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.