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.