very large monkeys, have put away their chasubles after their Easter Sunday obligations (or in the case of little Peter Jensen, have changed into a fresh polyester business suit), they’ll be winging their way to Bermuda for a pleasant few days sharing homophobia, misogyny, schism, and general GAFCON nastiness.

Indeed, in a wonderful application of Our Lord’s teachings they have invited local clergy to join them for lunch at the prestigious Tucker’s Point Club where they will enjoy, to quote the club website, “a rare opportunity to experience the Tucker’s Point Club lifestyle with family and friends. Doubtless they’ll also gain considerable insight into the sacrifices these Conservative leaders have made on behalf of Christians in their economically-psychotic Sees, and leave with a new appreciation of how men like Archbishops Orombi and Akinola suffer every day on behalf of the Gospel.

Naturally the local Bishop of Bermuda wasn’t first consulted about the forthcoming soiree: since mistakenly recognizing an omnipotent God is capable of calling women to the Priesthood, the Rt. Rev. Patrick White clearly hasn’t deserved such petty courtesies as a little basic respect. He can at least take some solace in knowing that the GAFCON faithful weren’t informed ahead of time either: at present mine is the only Conservative blog discussing the modest rendezvous, with The Lead keeping apostate liberals informed. Doubtless it was deemed better that the little folk of ACNA and Reform remain ignorant of the struggle ahead of their leaders, who will be facing the burden of dining on “the finest product from Bermuda waters and selected purveyors in New England and Europe” featured on “five‐course tasting menus with choice of “Land” or “Sea” fare”, accompanied by selections from “the Wine Room, a magical space where three thousand bottles of vintage wines line the walls from wood‐plank floor to vaulted brick ceiling”

Besides, while the affluent parishioners of Kampala and Kigali might not blink an eye at the cost of a rooms starting at $420 per night, it’s probably better those followers of Bobby Duncan trying to make ends meet in the Rust Belt don’t worry too much about how all the money they’ve donated to their struggling partner-churches in Africa is being spent. Shearing the sheep is one thing, but there’s no point upsetting them in the process.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Leave, don't love: Negotiation Akinola-style.

An illuminating article recently published in the Nigerian Sun tellingly demonstrated the essence of big Pete Akinola’s approach to Christian problem solving: division. “Split Nigeria: Gaddafi’s comment should be re-examined” reads the headline, and even those home-schooled evangelicals listening to some kind person reading them my posts should be able to work out what follows: a proclamation from GAFCON’s man of piece and unity declaring that “although the Libyan leader was not a friend of Nigeria, the import of his comment should not be lost on all”, and that comments accredited to Gaddafi, in which Bedford’s favourite camper argued Nigeria should be divided along North-South Muslim-Christian lines in a similar manner to that which has worked so well in the region now known as the India-Pakistan border, were “indeed divine”.

“I support one Nigeria”, said the Mercedes-owning man of the people, “but we have to discuss our continued existence as a nation.” And, My Beloved Sinners, if that little rhetorical flourish doesn’t remind you of His Grace’s approach to the Communion nothing will. If a relationship isn’t working, the GAFCON response is to threaten to leave. Don’t seek to work things through, and never agree to disagree; just split, divide, and make sure you walk away from the break with more assets than the other guy.

There’s no denying the challenges confronting those who would see Nigeria a united and peaceful country bound together under the rule of law are very great indeed, probably even greater than those faced by the Archbishop of Canterbury in his own attempts at performing the ecclesiastic equivalent of herding cats – particularly since most clergy don’t own machetes, or consider kidnapping a legitimate means of supplementing their stipend. Nor can even one as learned and wise as myself honestly claim to have all the answers to ingrained political unrest (although for a first class ticket to Geneva and a suite in a five-star hotel by the lake I’m as prepared as the next United Nations advisor to dishonestly claim otherwise), but there is one question concerning the Nigerian political tensions with which I can be of assistance: when Big Pete asks “Where are the murderers and arsonists that caused mayhem in all the crises we have been having in this country?” the answer’s simple. One of them has just retired, and will be living in a duplex given to him by the Church of Nigeria, in Gudu, a district of Abuja.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Earth Hour: Ichabod Springs Celebrates.

As the internationally renowned pesticide capital of world, Ichabod Springs takes gestures like Earth Hour very seriously. Few people appreciate how environmentally friendly the corporations and factories which manufacture mindlessly toxic chemicals really are, and our community likes to show how much we care by turning off all non-essential lights and appliances for a whole 60 of the 525,600 minutes in the year (527,040 if it’s a leap year). Not only does promoting this simple gesture help distract our community from the need to make vastly greater systemic changes, but the novelty of giving something back to the earth which doesn’t become dangerous as it’s passed up along the food chain is always entertaining.

As Christians we are meant to exercise wisdom in our stewardship of the countless blessings with which we have been entrusted. How, for example, if everyone squanders all the oil and poisons the forests and oceans will I be able crush unsuspecting wildlife beneath the wheels of my Hummer when off-roading? Where will I be able to dump my empty cola cans? Who will destroy the pristine silence of the mountains in winter, or a lake in summer, if males of minimal intelligence can no longer enjoy their snow-mobiles and jet-skis?

None of which is, of course, to be misconstrued as implying I’m some sort of Apostate Pagan Environmentalist Green Tree Hugger. God told the cavepersons to kill the dinosaurs for a reason, and if that reason had just been because the dinosaurs were big, ugly, and dangerous He would have first ordered them to get rid of the NRA. No: God wanted his people to enjoy the blessings of petroleum dependency, and if consuming oil wasn’t an integral part of Christianity, then the Holy Spirit would have never guided President Bush to invade Iraq. Nor would the Scriptures compel Evangelicals to wear synthetic fabrics.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Archbishop Wabukala and Me

Just over a week ago I received a highly confidential email from Kenyan Archbishop Wabukala, requesting my assistance with regard to his wife. It appears that while the pair of them were undertaking a little cross-border reconnaissance in Uganda she fell ill: “after doctors carried out a number of medical tests” it was determined she needed to “undergo a blood purification procedure termed as Haemodialysis, at a fee equivalent to USD 4300.”

As a Biblical Christian I naturally agreed to offer His Grace every assistance provided he could show what’s in it for me, whereupon +Wabukala revealed the real purpose of his visit to +Orombi’s land of love: to cut a long story (and a great many emails, since Archbishop Wabukala not only communicates in a near-incomprehensible txtspk, but also has no idea of Anglican protocols and complexities) short it involves a childless uncle tragically killed in a motor vehicle accident and a banking discrepancy involving the transfer of $11 million. Not to mention countless “modalities” involving fees, and a barrister incapable of spelling his profession’s name.

Naturally I haven’t paid any of these charges from my own pocket. Instead I provided the Archbishop with little Matt Kennedy’s personal credit card details: after all, Matt's no qualms about using +Wabukala to claim he's still in Holy Orders, so it’s hardly as if the Bridesmaid of Binghamton has any right to be stingy if his Archbishop wants him to underwrite a big night at “Mama Ombotu’s Kampala House of Love & Cous-Cous”.

Yet a recent post from little Matt at Viagraville suggests he and Layman Billy Atwood have got wind of the millions about to be raining down upon St. Onuphrius’, and are trying to muscle in on the loot. Calling Archbishop Wabukala’s cry for help “a scam”, they outrageously claim “It is the same pattern that was used in Uganda, Malawi, and other places.” (Why don’t they want to mention Nigeria here? Or what “other places” spring into your minds?).

This appears to have made things so difficult the good Archbishop initially wanted to cancel our project. After much pressure he has instead agreed to continue, but is now refusing to accept expense funds by any means other than Western Union or MoneyGram, as out most recent correspondence shows:

Dear Fr. Christian,
If you wish to help me, kindly send me the funds through the means i suggested- western union or money gram. I have personal reasons why am requesting you.

Thank you.
In Him,
+ Wabukala

Of course he can expect the sky to fall and the Ould Twins to stop lying before those transfers are going to come from my pocket, but if His Grace is prepared to send me a nice certificate pronouncing Matt & Billy excommunicated in perpetuity I may see what I can squeeze out of David Virtue’s readers. We shall see…

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible

"... the thing which I greatly feared is come" (Job 3:25)

Dearly Sinners: I realize it’s only been just over twenty four hours, but as the Communion’s most Doctrinally Orthodox Christian I must force myself to put aside personal feelings of grief, and minister to a world torn asunder by the passing of Obama’s health care bill.

Indeed, sinful as you are, I know you too are all crushed with shame at knowing the United States is no longer the world’s only industrialized nation not guaranteeing health care as a right of citizenship. Like me, I know you are grieving at the thought that America’s splendid decline in female life expectancy (down to twentieth place from #1 in 1945 and #13 in 1960) is unlikely to continue, and are wondering how much longer the U.S. will be able to proudly boast a childhood mortality rate equal to that of Macao, with even more children per 1,000 live births dying before the age of five than Croatia.

Or what about old people? As anyone who’s ever travelled to Britain, Canada, Australia, or anywhere in western Europe will tell you: in these countries there simply aren’t any old people, because they’ve all been subjected to forcible euthanasia by socialist medical schemes. And those not killed aren’t, like our own indigent poor, permitted to subsist on expired cans of cat food until honest, god-fearing, and entirely treatable illnesses take their lives in the absence of professional care, but are able to prolong their unproductive existences – even to the shocking point of enjoying good health - by receiving treatment they obviously don’t deserve.

And don’t get me started on abortion. Like little Matt Kennedy, I too have taken Pharisaic pride in pretending to have no idea whether or not my insurance fund underwrites terminations for those able to afford cover (they do: if not directly then through one of their subsidiaries, but like most Conservatives I don’t ever let commercial realities prevent me from taking the sanctimonious high ground), but now I’ll no longer be able to feign moral superiority. More so, what will the future hold for babies who, like Sarah Palin’s son Trig, are diagnosed with conditions such as Down’s Syndrome, but whose mothers haven’t been able to wrangle a fortune out of the people of Alaska and the GOP? I’ll tell you – instead of dying in their early twenties from a lifetime of substandard health management they’ll now have the opportunity to reach their full potential; to lead rich productive lives in which they may even force Conservatives like myself out of the nasty preconception that the only reason their non-Christian parents didn’t abort was because they couldn’t afford to.

Nor, I greatly fear, will there in the future be the same number of young women who, in an attempt to afford treatment for themselves or their loved ones, resort to employment in pornography and prostitution. The resulting decrease in sweet pretty things desperate enough to jeopardize their health, sanity, and future in order to obtain that which would be their’s by right in any other civilized nation can only mean the cost of such services increases. And then how will the Ould twins be able to afford their research materials? (Although I dare say that in Peter’s case a shortage of women won’t be too calamitous.)

No, My Sinners, this is a terrible time in the history of the United States, and I fear things are only going to get worse. Who knows where this President is hell-bent on going? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we soon see such fine institutions as Enron and Lehman Brothers run into financial difficulties, or the Detroit motor industry in need of a bailout. Why, the world may even find America embroiled in an endless conflict on the other side of the world, one in which, unlike Vietnam, it proves impossible to win the hearts and minds of the people and bring unity to a previously divided nation.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Believing on a Jet Plane (Bless You ++Rowan)

There’s no denying that dear old Archbishop Rowan can still move quickly when he wants to. Granted, when it comes to trivia like acting to save the lives of GLBT Ugandans he moves at a pace flatteringly described as glacial, but just let those pesky apostate ‘piskies follow the Spirit’s guidance and appoint as Bishop someone in a loving and committed relationship and it’s clear just how fast those eyebrow caterpillars can really twitch.

Naturally everyone expected the usual balanced voices - such as little David Virtue or the Archbishop of Mordor - to start gibbering in the wings, but after ++Cantaur said “ There are ways of speaking about the question that seem to ignore these human realities or to undervalue them; I have been criticised for doing just this, and I am profoundly sorry for the carelessness that could give such an impression” many were beginning to fear the man with the bushiest beard in the Communion had developed something akin to a gracious Christian maturity in his understanding of human sexuality. But – thank goodness – these fears were unfounded, and His Grace has proven he’s every bit as out of touch as we’ve always suspected.

Mind you, as is the case with any primal proclamation (or should that be “primitive pronouncement”?), the real message lays in what wasn’t said. Thus in describing Canon Glasspool’s appointment as “regrettable”, what His Grace really meant is “it’s bad enough the Holy Spirit foolishly chose to raise up someone without a dick, but that this someone isn’t even particularly interested in dicks seriously challenges our understanding of God’s omniscience.”

Dearly Beloved Sinners, there’s no denying that electing anyone not an immediate member of the Jensen family was always going to upset Dobby’s masters; and the big strong men of Forward in Faith were never going to feel comfortable about woman of any persuasion - nor anyone not driven by guilt, fear, and shame into keeping there sexuality a well-closeted open secret. Yet ++Cantaur’s concerns run much deeper than these noisy starlings of the Anglican intertubes: after all it’s him who has to sweep up the broken china after some Nigerian/Ugandan/Rwandan/Kenyan/Texan big-man-turned-bishop has thrown a tantrum over afternoon tea at Lambeth Palace. It’s him who’s worked all these years to get Her Majesty’s private phone number (no mean accomplishment for a man who looks like Catweazle), and it’s him who has to call that number in the middle of the night to reassure the lady on the other end who’s worried that she’ll be forced by international Anglican pressure to enthrone as his successor someone who thinks gin and horse-racing are the devil’s tools of colonial repression.

Forget about niceties like displaying courage in standing up for the rights of minorities who’ve been persecuted and excluded for millennia; or for welcoming God’s latest crazy development in the ongoing struggle to incorporate everyone into the ludicrous venture that is salvation, ++Rowan is quite correctly more concerned with keeping things quiet and shipshape in the clubhouse. After all, it’s all very well for Jesus to call whoever He wants to serve Him, but it’s not as if Our Lord is the one who’s held answerable when the members of His body don’t like the person they have to sit next to at supper time.

There is, however, one bright side to all this: in the wake of ++Canterbury’s warning that “Further consultation will now take place about the implications and consequences of this decision” my airline stocks have already begun rising spectacularly. Regardless of how things end, smart investors know it’s going to involve a whole lot of parishioners’ money being spent on business-class seats with Continental, BA, and that other company flying out of Abuja which dresses their flight attendants in delightfully short skirts. Let’s just hope TEC don’t spoil everything by backing down, and I’ll be worth billions before my fellow conservatives have realized all the meetings in the world can’t ever stop the tide from coming in.

I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Behind the Green Door with Matt.

As the noble feline Mehitabel reported in the comments of my previous homily, the wicked apostate Diocese of Central New York appears to have sold the buildings formerly known as the “Kennedy Shrine to Orthodoxy” (aka “The Church of the Good Shepherd”) to a group of Homophobic Literalists.

This is, of course, a shocking move, particularly given how much it has just cost the diocese in legal fees to evict another group of Homophobic Literalists. Granted, this new group wanted to pay for the premises, which must have struck the diocesan leadership as an astonishing novelty, and, it’s not as if the premises will be used for any liberal purposes. As my Conservative Brethren always say after failing in an attempt to steal property, “it’s people, not buildings that matter”. Following which they devote the best part of their miserable little lives complaining about the dreadful injustice of something that doesn’t matter.

Still, there’s no denying the pain which little Matt and Hostillium must be currently feeling. Knowing that the rooms in which they once home-schooled and thrashed (not necessarily in that order) their little ones into righteousness are now being used for the purpose of eating foreign food and speaking a language with alarmingly guttural consonants must indeed be a terrible burden. Sure countless other people in the past few years have had their family homes seized and sold out from under them - homes which they’d thought they’d owned until the lending institutions proved otherwise – but their loss is paltry by comparison, particularly since it only occurred as a result of general economic blessings brought about by god-fearing Republican fiscal policies.

The Kennedy’s, on the other hand, lost the home in which they lived because of their own actions – making them vastly more deserving of our sympathy. And attention, prayers, support, tears, wringing of hands, and endless navel-gazing commiseration. Does anyone realise the pain they’ve endured through all this? Or how much more important it is that we feel sorry for them than for some unemployed factory-worker in the Rust Belt who can’t afford to pay for his wife’s cancer treatment, let alone keep the house in which his kids played …

No, when I read the words little Matt posted on Facebook the enormity of his suffering becomes indescribably real: “ today I passed by and saw that the doors were painted green”. Dearly Beloved Sinners, how can anyone not read those words and weep? Green, I tell you, green!!! Is there no end to the misery these people must be made to endure?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Biblical Preaching: Timing is Everything

In a move entirely in keeping with their schismatic forbears who left Canterbury in 1534, the Vatican is now demanding homilies be kept to a maximum of eight minutes. That’s right, My Beloved Sinners, eight minutes!!!

As every Bible-believer knows, any sermon not at the very least of half an hour’s duration simply isn’t Christian. If congregants’ eyes haven’t glazed over, and spot checks don’t reveal at least half of those present have accurately counted every single brick in the wall behind the pulpit, then the preacher hasn’t been doing his duty. My personal minimum is 45 minutes, even if this does necessitate reading the rest of the service at a pace normally associated with race-callers and auctioneers in order to fit in all the day’s scheduled services.

That’s because long-winded sermons are crucial when it comes to intimidating one’s parishioners. Nothing - not even the most pernickety devotion to liturgical precision – can make them feel as intellectually and spiritually inadequate as the type of utterly enervating boredom which only a skilled Conservative Preacher can induce. Strength-sapping, soul-crushing: words can’t do justice to what can be accomplished by a true master of the pulpit.

This is why it’s so important to only ever preach exegetically - taking a small portion of Scripture (preferably from one of the Pauline epistles, but lesser books like the Gospels will do if one feels like a challenge) and laboriously dissecting it in such a way as to remove all contextual traces of God’s outrageous love for humanity. Then, when those few lines have been scrupulously detached from everything which inspired our forebears to consider them part of a life-giving whole, one should – equally tediously – place them in the broader picture of Conditional Forgiveness and the general Conservative obsession with other people’s sexuality.

Certainly neither Jesus nor Saints Peter & Paul preached in this way, but since when have these three been considered role models for Biblical Christianity? Remember: the goal of a sermon is to browbeat, to intimidate, and to reinforce the notion that the Preacher knows best. It’s not easy, and it certainly takes more than just eight minutes to accomplish, but if an exegetical preaching strategy is systematically applied one’s congregation will soon be incapable of recalling another secular homily concerning nakedness and an emperor’s new clothes. After which one can simply repeat the same sermon week after week. Trust me, it’s no accident that most fundamentalist Anglican churches discard the lectionary when preparing their preaching schedules.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Deacon David Ould lies (again).

Well, well, well – it turns out the bold Martin Luther quotation with which Dobby Ould nailed his thesis to the Viagraville wall didn’t come from Martin Luther at all. Instead it was lifted from a the work of a pious Victorian woman whose specialty was religious sentimentalia of a type we can safely assume Dobby’s Master most definitely does not endorse.

To his credit the foolish house-elf has offered a retraction of sorts, but quite frankly I’m not sure Biblical Christians can accept this, given it is proffered within a context absolutely devoid of any genuine repentance.
The Bible makes it clear that “the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears; And they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables.” (2 Timothy 4:3-4).

Further, in Matthew 7:15 Our Lord specifically warned us to be wary of false teachers appearing in these terrible latter days. Just because Dobby was merely parroting something he’d heard elsewhere, or “was only following orders” is hardly any excuse: Deuteronomy 13 is unequivocal when it comes to how we are to respond to those who would lead us astray from the truth: in a nutshell the loving response involves rocks, the commandment to “show him no pity”, and a license to party on the ashes of their home, livestock and neighbours like you’re the Ugandan Synod on crystal meth.

Whilst I well realise the entire theological raison d'être of Dobby and countless others like him involves unquestioningly cutting and pasting what others have claimed to be true, the Scriptures simply don’t cut false teachers any slack on those grounds. If one going to live by Biblical literalism then, like our little house-elf, one must also be prepared to die by the same standard. Or at least face merciless ridicule from those whom you would have dared to persecute.

Finally, Beloved Sinners can rest assured that my Luther quote was indeed authentic. As was the Calvin citation with which I raised Dobby’s spurious attempt to cheat at Reformation Poker – it came from the wild and crazy Genevan’s commentary on Ephesians; Chapter 3, verse 21. And now for a quote that trumps them all: Matthew 23. Clearly it’s one that Dobby's gang at Viagraville have never considered.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

+Liverpool's Lesson.

After a life-time of service in the evangelical wing of the Church of England, I have it on good authority that the Bishop of Liverpool, the Right Reverend James Jones is devastated to learn he is actually not an evangelical at all!!!.

The fatwa, which was pronounced by none other than little Dobby Ould at Viagraville (where else?) is of course binding, and means that not only has the Bishop been relegated to the status of “sub-christian” (which isn't a scriptural term as such, but occurs in the writings of Dean Jensen, so it might as well be), but owning any of his published works - or worse still, having read them - is to now be considered commensurate with “the unforgivable sin” to which Jesus refers in Mark 3:28-29.

Contacts close to Bishop Jones have informed me that given Dobby’s vastly superior theological qualifications (he has an undergraduate degree from the only Anglican seminary in the world to have adopted “Duelling Banjos” as their college song) His Grace realizes he has no option but to recognize the validity of this rebuke. After all, Dobby recently completed the second year of his first curacy, so naturally there’s nothing he doesn’t know about ministry - or anything else for that matter. And while he hasn't been published in any formal way, he does leave a great many anonymous comments on internet blogs, using a wide cast of creatively invented identities. So he's got to be right.

In addition, Little Deacon David Ould (Jensen family policy is to not ordain their young slaves to the Priesthood, thereby exacerbating the difficulties of any who might contemplate escaping) has also performed the world a great service by presenting the definitive answer to the age-old question of what exactly constitutes an evangelical. Sadly this noble term has today been watered to down to include those far removed from the values so dear to the movement’s proud slave-owning founder, and we all owe Dobby and his masters our thanks for reviving the spirit of arrogant self-righteousness so vital to evangelicalism’s origins. By reminding us of their central tenet - Thou shalt hate homos - the Communion’s most genetically-challenged diocese has shown the rest of the world why we’ve been all so wrong in thinking it possible to preach Christ without concentrating foremost on the topic He so foolishly forgot to mention.

In closing his bold thesis Dobby announces he’ll “see your ‘why can't we all play along nicely’ and raise you a Luther”. To which, My Beloved Sinners, I’ll match with another Luther that was probably omitted from the deacon's hagiographic reformation studies. Then I’ll raise him with a Calvin:

“However many blessings we expect from God, His infinite liberality will always exceed all our wishes and our thoughts.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

ACNA Recognized by Canterbury!

In reporting on the postponement until October of little Don Armstrong’s trial, the otherwise trustworthy Colorado Springs Gazette has inadvertently revealed the greatest story in Christian history since St. Paul rose from the dead and Jesus taught everyone to hate homosexualists – ACNA has been officially accepted into the Anglican Communion!

That’s right, clearly while everyone was distracted with worry about the future of the greatest financial genius sinceBernie Madoff, the Archbishop of Canterbury must have repented of leaving Bobby Duncan and his sect out in the cold. Perhaps he finally realized that if there’s one thing the next Lambeth needs more than anything else, it’s a few dozen faux-bishops with extensive experience in wearing vestments of preposterousness inversely proportionate to the size of their “dioceses”, and with extensive experience in licking the boots of anyone prepared to offer them an impressive-sounding title.

See for yourselves, my Beloved Sinners: the original article is here (although should they change it nobody need worry: I’ve saved a copy of this historic announcement). Or, because I’m not only always Biblically Correct, but also more pastorally sensitive than an Ould’s prostate, I’ll make it easier to see the good news by presenting a highlighted cutting from the article:


The journalist responsible for this scoop, a young man by the name of Mark Barna, should unquestionably receive a Pullitzer Prize for his work – Consuella just interrupted to say she doesn’t think they give one for gullibility, but if they do you’d better believe Mark’s name has already been engraved on the trophy. Or statue, or polished wooden duck, or whatever it is that’s awarded to the person who most faithfully repeats everything written in an alleged criminal’s press release.

Who wouldn’t possibly lie about anything. After all, the man who revealed that “ACNA was created at the request of the archbishop of Canterbury” (published in another fine example of Mark Barna’s uncompromising investigative prowess) is bound to be just as truthful about this as he is about the trivial economic misunderstanding which looks like putting him jail for the rest of his life. Isn’t he?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

PS. My profoundest thanks to the observant Sinner who drew my attention to this monumental development. Words can't describe how honored I am to have been the first Conservative Commentator to announce this epic milestone in the Glorious Schism's long march to recognition as something more than just another bunch of disgruntled loons obsessed with sex. And even more importantly: it's always fun to beat David Virtue.

+Jensen's Sheep Sell Clothes to Pay His Gambling Debts.

After seeing this picture in the NY Daily News of Archbishop Peter Jensen's little flock having sold their garments in a pathetic attempt to raise enough money to cover their master's paltry $160 million gambling bill, Brother Richthofen and his friends from Seminary have been in a quandary. The boys simply can't understand why, given it's supposed to be summer down there, the evangelical menfolk all appear so cold.

Bishop Quinine believes the shrinkage is a side effect of their theological persuasions ("an excess of acid in their nocturnal emissions" is how he describes it), while Consuella insists Jensenism only ever appeals to those men already suffering from a certain a priori inadequacy.

Either way, I'm sure Beloved Sinners will have no problems identifying Dobby Ould, nor any other of the prominent figures from the Diocese of Mordor whom we all know and love. They're the ones near the front with their buttocks tightly clenched and trembling with nerves. Which is not to say they're in any way regretful of their little Peter's creative investment strategy; nor that they feel any need for him to apologize for losing in a few years what took their forebears more than 2 centuries to acquire.

No; they're just worried that, freed from her modest garment and appropriately demure headdress, one of the submissive weaker members of the trinity (a.k.a. in other parts of the Communion as "women") might in a moment of wild abandon cast all decency to the wind, and dare to read the Scriptures aloud.

I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.