+Arizona Makes Me Nervous

Whether you’re a professional cyber-stalker-for Jesus like the Ould twins, or just some nut trying to reverse the decline in Irish sectarian violence, it’s vital to understand that the reason God tortured His Son to death was so that Christians could today display a mean-spirited lack of compassion to everyone lacking their own sinless self-righteousness.

Certainly, in New Testament times the Church was supposed to devote it’s energy to trivialities like feeding the poor, caring for the sick, or ministering to widows and orphans in such a manner as to not risk five-to-ten years imprisonment, but obviously that was only because under the Roman Empire’s gentle hand believers didn’t face the prospect of civilization’s destruction by homosexualists and Obamacare. No, My Beloved Sinners, back in the days of the Circus Maximus people knew how to treat foreigners with the distain they deserve. Whereas today we’ve got our work cut out for us preserving such fundamental liberties as the right to let poor people die through inadequate medical care – never mind having time to waste on non-strategic ministry to worthless foreigners of no value to the kingdom of God. After all, if God hadn’t wanted the primary focus of our outreach to be wealthy conservative whites Jesus wouldn’t have chosen His Apostles exclusively from this demographic.

Which is why I’m so troubled by the Bishop of Arizona. Mouthing foolish platitudes about loving one’s neighbors is one thing, but when an Episcopalian Prelate starts acting like Our Lord’s commands in this regard are in someway to be taken seriously - even when one’s neighbors are Hispanic - True Believers know things have really got out of hand. Not to mention his Grace having written a letter of support to such people - in their own language! All because a few creative lawmakers have sought to make scapegoats of the sojourners in their midst: since when has the Bible ever said anything about caring for strangers?

Honestly: were it not for the proudly indignant commenters at little Kendal Harmon’s blog (the always appropriately titled Nahum 3:6) showing there’s still a place for meanness and tiny-minded racism in ECUSA it would be hard to not lose hope. With people of the Rt. Rev. Kirk Smith’s caliber wearing purple I fear the future could prove no bed of roses: next thing you know someone might start pointing out Leviticus isn't all about homosexuality.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Invasion!

Everyone knows homosexuality was unknown in Africa before its introduction by Apostate Episcopalians. Even so, few people realize just how successful American Evangelists have been when it comes to convincing young men and women to abandon the natural desires God may have forgotten to give them in favour of a predilection for musicals and ballroom-dancing or Subarus and softball. In the greatest piece of investigative journalism since Woodward and Bernstein enabled Christians to talk about Deep Throat without making any suspicious, the Nigerian Daily Sun has revealed the shocking truth in an article with the admirably understated headline of Homosexuals Invade Nigeria.

I’ve been saying this for years, of course, but the Sun’s research proves how quickly things can go to hell in a handbasket when Big Pete Akinola is turns his back for a moment to enjoy the trials of ministry in Bermuda and Singapore. Posing undercover on a notorious African homosexualist internet meat-market, the intrepid journalist manage to score a whopping 13,836 hopeful African respondents in just two weeks!

My Beloved Sinners – that’s almost 2,000 replies a day! Even Peter Ould couldn’t manage to get that many propositions, not even if he were to write his number on every cubicle wall in every public lavatory in Ware. What’s more, since none of the people replying, nor any of the other advertisers the article recounts in lascivious detail, were homosexual prior to Bishop Gene Robinson’s enthronement in late 2003, we can with absolute certainty state that it’s taken Episcopalian Evangelists just six and a half years to shift an entire continent’s sexuality. At this rate I fear it’s only a matter of time before the malaise spreads to even the highest levels of African Anglican leadership: whilst Uganda is for the present beyond question so long as Alison Barfoot is around, who knows what the future holds for those Provinces without such overtly heterosexual westerners to keep things straight?

Still, things aren’t all bad. As the article continues: “Sunday Sun learnt that a lot of rich, powerful but depraved people are the ones the new Nigerian members hanker after.” As long as rich and powerful but depraved foreigners remain desirable there’ll always be a place for Howard Ahmanson and his fellow Reconstructionists. Not to mention their money.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Seen in Singapore: Little Peter Jensen.

"I'll bet you double or nothing these flowers are actually quite tasty""

Seen in Singapore.

"And you know: all you need to be as successful in Amway as me is just 4 friends who each know 4 friends who each know 4 friends ..."

Human Rights? No, but they do hate homos.

Of all the world’s nations in which to hold a gathering of Conservative Prelates and their remoras it’s hard to imagine somewhere more appropriate than a country which is effectively a one-party state, where citizens can be indefinitely detained without charge or trial (the record is 32 years), and with the highest per capita execution rate in the world - more than three times as many as the next country on the list, the easy-going and fun-loving folk of Saudi Arabia.

Indeed, the patriots at Viagraville have been literally falling over themselves in a breathless rush to reproduce the latest Singaporean travelogue by a lady named Cheryl M. Weasel from somewhere called www.anglicansunited.com - a perfectly valid name for any religious organization if by “united” one means “people who agree they don’t like people different to themselves”. Which is hardly surprising: how can any red-blooded believer in Biblical inerrancy, schism, and the GOP not get excited by a regime that’s executed more people than all the Bush family combined? And just because Peter Ould claims he’s “post-gay” doesn’t mean he can’t feel a delicious tingle at the thought of a miscreant’s buttocks being thrashed until they resemble cat food. Not to mention that we all know the real reason little Matt Kennedy so heartily endorses James Dobson’s notions of parental "discipline"...

No, my Beloved Sinners, there’s no denying every Anglican Conservative should feel at home in a place that imprisons Jehovah’s Witnesses. No Christian need ever feel concerned about a petty thing like human rights when they can buy cheap electronic doo-dads. Besides, the Singaporean government hates GLBTs as much as anyone in ACNA, so they’ve got to be alright. Although their tax rate is quite high; perhaps that dubious Viagravillain doctor (what’s the funny name by which he calls himself? “Robroy”?) would like to try organizing a few tea-party protests there. Surely Lee Kwan Yew and his sycophants would be only too pleased to make a few Orthodite freedom-fighters welcome?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible. (Although unlike Johnny Chew I'm not very good at toadying up to dictators.)

PS. I know there’s a lot of clicky-links in today’s homily, but this account of a Singaporean Priest’s journey is a must-read. While not so different to the experiences of many readers, taking time to remember the struggles of our brothers and sisters in the Lion City is a good antidote to the poison currently ejaculatng forth from that place.

Hmmmm...

“We lack discipline. We lack the courage to call ‘a spade a spade’.”

Archbishop Peter Akinola

His Grace may be right; when it comes to applying the correct terminology to gardening implements I fear many of you, my Beloved Sinners, do indeed lack discipline. When, however, it comes to calling fraudulent and grubby power-hungry bigots “fraudulent and grubby power-hungry bigots” my experience is most of you get it right every time. Which is more than can be said of those foolish enough to have wasted their time (and congregations’ money) attending Big Pete’s nasty little gathering of Pharisees.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

When Kings (or Primates) become fools ...

Dearly Beloved Sinners: contrary to your fears Bishop Quinine and I haven’t vanished into the Bermuda Triangle. Instead we have actually spent the past week-and-a-bit experiencing the highs and lows that Biblical ministry can offer: for the first few days we checked into the Tucker’s Point Club where, albeit belatedly, we enjoyed a taste of the luxury our fellow Conservative leaders sacrificially endured the preceding week. I must stress, however, that it was only a taste: not only had the Schism’s biggest names emptied most of the club’s larder, but even the cellar was looking decidedly bereft of it’s finer labels: those heterosexual boys in purple mightn’t be able to dance, but they certainly know how to eat and drink. Not to mention how to do something else: the stories those poor souls in the laundry told about their difficulties in getting the linen clean brought tears to my old pastoral eyes.

Not that any of this spoiled our stay: as every self-righteous Primate knows, Tucker’s Point is the place when it comes to golf, and while of course as a Christian I didn’t play, I did obtain a very lovely pair of golf shoes made from the finest baby-seal skin, and hand stitched by children in a Chinese sweat-shop so strict it would make the Christian Reconstructionists currently putting their money where they don't have the courage to put their mouths start reminiscing about dear old Rushdoony. Unfortunately, however, this purchase pushed little David Virtue’s credit card over the edge, leaving us temporarily insolvent and forced to make an unscheduled check out prior to a visit from the local constabulary.

It was while down and out in Bermuda (and without resources to contact Ichabod Springs to arrange for the parish to forward sufficient funds for us to purchase tickets home) that who should we bump into, but a shirtless Peter Jensen! Old habits die hard, it appears, and the precious Puritan had been “investing” again: doubtless they play blackjack a little differently on his side of the world, since he still couldn’t understand why 22 wasn’t one better than 21. And not even Bishop Quinine was convinced by the claim that his losses were simply a result of the global financial crisis, but we all agreed if that one had worked on Dobby and other house-elves once before there was no reason they wouldn’t work again.

Interestingly enough this wasn’t the first time little Pete has been lost in Bermuda: you can read about the first occasion here. Which suggests to me that that the Man from Mordor little Matt Kennedy doesn’t know but loves anyway (try taking your chasuble and preaching wife to that diocese and see how long Dobby wants to be your friend then, my boy) mightn’t actually be human at all, but actually just an alien who's stolen his identity.

Which, my Sinners, might sound strange, but nowhere as strange as this: the outcome of the Tucker’s Point tête-à-tête was that not only does one of the two most senior office-bearers in the Gafcon Primates Council continue to be someone who is not a Primate (nor even an Anglican in anything but name), but the pair of them are as about as much a product of the developing world as Her Majesty the Queen of England (or Baby Blue if you’d prefer someone a little more pompous, but less interested in gin and horse-racing). I mean to say: if I'd dared suggest the kind of people who believe Jesus would have been permitted to post at Viagraville were so gullible as to believe Greggy Venalballs and little Peter Jensen reflect a dynamic movement of God among third-world churches my comment fields would be filled with angry missives akin to that recently left by a virtuous young man calling himself "AJ" (look at the bottom of the comments field) who arrived at my blog as a result of a Google search for "young masturbaters" - nothing is secret on the internet, my hypocritical and orthodox-but-potty-mouthed young friend.

Yet instead the astonishing fact of a movement claiming to represent the fastest growing areas of global Anglicanism now being controlled by two men responsible for some of the least effective dioceses on the planet appears to have passed by without remark. Even more astonishing is the silence concerning what purported to be the voice of post-colonial Episcopalianism now being that of two white men who are themselves the epitome of colonialism, and whose values, interests, and concerns are far closer to those of a mid 19th century London gentlemen’s club than they are to anything found in the parishes of Lagos or Kampala. As Bishop Quinine asked when he learned of the Council’s appointments: “Why does something about all this make me feel like we're the jester in King Lear?”

I’m Father Christian, and I’m awfully afraid Alsion Barfoot is Goneril.

Bermuda at Last! (sort of...)

Bless me, My Beloved Sinners, but Bishop Quinine and I have finally arrived in Bermuda and I know you’ve all been desperately worried about what’s happened to us since my last homily, posted just prior to our aircraft's departure. We’ve been through a fascinating experience, and even though the FBI and CIA (along with another agency so secret they don’t even have an acronym) have combined their resources to ensure no details of this adventure are ever made public, let me assure you nothing could prevent me from sharing my testimony with those who, like yourselves, need to hear it most.

Everything about the flight was progressing normally; we were relaxing in first class (there was more room on little David Virtue’s credit card than might have been imagined), and Bishop Quinine was enjoying his eighth refreshing breakfast martini while I was studying the scriptures and checking to ensure the flight attendants’ lingerie was suitably modest (let me tell you this: Brother Andrew’s famous miracle about border guards not seeing his smuggled Bibles isn’t a patch on the answer to prayer that got my trusty mirror-on-a-stick through the pre-flight security inspection) when suddenly, as we approached Bermuda, our aircraft started experiencing strange electrical anomalies.

The compass began gyrating like a Pentecostal with a hula-hoop, and the satellite-navigation systems were placing us in a KFC drive-through just outside Milwaukee. The First Officer, clearly disorientated , began complaining the girl had only given him wings and that strange triangular part of the chicken which looks like it's distorted from the poor bird having spent too long in a cage. Fortunately his co-pilot could restore him to his senses, whereupon he began his final radio transmission: “Whitewater! Whitewater!” (Actually he said nothing of the sort, but I once heard this in a Charles Berlitz movie, and thought it would sound impressive here).

Moments later our entire airplane was drawn into a huge spaceship bearing an uncanny resemblance to something a “continuing” Anglican might wear, and small beings with large heads and big lidless eyes ordered us from our seats. Indeed, at first things weren’t going well: the little aliens seemed quite hostile, and Bishop Quinine created a panic among our fellow passengers when he explained the objects with which they were directing us were probes, and not just cattle-prods.

The situation soon improved, since when the alien in charge of the ship appeared he and Bishop Quinine immediately recognized each other as old friends, and by means of animated hand gestures began cheerfully reminiscing about a number of previously shared adventures - although as these obviously appeared to include the aforementioned probes only those passengers who’d been travelling in business class found anything reassuring in the joyful reunion.

As the other aliens grumbled among themselves about the delay, however, I made an amazing discovery: their native tongue was in fact JavaScript - the same language in which Brother Richthofen’s young Friend from Seminary wrote the clever little program that tells how often the Ould twins visit my site (at least once a day, if anyone’s interested). Naturally any language involving so many + and ++ symbols comes easily to one as well-versed in Anglicanism as myself, and in no time at all I was able to communicate with perfect fluency, barring the occasional error in syntax and punctuation, whereupon the polite response is for everyone to collapse in a heap and do absolutely nothing until the speaker corrects their mistake.

As you can well imagine, any beings prepared to fly 3,000 light years to burn crop circles and terrorize people who live in trailer parks are absolutely fascinating conversationalists, and sat entranced as I explained my own importance to the Global Schism and the future of Orthodoxy as Christians have understood it since at least the early-mid nineteenth century ( “Function GafCon()
var Anglican, Troll, DoctrinalWarrior;
if
{
(typeof Anglican != Troll)
document.body && document.body.style myForm
}else{
DoctrinalWarrior[0]++
document.write(txt.constructor).smiteAll}” – or something like that: they have a few more global functions than we do, but on the other hand Vista was considered too complicated for release in their galaxy).

Nor will you believe the story they told about little Peter Jensen – but that’s going to have to wait until my next homily: right now the Man-In-Black responsible for our debriefing wants me meet someone from the FBI called Agent Scully: apparently she’s been a long-term admirer and is most eager to review my case in person.

I’m Father Christian and I’m the First Interstellar Evangelist.

Live-Blogging Bermuda: Answering the Call

In the wake of a trivial misunderstanding, which has caused a spot of bother at home, Bishop Quinine and I have felt strongly called to join the other GAFCON “Global South” leaders in Bermuda, where I have no doubt the partying Primates will be only too grateful to wallow in the spiritual Jacuzzi of my wisdom.

Naturally this decision was, like the Diocese of Mordor’s “investment” strategy, only made after much prayer, and the fact that our apostate liberal Bishop has demanded I appear and explain why so many people were upset by part of St. Onuphrius’ contribution to Ichabod Springs’ ecumenical “Easter Sunday Family Parade” has nothing to do with the haste of our departure. Indeed, when God demands one attend an important conference and preach His Word a man of my standing has no option but to obey. Besides, if the fact that we were able to purchase two first class return tickets with the credit card Bishop Richthofen’s friend from Seminary stole from little David Virtue isn’t confirmation of the Spirit’s call then I don’t know what is.

As an added blessing, My Beloved Sinners, I intend live-blogging proceedings, giving an inspiring insight into what life is like for those who, like myself, have been called to a life of service and surrender for the Gospel. Yes; one can be sure it’s not all beer and skittles in our spiritual war against Homosexualists and Vicars-with-Vaginas: there’s also golf and tennis, and the sacrifice involved in partaking of some of the world’s finest wines. The task the Lord has put before me is to ensure everyone of you gains a deeper understanding of what the greatest names in the Glorious Global Schism endure on your behalf, and an appreciation of how much hard work is involved in ensuring the kinds of people Jesus called friends are driven away from His Church today.

Meanwhile I have thoughtfully entrusted my Curate, Evangelical Eric, with responsibility for sorting out the confusion which arose through the performance given by “Pirate Pete and Missy Mermaid” last Sunday afternoon. It’ll be a good chance for him to exercise the leadership skills which I have been caringly encouraging him to develop during his past year with us, and as he will undoubtedly explain, we can hardly be held responsible if our personal purity causes us to fail to appreciate the wicked subtleties of this perverse and sinful age’s language. As any reasonable person will agree, the St. Onuphrius’ Ministry Team (and more importantly, their leader) can’t honestly be expected to have realized that the expression “adult entertainers” means something more than just that the performers are over 21. What’s more, we found them on the internet, so how could anyone have imagined there’d be something unwholesome about their act?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Holy Saturday

Personally I’ve always considered Holy Saturday to be a bit of a let down. After all the gloom of Good Friday it’s a bit much to expect Biblical Christian Leaders like myself to wait more than a whole day before enjoying the bumper offertories to be gleaned on Easter Sunday. Besides, if the whole atonement business is simple enough for Deacon Dobby Ould to explain in a few short lines there’s no reason for Our Lord to have been so tardy about things. If David Ould can be believed (don't worry, we're only speaking hypothetically here) he could have wrapped the whole business up in under an hour, which I'll admit with advertising could have made a fantastic 90 minute TV presentation.

Still, the break does give everyone a much needed chance to go shopping: three days without an opportunity to purchase whitegoods is probably more than any civil society should endure. Here at St. Onuphrius’ we spent much of the day nailing little Brad Evans’ crate shut and shipping him back to the Institute. Not only did he prove incapable of handling the part we’d prepared for him in our Easter pageant (he was to have played the stone outside Jesus’ tomb, but lacked sufficient personality), but the endless droning on and on about vestments became more than anyone could bear. Don’t get me wrong; I love a good bit of man-lace as much as the next homophobic clergyman, but the boy’s obsessional. Back when Dicky Dawkins could still be bothered indulging in community with carbon molecules arranged in such a way as to display an illusion of sentience there was somewhere Brad could relieve himself of his tensions, but now? Dear me, I don’t know how Matron manages: the woman must have the patience of a saint. Either that she was weaned on the same lemons as Alison Barfoot. Although Matron doesn’t forget to pay her web hosting bill.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.