Well, My Beloved Sinners, we’re all safely aboard the aircraft and flying back to dear old Ichabod Springs. I can’t deny that I’m disappointed to have not been able to enjoy a little more time in Britain: it would have been marvellous for Evangelical Eric’s ongoing formation as a Clergyman to have taken him to see something more of his Anglican heritage: the fan-dancing theatres in Soho, for example, where I faithfully served as Chaplain during the dark days of the Blitz; or the "cottages" of Hampstead Heath, where the best and brightest Ordinands have traditionally established networks which carried them up to the very pinnacles of the Ecclesiastic authority.
Then there’s the Tower, where by executing two of his six wives Henry VIII demonstrated the family values which still inspire Orthodox Anglicans today. And the London Eye - is anything as character-building for a young Curate as experiencing the pleasure of looking down upon everybody else? Or with more time we could have visited Madame Tussauds: a portrait taken with an effigy of Lady Gaga is the kind of heirloom which adds gravitas to any Vestry wall.
Indeed: as I sit here I can’t but weep at George Washington’s foolishness at rejecting proposals for an American monarchy. After all, what could be more Christian than the principle of rule passing down to the first-born male (providing, of course, he doesn’t do anything as sinful as wish to marry an American divorcee), and relegating children unfortunate enough to be born without a penis to the reserve benches? And it’s beyond me how any American patriot can believe the bunkum Jefferson and his cohorts sprouted about “all men are created equal” after seeing Prince Charles in action. Or Princess Beatrice’s hat.
My prayer today is that everyone in The Home of the Brave might seize this opportunity to correct the terrible error of their Founding Fathers. May they not just embrace ++Cantaur’s marvelous vision for oligarchy, but also turn from sinful notions like the belief success and privilege are just rewards for hard work, and in repentance realize they are actually rights based upon one’s birth, or getting very, very lucky in the marriage stakes.
Instead of intiative and a can do attitude America needs pomp, and ceremony; instead of education and equality the Land of the Free needs pedigrees, and a servant-class who know their place. That way the world could rest in the certainty that there’d be as much chance of another Obama rising to the White House as there is of the heir to British throne ever having a parent called “Lakshmi” or “Priyadarshini”.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVIII.
Oh dear, My Beloved Sinners, I must apologize for my coverage being terminated so abruptly. I’d set off during the Lord’s Prayer, crawling through the pews in search of a power socket and cable, when suddenly I was seized by a crack team of soldiers from Prince Andrew’s Clapham Common Doggers.
The next thing I’d been spirited away to Scotland Yard via secret wartime tunnels beneath the Abbey, where a charming officer began explaining that even though water-boarding isn’t exactly a British custom, he’d be more than willing to make an exception if I didn’t explain what I’d been doing wriggling between the guest’s legs during the opening bars of “Blest Pair of Sirens" (if there is one thing I’ve long felt lacking in contemporary worship it’s the lack of recognition and respect given to Sirens).
Insisting upon my rights as the holder of a diplomatic passport (if young men from upstate New York can obtain canonical residency in Kenya, there’s certainly nothing untoward in my purchasing Somalian diplomatic status, and given the nation's primary industry is piracy there's actually a natural and oft-overlooked synergy between Somalia and schismatic clergy), I was granted the right to a telephone call, whereupon I immediately dialled Betty’s cellphone.
Would you believe it, however, but here in England it's considered polite to turn one’s cellphone off during formal occasions - even during weddings! I’d certainly never heard of such a thing before, and I’m sure it will never catch on at home. I mean to say; how could people let friends attending a funeral know about a really exciting special at Walmart, or interrupt people attending a film or play to remind their significant other to pick up some milk on the way home? Still, after leaving a couple of messages explaining my urgent need for her to return my call (and allowing my stunned interrogator to hear Betty’s voicemail message as proof that I wasn’t as delusional as he seemed to think I was), I was escorted to a holding cell, and instructed to wait with a number of other obvious subjects of mistaken detention.
And who would have believed it, but there in the midst of the happy throng were Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric, still dressed in the tattered remains of their pantomime horse. They’d been spotted by Prince Charles – always a man with a keen eye for horse-flesh – who’d ordered they be bridled and taken to his stables, where he felt they’d make a valuable genetic contribution to his polo-ponies' bloodline.
Naturally Bishop Quinine was elated. Evangelical Eric, on the other hand, began shrieking (to be fair, he was in the costume’s hind quarters), and their ruse was quickly exposed by His Royal Highness’s perceptive ostlers. The authorities were notified, and before you could say ”George Michael” they’d been placed in custody.
No sooner had the pair finished recounting their adventures than the officer who’d questioned me earlier returned. In a pleasingly amazed voice he announced that Her Majesty was on the line, and wished to speak with me. She was, as you would expect, appalled at my treatment, although as a gentleman and a Christian I insisted it was all nothing other than a simple mistake, and that she should let the matter rest with our release; other than casting all those responsible into the Tower of London no further action was necessary.
In fact everything was going so wonderfully that I in closing tapped the speaker-phone button so that she might also convey her apologies to my companions. At which point Evangelical Eric had the foolish compulsion to clear his whining little throat and ask “By the way, Your Majesty, what happened to the groom’s mother, and why isn’t anybody mentioning her today?”
The line went dead, and before I could defuse his faux pax we were dragged away to a cell so deep within the building that were Scotland Yard a mammal I’d say we were taken to somewhere between the large intestine and the colon. Which is not to say things couldn’t have been worse, although Eric found the words written above the doorway to our temporary domicile (“Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”) particularly distressing.
After a little while (how time flies when one is chained to the walls) another soldier came to tell us we’d be held down here until Long Kesh could be reopened. Which didn’t mean much to any of us, although a small quiet voice in my spirit suggested it mightn’t be a place where the other inmates afforded Reformed Bible-believing Anglican Protestants the respect to which we are entitled. For the first time things began to look as if we did indeed have a small problem, when Bishop Qunine suddenly recognized the soldier:
“Tickles?” he asked, “is that you?”
“Quinners, Your Grace?”
“Of course it’s me, you naughty little monkey. Don’t tell me the rest of the lads have been posted here with you?”
As the two chuckled and exchanged pleasantries it became clear that Bishop Qunine was in fact old friends with the officers and men of our warder's regiment - “Prince Edward’s Theatricals”. After a little more conversation, and a playful slap which would under any other circumstances have made Eric blush, and sent him scurrying away to compose yet another a letter of complaint to the Archdeacon, the soldier whom had by now been introduced to us Sgt Tickerthope left to consult his officers, assuring us that “there’d be no bother sorting something out for old Quinners and his chums”.
Not ten minutes passed before he returned with an impressive array of firm-chested British military types. It turned out Bishop Quinine had served for a time as the Theatrical’s Chaplain: as a battalion specializing in engagements demanding precision cross-dressing his pastoral skills had become legendary, and the expression “polishing the Bishop” had come to have a special meaning dear to the heart (and other places) of every man in the regiment.
A few more telephone calls and everything was sorted. Our terrible lèse majesté would be covered up, and we would be discretely deported along with a camera crew from “Girls Gone Wild”, who insisted they’d been invited to attend the festivities by Prince Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy.
Which brings us to where we are at present: travelling to Heathrow on board one of the Theatrical’s APCs. I'll write some more to you when we’re on the plane, but right now I’ve got to give Bishop Quinine his iPad back. For reasons neither you or I will ever comprehend he’d like to show his old friends the Donald Trump slideshow he put together on the flight over: I suppose someone other than Rush Limbaugh has to enjoy looking at pictures of the old bankrupt.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
The next thing I’d been spirited away to Scotland Yard via secret wartime tunnels beneath the Abbey, where a charming officer began explaining that even though water-boarding isn’t exactly a British custom, he’d be more than willing to make an exception if I didn’t explain what I’d been doing wriggling between the guest’s legs during the opening bars of “Blest Pair of Sirens" (if there is one thing I’ve long felt lacking in contemporary worship it’s the lack of recognition and respect given to Sirens).
Insisting upon my rights as the holder of a diplomatic passport (if young men from upstate New York can obtain canonical residency in Kenya, there’s certainly nothing untoward in my purchasing Somalian diplomatic status, and given the nation's primary industry is piracy there's actually a natural and oft-overlooked synergy between Somalia and schismatic clergy), I was granted the right to a telephone call, whereupon I immediately dialled Betty’s cellphone.
Would you believe it, however, but here in England it's considered polite to turn one’s cellphone off during formal occasions - even during weddings! I’d certainly never heard of such a thing before, and I’m sure it will never catch on at home. I mean to say; how could people let friends attending a funeral know about a really exciting special at Walmart, or interrupt people attending a film or play to remind their significant other to pick up some milk on the way home? Still, after leaving a couple of messages explaining my urgent need for her to return my call (and allowing my stunned interrogator to hear Betty’s voicemail message as proof that I wasn’t as delusional as he seemed to think I was), I was escorted to a holding cell, and instructed to wait with a number of other obvious subjects of mistaken detention.
And who would have believed it, but there in the midst of the happy throng were Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric, still dressed in the tattered remains of their pantomime horse. They’d been spotted by Prince Charles – always a man with a keen eye for horse-flesh – who’d ordered they be bridled and taken to his stables, where he felt they’d make a valuable genetic contribution to his polo-ponies' bloodline.
Naturally Bishop Quinine was elated. Evangelical Eric, on the other hand, began shrieking (to be fair, he was in the costume’s hind quarters), and their ruse was quickly exposed by His Royal Highness’s perceptive ostlers. The authorities were notified, and before you could say ”George Michael” they’d been placed in custody.
No sooner had the pair finished recounting their adventures than the officer who’d questioned me earlier returned. In a pleasingly amazed voice he announced that Her Majesty was on the line, and wished to speak with me. She was, as you would expect, appalled at my treatment, although as a gentleman and a Christian I insisted it was all nothing other than a simple mistake, and that she should let the matter rest with our release; other than casting all those responsible into the Tower of London no further action was necessary.
In fact everything was going so wonderfully that I in closing tapped the speaker-phone button so that she might also convey her apologies to my companions. At which point Evangelical Eric had the foolish compulsion to clear his whining little throat and ask “By the way, Your Majesty, what happened to the groom’s mother, and why isn’t anybody mentioning her today?”
The line went dead, and before I could defuse his faux pax we were dragged away to a cell so deep within the building that were Scotland Yard a mammal I’d say we were taken to somewhere between the large intestine and the colon. Which is not to say things couldn’t have been worse, although Eric found the words written above the doorway to our temporary domicile (“Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”) particularly distressing.
After a little while (how time flies when one is chained to the walls) another soldier came to tell us we’d be held down here until Long Kesh could be reopened. Which didn’t mean much to any of us, although a small quiet voice in my spirit suggested it mightn’t be a place where the other inmates afforded Reformed Bible-believing Anglican Protestants the respect to which we are entitled. For the first time things began to look as if we did indeed have a small problem, when Bishop Qunine suddenly recognized the soldier:
“Tickles?” he asked, “is that you?”
“Quinners, Your Grace?”
“Of course it’s me, you naughty little monkey. Don’t tell me the rest of the lads have been posted here with you?”
As the two chuckled and exchanged pleasantries it became clear that Bishop Qunine was in fact old friends with the officers and men of our warder's regiment - “Prince Edward’s Theatricals”. After a little more conversation, and a playful slap which would under any other circumstances have made Eric blush, and sent him scurrying away to compose yet another a letter of complaint to the Archdeacon, the soldier whom had by now been introduced to us Sgt Tickerthope left to consult his officers, assuring us that “there’d be no bother sorting something out for old Quinners and his chums”.
Not ten minutes passed before he returned with an impressive array of firm-chested British military types. It turned out Bishop Quinine had served for a time as the Theatrical’s Chaplain: as a battalion specializing in engagements demanding precision cross-dressing his pastoral skills had become legendary, and the expression “polishing the Bishop” had come to have a special meaning dear to the heart (and other places) of every man in the regiment.
A few more telephone calls and everything was sorted. Our terrible lèse majesté would be covered up, and we would be discretely deported along with a camera crew from “Girls Gone Wild”, who insisted they’d been invited to attend the festivities by Prince Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy.
Which brings us to where we are at present: travelling to Heathrow on board one of the Theatrical’s APCs. I'll write some more to you when we’re on the plane, but right now I’ve got to give Bishop Quinine his iPad back. For reasons neither you or I will ever comprehend he’d like to show his old friends the Donald Trump slideshow he put together on the flight over: I suppose someone other than Rush Limbaugh has to enjoy looking at pictures of the old bankrupt.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVII.
Oh dear - my battery's dying. Hopefully I can borrow an extension cord from one of the TV crews...
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVI.
+London just quoted Chaucer - personally I think he should've lightened things up with a reference to the the Reeve's Tale instead of the humorless bit he selected.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XV.
Looking around is convincing me that most hats are designed, made, and sold by men who really hate women. Perhaps the Jensen family are descended from a long line of milliners?
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XIV.
... and now another old hymn. Surely it's time for bit of balance with 'Shine Jesus, Shine'?
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XIII.
All this vow stuff and giving of troth is very nice, but why is ++Rowan wasting this opportunity to tell the world how much we need the Covenant??? And why isn't he proclaiming ACNA a genuine province???!!!
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XII.
Number headings all fixed up now, and I hope nobody heard me fight back a sneeze when whats-his-name asked if anyone objected to this union.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XI .
Some pompous fellow just kicked the bottom of my seat and ordered to stand as the bride processes down the aisle.
Fortunately I've smuggled in my Taser, and by waving it in his general direction was able to prayerfully persuade him to go away - I've muddled up my roman numeral headings and can't possibly fix them up while standing.
Fortunately I've smuggled in my Taser, and by waving it in his general direction was able to prayerfully persuade him to go away - I've muddled up my roman numeral headings and can't possibly fix them up while standing.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update X.
The organ and choir are impressive, but for an occasion this big they surely could have organized a praise band. And where's the power-point display?????
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update IX.
Her Majesty has just entered the buidling - she looks even lovelier than she did on Cat Roulette. I think her husband just told the Dean a dirty joke, although he may have only been trying to hit on one of the Duchesses.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update VIII.
The crowd outside is beginning to cheer - obviously word has reached them of my presence inside.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update VII.
Sorry - I take that back. ++Rowan isn't worried: he's just had an eyebrow trim for the occasion, and it's left him looking permanently startled.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update VI .
The Bride's mother has just entered - ++Rowan looks worried about the UFO that's landed on her head.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update V .
A young man in a funny red jacket has just walked in, accompanied by someone who looks like he got tangled up in the local music-hall's curtain cords... so now they finally send in the rodeo clowns.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update IV.
News just reached me of the terrible deaths and damage caused by twisters in the South.
All My Beloved Sinners touched by the storms should take comfort in my promise to pray for you just as soon as I finish devoting my undivided attention to this much more important marriage of two extremely wealthy young people.
All My Beloved Sinners touched by the storms should take comfort in my promise to pray for you just as soon as I finish devoting my undivided attention to this much more important marriage of two extremely wealthy young people.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update III.
Less important guests than myself have started arriving - world leaders, family of the happy couple etc.
Hopefully this means something will start happening soon... this might indeed be a fairy-tale wedding, but the brothers Grimm never took this long to get to the punchline.
Hopefully this means something will start happening soon... this might indeed be a fairy-tale wedding, but the brothers Grimm never took this long to get to the punchline.
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update II.
Just over an hour to go, and still no word from Bishop Quinine & Evangelical Eric.
They were supposed to text me as soon as they were harnessed and ready - I do hope that once in their costume they weren't mistaken for Lisa Nolland, and dragged away to some secret prostate conference...
They were supposed to text me as soon as they were harnessed and ready - I do hope that once in their costume they weren't mistaken for Lisa Nolland, and dragged away to some secret prostate conference...
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update I.
I was right – the elderly Peer on my left had died. A Guard of Honor from Her Majesty’s Drunken Highlanders just wheeled him out and ushered in a replacement – a charming Privy Chancellor who has already engaged those about him in a fascinating discourse on auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Initially I was a little nervous when I saw the soldiers heading my way. Growing restless, I’d earlier attempted to hurry things along by encouraging the crowd to start chanting “Why are we waiting?”, but clearly life in Merrie Olde England moves at a much slower pace than it does in Ichabod Springs. After a decidedly military looking gentleman had approached to explain that his regiment were once responsible for the hanging, drawing, and quartering of dissidents I clearly felt the Spirit calling me to quietly resume using Bishop Quinine’s iPad to search the internet for examples of sin in unbelievers’ lives.
Still, I must say that when it comes to pre-match entertainment the British certainly could learn a thing or two from the Super Bowl. Or at least have hired a few rodeo clowns to keep the crowd amused. Still, all it’ll take is one good wardrobe malfunction to make all this waiting worthwhile.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Initially I was a little nervous when I saw the soldiers heading my way. Growing restless, I’d earlier attempted to hurry things along by encouraging the crowd to start chanting “Why are we waiting?”, but clearly life in Merrie Olde England moves at a much slower pace than it does in Ichabod Springs. After a decidedly military looking gentleman had approached to explain that his regiment were once responsible for the hanging, drawing, and quartering of dissidents I clearly felt the Spirit calling me to quietly resume using Bishop Quinine’s iPad to search the internet for examples of sin in unbelievers’ lives.
Still, I must say that when it comes to pre-match entertainment the British certainly could learn a thing or two from the Super Bowl. Or at least have hired a few rodeo clowns to keep the crowd amused. Still, all it’ll take is one good wardrobe malfunction to make all this waiting worthwhile.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Live blogging from Westminster Abbey
Like the other truly important guests invited here today, I’ve been requested to take my seat hours before anything happens. Since the Spirit appears to have hardened the hearts of those either side of me: the elderly Peer seated on my left is asleep (although he may have died), while the Baroness on the right - clearly an Apostate Liberal - ran screaming for the exits when she recognized me, I’ve taken a break from my never-ending work of Evangelism in order to admire my surroundings.
Certainly the décor is very nice, in a quaint sort of historical way, but I can’t help thinking how much more effective it would be from a church-growth perspective if the church wardens covered over all these bare walls and fancy memorials with some tasteful brick veneer. Then they could put up a few nice decorations people could relate to: some firearms, for example, and a few mounted heads of dead animals - I realize England no longer has any lions and bears to hunt, but surely the London Zoo would spare a few for a cause this worthy.
Hopefully Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric will be able to follow their instructions: naturally there were no seats available for them in the Abbey, but anticipating this we brought along a very fine pantomime horse costume. Our plan is that once dressed they allow themselves to be harnessed up alongside the bridal carriage, thereby enabling them to also enjoy a first-hand experience of this wonderful day. Unfortunately our rehearsals had all involved Bishop Quinine occupying the animal’s rear, and as flight-related oxygen deprivation flight has rendered Evangelical Eric temporarily unable to walk in a straight line without assistance they’ve had to exchange positions. (He’s also developed the delusion that he’s a professional Morris dancer, but as long as he isn’t allowed to wear anything with embroidery and bells this shouldn’t pose a problem.) Still, we all know how accomplished the British upper-classes are when it comes to handling horses, so I’m sure things will work out.
Before closing, I must thank the nice young reporters who have allowed me to log into their wireless network: all they’ve asked in return is for me to permit them to install a small and discreet camera to the tip of my shoe, and try my hardest to maneuver it in such a way as to take pictures up the bridesmaids’ dresses. People can say what they will about Rupert Murdoch, but there’s no denying he’s really brought out the best in the British journalists.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Certainly the décor is very nice, in a quaint sort of historical way, but I can’t help thinking how much more effective it would be from a church-growth perspective if the church wardens covered over all these bare walls and fancy memorials with some tasteful brick veneer. Then they could put up a few nice decorations people could relate to: some firearms, for example, and a few mounted heads of dead animals - I realize England no longer has any lions and bears to hunt, but surely the London Zoo would spare a few for a cause this worthy.
Hopefully Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric will be able to follow their instructions: naturally there were no seats available for them in the Abbey, but anticipating this we brought along a very fine pantomime horse costume. Our plan is that once dressed they allow themselves to be harnessed up alongside the bridal carriage, thereby enabling them to also enjoy a first-hand experience of this wonderful day. Unfortunately our rehearsals had all involved Bishop Quinine occupying the animal’s rear, and as flight-related oxygen deprivation flight has rendered Evangelical Eric temporarily unable to walk in a straight line without assistance they’ve had to exchange positions. (He’s also developed the delusion that he’s a professional Morris dancer, but as long as he isn’t allowed to wear anything with embroidery and bells this shouldn’t pose a problem.) Still, we all know how accomplished the British upper-classes are when it comes to handling horses, so I’m sure things will work out.
Before closing, I must thank the nice young reporters who have allowed me to log into their wireless network: all they’ve asked in return is for me to permit them to install a small and discreet camera to the tip of my shoe, and try my hardest to maneuver it in such a way as to take pictures up the bridesmaids’ dresses. People can say what they will about Rupert Murdoch, but there’s no denying he’s really brought out the best in the British journalists.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
A Mile-High Message.
I’m afraid, My Beloved Sinners, that my next few homilies are going to be brief, since I’m currently winging my way to London, on account of having been invited by a charming young lady I met on Chat Roulette to attend her grandson’s wedding. Naturally I’d request you all keep this confidential, since you how jealous my Conservative internet protégés can get. Also there’s a small matter of international security, as well as potential complications arising from the fact that my friend’s husband will also be in attendance.
Not, of course, that there is anything untoward about my relationship with Betty, whom I’ve actually known for a great many years prior to our chance reconnection. There we both were, happily clicking through the passing parade of interesting individuals one meets on Chat Roulette (my goodness, it’s not just time that so many of the gentlemen at that site have on their hands), when suddenly each of us immediately recognized the other, and it was uncannily as if tiny packets of data were passing between us through the internet. Naturally one thing led to next, as it so often does when two people have have so much in common as we do, and before you know she had arranged for me to be be enjoying what regular passengers on board British Airways refer to as the "Tom Wright" end of the plane.
Besides, “the Duke” as she calls her husband (clearly John Wayne enjoyed a bigger British following than most people realize), will have started knocking back the Chivas Regal Royal Salute (at just under $22,000 a bottle it’s the least British tax-payers can do) long before any of the guests arrive, and his minders will be far too busy trying to prevent him making small talk within earshot of the media to worry about a handsome old flame like me tomcatting around the royal pews.
But first we’ll have to get there, although so far the journey has proceeded smoothly. In order to avoid the paparazzi I’ve brought along an entourage (isn’t that what all celebrities do to remain incognito?), and while wishing us bon voyage Brother Richthofen mentioned to Bishop Quinine that if he misbehaved during the flight he’d be manhandled into his seat and handcuffed. Hence I was understandably fearful he’d find the temptation to act up more than he could resist. However by the grace of god he got away with shoplifting an iPad from the airport duty-free store, and thanks to the in-flight wi-fi has spent the whole trip happily downloading pictures of Donald Trump. At least it’s kept him quiet, but I think that perhaps Steve Jobs should have put the gizmo’s much vaunted oleophobic coating inside the screen.
Meanwhile I trust my other travelling companion, Evangelical Eric, is fairing equally well. Consuella was adamant that the temperature inside an aircraft’s cargo bay drops well below freezing at cruising altitude, so Brother Richthofen and his Friends from Seminary tossed in a blanket whilst stuffing him in his suitcase. Unfortunately just after takeoff I remembered reading something about there also not being any air in the hold, so I do hope the foolish Curate doesn't selfishly spoil this wonderful occasion by dying en route as a result of oxygen deprivation. Still, he is an evangelical, so provided any neurological deficits resulting from sustained hypoxia are restricted to his cognitive processes, there’s no real risk to his prospect of long-term ecclesiastical advancement.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Not, of course, that there is anything untoward about my relationship with Betty, whom I’ve actually known for a great many years prior to our chance reconnection. There we both were, happily clicking through the passing parade of interesting individuals one meets on Chat Roulette (my goodness, it’s not just time that so many of the gentlemen at that site have on their hands), when suddenly each of us immediately recognized the other, and it was uncannily as if tiny packets of data were passing between us through the internet. Naturally one thing led to next, as it so often does when two people have have so much in common as we do, and before you know she had arranged for me to be be enjoying what regular passengers on board British Airways refer to as the "Tom Wright" end of the plane.
Besides, “the Duke” as she calls her husband (clearly John Wayne enjoyed a bigger British following than most people realize), will have started knocking back the Chivas Regal Royal Salute (at just under $22,000 a bottle it’s the least British tax-payers can do) long before any of the guests arrive, and his minders will be far too busy trying to prevent him making small talk within earshot of the media to worry about a handsome old flame like me tomcatting around the royal pews.
But first we’ll have to get there, although so far the journey has proceeded smoothly. In order to avoid the paparazzi I’ve brought along an entourage (isn’t that what all celebrities do to remain incognito?), and while wishing us bon voyage Brother Richthofen mentioned to Bishop Quinine that if he misbehaved during the flight he’d be manhandled into his seat and handcuffed. Hence I was understandably fearful he’d find the temptation to act up more than he could resist. However by the grace of god he got away with shoplifting an iPad from the airport duty-free store, and thanks to the in-flight wi-fi has spent the whole trip happily downloading pictures of Donald Trump. At least it’s kept him quiet, but I think that perhaps Steve Jobs should have put the gizmo’s much vaunted oleophobic coating inside the screen.
Meanwhile I trust my other travelling companion, Evangelical Eric, is fairing equally well. Consuella was adamant that the temperature inside an aircraft’s cargo bay drops well below freezing at cruising altitude, so Brother Richthofen and his Friends from Seminary tossed in a blanket whilst stuffing him in his suitcase. Unfortunately just after takeoff I remembered reading something about there also not being any air in the hold, so I do hope the foolish Curate doesn't selfishly spoil this wonderful occasion by dying en route as a result of oxygen deprivation. Still, he is an evangelical, so provided any neurological deficits resulting from sustained hypoxia are restricted to his cognitive processes, there’s no real risk to his prospect of long-term ecclesiastical advancement.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Taking Liberties with Peter Ould.
Judging by the number of vanity searches for variations of “Rev. Peter Ould” landing here in the past few days – all from the same south English IP address – little Prostate Pete is still unemployed. Not for long, however, since as part of my undying pastoral concern I instructed Brother Richthofen and his friends from seminary to search for appropriate positions for the young man. Although why they insist this can only be done with Google’s “safe search” feature disabled is beyond me.
As a result I’m delighted to now announce we’ve found the perfect appointment for our little jobless Ould: with one of Mordor’s two officially sanctioned gay straightening ministries. That’s right Liberty Christian Ministries Inc. - undoubtedly so named because of the liberties they take with Christians – are advertising for a “Pastoral Worker”.
Truly, My Beloved Sinners, it sounds a fascinating role. Read the advertisement for yourselves and I sure you’ll agree that the world’s leading expert on Biblical bottoms is exactly the man they’re looking for – not only does he believe “no one is really gay” (I always knew Liberace was actually just a straight guy who liked sparkly clothes), but at the age of 23 Peter Ould even once felt the fleeting urge to “snog” someone on MTV. So it's obvious: he clearly knows everything there is to know about homosexualism.
As the advertisement includes a telephone number (+61 2 9451 7572) I’m encouraging everyone to call and explain how much these evangelical homosexualist straighteners need little Peter Ould. And don’t worry about a little thing like the time of day: I can guarantee the tired and rather stressed gentleman who answers the phone will be delighted to receive another call from someone singing our favorite post-gay’s praises.
Neither should any of you forget to send a supporting email to the address also provided: david@davidgpeterson.com. Brother Richthofen and his friends have felt called to contact every internet café in Nigeria with a request that signs featuring this email address, accompanied by a brief explanation in the local patios (“Dis bois be bigtime mugu”) be prominently displayed next to each computer. This way as well as receiving a veritable tsunami of encouraging correspondence, Peter’s future employers will stand to obtain millions through inheritances from tragically killed aunts, the long-lost clients of dubious bank employees, and billionaire virgins confined in Sierra Leone refugee camps.
Indeed: the more I learn about the inspiring incorporation that is Liberty Christian Ministries, the more it impresses me. Take, for example, this excerpt from an address by someone called the Reverend Francis Chalwell (I swear that really is the name they give the good evangelical, and that I didn’t just lift it from a lesser known Georgian novel), to last year’s AGM: “Liberty does not seek to change anyone's sexual orientation.”
A similar claim occurs about halfway down another page on their website entitled “How You Can Help” (naturally sending money features prominently, while “minding your own business and concentrating on the things Jesus told us to worry about” doesn’t rate a mention): “At LCMI the goal of change is not reorientation into heterosexuality.” Such fine proclamations couldn’t be more correct – they just want people to feel guilty about their sexuality, and to hate themselves as much as Liberty says God hates them.
Or on the other hand, perhaps they’re just called “Liberty” because of the liberties they take with the truth.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
As a result I’m delighted to now announce we’ve found the perfect appointment for our little jobless Ould: with one of Mordor’s two officially sanctioned gay straightening ministries. That’s right Liberty Christian Ministries Inc. - undoubtedly so named because of the liberties they take with Christians – are advertising for a “Pastoral Worker”.
Truly, My Beloved Sinners, it sounds a fascinating role. Read the advertisement for yourselves and I sure you’ll agree that the world’s leading expert on Biblical bottoms is exactly the man they’re looking for – not only does he believe “no one is really gay” (I always knew Liberace was actually just a straight guy who liked sparkly clothes), but at the age of 23 Peter Ould even once felt the fleeting urge to “snog” someone on MTV. So it's obvious: he clearly knows everything there is to know about homosexualism.
As the advertisement includes a telephone number (+61 2 9451 7572) I’m encouraging everyone to call and explain how much these evangelical homosexualist straighteners need little Peter Ould. And don’t worry about a little thing like the time of day: I can guarantee the tired and rather stressed gentleman who answers the phone will be delighted to receive another call from someone singing our favorite post-gay’s praises.
Neither should any of you forget to send a supporting email to the address also provided: david@davidgpeterson.com. Brother Richthofen and his friends have felt called to contact every internet café in Nigeria with a request that signs featuring this email address, accompanied by a brief explanation in the local patios (“Dis bois be bigtime mugu”) be prominently displayed next to each computer. This way as well as receiving a veritable tsunami of encouraging correspondence, Peter’s future employers will stand to obtain millions through inheritances from tragically killed aunts, the long-lost clients of dubious bank employees, and billionaire virgins confined in Sierra Leone refugee camps.
Indeed: the more I learn about the inspiring incorporation that is Liberty Christian Ministries, the more it impresses me. Take, for example, this excerpt from an address by someone called the Reverend Francis Chalwell (I swear that really is the name they give the good evangelical, and that I didn’t just lift it from a lesser known Georgian novel), to last year’s AGM: “Liberty does not seek to change anyone's sexual orientation.”
A similar claim occurs about halfway down another page on their website entitled “How You Can Help” (naturally sending money features prominently, while “minding your own business and concentrating on the things Jesus told us to worry about” doesn’t rate a mention): “At LCMI the goal of change is not reorientation into heterosexuality.” Such fine proclamations couldn’t be more correct – they just want people to feel guilty about their sexuality, and to hate themselves as much as Liberty says God hates them.
Or on the other hand, perhaps they’re just called “Liberty” because of the liberties they take with the truth.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A Doctrinally Sound Easter Sunday Sermon.
Christ is risen: He is risen indeed!
And a wonderful thing it is too: if not we wouldn’t have been able to light our Paschal candle this morning, and in his frustration Bishop Quinine might have then started playing with matches again, which would mean we’d never be able to insure the Rectory.
Even so, it’s important for Biblical Christians keep a sense of perspective about our Lord’s resurrection. The barrier between death and life may have been shattered, and the veil which once separated the sacred from the profane forever rent in two, but Sinners must never start thinking this changes anything of consequence. God may have separated you from your sins as “far as the east is from the west”, as the Psalmist prophesized millennia before our SUVs came with factory-fitted GPS navigation, but this doesn’t mean He has necessarily forgotten about your wickedness. And even if He has, as long as Faithful Reasserters like myself can squeeze a stipend out of His people, preferably along with a regular supply of business-class tickets to conferences somewhere warm and sunny, He’ll always have someone to remind Him.
Indeed: there are even those who take things so far as to claim that in conquering death Christ actually accomplished some sort of decisive victory – as if there no longer remained any question about who really won the terrible struggle for humanity which culminated on this day. These are the same “teachers” who ludicrously insist that the Resurrection transcends questions of culture, hair color, sexuality, gender, marital status, and whether or not one likes Hellman’s mayonnaise. These Apostate Liberals whom, under the guise of slogans like “Love Wins”, presume to suggest that God, through the wonder of Jesus' Resurrection upon this day, has been reconciled with those less righteous than Conservative Christian Leaders such as myself. Which is as patently ridiculous as claiming that those who mourn shall be comforted, or that the the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to the poor in spirit.
Never forget, My Sinners, that although our Father in Heaven is loving and fair, it doesn’t necessarily follow that He’s also consistent. That He told us to forgive our enemies is hardly justification for presuming He has any intention of forgiving His, and a selectively literalist reading of the Scriptures proves He can’t wait to enjoy watching the eternal sufferings of those whom His Son’s all-powerfull victory, or, if you prefer, His Son’s perfect atoning sacrifice (I’m including this alternative especially for my Jensenist readers in Mordor, who’ve never heard of Aulén’s Christus Victor on account of it not being published by a private company in which members of their Archbishop’s family are major shareholders) failed to save.
After all, it’s not as if omnipotence doesn’t have its limits. Nor, even if Jesus was adamant that within His Father’s house are many mansions, should you ever go so far as to presume this means there's room for just anyone. Christian salvation is like a wedding, albeit one in which it’s the father of the groom who's holding the shotgun. Those brides scared enough to say "I do" have the promise of a great honeymoon in the sky – providing, of course, they remain steadfast, and never get caught being the person God made them to be, nor laughing out loud at suggestions little Bobby Duncan really is a Primate. While those not sufficiently frightened to go through with the wedding; those who leave the Groom standing alone and rejected at the altar in His divinely-rented suit, will be blasted by His Father into everlasting hellfire. Because let’s face it: the miracle of Easter might be impressive, but it’s not as significant as, for example, getting a comment approved by the elves at Kendall Harmon’s.
Remember: if God had really considered the Resurection big news He would have announced it through exclusive releases to George Conger and little David Virtue. Neither would - had He had the foresight to consult Leaders of my caliber – Easter Sunday continue to inspire and transform the lost, bewildered, disreputable and disrespectful in exactly the same way as it did almost two thousand years ago.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Book which was crucified,
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
And a wonderful thing it is too: if not we wouldn’t have been able to light our Paschal candle this morning, and in his frustration Bishop Quinine might have then started playing with matches again, which would mean we’d never be able to insure the Rectory.
Even so, it’s important for Biblical Christians keep a sense of perspective about our Lord’s resurrection. The barrier between death and life may have been shattered, and the veil which once separated the sacred from the profane forever rent in two, but Sinners must never start thinking this changes anything of consequence. God may have separated you from your sins as “far as the east is from the west”, as the Psalmist prophesized millennia before our SUVs came with factory-fitted GPS navigation, but this doesn’t mean He has necessarily forgotten about your wickedness. And even if He has, as long as Faithful Reasserters like myself can squeeze a stipend out of His people, preferably along with a regular supply of business-class tickets to conferences somewhere warm and sunny, He’ll always have someone to remind Him.
Indeed: there are even those who take things so far as to claim that in conquering death Christ actually accomplished some sort of decisive victory – as if there no longer remained any question about who really won the terrible struggle for humanity which culminated on this day. These are the same “teachers” who ludicrously insist that the Resurrection transcends questions of culture, hair color, sexuality, gender, marital status, and whether or not one likes Hellman’s mayonnaise. These Apostate Liberals whom, under the guise of slogans like “Love Wins”, presume to suggest that God, through the wonder of Jesus' Resurrection upon this day, has been reconciled with those less righteous than Conservative Christian Leaders such as myself. Which is as patently ridiculous as claiming that those who mourn shall be comforted, or that the the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to the poor in spirit.
Never forget, My Sinners, that although our Father in Heaven is loving and fair, it doesn’t necessarily follow that He’s also consistent. That He told us to forgive our enemies is hardly justification for presuming He has any intention of forgiving His, and a selectively literalist reading of the Scriptures proves He can’t wait to enjoy watching the eternal sufferings of those whom His Son’s all-powerfull victory, or, if you prefer, His Son’s perfect atoning sacrifice (I’m including this alternative especially for my Jensenist readers in Mordor, who’ve never heard of Aulén’s Christus Victor on account of it not being published by a private company in which members of their Archbishop’s family are major shareholders) failed to save.
After all, it’s not as if omnipotence doesn’t have its limits. Nor, even if Jesus was adamant that within His Father’s house are many mansions, should you ever go so far as to presume this means there's room for just anyone. Christian salvation is like a wedding, albeit one in which it’s the father of the groom who's holding the shotgun. Those brides scared enough to say "I do" have the promise of a great honeymoon in the sky – providing, of course, they remain steadfast, and never get caught being the person God made them to be, nor laughing out loud at suggestions little Bobby Duncan really is a Primate. While those not sufficiently frightened to go through with the wedding; those who leave the Groom standing alone and rejected at the altar in His divinely-rented suit, will be blasted by His Father into everlasting hellfire. Because let’s face it: the miracle of Easter might be impressive, but it’s not as significant as, for example, getting a comment approved by the elves at Kendall Harmon’s.
Remember: if God had really considered the Resurection big news He would have announced it through exclusive releases to George Conger and little David Virtue. Neither would - had He had the foresight to consult Leaders of my caliber – Easter Sunday continue to inspire and transform the lost, bewildered, disreputable and disrespectful in exactly the same way as it did almost two thousand years ago.
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Book which was crucified,
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
“We are not very confused…”
Like me, seasoned observers of Morality’s Homeland® have been delighted to see little Archbishop Okoh-after-Akinola is at last trying to fill the void left by the retirement of his predecessor, the primate known to Bible-Believers and Sinners alike as Big Pete Akinola.
Signs of his promising rise to GAFCON maturity first appeared a month ago, when, ++Okoh let slip concerns that his faux-Nigerian Clergy in the U.S. were becoming “unruly”. At the time I sniffed long and hard around this morsel, only to come up with nothing more substantial that a few rumours concerning little Martyn Minns’ failure to send as much filthy American lucre back to Lagos as had been expected. Although one of My Sinners did report having heard of more than a little agitation in Abuja that many of the former priests welcomed into the CoN (I defy anyone doubting the existence of God to explain the Church of Nigeria’s acronym) have turned out to view their new-found African heritage as nothing more than a temporary ecclesiastical flag-of-convenience, and are making no secret of their plans to dump it just as soon as something a little more Main Street, U.S.A. comes along.
Now his latest release, that for reasons I can’t begin to fathom has been largely ignored by those Righteous Men comprising my Gathered Brethren, but which has been admirably reported by someone committed to sinful precepts like grace, justice, and balance, shows exactly why little Nicky Okoh was able to rise to the top of the incorruptible meritocracy which is Nigerian society.
Indeed, My Beloved Sinners, it’s a diatribe truly spectacular in its ability to ignore the need for systemic change. When questioned about judicial corruption, for example, His Grace tells how he finds it “difficult to comment upon because I haven’t caught any judge in bribe taken, I haven’t seen anybody, so I can hardly say categorically that the judges or one judge is corrupt”, but that “If there is any certain judge and it is proved that he has misbehaved the law should take its course.” (How much would it cost to find a Lagos street kid who could explain to him that that in Nigeria the judge is the law, and whatever the judge wants is its course? A quarter?)
Yet all this hedging is just a prelude to the body of the address, which is a fascinating response to the question undoubtedly burning in the hearts of Nigeria’s poor and disenfranchised: “HOMOSEXUALISM WHAT IS YOUR NEW?” (sic) The penultimate paragraphs of this section feature a fascinating reference to his forebears’ charming traditional predilection for killing twins at birth - the following are his words, grammar, and syntax cited verbatim:
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Signs of his promising rise to GAFCON maturity first appeared a month ago, when, ++Okoh let slip concerns that his faux-Nigerian Clergy in the U.S. were becoming “unruly”. At the time I sniffed long and hard around this morsel, only to come up with nothing more substantial that a few rumours concerning little Martyn Minns’ failure to send as much filthy American lucre back to Lagos as had been expected. Although one of My Sinners did report having heard of more than a little agitation in Abuja that many of the former priests welcomed into the CoN (I defy anyone doubting the existence of God to explain the Church of Nigeria’s acronym) have turned out to view their new-found African heritage as nothing more than a temporary ecclesiastical flag-of-convenience, and are making no secret of their plans to dump it just as soon as something a little more Main Street, U.S.A. comes along.
Now his latest release, that for reasons I can’t begin to fathom has been largely ignored by those Righteous Men comprising my Gathered Brethren, but which has been admirably reported by someone committed to sinful precepts like grace, justice, and balance, shows exactly why little Nicky Okoh was able to rise to the top of the incorruptible meritocracy which is Nigerian society.
Indeed, My Beloved Sinners, it’s a diatribe truly spectacular in its ability to ignore the need for systemic change. When questioned about judicial corruption, for example, His Grace tells how he finds it “difficult to comment upon because I haven’t caught any judge in bribe taken, I haven’t seen anybody, so I can hardly say categorically that the judges or one judge is corrupt”, but that “If there is any certain judge and it is proved that he has misbehaved the law should take its course.” (How much would it cost to find a Lagos street kid who could explain to him that that in Nigeria the judge is the law, and whatever the judge wants is its course? A quarter?)
Yet all this hedging is just a prelude to the body of the address, which is a fascinating response to the question undoubtedly burning in the hearts of Nigeria’s poor and disenfranchised: “HOMOSEXUALISM WHAT IS YOUR NEW?” (sic) The penultimate paragraphs of this section feature a fascinating reference to his forebears’ charming traditional predilection for killing twins at birth - the following are his words, grammar, and syntax cited verbatim:
“But the question we continue to ask is that the gospel came to us and identified areas where we were not living well and the gospel corrected us, the gospel transformed our lives, for instance we were killing twins here and when it was exposed to us that we were wrong, we dropped it.Of course you’re not, Your Grace. With statements that lucid it amazes me that anyone could even begin to think you’re confused. Although I do`have just one tiny question: as well as inciting you and your parishioners to re-establish a delightful ancestral association of multiple birth with infanticide, is the Bishop of New Hampshire and his global conspiracy of supporters also behind your country’s persecution of albinos and pandemic child prostitution? Or did you guys come up with those two on your own?
The irony of the situation now is that the people who brought this are now telling us that such things are right but thank God we are not very confused we are not confused at all.”
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Poor Peter Ould (Nobody jump to any conclusions now - mmmkay?)
Upon recently hearing that the Priest of Prostate, little Peter Ould, had left the lovely Hertfordshire Church which he made internationally famous as the world’s leading (and quite possibly only) Conservative Institute of Biblical Bum-fun, and moved to Canterbury, I quite naturally assumed it was because the Archbishop-of-Archbishops had finally realized it was high time he moved on and let someone who knows everything have a go at the job. Either that or one of His Grace’s aides-de-camp persuaded him to relax a little, and brought in a young Clergyman with the skill to really get those eyebrows twitching.
Consequently, My Beloved Sinners, you can all imagine my utter horror when it was explained to me that little Pete hasn’t been promoted to higher (or lower, depending on one’s perspective regarding such matters) service. No, the shocking truth is that the Rev. Peter Ould and his favorite gland have moved because he is unemployed.
Not of course, that there is anything inherently shameful about that. Not even for a young Conservative who has frequently spoken of his admiration for St. Baroness Margaret Thatcher. After all, if unemployed people were really as terrible as she made them out to be she wouldn’t have created so many of them. Even I have been unemployed on a number of occasions, generally just after being released from incarcertation. Although there was the time when I felt called to explore the Rastafarian side of my spirituality, but given the cut-throat jealousy of the world of Conservative Blogging it’s probably better we don’t mention that. Besides, there’s absolutely no proof I ever inhaled.
Mind you, if I recall what happened when one of My Dearly Beloved Sinners found himself unemployed, the appropriate thing to do on such occasions is to publish a piece at Viagraville making all manner of outlandish allegations concerning their circumstance. After all, given that many people are unaware of the true reason little Peter has left Christ Church, it would surely better to better to set the record straight before tongues really start wagging – if I may be excused for using a not entirely palatable metaphor given the number of prostate references already in this homily.
Thus my advice is that littlest Pete instructs his brother Dobby to post something outlandish and utterly untrue, in order to dissuade people from engaging in further speculation. Such as, for example, that the lad was caught in flagrante delicto with the quintessentially equine Lisa Nolland. Although on second thoughts, perhaps not. People would never believe such a thing: Dr. Nolland's standards are higher than that. Nor does she have a prostate.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Consequently, My Beloved Sinners, you can all imagine my utter horror when it was explained to me that little Pete hasn’t been promoted to higher (or lower, depending on one’s perspective regarding such matters) service. No, the shocking truth is that the Rev. Peter Ould and his favorite gland have moved because he is unemployed.
Not of course, that there is anything inherently shameful about that. Not even for a young Conservative who has frequently spoken of his admiration for St. Baroness Margaret Thatcher. After all, if unemployed people were really as terrible as she made them out to be she wouldn’t have created so many of them. Even I have been unemployed on a number of occasions, generally just after being released from incarcertation. Although there was the time when I felt called to explore the Rastafarian side of my spirituality, but given the cut-throat jealousy of the world of Conservative Blogging it’s probably better we don’t mention that. Besides, there’s absolutely no proof I ever inhaled.
Mind you, if I recall what happened when one of My Dearly Beloved Sinners found himself unemployed, the appropriate thing to do on such occasions is to publish a piece at Viagraville making all manner of outlandish allegations concerning their circumstance. After all, given that many people are unaware of the true reason little Peter has left Christ Church, it would surely better to better to set the record straight before tongues really start wagging – if I may be excused for using a not entirely palatable metaphor given the number of prostate references already in this homily.
Thus my advice is that littlest Pete instructs his brother Dobby to post something outlandish and utterly untrue, in order to dissuade people from engaging in further speculation. Such as, for example, that the lad was caught in flagrante delicto with the quintessentially equine Lisa Nolland. Although on second thoughts, perhaps not. People would never believe such a thing: Dr. Nolland's standards are higher than that. Nor does she have a prostate.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Friday, April 8, 2011
An Open Letter to Gollum of Mordor*
Dear Gollum,
Please forgive my delay in properly responding to the insightful comments you left on my earlier homily, but those of us called to serve in apostate liberal churches, where those in charge lack your Archbishop’s brilliant financial acumen, and Bible-believing clergy like myself can but dream of a diocese in which hundreds of millions of dollars worth of assets can be squandered without any of the men responsible being held accountable, find ourselves particularly busy at this time of year.
This is because of an appalling revisionist innovation called “Lent” – which I have been told is virtually unknown in your own “traditionally Anglican” Diocese of Sydney. It’s a terrible time: instead of teaching the Scriptures, Ministers are called help their fellow humans (ie. what Bible-believers like you and I call “godless sinners”) stop and consider their lives in relation to God without so much as a single reference to the really big problems confronting the world today – namely other people’s sexuality, and the Holy Spirit’s insolent refusal to ensure someone has a penis before calling them to the Priesthood.
Even so, don’t think that I haven’t been too busy to check the site logs and see you regularly calling by here. Few things give me as much joy as knowing how much my teaching blesses those who don’t otherwise read anything not produced and sold by a privately-owned company in which at least one member of their Archbishop’s family is a major shareholder.
Nor has the past month seen any lessening in my admiration for the speed with you raced into the blogosphere to rejoice in the defeat of the miserable sinner who was so wicked as to try and sue one of Lord Volder-Jensen’s favourite house-elves for defamation. Certainly Jesus said something foolish about seeking out one lost sheep in a flock of one hundred, but given your transparent joy in this victory I think we can all rest easy in the knowledge that nobody’s ministering to him now.
Not that I’m actually sure if you and your fellow serfs minister to anyone other than yourselves. I’ve recently received a wonderful DVD from one of My Beloved Sinners, which I am told is presented to those visiting what the captives of Mordor euphemistically call the “Cathedral” – and believe me it’s fascinating! From the delightfully subtle overview of Sydney diocesan history (Did the world really change from monochrome to color when little Peter was elected?) to your racially segregated worship (just like St. Paul insisted upon separate gatherings for Jews, gentiles, Greeks, Romans, & Slaves) the Jensen family is unquestionably reasserting some of the most novel additions to Anglicanism the world has ever seen. And don’t get me started about the wonderfully named “Katheral Kids” – how did your Dean ever manage to resist the urge to add the word “Klan” to that delightful group’s name?
In closing, however, I must express disappointment in your suggestion that some might respond to this astonishing breakthrough in the use of character assassination as a tool for pastoral care by suggesting the Judge “appears to have foolishly fallen in with the Jensen mafia”. Everyone knows that these days you Sydney evangelicals are hard pressed buying a little positive newspaper coverage. There’s no longer any way you can afford to buy a Judge.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
* An enthusiastic propagandist for little Peter Jensen’s “Anglican” Diocese of Sydney, who was insightfully identified as “Gollum” by our regular reader and contributor Fr. Maxwell Smart. Some have even dared to hope that he is the same young man (whose meteoric success is purely the product of his own immeasurable talent) who wasted no time in gloating over this matter here.
So far I have been unable to ascertain if the Rev. Dominic Steele - a house-elf whom I am informed is even more beloved by the young man’s family than is our own dear Dobby - at the heart of this matter is the same individual of that name whom a certain David Ould of Neutral Bay described as “incompetent” on a now closed blog. For reasons which couldn’t possibly be related to the longevity of his career little Dobby has grown uncharacteristically silent when questioned.
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