So how was your Christmas?

Well, well, well: Christmas is finally over, and Bible-Believing Clergy like myself can at last get back to the more important work of proclaiming the Good News that everyone who disagrees with us will suffer eternal torture. At the hands of a loving god, of course.

Mind you, here at St. Onuphrius’ we have had a most enjoyable Noël. Since Bishop Quinine, like most faux-Bishops, firmly believes in Santa Claus (c’mon – that’s nothing compared to what they believe regarding their own self-importance) things are always a bit more complicated than they might be: finishing the milk and “cookies” he leaves out has in past years left at least one member of the Ministry Team hospitalized until the new year.

This time, however, I hit upon the brilliant idea of dividing the treat into small nicely wrapped packets, which we then kindly delivered to the other members of my local Minister’s Fraternal. (With the natural exception of the Baptist, on account of this hardly being an appropriate occasion to risk violating my restraining order, and the Rabbi: after I last tried teaching him about Christian generosity he responded by organizing an informative dialogue with two Mossad representatives, and waking up on Christmas morning to find myself chained to the wall of a Tel Aviv basement doesn’t quite coincide with my medium-term ministry strategy.)

As we expected, this resulted in most of our town’s Christmas morning services crossing the fine line between “liturgically unprepared” and “bedlam”. I’ve been told the United Methodist felt compelled to munch Twinkies throughout his sermon, while the woman at the UCC simply read aloud the lyrics of The Dark side of the Moon. Although, to be fair, she may well have just been following her denomination’s lectionary. Meanwhile the Methodist was convinced he’d had a personal visitation from Charles Wesley, who allegedly thinks the local District Supervisor “can’t recognize talent when it’s staring him in the face”. (Since the apparition also opined that “if ‘Shine Jesus, Shine ‘ had been around in my day I’d have taken Calvin’s line on hymnody” I’d caution My Beloved Sinners against being too hasty in dismissing the vision entirely.) While the Seventh-day Adventist made a tearful public confession to regularly enjoying a secret Friday evening snack of pork rinds.

The Pentecostal, on the other hand, was hardly affected. Except for occasionally pausing to interpret a glossolalic prophesy supposedly emanating from a potted palm on the side of the podium (“Behold the sowing of tears and the reaping of joy, sayeth the Lord, thou shalt honor My anointed and surrender the whole of thy tithe – plus a bit extra – every single Sunday”), Pastor Morebuck handled it like a pro. Which he quite possibly is, given that prior to receiving the call to ministry he was an accountant with one of the Big Four. Or maybe he just sold condominium timeshares in Florida: there’s not much difference from an ethical perspective.

All of which resulted in an exceptionally good turn-out for our own services: a great many people who would have otherwise been in Godless Christian churches outside the Anglican Tradition were instead blessed with the kind of solid Bible Teaching only ever found in the pugnacious wing of a Communion tearing itself apart over the incarnate God's right to love everyone.

Which brings us to something I intend to share with all of you more deeply in My Next Important Homily. While preparing for the day’s herculean preaching load it struck me how shockingly unBiblical the Gospel accounts of our Substitutionary Atoner’s birth actually are. Clearly the Nativity was actually intended to serve as a “How not to” example of Christian parenthood, and I’m not just referring to the Blessed Virgin’s failure to forgo parturition in favor of a medically lucrative elective c-section. No indeed; the Scriptural narratives are at this point simply riddled with transgressions of basic Biblical principles, and it’s about time they were called to answer for themselves.

Until then, however, My Generous Prayer is that you would all continue to enjoy this festive season’s aftermath. Take care to cherish friends and family, including that strange Republican uncle-by-marriage with an interest in naturism, who’s been spending an unwholesome amount of time locked alone in the bathroom. May the Lord Bless you all richly, and may none of you eat improperly refrigerated leftovers. And remember: if God had wanted us to drink and drive St. Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus would have been accompanied by a late-model SUV and a six-pack. And zebra crossings would be packed with slow-moving Scientologists.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Who said a 69er isn't dangerous?

Just minutes ago I was awoken by what is technically known to Orthodox Biblical Theologians like myself as “a great disturbance in the force”. Immediately I knew in My Spirit that a great despotic leader had passed from this world into the next. But who?

Since the phone wasn’t ringing with panic-stricken calls from little ++Valentino Mokiwa, ++Henri Orombi, or +++Nicholas Okoh , all asking who would now tell them what to say when addressing Anglicans less preoccupied with killing albinos or gays than the machete-loving faithful of their own peace-loving congregations, I knew Archbishop Jensen of Mordor hadn’t suddenly been summoned to the biggest conference of them all. And since it was too late at night to run down to the supermarket and grab the latest edition of The National Enquirer I was left with no alternative other than to consult the world’s next most reliable news source: FoxNews.

Where, to my utter horror, I learned of the tragic passing of Kim Jong Il - a delightful man whose grasp on truth has so faithfully served as a role-model for so many young Fundamentalists. (Yes David Ould, I was thinking of you as I wrote that– and while I’ve got your attention, could you please post another charming piece of racism on Viagraville? Obviously the reason your previous efforts received so few comments has to do with a temporary outbreak of tact on behalf of the happy throng frequenting the place, and I’m sure a third effort will gain some traction. Or at least earn you an honorary degree from an institution run by people with experience in standing around burning crosses dressed in pointy white robes.)

Yes indeed, 2011 truly has been a sad year for men prepared to make a stand against post-modern relativism. Muammar Gaddafi, Osama bin Laden, Hosni Mubarak (ok – so he’s not dead yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he wishes he was) – they all knew the importance of an absolutist ethical framework. Yet there’s something much spookier: something I predict will become known as the “69 club”. And no, I’m not talking about that nasty little place on the cheap side of town your local Christian Coalition of America representatives visit when they think nobody’s watching, so I want you to all pay careful attention.

Jong Il (or maybe his last name is ‘Kim’ – you can never be sure when it comes to someone who considered dogs a valid source of protein) and Gaddafi were both 69 when they received the one summons nobody can ever claim got lost in the mail - the exact same age as none other than dear old Saddam Hussein. No, unbelievers can call it coincidence, but you and I know better, My Beloved Sinners. And as for Bin Laden? Fifty-four! Which is - as anyone who wasn’t home-schooled by evangelicals can tell you – the number you get when multiplying 6 by 9!

Honestly; anyone confronted by that evidence who doesn’t at the very least feel compelled to visit some of my educational and informative advertisers simply doesn’t have ears to hear. And these are by no means the only members of this supernatural club - although I must warn you against Googling to see if you can find any more – Bishop Richthofen (who a moment ago came into the study to see what I’m doing) has just done exactly that, and you really don’t want to know what he’s now demanding we play in this Sunday’s youth service. (Don't you dare blame me if you've clicked that last link in your place of work or education - I told you Bishop Quinine liked it, so it's gonna be on your own neck if your "purity counsellor" starts asking questions about your internet log.)

No, I can sense the beginning of a wonderful new urban myth regarding evil dictators who would seek to deny people the right to be the person God made them to be. One which really shouldn’t cause the Gafcon secretary or his admirers the slightest discomfort. After all – he’s only 68.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

How dare anyone find this funny.

“The revisionists are mocking us. And rightly so.”

Matt Kennedy - Viagraville

As any of My Beloved Sinners will know, I have always been little Matt Kennedy’s most vigorous supporter. Even in his darkest hour, when rumors were circulating that attempting to redirect assets belonging to others in contravention to court orders is a crime which could unjustly land the perpetrator in prison, it was I who sought to console the boy by encouraging him to contemplate the endless ministry possibilities to be explored while sharing one’s cell with a 300lb mildly-psychotic weightlifter named “Bubba”. So let me now categorically state that I, The World’s Most Orthodox Christian Leader, Bible Teacher, and Doctrinal Warrior, am utterly APPALLED to learn of him being mocked by godless apostate unbiblical liberal revisionists.

That’s right; I’m COMPLETELY DISGUSTED!!! And I demand to know the identities of these reprobates daring to scoff at my weaker fellow Conservatives. Where do they blog? If I search long enough will I be able to find naked pictures of them on the internet? What routes do their loved ones travel when commuting? And is it still legal to anonymously send one’s opponents packets of anthrax powder through the U.S. Mail? Or has the Satanic Socialist Cabal in Washington put an end to that simple democratic constitutional right as well?

Yet – as fecund as young Matt’s prognostications concerning Layman Chucky may be – it would be remiss of me to not sound a caution in regard to the dangerous relativism of his ill considered remark “And rightly so.” There is NEVER any justification for mirth at the expense of those like little Chucky Murphy. After all, it’s not as if turning Christ’s foolish message of welcome to the poor, outcast, or socially disreputable into a more sensible package of misogyny, homophobia, and shameless pomposity is easy.

No My Sinners: it takes a lifetime of relentlessly thirsting for power (not to mention a deep insecurity about the size and proclivities of one’s you-know-what) to come up with the scenarios currently being wrought across the Anglican Communion (both the real Communion, as well as imaginary ones like those of Bobby Duncan and Chuck Murphy), and I’ll have each and every one of you know that laughing at these immeasurably important figures, or their young, gullible, and histrionic acolytes, is as unacceptable as taking joy in the wisdom and company of animals. Or smiling. Because if this sort of thing is allowed to continue you can mark my words it's only a matter of time before some small child is permitted to call out something about the emperor not having any clothes. Which is undoubtedly why Jesus was so careful to warn us against letting our theology be in any way influenced by children.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Funniest. Complaint. Ever. Times Six.

“Schism”

1

“I never accused Bishop Murphy of financial wrongdoing. I did accuse him of schism. I stand by that.”

2

“The real issue is schism. Rather than work out personal differences and misunderstandings, rather than fight it out in house, rather than struggle for unity, +Murphy et al, chose schism.”

3

“+Murphy’s actions are schismatic. The only way to deny that is to do what many want to do here…play the relativist card.”

4

“Somebody is taking themselves way to (sic) seriously—not to mention going out of his way to pick at nits.”

5

“Nor should we, if we think schism has occured (sic) in this particular case, be afraid to recognize schism as sin. I don’t think it qualifies as anything else.”

6

As the accompanying links reveal, each of the above gems is the work of the same young man. Who once solemnly vowed to serve the church from which he later tried to appropriate assets. Someone whose hitherto unknown comedic genius surpasses that of all other mortals (although I must admit his sense of irony appears to have been removed at birth)…

My Beloved Sinners – I present little Matt Kennedy of Binghamton, New York!

At which point I must leave, and beg your pardons for such brevity. My presence is required to settle a small domestic matter: it appears the kitchen pot is accusing the kettle of stealing his shtick.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Chuck Murphy has left the building.

Who’d have ever thought a few short days could make such a difference in the exciting world of Orthodox Biblical Christianity? For almost two thousand years Conservative True Christians have been as close as newly-wed Kardashians, but now, merely two weeks after I posted my important homily on little Chuck Murphy and his faux-Rwandan Anglican Mission in the Americas, it’s all turned nasty.

Indeed, you can be sure I’m not the only one reminded of that moment which always seems to occur at parties you’ve been really looking forward to attending; that point when just as things are getting lively someone goes too far and puts the host’s tropical fish in the cocktail blender. Or thinks the French guest of honor can’t possibly take offense at their hilarious Inspector Clouseau impersonation.

So… with that in mind let me stress from the outset how aware I am that My Beloved Sinners don’t come here in search of reasoned commentary on the circumstances surrounding little Chuck’s hasty departure from his land of canonical residence - they want reliable Orthodox hyperbole . Those seeking intelligence should click on over to Fr. Harris’ Preludium: my vocation when it comes to ecclesiastical reportage is a purely Murdochian one - even if I haven’t as of yet found a way of fully integrating phone-tapping, inane competitions, and semi-nudity into my regular homilies. Thus the question upon which I’d like to specifically focus is the one on everybody’s lips (albeit alongside droplets of spittle, a nasty little lump for which I strongly recommend medical attention, and the dried whitish substance which I must every Sunday morning force myself to believe is toothpaste before passing over the Common Chalice) - What’s going to become of the AMiA churches?

Of course there are really only three possible outcomes, since the fourth – that AMiA congregations realize the silliness of their “canonically Rwandan” claim and are welcomed back into TEC by mature Bishops gracious enough to never again mention what has really been nothing more than a brief spasm of deeply embarrassing immaturity – is simply too far-fetched to be even worth considering:

1) They follow Chucky as the AMiA abandons all pretence of Communion membership, and becomes an independent “continuing Anglican” church. Of which we know there aren’t nearly enough. This has the benefit of conferring a comforting “We’re the only ones in the entire universe doing church right” smugness upon adherents: just ask any member of the Exclusive Brethren why they tolerate long meetings in closed halls filled with people who shun deodorants. On the downside, however, once the last vestiges of regulatory oversight have been lifted from Chucky’s ego it’s an even-money bet these AMiA congregations will soon calling Primate Murphy “Our Beloved Leader” and raising funds to buy a large compound in Guyana. Wherein they shall stockpile Kool-Aid.

2) One of the two AMiA Bishops who not signing the hasta-la-vista-Rwaje letter, Terrell Glenn and Thad Barnum (yep- I know I’m not the first to make this gag, but with a name like “Barnum” how can I resist mentioning one gets born every minute?), is appointed by the Rwandan hierarchy as Chucky’s successor, and things continue as before, albeit under more compliant leadership. Call me pessimistic, but I don’t give this scenario much chance of playing out smoothly: it’s unlikely Chuck didn’t long ago lock down ownership of the AMiA so tightly as to exclude the slightest possibility of anyone ever doing to him what he did to the Church to which he once vowed loyalty. Which will leave AMiA congregations torn between once more changing their name and identity (do you think it’s worth my registering “New Anglican Mission in the Americas” so as to profitably on-sell to the Rt. Rev. Barnum?), not to mention facing associated legal challenges concerning any property they may have acquired, or saving money on signage and continuing to dance to whatever tune Chucky orders put on the jukebox. With their dimes, of course (see scenario #1).

3) Tiring of the whole Rwandan charade, AMiA churches drop the game and hitch their wagons to the ACNA train. This is, as you’d expect, the scenario that’s been waking little Bobby Duncan up in the middle of the night with sticky pyjamas, and there’s undoubtedly more than a few players on the AMiA’s middle tiers who see it as the fast-track to a purple shirt of their own. Yet simply changing the flavor of one’s schism doesn’t make the bad taste go away. Or, in this case, the legal obligations touched upon in option #2. Although wasting money on actions against fellow conspirators would make a nice change from giving it to lawyers fighting one’s opponents.

So you see, My Beloved Sinners, that whichever way things plays out it’s going to be messy. My recommendation is anyone even remotely connected starts stocking up on latex gloves and disinfectant now. Meanwhile the best thing we can all do is sit back and enjoy a little music: for reasons entirely comprehendible to anyone who’s met him little Chuck has always reminded me of my favorite aspects of Elvis – a comparison I’m certain he finds quite flattering. Although I very much doubt Chuck Murphy thinks the next stage of career will involve manning the counter of a 7-11. Even so, whatever happens there’s a prescience about the title of this little number – watch for the uncanny resemblance to Chucky’s own interpersonal skills at 3:0-4:00:



And finally, a rare correction. I began my previous homily by explaining that schism is like eating potato chips: a more accurate analogy would be to have said it’s like eating peanuts. In a crowd of anaphylactics.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.



*** STOP PRESS ***

Judging by a release sent to Viagraville (where else?) just hours after my posting this homily, it appears Messrs. Barnum & Glenn (do you think if I asked him politely enough Layman Terrell would consider changing his last name to "Bailey"?) have chosen scenario #2, and dragged their old name (and website) of "Apostles Mission Network" out of mothballs.

Which proves our Chucky truly has locked up the name (and thus, we can also presume, the assets) of the AMiA tighter than the records of a Jensen family company. That the legals of this circus are already delightfully convoluted is evidenced by this absolute gem located about halfway down Barnum's epistle: "The Apostles Mission Network does not seek to proselytize others but only offers support and structure for those who desire to remain resident in Rwanda and to collaborate together toward fulfillment of our mission... "

And how much did the lawyer charge for advising nobody gets caught openly urging AMiA congregations to call in a signwriter and change the letterheads? Whatever the sum, you'd better believe they're currently wearing the kind of smile only ever found on a mouthpiece with a new file that they know is going to get worked on a daily basis for years to come...

Mamma AMiA!

Schisms are like eating potato chips: once the packet is open it’s impossible to have just one. No matter how great your resolve, your hand will have dived back for another wholesome handful before the first salty morsel has oozed its oily way to your artery walls. Next thing you’ve got yourself a beer (or, for those who studied at Nashotah House and really enjoy discussing vestments, something colorful in a glass with a parasol), and then before you know it your buddies from Focus on the Family have come by, someone’s slipped a porno in the DVD player, and you’ve sent your Curate down to the 7-11 for another six packs.

Which is why I had no problem believing George Conger when he went public with the news that little Chuck Murphy has been growing increasingly restless in his role as the Rwandan Archbishop’s North American houseboy – a.k.a. “a Missionary Bishop of the Province of the Anglican Church of Rwanda and a bishop of, and chairman of, the Anglican Mission in the Americas” (never forget that when it comes to ecclesiastical titles pomposity is always inversely proportional to one’s true worth in the Kingdom of God). So restless, in fact, that George suggested Chucky’s talking about abandoning his faux-Rwandan status and taking the golden calf that is the AMiA to chew the cud in greener pastures.

Naturally rumors of disloyalty aren’t something Chucky wants flying around until the foundations of his new structure have well and truly set, so the serfs at Pawley’s Island were quickly ordered to issue a release describing George’s exposé as “false”, “erroneous”, and “irresponsible”. Which is more than a little harsh: I’ll admit that whenever I hear the expression “journalistic integrity” the three names that invariably spring to mind are George Conger, Tokyo Rose, and Axis Sally, but in my experience he never speaks disrespectfully of those with a penchant for ad-hoc ecclesiology. Even so, and just in case anyone still didn’t understand how folks are expected to think on the AMiA side of town, Chucky and his supposed Rwandan master followed this with a “nothing to see here – move along quickly” statement.

Which they clearly hoped would settle things, although it appears they forgot to tell this to someone called “Bishop” Terrell Glenn. (Is there anybody in the AMiA not claiming elevation to the Prelacy?) Who then, in the subtle manner delightfully endemic to my imitators, publically announced his resignation from Rwanda’s beacon of orthodox harmony, citing “personal issues” between Chucky and himself.

Not of course, that this would of itself have caused much of a problem – it’s not as if Chucky doesn’t have plenty of other “bishops” more than ready to take over whatever it was that Mr. Glenn was responsible for. Rather it would have been the cat let out of the bag in the ex-faux-Rwandan-prelate’s (phew! – although what’re the odds Mr. Glenn will continue using the title “Bishop”?) penultimate paragraph:

"First, please do not take our decision as an indication or recommendation from me as to what any of you should do in response to the proposed changes in the life of the Anglican Mission as it considers becoming a Missionary Society currently engaged concerning its future."

No wonder there were “personal issues”: judging from this the man didn’t even try believing Chucky’s insistence that “The work and the relationship between the AMiA and the Province of Rwanda remains solid and cherished”. When subordinates start speaking out like that it’s only a matter of time before they start refusing their morning glass of Kool-Aid – and then all the funny hats and preposterous titles in the world won’t keep them in line – will they Chuck? Or should that read "Will they ++Rwaje"?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

11:11 11/11/11 (This post goes to eleven.)

Some years ago, whilst temporarily suspended from Ministry as the result of a trivial misunderstanding concerning a few threatening letters and a home-made incendiary device (which despite allegations by the godless atheist forensic scientists investigating, was technically not thermonuclear in construction), I was forced to seek employment outside of my vocation.

Although not yet formally known as Global Anglicanism's Leading Doctrinal Warrior, I was nonetheless massively over-qualified for most advertised positions. Indeed: were it not for my brilliant ability to speak authoritatively about nothing for hours at a time (a skill finely-honed through years of Conservative exegetical preaching) maintaining the lifestyle to which I have been called might have proven impossible. As it was, however, I simply proclaimed myself as the world's finest Caucasian feng-shui master, and consultation fees began rolling in from wherever infomercial channels were foolish enough to let me advertise on credit.

Naturally this isn't something I generally make public: these days the big-money end of Evangelical giving prefers their heresies to be of a Donatist/Gnostic kind. Yet there's no denying the legacy of this profitably superstitious interlude on my journey to Orthodox Supremacy, and thus it is that I find myself unable to resist offering all My Beloved Sinners a Special Blessing to mark today's auspicious date. Besides, nobody has ever been able to give me one good reason as to why the Lectionary doesn't formally recognize the contribution made to Christianity by Spinal Tap.

Consequently I present this delightful image for you to all print, frame, and hang wherever it might inspire you daily contemplate the future of our Church. Sent to me directly from the Diocese of Mordor - a place so perverse that I have been told it is currently Spring, and not Fall as is the case in Christian nations - it features little Dobby Ould modelling his Lord Jensen's latest statement in Summer vestments. Surrounding the house-elf (who, incidentally, can't possibly be a racist on account of the fact that he's sired three offspring with an Asian woman - irrespective of the filth he shamelessly endorses) is a splendid collection of evango-fundie ministry tools.

Study it closely, My Beloved Sinners. For this is the future of the glorious Anglican schism.

I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

If St Paul's day be fair and clear...

Despite being cursed with a hopelessly dated interior, I’ve always considered St. Paul’s Cathedral as having a great deal of potential. Granted, the dreadful pipe organ desperately needs replacing with a nice modern electronic unit: would you believe that during my last visit the tour guide actually admitted their monstrosity doesn’t even have a bossa nova button!!!! And how their webmaster can keep a straight face while claiming “Music is integral to the worshipping and educational life of the cathedral” when there’s no plinth upon which three young people and an overweight and highly suspect older one can lead the congregation by strumming on badly tuned guitars is utterly beyond me.

Even so, there’s absolutely nothing about St. Paul’s interior design which couldn’t be fixed with a little drywall from Home Depot. Rip out all the fussy woodwork and boring memorials, lift everyone’s mood with some cheery and colorful synthetic carpet, and before you can say “I know someone who’ll do the work cheap if we pay cash” the place would become a really practical ministry space in which Christians could quibble over the minutiae of Galatians or Colossians unhindered by pesky unbelievers foolishly seeking a sense of the numinous via Christopher Wren’s architecture.

Yet as those of you who sinfully use the internet for more than just studying my homilies and visiting my informative and entertaining advertisers are probably aware, St. Paul’s has recently been in the news for reasons entirely unconnected with the outmoded decor. Rather than a problem with undesirable furnishings, the Dean and his Clergy are facing something much more trivial: undesirable people. And do you know, My Beloved Sinners, the reason why these godless liberal apostates don’t know what to when confronted by an instance of people they don’t like daring to lower the tone of their precious Church property and surrounds? I’ll tell you: because they don’t know Scripture!!!!!!

Every Bible-believing Conservative knows that the Gospels aren’t exactly the most useful part of God's Word, but when it comes to dealing with people loitering around one’s Church, King James left us not just one, but four indisputable accounts of how Jesus handled things. My personal favorite is in John 2:13-16: here Jesus not only sent them packing without so much as a tract explaining that clinical depression is caused by sin, but He even made a whip and gave them a good thrashing on their way out. You can call me old-fashioned, but this worked back in Jesus’ time and, more importantly, works for me today – do you think any trick-or-treating kiddies so much as dared to ring the Rectory doorbell this week? (Although a group of local mothers concerned about Bishop Quinine taking turns to stand on the pavement outside and warn any unsuspecting little ones to keep away may also have played a small part).

Indeed: if the Prelates Knowles and Chartres knew the first thing about Biblical Ministry they’d be outside whipping their unwanted guests until the ingrates either fled in terror or repented of their incapacity to appreciate the importance of global merchant banking when it comes to proclaiming the Kingdom of Heaven. After which their Graces would undoubtedly contact me for help contemporizing their tired old building – did I mention that I can get them a good price on some really lovely and only marginally toxic partitioning?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Love's Labour's Tossed.

What’s in a name? It all depends: if your name is “Bill Gates” then it’s the confidence that nobody’s going to call the fraud squad when you feel the urge to pass million dollar checks. Or the name “Steve Jobs” means that when you die the world will call you a visionary for selling recordings to people who’ve already purchased them twice before. While, on the other hand, the undertaker rarely breaks out premium grade formaldehyde for people called “Jane Doe”. And if one's family name is “bin Laden” it’s probably best to abandon your lifelong dream of a career at West Point. Or on the Alabama monster truck circuit.

Indeed, My Beloved Sinners: some hack called Shakespeare may well have said “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”, but when I told the peroxide blonde who does “special” waxing at Cindy’s E-Z Nailz ‘n’ Beauty in the mall that she is the fragrant personification of Rosa Rubignosa she slapped my face and screamed that a three month course of antibiotics had “done fixed that rash fo’ good an’ any folks sayin’ diffrunt are cruizin’ for a learnin’ from muh step-cousin which won trophies fo’ kickboxing.”

Hence I must now implore you to learn from a recent occurrence within my own Ministry Team. By way of catching up on what had been happening in the parish during my recent absence I was studying the Church office internet logs, when, much to my horror, I discovered Evangelical Eric (my miserable excuse for a Curate) had been googling everything there is to know about someone called “Billy Love”. Naturally, given my decades of selfless research into the sin in people’s lives, I have the gift of spotting a homosexualist nom de porn faster than you can say “Hugh Jorgan or “Dick Hunter. Or even “non-stipendiary Church of England priest”.

Hence I immediately knew – with the unshakeable certainty unique to those whose qualifications are in dubious theology (as opposed to godless liberal faux-sciences like psychiatry, medicine, psychology, or anthropology) when speaking on matters pertaining to sexuality – that my own Curate had been partaking of material featuring people making decisions with regard to their manner of life which involved engorged poles of man-flesh. And incoherent grunting. Needless to say the situation called for urgent pastoral intervention, and the rest of the St. Onuphrius' team were eager to assist (with the exception, I'm sorry to say, of Consuella, who just muttered something in Spanish about us "surely having something better to do with our time").

We began by implementing the the reorientation program Brother Richthofen and his Friends from Seminary have thoughtfully developed after being inspired by this well-balanced young man. (Don’t worry if you can’t make it to the end of his sermon. Neither can Bishop Quinine, who says there is something about the boy’s accent which always compels him to take the parish hounds out for a walk. Although curiously enough he generally forgets to take the dogs with him when he leaves, and only ever seems to get as far as the sports field change rooms.) Yet the wicked Curate continued denying everything. Instead of meekly repenting while we gently beat him about the lower limbs with facsimile editions of the Geneva Bible, Eric persisted in maintaining his innocence. In fact so pathetic were the boy’s shrieks as we (in love, of course) tightened his correctional thumbscrews that I even stopped and listened to what he was trying to say. And – would you believe – he kept insisting that this “Billy Love” is actually a Conservative Bishop in northeastern New York.

That’s right my Sinners; and have you ever heard of such a thing? Then, as if this wasn’t outlandish enough, he claimed this supposed Prelate is actually a faithful disciple of my own Ministry Principles: encouraging Episcopalians to embrace prosperity teaching; being rude (especially to those whom God has appointed to exercise authority over him); fraternizing with dubious friends - not to mention being really obsessed with homosexualists.

Of course we paid no heed to such a pathetic delusion, and while there’s absolutely no empirical evidence to show Eric’s reorientation therapy is proving successful, we all know that a little thing like that isn’t enough to stop our program soon developing into a world-wide and highly profitable venture. Especially since our anecdotal evidence shows it works perfectly, and once his new obsession with suicide settles down into a more manageable case of chronic self-loathing my Curate should be almost as functional as any other emotionally-crippled Conservative. Although it'll probably never be a good idea to allow him to watch figure-skating unsupervised. Which just goes to show how blessed he is that we haven’t been fooled by his fanciful tales of this erstwhile “Billy Love” actually being a Bishop – when it comes to Love one should always give more weight to preconceptions and cultural phobias than to the Gospels and the Holy Spirit.

Isn’t that right +Albany?

I’m Father Christian I teach the Bible.

Yesterday’s Poo-poo (Remember Martin Ssempa?)

“Today’s news, tomorrow’s fish wrap.” That’s what my dear old mother always said, although she generally concluded the old truism with an additional line less common in these apostate and wicked times: “the day-after’s basis of a tasty seafood bouillabaisse for which your father’s Curate should be deeply grateful.”

Naturally I’d like to believe My Beloved Sinners faithfully strive to emulate my obsession with the most righteous men in Christendom. Yet the reality is that most of you are no less fickle in your admirations than the average evildoer, and when I make a hissing snake-like “Ssssss” sound all too few you respond by heartily cheering “Ssempa!” Indeed, the name that was a mere sixteen months ago synonymous with the inspiring cry of Eat Da Poo-Poo appears now forgotten as a host of my imitators from Rick Warren down try their hardest to avoid making any mention of their former best friend.

Granted, one can still occasionally find news of the most modest man in Kampala since Idi Amin proclaimed himself “Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea” – if you only click on one link in my entire homily make it this one - but not even the happy nepotists and house-elves of Mordor, who have gleefully proclaimed Uganda ”the future of evangelicalism” (and you thought the past was miserable?!), seem eager to keep Pastor Poo-poo’s name on everyone’s lips.

Which is why I’m so deeply grateful to the young man who took the trouble to register the Blogspot name Quidra in order to leave a comment on a homily I posted back in June 2010. At the time of his missive’s reception the boy’s profile had been viewed a massive two times: now over a month later I see the count has now already reached five, so he’s clearly on his way to becoming a living global meme for all that Pastor Ssempa represents, and it’s with this in mind that I reproduce his marvelous effort verbatim:

“all u people are wrong about this. but if you think you can tarnish pr. Martin's reputation, you have got it wrong. and watch out because our Lord is watching. you may cover your self with titles as fathers but stop taking your flock astray. do not mess with Pr. Martin for trouble awaits you. so watch out.”

What more can be said? Although I must add that I doubt it’s possible for anyone to do as much for "Pr." (Prior?) Martin’s reputation as he has himself. As the author’s fine grasp of punctuation, grammar, and capitalization illustrates, Martin Ssempa’s congregation is largely comprised of students at Uganda’s oldest university, which last month was closed indefinitely following industrial disputes by both students and faculty. The parish mission statement (“TO PREVENT AIDS AND MENTOR LEADERS THROUGH CHURCH PLANTING ON AFRICAN COLLEGE CAMPUSES”) summarizes the Great Commission with an eloquence Jesus so obviously lacked. But it’s the fact that little Martin Ssempa’s flock at Makerere Community Church refer to their spiritual gulag as “MCC” that really has our sidesman Professor Sigmund jumping up and down…

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

UPDATE: For a fascinating report on the whole mess of poo-poo that's currently little Martin's life visit GayUganda here.

Friday Evening Palate Cleanser (Chocolate Jesus)

Given the folks at one of my flaccid imitators appear regularly obsessed with the many dangers of an unclean palate it seems only right that we also kick off the weekend with a little aural oral hygiene courtesy of Archdeacon Tom Waits.

Even if as the result of a terrible childhood accident you're incapable of enjoying anything not played by a praise band, at least listen for the reference at 0:27 to "an immaculate confection". If only Graham Kendrick was blessed with such eloquence...

Behold the Captive is Released!

Just when I was growing convinced the only way my freedom could be regained would involve an earthquake (possibly caused by the small thermo-nuclear device Brother Richthofen’s Friends from Seminary have begun assembling from stolen smoke detectors), a miracle intervened in the form of a threat involving something far more unpleasant. That’s right - Alex Jones!

You see, My Beloved Sinners, once the FBI became serious about the alleged similarity between my DNA and that of an extraordinarily handsome and obviously learned Biblical Christian of whom I’ve never heard, Bishop Quinine contacted a few of the young agents to whom he ministered back when J. Edgar Hoover still took a personal interest in ensuring each of his most senior officers was a man’s man. After reminding them of how much he’d hate to have to tell Alex Jones the truth about what really happened in Roswell on one warm July evening back in 1947 (we all know drinking Thunderbird with mescal chasers can produce the occasional adverse reaction, but how could anyone have possibly expected it to kill the poor bug-eyed little aliens?) they immediately agreed there was no need to further investigate the matter. Especially as retesting found my DNA samples prove I’m actually a 22 year old lingerie waitress, with absolutely no relationship to a certain brilliant Orthodox Leader with unique skills as both a parachutist and parish fundraiser.

Consequently I am now once again free to minister to highways and byways of my wonderful parish. Dear old Ichabod Springs may not be blessed with the beautiful panoramic scenery of Akron, Ohio, and we don’t enjoy the mild, pleasant winters of Minneapolis (nor the gentle, balmy summers of Yuma, Arizona), and we mightn’t, for that matter, have the unforgettable public architecture of Natural Bridge, Alabama, but even so there’s still nowhere else on God’s earth that I’d rather share the sound of my weed-whacker at half-past five in the morning.

Indeed, so charming a place is this town so blessed as to be called my home that there can be no doubt of the role it has played in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s alleged decision to retire next year. For years there’s been no secret about Rowan’s yearning to join My Ministry Team in an honorary capacity (given young people just don’t get excited by the idea of a five hour lecture on Dostoevsky the way they used to - personally I blame video games – there’s no way the parish could justify his appointment him upon a stipendiary basis), and so after the past few years of monkeying around with the Primates (as opposed to primating around with Monkeys?) it looks like the young man finally feels qualified to join us.

But now, My Beloved Sinners, I must break your hearts by returning to tasks more important than teaching lost and ignorant evildoers such as yourselves. You wouldn’t believe the amount of correspondence awaiting my urgent attention – and it’s not just all emails from Russian women proffering psycho-sexual pharmaceuticals at a fraction of the legitimate retail. No indeed, the first task once this homily is evangelistically displayed upon the intertubes will be to advise a delightful little man of the cloth who has been simply begging for my assistance. In fact he may well be someone with whom many of you are familiar: he lives in Charleston and is generally known as by the name of “Bishop Quisling”...

 I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

9/11/2011. No show today.

A decade ago today thousands of people were killed in New York. Hundreds more were killed in Pennsylvania and Washington. Some of them were the partners of people reading this; others were their daughters, or sons. Or their sisters, or brothers. Or mothers, or fathers, uncles or aunts. Still others were friends, or colleagues. Or perhaps someone you’d once met at a party, or with whom you occasionally shared an elevator. Most were unknown to you (especially since North Americans comprise only about 70% of this blog’s readership), and quite possibly lived in a country oceans away from wherever it is you call home. Yet regardless of your relationship to them (or lack thereof) they mattered. Not least because they were human, and to be human is to be made of the same stuff as God incarnate.

And today they are gone. But not forgotten.

Maybe someday I’ll find the right words to say more than that: God knows I’ve been trying for the past week to write something more profound, something which might – albeit in just the smallest of ways – offer consolation to those grieving. But nothing seems to come out how I want it. In a perfect world I could bring some sort of meaning to the evil which is death at the hands of murderous young men under the delusion which is fundamentalism (irrespective of the theological façade – Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or whatever – it’s invariably young men who are the most eager to taste blood, just as it is a much smaller group of old men who spur them on, and women who are forced into subserviently keeping the whole diabolical performance operational). But then again, in a perfect world September 11, 2001 would have been just another day.

Nor in a perfect world would fundamentalists continue killing people. Granted, flying aircraft into buildings is (blessedly) rare, but most fundamentalist murderers prefer the vastly more efficient modus operandi of preventing the victims from living as themselves, free from fear, persecution, and shame. By denying their right to affordable health care, or education, or contraception, or equal employment. In a perfect world the obscene sexism of euphemisms like “complementarianism” would be as archaic as the hideous racism of “peculiar institution”. And the Christ who brought hope to the powerless would never - but never - be perversely conscripted into the service of those who would have us believe that the Sermon on the Mount was “Blessed are those who are the doctrinal heirs of the Pharisees”.

But I’m drifting off-topic again. Because all I really wanted this post to say is that those who are gone are not forgotten. And because they are not forgotten, it is love, not evil, which shall triumph. If today you are grieving – for whatever reason – please know that you do not grieve alone.

Father Mychal Judge inspire us.
Saint Mychal pray for us.
Holy Spirit be among us.

The Second Epistle to The Beloved Sinners

From Fr. Christian Troll, a prisoner for the sake of our Lord Holy Bible:
By the grace of my own righteousness the trifling matter which brought me here is just about resolved,. Unfortunately, however, apostate Federal authorities have successfully sought to continue my detention whilst clarifying an apparent similarity between my DNA and that of someone named D. B. Cooper: obviously they’re completely mistaken as I’ve never so much as even heard of the man, whom I must say does appear to be extraordinarily handsome, and is undoubtedly a remarkably wise and mature Biblical Christian.

Not that this should cause My Beloved Sinners any further stress than that you’re already enduring as a result of my current inability to generously deliver internet homilies on a more regular basis. One way or another I’m sure to be out of here soon: Bishop Quinine has purchased a toy helicopter from a Chinese guy at a stall in the mall, and has been making Evangelical Eric continuously practice flying it while watching a video of Breakout: as soon as the young man has finished growing a Charles Bronson moustache (which I regret to say is taking him rather longer than I would wish) the pair of them will be a chartering a full-size chopper and lifting me to freedom before you can say Isaiah 40:31 (or perhaps “Pascal Payet” if you’re not familiar with those few parts of the Old Testament not directly concerned with homosexualism).

In the meantime I must say how terribly boring the news has been from the broader world of the glorious Anglican Schism. After all – it must have been months since little Bobby Duncan announced a new plan to establish 20,000 new churches, or even appointted a few hundred new bishops. In fact the most exciting thing to have happened in Christendom seems to have been Dobby Ould’s recent world trip (what’s the name of the delightful furry rodent renown for deserting sinking ships again?), in which he got terribly excited about some Arizona fundamentalists with a predilection for guns.* I believe on his next holiday our favorite house-elf will be visiting the South Pole, where he’ll be amazed to find snow. Followed by a hiking trip in the forest, wherein we shall all be blessed with a fascinating blog post vis-à-vis his astonishing discovery that bears excrete in the you-know-where.

All of which is in stark contrast to the tremendous victories of my own ministry in here: I’m proud to say I’ve now prepared a great many of my fellow inmates for ordained ministry in ACNA, and their transition from Bishop Quinine’s smuggled contraband (mainly cigarettes and girly books) to the trinkets of the ever-munificent Jack Iker and Bobbie Duncan (funny faux-mitres and rented Adventist meeting houses) should surely be a simple one. Nor very different to that undergone by those who preceded them.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

*If you really must cut and paste: http://www.davidould.net/index.php?/blog/comments/adult_sunday_school_in_arizona_automatic_weapons
The comments following are funny: he is accused of telling untruths concerning his hosts' firearms.

At Last! (A New Prison Epistle)

From Father Troll, a prisoner of Holy Scripture, unto His Beloved Sinners weeping and ignorant in the darkness of the intertubes:

Grace and Peace to you! Such is the wickedness of these apostate latter days that this Epistle comes to you from prison, where I await trial for no other crime than that of proclaiming the Gospel without fear, compromise, nor compassion for those who would deny the Doctrinally Sound their right to speak on behalf of God. Bishop Quinine has finally remembered to smuggle in some notepaper and a pencil, and thus it is that with my Own Hand I am dictating this to one of the few faithful-but generally-illiterate prisoners gathered about me capable of such an important task - “Scribbles” was convicted for sending menacing letters, and thanks to my pastoral guidance is now looking forward to upon release using his skill and experience as a member of the team at Viagraville.

Nor is he my only convert here. After being cavity searched upon his first visit, Bishop Quinine has dropped by on a daily basis (twice daily if his favourite warden is on duty). Since not even the most indiscriminating of guards is desperate enough to go there a second time, he’s taken to bringing in more contraband than there are whacking pics on an Evangelical’s hard drive. As a result of which My Ministry has been enjoying the kind of respect normally only shown by travel agents to Gafcon Primates. Although the sudden influx is beginning to cause hyper-inflation (services which could once be purchased for a few cigarette ends now cost at least several packets and an autographed picture of the Ould twins - obviously the latter aren’t really genuine, but if Brother Richthofen’s facsimile is good enough for Dobby’s credit card provider it’s fine here) . Consequently the prison’s economy is already a pleasing foretaste of how things will look a few years after Mark Meckler and his fellow party-goers have saved America from the tyranny of just and equitable taxation.

Of course I must also reassure my British Sinners that this exciting new phase in my unequalled walk with Jesus has absolutely nothing to do with looting, rioting, or generally running amuck as an excuse to obtain new sneakers and a plasma television. Although I do think that words simply can’t convey how worthy of our respect those young men and women are for diverting attention away from St. Rupert Murdoch’s unfortunate difficulties. And as for Amy Winehouse’s ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the man whose newspapers fought so hard to preserve her privacy, self-esteem, and dignity… tears well up in my eyes at knowing it’s not just Biblical Christians like myself who love the man who owns both Fox News and Zondervan. Not, of course, that their core market is able to distinguish between the two.

No, it is purely due to my faithfulness to Scripture that things have taken this turn. The Bible explicitly calls us to “Praise him upon the high-sounding cymbals” (Psalm 150:5), and thus I can do no other. Accompanied by the tuneful blasts of my sackbut (“mine horn shall be raised as an unicorn” – Ps 92:10 ) my bold proclamation of Righteousness (in case you’re wondering I tie the cymbals to the inside of my knees, freeing my hands to manfully grasp my sackbut), was deemed in violation of a restraining order corruptly issued in favor of the local baptists, and - as if there’s any hour at which we’re exempt from praising the One who called us to serve the Scriptures - it appears that the irrelevant fact of it being half-past two in the morning caused the acting district attorney to successfully oppose my bail.

None of which should be any cause for alarm on your behalf, My Beloved Sinners, even if it has resulted in you all having been left for more than a month without any Biblical guidance. The reason my trial has been delayed is so that things could wait until the regular DA returned from vacation – a man whom has not infrequently availed himself of the ministry provided by Consuella’s pole-dancer’s fellowship, and whom when confronted with photographic evidence of the same is sure to seek a more appropriate sentence. Naturally since the charge is essentially one of preaching the gospel I can do nothing other than plead guilty, but rather than the period of incarceration currently proposed (I could have been mistaken, but I believe I heard the phrase “throw away the key” being bandied about) I expect something more along the lines of that enjoyed by Little Don Armstrong - charity service and a comparison to Mandela. And of course the charity will be my own “Leaf blowers for Africa”, although if the Murdochs are prepared to establish a suitably fraudulent trust fund I’ve no doubt I would instead be called to act for them as a consultant. In a strictly Biblical context, of course.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Princess Leia's Conservative Conjugal Bliss.

From a thread at Viagraville (sigh: where else?) following a really special piece by Dobby Ould (double-sigh: who else?) comes a few words of wisdom from a graduate of the Ike Turner School of Marital Counseling who likes to be known as “Jedinovice”. Which you’ve at least got to admit explains why Darth Vader developed so many problems a whole lot better than Star Wars Pt. 1 and those other two stupid prequels.

“My wife was talking to a wife with marital difficulties. She made good suggestions to the woman in question. To each suggestion the retort was, 'I can’t do that. I have my pride.'
'Then you can eat your pride.' My wife said eventually. 'In marriage there is no such thing as pride. Where there is, there is no marriage'.
Bingo.
The natural order is unequal. Rights and Pride are impediments to salvation. Frankly they are impediments to marriage and family!”

Since I can see you’ve all collapsed on the floor it’s probably best we leave things for now. Anyone who thinks the quote can’t possibly be genuine can read it here. If they must.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Oh what a tangled web we weave,,,

... when our Orders sworn we plan to leave.

A few hours ago a Beloved Sinner left a comment pointing us all to a fascinating post by a gentleman who, while not actually swimming the Tiber, has certainly donned his water wings and waded out further from the shore than could ever be considered healthy.

So fascinating was this post, in fact, that a few hours later our sacerdotal swimmer appears to have had second thoughts, and deleted the piece. Which is a great pity, since it contained an enthralling tale of how the trustees of a well-known Anglican organization donated £1 million to the Ordinariate (that's right My Sinners - One Million Pounds! Which is a whole lot of incense and man-lace in anybody's currency) before then themselves heading off for a spot of synchronized swimming.

Fortunately Brother Richthofen's friend from seminary is wise in the ways of something called "Google Cache", and by clicking here the original piece can still be accessed.

Under legal advice I'm not going to reproduce it here (and yes, I have saved a copy lest the cached version also vanish), but I can't urge My Sinners strongly enough to click here and marvel at the way little Bobby Duncan's tactics can work on both sides of the Atlantic. Or Tiber.

And thank you once again to Child of Light who drew my attention to this gem.

I'm Father Christian and you can give me £1 million anytime.

Sorry Charles.

"Revisionists will no doubt express various degrees of outrage at the emergence of the AMiE..."

Little Charles Raven of SPREAD arousing Jensenites.

Could be, Charles my boy, but so far all I've heard is schadenfreude and laughter. Which I've got to tell you (since, like most of your ilk, you're incapable of picking up subtleties unassisted), ain't with you.

I'm Father Christian, and my degrees are in the Bible

The Bible Truth is Out There.

Like any Conservative Biblical Leader, from time to time I also need to sit down and relax in the peaceful goodness of all the Lord’s gifts. Which is why there are few things I enjoy more after a hard day’s Ministry studying sin in all its manifold and lurid permutations than watching Youtube clips of people bashing the bejesus out of each other.

Indeed, there’s something about the earnest features of a sports enthusiast intent upon breaking noses, or the intelligent and compassionate gaze of a riot cop burying his baton in a young protestor’s dreadlocks, that always reminds what of what the Anglican Communion will be when we’ve finally got rid of all the Liberals, Disrespectful Women, Homosexualists, and People Who Think the Gospels Matter. (A list I often abbreviate for the sake of those home-schooled – or educated by Jensenists - to “People Who Think”.)

So it was, a few weeks ago, one evening while Bishop Quinine and I were enjoying a refreshing tankard of mescal and some mushrooms he’d picked in the woods, that we were perusing images of the recent Vancouver riots that it suddenly became clear there was something much deeper going on than just a few hockey aficionados giving new meaning to the term “losing gracefully”. Something Apostate Liberal Christians and their media lackeys didn’t want Bible-believers to know; something darker than anything any of us (except me, of course) had ever seen before. But what?

After another tankard and a few more mushrooms Bishop Quinine grew convinced it had something to do with a secret message in the hose scene from Battlefield Earth, but I knew the answer lay deeper. Casting my mind back to my vast knowledge of biblical proof-texts, the truth became suddenly clear as I recalled Deuteronomy 17:8-10:

“If there arise a matter too hard for thee in judgment, between blood and blood, between plea and plea, and between stroke and stroke, being matters of controversy within thy gates: then shalt thou arise, and get thee up into the place which the LORD thy God shall choose;
And thou shalt come unto the priests the Levites, and unto the judge that shall be in those days, and enquire; and they shall shew thee the sentence of judgment:
And thou shalt do according to the sentence, which they of that place which the LORD shall choose shall shew thee; and thou shalt observe to do according to all that they inform thee.”

Do you see, My Beloved Sinners? The real reason Vancouver’s young people were furious had nothing to with the Bruins trumping the Canucks 4-0: they were actually angry over what had been occurring at the same time as the game, or, as the Bible puts it, “between blood and blood, between plea and plea, and between stroke and stroke”. Which was something so terrible most of my Conservative Imitators were unable to report it - a jurisprudential outrage being wrought upon the little David Short and the few other True Christians north of the 49th parallel! The fine men and women overturning cars and smashing store windows weren’t just burning off excess hormones and obtaining merchandise at the most attractive discount of all, they were alerting the world to a gross injustice.

As the verse quoted above teaches, when an issue comes before any court which involves matters beyond the judge’s understanding, the Bible calls for matter to be referred to the Levite Priests, which was Old Testament terminology for Wise and Mature Biblical-Christian Leaders who Know Everything – men like Me, in other words. This is something of which the young people of Vancouver are all well aware, because I know for a fact that little Don Harvey has personally shared the Gospel with every single one of them. In spite of looking like a late middle-aged lesbian. After all, if he hadn’t do you really think he’d be flying around and telling the rest of the world how they’re doing everything wrong?

Having had their eyes opened to the Truth, these young people were quite rightly refusing to accept the decision of a court entirely lacking in authority when it comes to the question of stealing church property. That the real reason for their anger hasn’t been made public is hardly surprising given the octopus-like tentacles of the International Apostate Liberal Cabal, which have infiltrated and now control every aspect of the media. Including the home-shopping channel – you can’t honestly believe it’s just coincidence that they never ask me to demonstrate those machines guaranteed to give firmer hips and thighs, can you?

Unbelievers may laugh and mock, but now the Conspiracy has been exposed by My Superior Scriptural Scholarship Sinners everywhere can rest assured I’ll be campaigning to have this matter brought before the United Nations. What’s more, given Archbishop Okoh’s profound understanding of that institution (not to mention the respect for the Church he's inspired among U.N. employees) I’m certain he’ll feel honored to help.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Friday Afternoon Palate Cleanser [ON-TOPIC]

As one of My Liberal Imitators is frequently obsessed with oral hygiene, the Scriptures have guided me to start showing a little consideration for the fleshy interiors of My Beloved Sinners' mandibular regions.

Inspired by a wonderful piece of misleading advertising one of my regular commenters discussed, I’ve selected an appropriately entitled piece for the historic inauguration of this new ministry - watch out for the definitive conservative aphorism at 1:33.



I’m Father Christian and I care about your palatal tori.

Rev. Gander, please meet “Bishop” Goose’s sauce.

For the past few days I’ve been trying to finish an important homily about the terrible Canadian Liberal Media Conspiracy I’ve unearthed. However, My Beloved Sinners, I regret to say that each time I’ve sat down to finish imparting a little of my Fathomless Biblical Knowledge I’ve found myself distracted by an aching grief in the pit of my spiritual nether-regions.

And no, this discomfort has absolutely nothing to do with the Chicken Tartare I served the Ministers’ Fraternal last week. Not only am I not even remotely foolish enough to have sampled any myself, but as it only killed one or two of those who were you’ll have to agree that a trivial little incident like that is hardly enough to disturb a Teacher of my abilities.

Instead the real reason has to do with the pain currently faced by my Conservative Brethren in Great Britain, the fine folk of Fulcrum; an organization committed to “Renewing the Evangelical center”. (A strange sort of mission statement, since trying to do something about the nut in the middle of those candies always left over after all the nice ones are taken has always struck me as the height of futility. Although one can’t help admiring their ambition.)

That’s right: after years of encouraging acronym-laden groups who meddle in other peoples’ corners of the Communion, the Fellowship of the Fulcrumites is now to be confronted by gatecrashers upon their own doorstep. And they’re not happy. In fact they even have “very serious concerns”, which as everybody knows is Evangelicalese for “we’re madder than Bobby Duncan’s eyebrows”.

Which is hardly surprising. After all, it’s one thing for a bunch of faux-Africans with unpleasant purple gleams in their eyes to cause division in North American churches, but another thing entirely for the little Messrs. Minns and Jensen to set up shop as the “Anglican Mission in England” (Is “AMiE” really that much catchier, or are someone’s marketing guys just getting lazy?) and start fragmenting the Church of England’s already comparatively small wingnut brigade. And just because the creatures with whom one chooses to lie happen to be riddled with fleas is hardly reason to expect one’s own hide might eventually start itching. Is it?

Consequently I know you will all understand how deeply the idea someone should have to reap at home what they’ve tacitly consented to being sown abroad distresses me. After all, the Anglican Communion is like a great big garden, and how could we ever have imagined that the minority of horticulturalists tending that garden who thought it clever to begin breeding triffids would someday find the toxic seedlings turning on the hands by whom they were pollinated? It’s a tragedy the likes of which not even The Amazing Criswell could have dreamed up (speaking of whom, I wonder his prediction concerning cannibalism in Pittsburgh was actually a prophetic foresight of ACNA?). Indeed, given these developments it’s a powerful testimony to My Strength of Character that I’m able to get anything done at all. Especially since I keep laughing so hard I think my sides are going to split.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Do you think I might have upset somebody?

I love it when My Admirers tell me how much they have been blessed by My Ministry. Knowing how much all of you are also blessed by hearing my praises sung, I have generously felt called to share the following comment, which was a just a few minutes ago left in response to my important recent homily on Viagraville.

Obviously the author feels too humbled by the honor of addressing a Christian Leader of my Fame, Wisdom, Spiritual Maturity, and Modesty to do so any way other than anonymously, but to show how touched I am by their innocent childlike awe I am leaving their syntax, spacing and capitalization unaltered. Although in order to save those of you basking in the light of My Biblical Teaching at your place of work or education from being instantly dismissed and/or forever blocked by godless internet filters I have thoughtfully replaced a few letters with asterisks.

go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself go f*** yourself and you’re a***ole church
and your idiot "faithful"

I'm Father Christian, and I bring out the best in my fellow Bible-believing Conservatives.

Job 5:3 (Look it up.)

People less Theologically Learned than myself (a group which, let’s face it, comprises pretty much everyone) frequently write and wonder why I devote so much of my inestimably valuable attention to little Peter Jensen and his “Anglican” Diocese of Mordor. “How is it,” they ask as their eyes grow moist with bewildered admiration, “that a Doctrinal Warrior at the very heart of the International Anglican Schism should be called to bother himself with a few financially dubious nepotists who not only make the Phelps clan look genetically diverse, but who also reside on that part of the earth's topography which is undeniably analogous to its nether regions ?”

It’s a valid question, even if I do usually respond by humiliating (in love, of course) the person asking it. After all: it’s not as if there’s anything that special about the way the GAFCON General Secretary runs his fiefdom. At least there isn’t when viewed in the context of such bastions of Christian freedom as North Korea or Burma. And just because the Archbishop of Sydney took his See to the brink of bankruptcy while simultaneously requiring parishes purchase pamphlets by the carton load from a privately-owned publishing company doesn’t mean he’s any more corrupt than, for example, little Don Armstrong. Even if this did result in that company enjoying financial blessings of a magnitude more commonly associated with striking oil, or importing white powder from Columbia. Besides, I’m sure the fact that members of Peter Jensen’s family just happen to be significant shareholders in that same company is of absolutely no relevance.

Nor are the Jensen regime’s house-elves really any more spectacularly sycophantic than those of other sects. Or at least not those sects that don’t consider sarin a sacrament and demand members wax lyrical about “the supreme sacrifice”. Certainly we can all name a certain serial liar (don’t bother clicking it: visitors from this site are blocked, but that doesn’t stop Google-bots indexing my link under “serial liar”, and words can’t describe how happy that makes Deacon David Ould) for whom the judges invariably hold up a “10” when scoring his latest missive for oleaginousness, but that’s nothing any regular at Viagraville can’t also achieve given a few moments alone with a picture of their quintessentially masculine heroes. (Incidentally Dobby, please don’t ever forget truth is a defense at law under both my jurisdiction and yours, and you’ve opened your desperately ambitious little mouth more than frequently enough to give my attorney an inappropriate bulge in his Armani trousers every time he dreams about the day you start screaming “libel”.)

No, the true reason I keep such a careful eye on the realm which has put more words into the mouths of African Prelates than Martyn Minns is because there is simply no other institution on earth with so many leaders capable of making Michele Bachmann look intelligent. Indeed, finding just one such individual of such usefully meager caliber is extremely difficult, yet recently I’ve been following a truly fine blog by one of My Beloved Sinners who is able to uncover from amongst the Chosen Ones of Mordor a new and delightfully stupid bigot on what is almost a daily basis! That’s right – a fresh (Lord, give me strength to resist spelling that as “Phresh”!) Pharisee every morning! Not even Bobby Duncan can manage that, and he’s giving away free mitres as an incentive!

And amidst this plethora of Conservative Christian calumny one of My Beloved Sinner’s links has set a standard which Believers elsewhere in the Glorious Schism can only hope to equal. It’s a piece which is actually a few years old, and I’m really not sure how I missed it. Nor is it succinct enough to quote here – suffice it to say that in a meandering stream of really nasty innuendo it manages to claim that the Lambeth boycott was entirely justified on account of the Church being in ruins because thirty years ago Americans ordained women.

Yes, he is serious. As he is when claiming that in Nigeria and Uganda the Christian Church “looks the same as when it was first built or even better.”

No, I’m not making that up.

Really I’m not.

Look; just read it for yourselves, ok?

In fact I doubt even I could have made up the stuff there if I’d tried, and I’m Father Christian.

Stand Firm Gets Hard On Excorcism

It has, I am sorry to say, been a long time since little Melanie, Matt, Dobby, and Whats-her-name at Viagraville lived up to their priapic reputation. So long, in fact, that I was just about to send them the name of a good urologist when (undoubtedly in answer to the prayers I never quite got around to offering on their behalf) they appear to have discovered where Matron had hidden the Kool-Aid, and once again managed to get Deacon Wobbly pointing in a roughly vertical direction.

No, I’m not talking about Dobby Ould’s thoughtful presentation of Islamic evangelism. Although given the spectacular inability of his beloved House of Jensen when it comes to winning converts, Dobby’s enthusiasm is really quite understandable: compared with the miserable package he and his fellow serfs of Mordor have to peddle, a religion which merely encourages taping explosives around one’s nether-regions and then self-detonating is an easy sell by anyone’s standards.

Rather it’s little Matt Kennedy’s breathless announcement – “A New Diocese in Formation in the Southwest” – that proves the self-injection kit somebody ordered from an unregistered medical institute in Tijuana is working. Certainly the announcement itself is rather prosaic once the link to the details is followed: eighteen congregations in the dynamic metropolis of West Texas and New Mexico have voted to apply to form their own subset of Bobby Duncan’s sect (as opposed to joining one of the existing subsets – which would of course be unthinkable, on account of there already being at least three Clergy in ACNA not yet appointed as Bishops) , but the dialogue that follows is priceless. Let’s follow the thread:

“Fr. Dale” (obviously one of the aforementioned three) serves:

“Why does it appear that there seems to be a lack of transformed lives for those newcomers in our churches?”

And “timmysdaman” returns:

“I would venture (very related to your post)that at least part of the reason is the lack of exorcisms performed on new members. That used to be a normative part of the discipleship/catechesis process”

The subsequent volley is of the standard we once expected from Viagraville; a brilliant exchange with far too many gems to quote them all. Highlights include “I waited 7 years in AMiA to be confirmed… it never happened, nor was it even mentioned once. I would venture a guess that we might find several AMiA clergy that have never been confirmed.” (timmysdaman) and “ I already have an idea for a book that will deal with the failure of the current mental health models to deal with problems the church has outsourced.” (Fr. Dale), but by the time you read this I’ve no doubt many more will have been added (although quite possibly also “moderated” on account of the argument transcending even little Matt Kennedy’s not insignificant threshold of silliness).

But you’ll have to excuse me: a couple have arrived with their baby for a pre-baptism interview, and I can feel My Spirit bearing witness that the very attractive young mother has a Jezebel demon in need of my ministry. While the father, who looks like he may be wearing after-shave, is clearly held captive to ancestral spirits of homosexuality. Undoubtedly his mother had an uncle who was a Freemason. Now has anyone seen my recording of Tubular Bells?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

A New Orc for Aukland Castle.

Beloved Sinners the world over are grief-stricken as a result of hearing the news that I will not be appointed the next Bishop of Durham. Naturally both Myself and God understand your tears, but I must confess the official announcement came as no surprise, since I have been aware for some time of the coming heartbreak for those dwelling in the fiefdom previously ruled in absentia by little Tom Wright. Consequently I must apologize for not having spared you all this shock: I did indeed considered spilling the beans in advance, but on account of my lacking the Archbishop of Canterbury’s nimble morality when it comes to leaking confidential information this was never really an option.

Still, hard as it is to comprehend in the midst of your tears and sorrow, I must ask you to all try and understand that as as a Christian it would have been impossible for me to accept the position. Not only am I manifestly over-qualified, but very early on in the process it became obvious they were looking for an Evangelical, which is, of course, just a polite label for Baptists who lack the courage of their convictions.

In addition I very much doubt the Diocese would have been able to keep me in the manner to which I am entitled. Just look how the previous incumbent was forced to subsidize his stipend by travelling the world and peddling books. 1 Timothy 5:18 is clear that employees are entitled to appropriate remuneration in return for their services. (Please don’t worry your fallen hearts about my figurative interpretation of the first part of that verse, which is actually a prohibition against muzzling one’s oxen. Unlike the rest of Scripture it’s not about sex, and thus there’s no need for it to be understood literally.) Consequently, as a faithful Bible-believer I have always refused to be soiled by any Church structure not prepared to meet their god-given obligations. And since Auckland Castle doesn’t even have a Jacuzzi, it defies me to see how any Orthodox Leader could ever be expected to base himself there. Although it does explain why Tommy Wright can be so grumpy.

In fact I have no doubt the man finally selected, the Very Revd Justin Welby, will prove an excellent choice. Thanks to Dean Slee the world has now been blessed with a window into the inspiring processes by which Church of England Clergy with ostensibly heterosexual penises are deemed worthy to receive the all-important tap on the shoulder that says it’s time to buy new-colored shirts. So we can all have no doubt his appointment was based purely upon ability. Having attended Eton wouldn’t have hurt either, since even Rowan Williams would know with that on his CV it’s certain Fr. Welby has never been tainted by homosexualists and their manner of lifestyle. After all, Guy Burgess went to Eton. As did Lord Sebastian Flyte.

What’s more, prior to following his vocation Fr. Welby worked in the petroleum industry – anyone familiar with the activities of BP in the Gulf of Mexico, or of Shell in Nigeria will know there couldn’t be a better arena in which to develop the ethical framework required of a successful British Bishop. Furthermore, he was a lay leader at Holy Trinity Brompton during St. Margaret Thatcher’s administration, where he ministered to the young Sloanes who flourished under her rule (largely because they weren’t born in places like the one which is now going to be paying him). It was these same fine people who went on to manage the European arms of the institutions which blessed our world with the global financial crisis.

However I must also agree with those who see reason to qualify their enthusiasm – I too was concerned upon learning “his recreations include most things French” – I’m too busy to recall just where in the Bible god uses the expression “cheese-eating surrender monkeys”, but it’s sure to be in there somewhere. Nor am I for one moment suggesting anyone be anything other than suspicious of those who ignore the fact that this particular species of foreigners were foundation members of the Axis of Weasels. Yet as a balanced man (as even my witless apostate critics will testify) I have to remind you all that not everything French is without merit: do I really need to say the words “kissing” and “letters”? And there can be no doubt an interest in matters Française will help the new Bishop relate to the young people of his See, particularly those rendered unemployed by the closure of regional industries – they might not be able to speak French, but with welfare payments what they are these days you’d better believe that for the most modest of fees they'll do it.

Nor let us ever forget Justin’s father Marcus was a brilliant doctor.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

California, Here I Come...

Even though I have faithfully heeded the spirit’s call to address the subject a number of times in past weeks, it looks my Sermon this morning is once again going to focus upon the importance of giving generously to one’s Church. This time, however, general parish expenditure will play no part the reasons underlying my carefully-considered exegetical emphasis. (Look: with the price of gas what it is these days, it costs a lot of money to keep my Hummer filled, ok? And it what sort of message would it give to the world if the World’s Most Orthodox Christian couldn’t just drive straight over the top of anyone getting in his way?)

No, this week will see the launch of a special new project – one even more exciting than all the other special new projects I’ve been called to launch here at St. Onuphrius’. In fact this one is so special, new, and exciting, that I can already sense everyone reaching for their plain brown envelopes and cash. That’s because I’ve just learned that Robert Schuller’s Crystal Cathedral is on the market and, My Beloved Sinners, by some miracle of what can only be described as divine timing, this sale coincides with a vision that has come to me - one involving St. Onuphrius’ expansion beyond dear old Ichabod Springs.

Of course nobody should for one moment think my decision to start jumping diocesan boundaries has been taken lightly, even if the idea did just first pop into my head a few minutes ago. Respect for Anglican boundaries is ancient part of the faith delivered unto the saints - one even older than the principle of fearing those different and/or less affluent than oneself. As such it can only be discarded in the most serious of circumstances. Like, for example, those experienced by layman Martyn Minns upon finally realizing his nagging purple itch would never get scratched if he didn’t do something drastic. Or the pressing needs of the former Archbishop of Rwanda, who correctly understood that taking over North American congregations would prove a vastly more lucrative (albeit less spiritually satisfying) substitute for his countrymen’s traditional pastime of butchering the women and children of unrelated tribes.

Needless to say, my reasons are every bit as valid. Firstly; I have always been a great admirer of Robert Schuller: it was his famous aphorism “Turn your scars into stars” which prompted an extremely profitable investment in a chain of tattoo parlours – my “Post-surgery Package” specials revolutionized industry returns. Although I’ve still to experience similar success with his other catchphrase “If you can dream it, you can do it!”, since I have yet to find myself falling down an endless tunnel with Elvis. Although I have on a number of occasions found myself naked in the shopping mall.

Secondly; I have for some time been hearing rumours of the dearth of Biblical teaching in the Los Angeles region. It grieves me deeply to report these were recently confirmed by my discovery that The Friends of Jake - a blog run by a number of people either currently or previously living in California, or who have perhaps vacationed there (or almost certainly know somebody who has once visited Disneyland) - have removed me from their blogroll!!!.

That’s right, and don’t ever dare to think that I don’t notice these things. No stench of apostasy is too subtle to escape my theologically-heightened olfactory senses, and if all you Liberal Homosexualist Christ-following Atheists and your friends think you can escape the two-edged sword of My Teaching that easily you’ve all got another thing coming. One that you ingrates had better believe an Hour of Power on my 236-foot Prayer Tower will teach you for good. (Stop rolling your eyes Consuella – I’m trying to convict these Sinners of their need for repentance!)

Finally, any members of the Crystal Cathedral’s remaing congregation (until now I’d thought only little Don Armstrong or admirers of the Jensen family were capable of shedding 90% of their congregation in just ten years) reading this needn’t worry about my arrival bringing any drastic overnight changes. Bishop Quinine and Brother Richthofen’s Friends from Seminary are already looking forward to bringing Pastor Kok’s Kigdness Korner new vigour (although I’m not sure if that’s because they misheard my saying “Pastor” as “pass the”, or because they’re unaware the man’s family name is spelt a little differently to how they’d assumed).

And admirers of the delightful Kristy Cavinder can rest assured that former Miss California’s liturgical dance ministry will most definitely continue. Although I dare say the girls in the Pole Dancers’ Fellowship may help add a few new moves to her repertoire…

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

++Rowan Gets Biblical (At Last!)

Isn’t it wonderful to see little Archbishop Rowan has finally embraced a Bible-based model of Episcopal leadership. For years we’ve all despaired at God’s Only True Communion being in the hands of someone more interested in studying Dostoevsky than slapping children with Dobson, but now thanks to Andrew Brown of The Guardian we can rejoice that beneath the tangle of Lambeth’s bushiest beard and brow actually lurks the heart of a True Conservative.

That’s right, My Beloved Sinners: the picture of our Preeminent Primate revealed in the recollections of the late Dean Colin Slee is one of a man (although please understand that I use the term loosely) not afraid to bully, intimidate, and generally carry on exactly like the Scriptures show a Prelate should behave.

Indeed, one only has to turn to Matthew 26:65 to see the temple’s High Priest (a title people in Biblical days used for Senior Clergy before they had the Bible to explain that they should really be called Bishops and Doctrinal Warriors) responding to an outrageous allegation (in this instance coming from some upstart who was merely God incarnate, and clearly nobody of any ecclesiastical consequence) by “renting his clothes”. Which doesn’t mean he leased them to poor people in return for a monthly fee, but that he ripped them while shouting and generally carrying on in a manner which in less spiritually mature surroundings would normally result in a team of burly nurses jumping out of a white van and involuntarily administering sedatives.

Rather than suppressing anger, and endeavoring to see things from the other’s perspective, the example of leadership revealed to us here in the New Testament is that of a man exploding, and ensuring his fury is vented upon those around him. Nor should we forget – lest any Apostate Liberals try to deny the passage’s relevance to us today – that this Priest was Jesus’ Minister, since he was in charge of the Church at which Our Lord worshipped. So obviously this must have been the man who gave Jesus all his best ideas (like that one which is something about making little children suffer, or throwing someone into the ocean with a millstone around their neck), since he was the one who would have delivered the sermon Jesus heard each week. In acting like an emotional thug little ++Rowan Williams has finally shown the world that he’s capable of leading in exactly the same manner as the Clergy in Jesus’ day.

Nor should we overlook the example of little Johnny Sentamu. Not only is it clear that the Archbishop of York has been every bit as nasty as ++Cantaur, but in stepping out with three other members of the Crown Nominations Commission at a critical point in the voting for a quick meeting at the urinal (or perhaps the four of them squeezed into a cubicle) (Page 4, Point 26) he’s displayed an understanding of the very essence of ecclesiastical transparency. And next time Bishop Quinine is reported for loitering near a public comfort station we’ll be sure to cite this example in his defense.

Certainly there has in recent years been a great many people questioning the future of our precious Communion in general, as well as that of little Rowan in particular. Yet now I think we can all say with confidence that the time of uncertainty is past. I predict the dynasty of Williams to reign for every bit as long as that of Caiaphas. Whose descendants I’ve no doubt are collecting tithes in Jerusalem. Aren’t they?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.