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.
19 comments :
Or in slightly less *ahem* erudite terms:
A Message for ++Cerberus Williams
You have the wisdom of an angel, my friend, and twice as many legs. Not to mention undoubtedly fewer fleas than His Grace, and less interest in rolling in the smelly stuff.
Do you think Rowan Williams is being held captive at Lambeth Palace Tower by a small gang of even uglier cross-dressing heterosexual priests from Bavaria?
“Further consultation will now take place about the implications and consequences of this decision”
Consultation! Consequences! Whoa! That's enough to make an Episcopalian tremble.
I am reluctant to express an instant opinion on Mary Glasspool's election. Like you, Dr Troll, I am a man of fine features blessed with good looks. Whilst I am not averse to gay Bishops falling in love with me, I'm not sure I can accept an episcopal chick who doesn't find me utterly irresistable.
Father Jass, I heard tell of one Hugh Janus in the gay-teenagers-coming-of-age movie, Beautiful Thing. Are you by any chance related to him?
More inspirational teaching, Your Grace.
Thank you.
I may be related to Mr Janus, Dah*veed. I'm hoping to get to the bottom of my family tree.
As I asked Grandmère Mimi, Rowan WHO?
Anglo-catholic bitchiness brought to even higher points.
Were it not for the fact that the institution you're on is drifting away like dried leaves into the humus of irrelevance, I'd admire this.
Brad, my son - we can feel your love warming from here. I'll ask Matron to give you an extra helping of tapioca as a special treat.
Don't forget - it's only 10 more sleeps before you'll be coming home to Ichabod Springs for your Holy Week holiday.
There is no "Holy" week-every week is the same as every other week.
Next bit of nonsense you'll be talking about will be your character indelebilis and having to display wafers in special containers.
From a Protestant/Reformed perspective you are indeed quite correct my boy, every week is Holy. Good to see you've been reading J.I. Packer again - if nothing else he'll help you sleep on those evenings when your medication has left you feeling a little twitchy.
Matron just called to say she's hosed out your crate in preparation for the flight from Rhode Island, and they'll make sure you have fresh straw before loading you on the plane. In the meantime, however, I'd warn you to not start taking this whole Protestant thing too seriously: in those like yourself suffering from Pratt's Disease it can frequently be mistaken for a deterioration in the condition (just look at Dobby Ould, for example), and your holiday will have to be cancelled if you relapse.
We in the UK have Specialist Units to treat those suffering from acute Dawkinsian Paranoia. If Mr Evans fails to benefit from his temporary release to Ichabod Springs, perhaps his crate may be shipped to Britain for a course of treatment. The healing sessions last six weeks under the supervision of a Mr Peter Ould who can make Brad a "post atheist". Mr Ould has even managed to change his own sexuality. There ARE risks involved. There's no guarantee that Mr Evans won't be changed into a dribbling, fundamentalist woman.
Is Mr. Peter Ould a proctologist? Or is that more correctly prostatologist?
Regardless of the name of Mr. Ould's specialty, I have heard that some deep and highly invasive manipulation of Señor Evans prostate should have him twitching & thrashing ecstatically right quickly in the high heather.
No thanks; you can mince around in chasubles during "holy" week while waving fronds and then convince yourselves that you have only to speak the word and the bread and wine will become magic.
And please, no laying on of hands, either-I'll leave that to Nashotah House or any (or all)of the Gaynglican "religious orders" for men which mysteriously lost a greatly disproportionate number of their members to AIDS without a single Haitian/drug addicted member.
Don't forget to put your wafer back in the Fauxmbry when you're done with the parade.
Brad's love-hate relationship with liturgical trivia reminds one of other obsessives' fixation on matters prostate. Time to face up to your obsession and quit fighting the attraction of the glitter of ritualism and who knows what else, Brad, me' boy.
He's just a little nervous at the prospect of the flight, that's all. Matron will be trying to get him used to his crate in the next week, but she may have to sedate him just prior to take off.
As for his obsession, Brother Richthofen's friends from seminary are already planning to help little Brad, although if they can't we may well follow your suggestion, Fr. Jass, and ship him on to Peter Ould's post-everything therapy. Unfortunately, given Prostate Pete's success with reorientation I'm not overly optimistic in that regard.
By coincidence an unsolicited link to
this item, which may be of interest to the occasional down-under lurker, popped up in my email earlier today.
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