Stanley Ngtali - GAFCON Priorities in the Pulpit.

Since the day New Hampshire realized how good Bishop Gene looks in purple I’ve been telling people over and over again that the current rifts within Anglican Communion have nothing to do with homosexualism. Indeed, anyone prepared to look at the things exactly as I tell them to can plainly see for themselves that personal insecurities about dearly held patriarchal understandings of sexuality, power and what happens to excite clergymen’s wieners when they think nobody’s watching play absolutely no part whatsoever in the choice of Conservative Bible-Believers such as Myself to inconsistently interpret a few Scriptures literally.

Which is why my heart rejoiced when, while perusing Uganda’s Daily Monitor, I saw that the recently-passed Ugandan anti-gay legislation took a primary place in Kampala’s Christmas sermons. Christmas is, after all, a time when preaching must above all else focus on The Bible. While I can concede there might be a time for nonBiblical issues like human rights and social justice to be mentioned from pulpits in passing (generally in the context of pointing out all the stupid things liberals consider important), that time is not, and never has been, when more pressing issues are at hand – like the crucial gospel priority for all those present who are not normally part of one’s congregation to understand how much the Baby Jesus hates them for not having attended faithfully throughout the preceding year.

Once again Anglicans still canonically resident in the godless west should hang their heads in shame before those to whom Our Church’s future has been
soldentrusted. Pause in awe, My Beloved Sinners, before this published excerpt of Ugandan Archbishop little Stanley Ntgali’s Christmas homily:

“In Uganda, there are so many injustices like child sacrifice, domestic violence, drug abuse which are now a big issue in our schools... I want to thank Parliament for passing the Anti-homosexuality Bill. I want the world to understand what we are saying.”

The world - at least that to which Jesus referred when using the expression we translate as “world” - understands you perfectly, little Stanley. If children, women, and school students, are suffering why shouldn’t wealthy and powerful men like you celebrate the Savior's birth by giving thanks that yet another minority group has joined them in their persecution? It's those for whom the Incarnate God means something more than a just means by which to control others that find you incomprehensible.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

ACNA - Now Bigger than Rome!

Just to show We have absolutely no hard feelings towards the godless baptists who alerted the Dept. of Homeland Security to our Mission to Afghan/Iraqi Farmers in Need of Quality Superphosphates, the St. Onuphrius’ Ministry Team have followed Christmas Day with a wonderful concert outside their front lawn. I played a moving rendition of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” on the alpenhorn, which was followed by Bishop Quinine on his flesh-colored clarinet – an instrument he rarely plays but polishes on a daily basis. As I write this Brother Richtofen and His Friends from Seminary have just begun playing a nine-hour set of Mariachi/Techno/Death-Metal especially mixed to show our heretic neighbours how much we love them, and how we’ve forgiven them even though Our Loving Father in Heaven has fore-ordained them to an eternity of indescribable agony.

Even so, as much as I love young-people’s music when wearing industrial-strength hearing protection, it felt appropriate for Me to discern the spirit’s call to leave the celebrations prior to any further visits by the National Guard, and begin the challenging task of catching up on all the astonishing events which occurred during my absence. Undoubtedly one of the most amazing was young Pope Benny Ratsfinger announcing his resignation on account of “advancing years”.

Now you can call me old fashioned, but I’ve always said a man’s only as old as the person he’s feeling. And given Benny’s got Romans around the world positively aching to kiss his ring things simply don’t make sense. Especially when you consider His Popishness has a collection of man-lace big enough to keep that obsessive nut from Rhode Island who still leaves comments on everyone’s blogs fascinated for life.

No; you don’t have to be Alex Jones to recognize a conspiracy when it hits you in the chasuble. My Personal Belief is Benny was embarrassed at the way his franchise has been overtaken in global importance by little Bobby Duncan’s sect. Granted it’s been a while since I saw any actual figures {has anyone?), but who can forget all the hoopla a few years back, so by now they’ve obviously delivered on all the predictions of success made back then. Besides, it’s not as if the Apostate Heretics in the Vatican have their own online store (featuring not just one but two!!! different styles of lapel pin - Traditional and Contemporary), so obviously I'm right.

Besides, there can be no denying that The Archbishop of Canterbury’s meeting with Bobby earlier this year is tantamount to full recognition, which means there’s no longer anything dishonest about claiming ACNA claiming status as an Anglican Province. Although I do have to admit that by this logic Rome became an Anglican province way back in 1966, when Ramsay++ dropped by Paul VI’s house for donuts and a quick game of “I won’t mention Cranmer if you don’t mention Campion.” At which point you’ll have to excuse me: I’ve just received an email from someone born in Beijing, which means I’ve got to update our parish roll to include all 1.351 billion citizens of China.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

God's Christmas Gift to You: ME!

Wicked as you are, My Beloved Sinners, the federal order preventing Me and anyone associated with My Ministry from accessing the internet has been lifted in what is undoubtedly the Most Wonderful Christmas Blessing of all time.

Indeed, at this time of year, when the Curse of Rampant Liberalism is stripping this most sacred of seasons of all Christian greeting-card manufacturers call holy, and an Army of Politically-Correct Apostates fight to prevent Bible-Believers from celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus by pressing each other up against the Xerox machine for a round of tonsil-hockey at the office Christmas party, this miracle proves that a wise and wily Clergyman can still redeem the darkest of situations.

Before we go any further, however, let it be categorically clear that there was absolutely no substance to the criminal charges alleged allegations which lead to this appalling persecution of the Gospel. Indeed, those of you not sufficiently filled with the holy spirit to believe everything I say without question may even have problems comprehending the extent to which such pernicious apostate liberal conspiracies exist in a nation where rich people can convince the poor that it’s in their interest to preserve medical insurance corporation profits at the expense of their own health. Yet, as anyone who’s ever skimmed the “Favorites” file on little David Ould’s browser can tell you, the Evil rampant in the hearts and minds of seemingly normal-albeit-rather-ugly apostate enemies of Biblical Christianity knows no bounds.

Mind you, the whole situation escalated so quickly that even a Christian as wisely perceptive as Me was hard-pressed keeping up with things. When the Rectory was first locked down I was still far away in Merrie Olde England, consoling My Grief at the passing of dear St. Baroness Thatcher by ministering to a couple of most enterprising young Christians whom I met in a small theatre in Soho. (Who could have possibly guessed that the fall of immoral Communism would result in the relocation of so many creative liturgical dancers to London?) I had just delivered My moving eulogy at Saint Maggie’s funeral, in which I focused not so much upon how much her personal family values accomplished for communities in the north of the country, where she is undoubtedly loved and missed most, as I did on the bold manner in which she squandered the Britain’s North Sea oil wealth in pursuit of an ideological obsession. After which I reminisced about her close personal friendship with the equally lamented young people’s entertainer Jimmy Saville, as well as her tireless work on behalf of the Eastern European cancer industry.

So you can well imagine My amazement at finding upon My return to Ichabod Springs that the innovative and profitable Ministry I’d established just prior to leaving had fallen foul of a Godless piece of legislation called “The Patriot Act” - obviously something introduced by Obama and is cabal of Israel-loving Muslims. Who could have ever believed that something as innocent as a Biblically-sound initiative transhipping superphosphates to tribesmen in Afghanistan and Iraq (at a charitable 150% mark-up) would one day be considered treason? Here we were, helping ignorant heathens develop chemically-driven agriculture in the fervent prayer that one day their children would be able to enjoy the same tasteless tomatoes as we do, when suddenly the Perverted Atheists who control Washington were accusing us of supporting the manufacture of explosives in so-called-nations opposed to everything Jesus stood for – such lower taxes and an end to welfare for single mothers.

Unfortunately My protestations that the people we were assisting weren’t enemies at all (on account of them also not liking women in leadership or homosexualists) weren’t helped by Bishop Quinine explaining that this particular Parish Ministry had absolutely nothing to do with trade in armaments and explosives, which are handled by an entirely different Mission registered in the Seychelles and operating out of Lichtenstein. In fact for a while things were looking quite dark indeed for the light on the hill which is St. Onuphrius’.

But it takes more than the world's greatest superpower to keep this Doctrinal Warrior from Proclaiming the gospel, and during the course of a friendly interrogation session the senior investigator let slip the fact that he was himself the child of a Manse, and had some experience of the ways in which a Parish operates. At which point I realized he’d believe me implicitly if I blamed everything on My miserable excuse for a Curate, Evangelical Eric.

Sure enough, My plan worked! The investigator really had been raised the son of a Rector, for he fully understood the truth of My explanation that whatever goes wrong in a Church – be it, big, small, or cataclysmic and involving nipple clamps and the entire Altar Guild – IT’S ALWAYS THE CURATE’S FAULT!!!

And so, after Evangelical Eric obediently confirmed his guilt while being independently water-boarded by officers serving one of The Land of the Free’s dearest allies in the War on Terror, the St. Onuphrius’ Ministry Team are once more able to browse the intertubes in a faithful commitment to expose the evil lurking in men’s loins. Which is, I know you will all appreciate, the Greatest Christmas Present the World has ever received. Except, perhaps, for some small insignificant event a couple of thousand years ago involving a manger and a baby of dubious legitimacy. Whom I and the Conservatives who imitate Me promise to keep doing Our best to help everyone forget about.

I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

9-11 2013: No Show Today.

As you’ve probably guessed, Father Troll has been very much pushed to the sidelines of my life during the past year. In fact there have been times when I’ve seriously considered killing him off altogether; perhaps by being accidentally shot by while addressing an enthusiastic NRA rally, or as a result of some terrible explosion occurring while he and Bishop Quinine launch themselves into space aboard a home-made rocket in an attempt to become the first missionaries to Pandora. (How could those two not find themselves obsessing about physically gorgeous nine-foot tall blue people who’ve apparently never heard of the importance of misogyny and homophobia to spirituality? And since Avatar was produced by a company owned by Rupert Murdoch they’d have no problem convincing themselves it's not fiction: “I ask you, My Beloved Sinners, would the fine Christian who owns the Fox Network and The Sun ever present something which isn’t true?”).

Partly these feelings have been exacerbated by the passing of the golden age of blogging: there really isn’t the same amount of material to riff on that there was a few years ago. More so, however, they result from a number of changes in my personal life: with a number of projects of which I’m immensely proud growing apace finding 45 minutes to transcribe the rantings of a demented old parody has become harder and harder. It’s one thing to make those around me laugh by slipping into Father Christian’s voice and denouncing whatever has just caught my attention, but very much another to translate that into a few hundred pithy words which will both offend and amuse the appropriate people - who are themselves spread across a number of very different continents, cultures, generations, sexualities, and genders.

More importantly, the circumstances which gave birth to Father Christian have greatly changed. Akinola has retired to enjoy his sumptious retirement gifts, and his replacement has mercifully failed to sustain the buffoonery on a global scale. Jensen has stepped down to do whatever it is fundamentalist archbishops do once they’ve bankrupted their diocese, and even Venables is more in the category of “whatever happened to…” than he is a figure of influence in the church we love. Despite ludicrous predictions to the contrary, Duncan’s new “province” remains as much a part of the Anglican Communion as Scientology, and in terms of current growth only marginally more successful. All of which has often found me wondering if there’s still any need for Father Christian and his retinue? Perhaps having served their purpose it’s better for them to join those upon whom they were based into a well-deserved (albeit long-overdue) slide into obscurity.

Yet the reality is that fundamentalism is far from dead. To forget this is to risk forgetting lessons etched in both the blood of those killed 12 years ago, and the tears shed afterwards by all those who loved them. Bin Laden might be dead, and closer to home sites like Stand Firm might now be a pastiche of what it was five years ago (that there really does exist people who can keep a straight face while reading Fischler’s Facebook: Purveyor of Hate or Ould’s Sex and Jihad – the Failure of Modern Hermeneutics is beyond doubt, but I defy anyone to produce more than a handful who have finished elementary school and are not males with an emotional age of less than 25), but the evil old refrain continues regardless. People continue to reject and persecute others, and deny them basic human rights, because of a conviction that god says they’re wrong. Old men continue to grow in wealth and power by manipulating these convictions, and young men – for fundamentalism is above all else primarily a disease of young and immature men – continue throwing away their lives in attempt to find acceptance in the eyes of those whom they seek to follow.

In response to my last 9/11 post a young fellow from Sydney (why was I not surprised to learn of his location?) left a comment here expressing outrage at what he considered to be my unwitting concatenation of Wahhabist Islam with contemporary Evangelicalism and medieval Catholicism. He never responded to my explanation that there was nothing unwitting in the slightest about my having drawn a link between what are actually just different manifestations of the same obnoxious cocktail of insecurity, poor-education, ambition, fear, and pride. The theological minutiae of what the consumer then sticks down the front of his underpants is a most an after-thought: a gnat with which to garnish one’s camel.

As I said, the young man to whom my response was directed discontinued the dialogue, but I didn’t expect otherwise. Yet he has remained very much in my thoughts, as well as my prayers, and not least because I’m old enough to appreciate his earnest enthusiasm and to grieve at what becomes of his kind when the well of his energy has been drained by those who purport to lead him. And so it’s for his sake, as much as for those whom shared a chuckle from the other side of the aisle, that the terrible Father Christian Troll will live on. Probably not with the same frequency he once did, but hopefully once the chaos of the next few months’ deadlines have passed with more vigour than he’s displayed in the past year.

That’s because young men like him thrive on arguments, and in any case reason and logic have never played any part in the construct of their beliefs (regardless of how much they claim to the contrary). One can at best hope to rattle the cage of delusions a little, and then be there on the ground to support them when the bright shining future once promised by their golden calf of certainty has left them used up and alone. And Father Christian is one of the most effective means by which I’ve ever been able to rattle cage bars.

So until we next meet here, please take care to love those around you. Give thanks when those dearest to you come home from wherever they have been for the day, and make a place in your heart for those whom were on this day – or any other day – not so blessed. And remember that the God who makes the sun shine upon us all has no need for a faith which would leave others in the dark.

In a time of sorrow I bring you comfort...

My deepest and sincerest condolences go to My Beloved Grief-stricken British Sinners, whom I know are all devastated at the untimely demise of young Baroness Margaret Thatcher. No doubt the overwhelming burden of sorrow is particularly great for those of you living north of Leicester, or in Wales, although I believe the people of Brixton, who have nothing but fond memories for all she did for them, have also made no secret their heartfelt mourning.

As you all might expect, I was throughout her years of power a close and personal confidant of the woman who single-handedly destroyed communism with the help of Ronald Reagan. It is with great affection I recall the wonderful winter-evenings we shared by her fireplace in No. 10 Downing Street, laughing as we mused upon those dying from cold on account of an inability to pay heating bills vastly inflated through privatization. Or the way she’d softly smile as I suggested it would only be a matter of time before every man, woman, and child in Yorkshire, Liverpool, and Greater Manchester could be rounded up, processed, and sold in Surrey, Kent, and Hertfordshire as pet food...

But it wasn’t all fun and games, not at all. There was also hard work, not least the interminable pastoral visits to families of those killed in the Falklands war. Try as I might, none were ever able to appreciate the honor of having the life of their beloved son, husband, or brother thrown away in a pointless squabble over some rocks in the far south Atlantic, the sole purpose of which was to provide a grandstand upon which a politician could promenade to ensure her successful re-election. Not even later, when in a brave blow against godless big government dear sweet Margaret introduced the poll tax, did I hear any of these still-grieving families (who really should have by then pulled their socks up and got on with life instead of moping about the consequences of their dead loved one’s lifestyle decision to get killed on an island of which nobody had ever previously heard) express their gratitude. Even though she had so thoughtfully saved them from the evils of big-taxing socialism by imposing a new tax significantly greater than that which it replaced. All of which just goes to show how wickedly hard Sinners’ hearts can be.

Yet in this, our time of loss and tears, let’s not forget that dear little Margaret would be the last one wanting to anyone to display anything as pointless as compassion or emotion. No indeed; we can all be certain she’d all want us to continue without wavering towards the utopian beacon of economic rationalism (aka “slavery”) which burns before us just as brightly as it did when she lit its golden flames. Even if these days there is now a statutory charge for gazing upon it, and the plinth on which it stands bears advertising for products proven to cause cancer, and which are now illegal in countries where the media is not controlled by Rupert Murdoch.

Consequently I’d like to ask that you to all wipe away your tears in honor of one who did so much to the people of Britain. Rather than crying, I urge you to join Me in sharing a piece of wholesome family epitomising everything Baroness Thatcher stood for. Sing along as little people are joyfully dominated by big ones, and once again lose yourself in the illusion of a wonderful yellow brick road. Although it’s probably better to not allow yourself to be reminded that the golden pathway along which the young woman singing here journeyed led ultimately to divorce, drug and alcohol dependence, and premature death. Much like yellow brick road along which the woman for whom no more than 40% British citizens voted forced her nation to march...



I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

As if I wasn't already busy enough...

Since it’s Holy Week I suppose I read had better take a moment to generously deliver you all an appropriately edificational biblical homily. Although, to be perfectly honest, this is a time of year in which I can never help feeling annoyed with Our almighty lord on account of all the extra work his undeniably poor scheduling creates for christian Leaders like Myself.

After all; as if things weren’t busy enough with all that’s been associated with My Courageous stance for the Sacred Right of Bible-believers to purchase Firearms unimpeded by any form of check or qualification whatsoever other than, of course, an assurance that the purchaser does indeed know Jesus as their Personal lord and savior, and is prepared to categorically deny having ever felt anything unwholesome stirring in his loins while watching a John Wayne movie. Especially when thinking about the fact that the Duke’s real name was “Marion”.

And then on top of that little Benny Ratsfinger had to go and quit, forcing me to drop everything and fly to the Vatican post-haste in order to profit from the biggest market for man-lace since Bobby Duncan invented ACNA and the Prelacy of All Believers. The last time everyone attended a papal resignation was in 1415, and while I know the cardinals you all saw on TV looked pretty old, you can trust me when I say that not even they had appropriate vestments left over from then hanging around in the back of their closets. Although something tells me that for most of them that’s about all not in there…

All of which just goes to show that if our omniscient and gracious father had shown just the merest skerrick of foresight he’d have had had the courtesy to give us all a bit of a breather between Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday. Granted, I can well understand that after lovingly making his son to die in agony for something he didn’t do god was eager to patch things up as quickly as possible before some atheist feminist at the Child Protection Services got wind of the whole affair, but unless government agencies in 1st century Palestine were a whole lot better funded than they are nowadays waiting a couple of weeks before moving on to the resurrection stage of things would have hardly been enough time for matters to progress to the stage where a caseworker has time to start investigating.

That way none of us would have to get up early on Good Friday morning after conducting late night services on Maundy Thursday, and our good-for-nothing Curates wouldn’t be so useless on account of having been made to stay up all night for the Vigil. Then by scheduling the resurrection on a Tuesday two weeks later (but definitely not on a Monday, on account of that being the Vicar’s day off) we’d all be refreshed and ready for another day of serious liturgical festivities. Plus, since things would be business as usual on what is now taken up by Easter Sunday, we would gain an extra offertory on Easter-fortnight Tuesday.

Then again, this kind of disorganization is exactly what we can expect to find when the Bible isn’t taken seriously. I’ve no doubt god is continuously grateful for Teachers like Me who are dedicated to correcting the liberal heresies of the past: you’d better believe that if as disciples had been as suitably prepared as men like Myself and the fine, well balanced, individuals commenting on this matter at Viagraville always are, and carrying concealed firearms under their apostolic robey-things, none of this whole crucifixion thing would have happened. As if any servant of the Sanhedrin could have dragged away my saviour after we’d pumped them full of three dozen rounds purchased in Walmart’s Easter Spring sales.

And now lastly: today marks 400 years since the date John Donne commemorated in Good-Friday, 1613, Riding Westward - a piece which a number of notorious characters to whom I faithfully minister find quite influential. Personally it’s a work I consider vastly overrated (I always say that if Donne and T. S. Elliot were that good they’d have been working for Hallmark instead of churning out all that meaningless egg-headed stuff), and I’m always pleased to find most young evangelicals I meet have never heard of it, while the next generation of Anglo-Catholics are more interested in gazing at their navels while pondering a possible call to the Ordinariate than they are embracing that to which their heritage points towards. Still, as way of seeing just how far we’ve come I’d urge those of you unfamiliar with the poem to read it today. At very least it’ll give you an appreciation of why I’m so confident that in another 400 years the Liberal Immorality of the past will be well and truly forgotten, while the words of Conservative Leaders like Myself and My Imitators shall stand firm for a thousand years.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

From my cold, dead hands...

Contrary to what we can all be certain my Liberal nemeses have been claiming, the reason for My absence from the inter-tubes over the past six weeks has not involved court orders. Nor were any of the terms of My current parole from prison ministry revoked. No, My Beloved Sinners, so great is the Wickedness prevailing in these Apostate days that I’ve been utterly, utterly absorbed in something which I know will strike cold hard fear into the hearts of young clergy everywhere – that’s right: I’ve been so involved in the flesh and blood lives of my community that there hasn’t been so much as a single second to devote to the expenditure of electrons and bandwidth.

That’s because the Christian World is currently facing its darkest hour since the heresy of congregationalism birthed the hideous notion of Priests being in some way answerable to those to whom they’ve been called to instruct. A threat so dark that it’s no exaggeration to say that if I don’t devote every molecule of my Doctrinally-pure breath to fighting it, our omnipotent god and saviour face eternal oblivion as America succumbs to Obama’s abominable vision of Socialist godlessness. A future which, as I was only telling god in prayer this morning, could well become reality but for the Strength, Breadth, and Insight of My Courageous opposition.

Were you all sufficiently valuable to god to have been blessed with the privilege of living here in Ichabod Springs, and able to spend Sundays physically gathered beneath the St. Onuphrias’ pulpit, where little flecks of My Spittle shower the faithful fallen with golden droplets of edification, there would of course be no need for Me to name this threat. But so great is Scourge of Ignorance which has befallen creation that for most of you the identity of this Diabolical Juggernaut poised to destroy faith forever is unknown. While at any moment all the cherished values of our ancient creeds – things as crucial to our faith as denigrating women and homosexualists, or bickering about Pauline minutia while children die from preventable diseases – will be cast asunder by the most terrible Satanic Strategy to have ever confronted the Kingdom of God. One even worse than Romanism, Presbyterianism, and the idea that those not contributing to the offertory with sufficient generosity can’t be publically shamed and/or beaten. Something so evil that our lord Jesus specifically failed to mention it when writing the gospels on account of its obscenity:

Gun Control.

There; it's said. I trust those of you in the habit of reading my homilies to children (as I know many of you do) had the good sense to not voice that dreadful phrase aloud. Nor, I pray, were they uttered within earshot of animals: the beasts of the fields may not have souls (as any faithful evangelical with a dog is duty-bound to testify), but that doesn’t mean they can’t feel pain. Just the other day My foolish Curate inadvertently gave sound to this blasphemous expression , and not minutes later the entire contents of our office fish-tank was twitching belly-northwards at the surface. Although to be fair, a small vial of something medicinal Bishop Quinine purchased on the internet had also just gone missing, and tropical fish can be so dreadfully sensitive.

Over the course of My next few Important homilies I shall be telling you all of the fearless stand we’ve made in the fight to preserve Christians’ right to freely possess - unhindered by any socialist prying into one’s criminal history, mental health, and sexual fascination with Soldier of Fortune magazine - a collection of semi-automatic assault weapons for the godly purposes of self-defence, hunting gophers, or vaporizing the heads of any neighbors who might look funny. Or who disrespect one’s pick-up on a day when things are just a bit more tense than usual. I’m confident that the light of My example, accompanied by unparalleled Biblical exposition illustrating the important role mass killings have played in salvation history, will inspire you all to join Me in Christendom’s greatest crusade since medieval foreigners decided to once and for all bring the peace to the Holy Land.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.