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.