Move over, Tyndale.

Reporters attending the launch of my epic new novel The Satanic Bicycles explained that even though Mormons and Muslims both start with ‘M’, only the latter issue fatwas, although in exceptionally terrible circumstances the Salt Lake City leadership can organize Osmond Brothers reunion concerts.

This, of course, has proven a great setback to my proposed publicity campaign, and things were getting quite bitter before Bishop Quinine eased the tension by convincing the rather bewildered representatives from Desert Saints Magazine that their church’s prohibition against alcohol only applies to drinking the stuff (“And, again, strong drinks are not for the belly, but for the washing of your bodies” Doctrine and Covenants 89:7). While it may have also taken a few of his Brownies to win them over, the sight of Bishop Quinine cavorting in a hot-tub full of Baileys Irish Cream with his new friends (by then clad only in their secret underwear) will have to go down in history as one of the great moments in ecumencialism.

Inspired by their accounts of late adolescent missionary service (I can’t believe that many people really open the door in the nude, but it’s charming to see that even wholesome lads like to dream), along with the admirable accounts of their founders’ fertile imagination and pragmatism (lots of fellows dream of being able to get it on with several people at once, but not many think of writing their own scriptures in order to make it happen) I have decided to make my own historic contribution to the sacred missionary calling to make the Bible available to condemned sinners everywhere.

Of course, unlike Joseph Smith I don’t think I could get away with making something up from scratch: whilst my fellow Conservatives don’t actually read the Bible very often, they would nevertheless be rather unimpressed to discover I’d slipped a few of my own epistles somewhere between first and second Timothy. Nor, since I’m not a member of the Jensen family living in Australia, could I get away with selling my own “fresh and accurate translation” which just happens to have any misleading suggestions that women are actually people carefully excised. Besides, the Jehovah’s witnesses probably only let +Sydney steal their shtick because they knew he's too broke to be worth suing, but it's not likely they pass up the chance to chase a Priest of my caliber and renown.

Consequently I’ve instead decided to undertake a more humble task of incomparable scholarship, and am proud to here present the first translation of the New Testament (along with the books of Leviticus and Judges) into Rongorongo. Sure there aren’t any speakers of Rongorongo left alive, but if and when any are found you can be absolutely certain the munificent fruits of my labor will bring them incomparable blessings and enlightenment.

Mind you, even though translating into an undeciphered hieroglyphic script means nobody can presume to question one’s grammatical accuracy, the work has not been without its own challenges. For example: Rongorongo appears to lack any logogram for homosexuality, and in this instance I was forced to substitute one of Brother Richthofen’s own devising which, I must admit, is indeed quite arousing. Nor does the script have a pictogram for “virtue” – a difficulty I resolved by creating a hieroglyphic representation of a nasty little slug attacking someone hundreds of times the man (and Christian) he’ll ever be.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.