You've done it now, Matt Kennedy.

Few Beloved Sinners will be aware of this (largely on account of you having lives of your own), but back when little Matt Kennedy was being evicted from the Rectory which he was so unjustly prevented from stealing, the Boy Wonder of Binghamton was concurrently facing a second equally devastating catastrophe: his wife’s cat had inexplicably sought to escape from a life of captivity in the Kennedy household. With his typical pastoral acumen, the young layman knew exactly what to do: he implored his Facebook faithful to commence praying for the return of Mrs. Kennedy’s lost pussy.

Naturally upon being informed of this by a fellow member of the Episcopalian Commentariat I immediately commenced work on a homily notifying my global readership of the greatest calamity to have faced the Communion since witnessing unbelievers being hung, draw and quartered ceased to be classified as family entertainment. Yet only moments later came a second notification from my esteemed source: little Matt had taken exception to our assisting his search for the errant kitty, and demanded we cease and desist, implying that our concern for his wife’s wayward pussy was in some way not “classy”.

Now as a Conservative Bible-based Orthodox Schismatic Anglican “classy” is, I must confess, a somewhat foreign concept to me. Nonetheless, sensing that Mr. Kennedy was inferring that the subject of my homily would in some way cause weaker brethren such as himself to stumble, I decided to abandon the work in question. Yet thanks to the Mr. Kennedy’s unsurpassable experience in ministry, as revealed at Viagraville (where else?) Christendom remains unenlightened no longer. That’s right, being “classy” involves using the murder of a man far, far greater, and far, far braver than little Matt can ever hope to be as an excuse to equate mutually loving relationships between consensual adults with pedophilia. It involves demanding the government refrains from involving itself with trivialities like health care and education, but observes and intimately controls what consenting adults choose to do in the privacy of their own bedrooms - imprisoning and executing those whose love follows paths different to those down which Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy and their moggy meander.

In short, we've now all seen that being “classy” involves showing one’s true colors, which in the case of Matt Kennedy and his evil ideological consorts include bloody hands and a corpse-green heart. And so, in a spirit of pure gratitude for their transparency, I respond by dedicating to them the following:

The gloves are off now Pharisees. You ain’t seen nothing yet. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible. You're not, and you worship Moloch.

Mmmmm...

Brother Richthofen's Friend From Seminary and I were just checking back through this site's logs, and were enthralled to see that a comment blocked by the blogspot spam filter had been sent via the servers at Mordor's flagship, Moore Theological College.

Railing against internet anonymity, and including a link to an article featuring more of the same, the comment - you all know where this is going - had been posted anonymously.

Which just goes to show that whatever it is that little Peter Jensen's teaching his army of young Pharisees we can all be absolutely certain of one thing: it sure as hell ain't irony.

I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Texas Courthouse Blues.

God’s with Iker all the way,
He’ll keep the queers and women away!

It seems like just yesterday that we all were all gathered at Stand Firm round the macho-fire (on account of Melanie, Dobby and Matt’s insecurities nothing over there can be called camp, not even the fire) chanting this inspiring ditty. Yet today finds my dear little Viagravillains speechless with grief at Judge John Chupp’s astonishing ruling that theft is wrong.

Mind you, it’s not all bad news. Firstly, there’ll almost certainly be an appeal lodged, so my Beloved Sinners can all stop worrying the poor ACNA lawyers might be compelled to remove their snouts from the trough and seek more legitimate means of making the repayments on their Porches.

Secondly, and even more promisingly, Judge Chupp did agree with general principle of Layman Jack Iker’s 1994 affidavit. So it’s not as if he’s entirely opposed to everything our favorite Texan schismatic says. Although since that general principle involved Happy Jack insisting the Episcopal Church is by definition hierarchical it’d probably be better to not place too much hope in the possibility of this beautiful connection developing into something more substantial.

All of which means that while those of you who got “God Won’t Let +Iker Lose” tattoos don’t need to immediately start tracking down a good dermatologist who’s handy with the laser, it’s probably not a bad idea to start asking around. And if you’re a clergyman in Fort Worth who followed his boss into Bobby Duncan’s cult it would be wiser to get it done now, while you’ve still got a parish that can afford your stipend because it isn’t forced to sink every cent into renting meeting halls from the local Seventh Day Adventists. Remember: tattoo removal is never cheap, and getting it done now will give the scar time to fade. So you won’t feel anywhere nearly as silly when it’s finally time for you to come back into the Church which you promised God you’d serve.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Taking matters in hand.

As my Beloved Sinners all know, I have for many years been urging Conservative Biblical Christians to get a grip on things and pull themselves together. Sadly two faux-Nigerian brethren at Truro Church were taking my teaching just a bit too literally, with the result that from now on they’ll both now have to pay for their own internet access when enjoying a little one-handed research into other people’s sinfulness. Which mightn’t be easy: finding a job is difficult these days, and for reasons I’ve never fully comprehended having “Masturbating Minister” on one’s CV just doesn’t inspire prospective employers the way it ought to.

Harsh as it may seem, little Martyn Minn’s decision to send the ornery onanists packing was the only available option, since Scripture plainly teaches that looking at rudey-pics and getting caught (please note the emphasis) is the only sin for which there can be no forgiveness. Our Lord’s words in Matthew 12:31 reveal Him mistakenly revering to the unforgivable sin as “blasphemy against the Holy Ghost”, but that’s only because He lacked the sophisticated Biblical understanding of today’s Conservatives. The plain meaning of His intention is obvious to any scholar not prepared to be sidetracked by arguments that the Gospel isn’t all about sex, and Layman Minns has once again shamed apostate Episcopalians with his decisive commitment to kicking those who have already fallen.

It is important to note, however, that a diligent exegesis of the passage leaves no question about the fact that action is only required if the matter is made public. Let’s face it, there isn’t a man in ministry (other than myself, of course) who hasn’t at some point in his life twisted one off while looking at something naughty-but-strangely-exciting. Little Bobbie Duncan, Donald Harvey, Jack Iker - it’s a certain bet that every one of them has at some time in their life danced the palm-polka with a nudie pic of someone. Or perhaps something, but please don’t meditate upon the details – all the bleach in world won’t be able to remove that stain from your mind’s eye.

Consequently if the act alone was all it took to disqualify a man from ministry the only Christian witnesses left would be myself and a few other convincing liars. And perhaps James Dobson, although I personally have always considered that story about him beating the dachshund is actually a euphemism for something else. They’ve all done it, but what they haven’t done is get caught. Which makes all the difference.

Indeed, if word should ever get out that Clergy are every bit as human as the next person, and that even the most dignified and respectable leader experiences the occasional yearning to play an improvisational melody on their trouser organ, then all our high moral ground would be irreversibly cut out from beneath us. No longer could we embarrass and shame young men far more intelligent than ourselves into submission. Bullying and demeaning those less powerful than ourselves would become next to impossible: every time we opened our mouths to pontificate someone might remember we’re subject to exactly the same foibles, urges, and enjoyments as everyone else, and before you know it a ripple of snickering would render the bubble of our gloriously pompous dignity forever burst…

… and then if that happened people might start realizing that we’re all just trying to get by as best we can, and criticizing another on account of their sexual complexity is as stupid as pretending any of us really understands our own. God only knows where that might lead…

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Regarding personnel....

Since delivering my previous homily I have been positively inundated with emails (well actually there were only two, but it sounds better if I adopt an Evangelical approach to accuracy) demanding to know why I reversed my previous decision to appoint Deacon Dobby Ould as St. Onuphrius’ next Curate, and instead reinstated the young and foolish Rev. Evangelical Eric.

Prior to answering I would first like to stress that appointing Mordor house-elf wasn’t my idea. Rather it was revealed to me by the spirit in the course of much faithful prayer and Bible Study. The blame for what is clearly an error of discernment must be placed entirely at god’s feet – whom, given His appalling record when it comes to making the sun rise on both the just and unjust alike, has clearly very little skill when it comes to selecting good from bad.

The final straw was a post at Viagraville, in which the naughty half-Austrian has once again managed to upset the wholesome and well-balanced fraternity frequenting my own site’s esteemed imitator. Although I do believe those who accusing him of being anti-Catholic are going a bit far: after all the boy only described conversion to Catholicism as “a move that denies the Scriptural gospel “, so it’s not as if called them sub-Christian (the quote’s at the bottom of the link). Or started claiming lay-presidency is “authentically Anglican” again.

Now as everyone knows, I cannot and will not abide anything which upsets the inhabitants of Viagraville. Whether we’re discussing the rank and file, or the blessedly immoderate moderators: Melanie, Happy Sarah, or little Matt “Calvin’s Chasuble” Kennedy, makes no difference to me – when someone brings distress to that happily united throng they’re finished as far as I’m concerned. Irrespective of much other’s might praise the writer for producing “smarmy tripe”, or admire them for engaging in the admirable Conservative practice of teaching others about things of which they clearly know nothing.

After all: just look at my own example. Do I ever upset anyone? Obviously not! Do I inflame and distress those clearly less intelligent and more sinful than myself? Never! Nor, therefore, will I ever accept that sort of behaviour from any of My Ministry Team. Not even from a lowly and dishonest Curate. Even if there is no denying that his ability to relate to his fellow Conservatives is almost effective as his ministry to atheists.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

He's back...

Sinners everywhere will be rejoicing to learn that I have now returned, refreshed and ready for another year of Biblical teaching and Condemnation. At some point during our parish celebrations to mark the Feast of St. Rasputin (n.b. Does anyone think Metropolitan Jonah would appreciate an invitation to be our next guest of honor? After all Jonah and St. Rasputin are both Russian – ok... well actually Grigori was born in Siberia, and Jonah in Illinois, but this time of year there’s not that much difference between the two, and they both have crazy looking beards) a couple of mindless Nazi bureaucrats friendly representatives from the Department of Homeland Security dropped by to discuss my Christmas gift to the happy cave-dwelling mountain folk to whom Evangelical Eric had been called to serve in a missionary position.

Obviously what had occurred was all a simple misunderstanding, since the same folk who so accurately predicted the end of the Cold War and who gave everyone advance notice of the 9/11 attacks couldn’t possibly be wrong. Still, given the situation Lynne Stewart currently finds herself in it seemed better to stay on the safe side of people capable of deciding the cost of building a virtual south-west border fence was too great after spending $1 billion. Consequently I hastily struck a creative deal involving perjury and the personal details of several Viagraville regulars - as little David Ould demonstrates, there’s nothing wrong with telling lies to help advance one’s own cause.

After which it seemed prudent to depart post-haste to the ends of the earth (is there any country ending in “stan” not a basket case?) and bring my erstwhile Curate back from the mission field. And I can’t stress enough how charming the wild and woolly tribesman proved to be. Like any Conservative Christian I’ve always kept my contact with foreigners to a minimum, and yet there’s no denying God must feel something towards them. Otherwise He wouldn’t have given His Son a Latino name.

Indeed, the more I bargained for the foolish lad’s return the more obvious their similarities with Sinners like yourselves – or even with Saved Christians like me. Certainly some of their finer doctrinal points are clearly ludicrous: for example they believe that God’s ultimate Scriptural revelation was in Arabic to a man named Mohammed (even God would have a hard time finding someone not called Mohammed in those parts of the world), when everybody knows science has proven it was given to King James in English. Yet when it comes to hating women and homosexualists they’re right up there with David Virtue, or any of the better known members of the Jensen family. Even if an old man couldn't stop chortling whenever Bishop Quinine said "Lawrence of Arabia".

Consequently we all got along wonderfully, even if I’m afraid my wanting to relieve them of Eric wasn’t much of a witness. Although technically their hostage, I’m afraid even dangerous terrorists find having an Evangelical Curate in their midst exhausting. While eventually able to negotiate a substantial sum in return for taking him away, the resulting impression upon my heathen friends was that westerners must be collectively stupid for tolerating treasonous clowns him in their midst. At which point I thought it tactful to not mention Sarah Palin.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Last minute presents.

When it comes to giving presents, the Scriptures are perfectly clear: the only person to receive gifts on that first Christmas morning was Jesus. That’s right, My Beloved Sinners, you won’t find any account of Joseph and Mary leaving out any little knick-knacks for the postman and Bethlehem refuse collectors. Nor did Jesus hand the wise men a few discount CDs in return for their gold, frankincense, and myrrh. In fact the Bible unambiguously shows the giving was strictly a one-way transaction, with the loot going only to the wisest and most righteous person in the room.

Consequently I’ve always maintained it’s entirely incompatible with Scripture for me to purchase presents for anyone. As Christ’s Vicar, and clearly the most mature Christian in any context or gathering, a plain reading of the Bible indisputably refudiates (thank you Sarah!) the notion that anyone other than myself should be receiving gifts.

Even so - as I’m sure little Chuck Colson tells anyone impertinent enough to remember Watergate - there are times when a true leader compromises the battle for the sake of winning the war. Which is why I take Consuella’s threats regarding what will happen should I ever dare practice what I preach in regard to Christmas giving. Not that I’m afraid, of course, but our regular exegetical studies in the Song of Solomon are too important to risk discovering she really isn’t bluffing when she threatens to “show me what a Lambeth boycott really is”. (And if I ever get my hands on the pagan who wrote Lysistrata so help me… ) Consequently I never fail to give the members of My Ministry Team generous and thoughtful gifts, and this year I was planning to get them something both contemporary and useful: the Apple iPhone Manhattan Declaration app.

As I use a Windows Mobile device (there’s something about having one’s cell phone routinely freeze and require resetting that truly helps maintain a Conservative attitude of dissatisfaction with life) I’m not that familiar with how these Apple things operate, but I know enough to recognize little Chuck Colson and his developers came up with something technologically wonderful in this. A kind of digital gaydar, the program demands user answer a serious of questions: give the wrong answer and your phone starts flashing while a siren screams “HOMO ALERT HOMO ALERT”. Connect the optional electrodes and transformer kit, and this is pleasantly accompanied by painful shocks to the physical extremity of one’s choice.

Yet just prior to my ordering these pragmatic presents my attention was belatedly drawn to a message from a faithful Facebook friend advising that this helpful piece of digital homophobia has been withdrawn by Apple. That’s right, Mr. Jobs has personally stopped his company from selling this compassionate hate-app, and Conservative Biblical Christians like myself are simply furious at this blatant violation of our right to the freedom of speech.

Mind you, freedom of speech isn’t something Apple should ever extend to those wanting to sell applications featuring images of people’s smelly bits. This is a matter of principle - the principle not being one of general freedom of speech, but the Conservative right to say whatever one wants, irrespective of how offensive and hateful it might be.

Not, of course, that I wasn’t prepared for some sort technical difficulty – as I already said, my regular exegetical studies in Song of Solomon with Consuella are too important to risk losing. And besides, I always thought there was something suspiciously fruity about Apple. So rather than a vicious & theologically doubtful present I’ll instead be sending Evangelical Eric the explosives and detonators he asked for (actually the request came from the Islamic tribesman he’s currently staying with – they sent me a lovely portion of one of the lad’s ears as a keepsake, which I’ve now hung on our Christmas tree as a truly unique decoration), and Bishop Quinine will be getting sea-monkeys again. Every year he always gets so excited by the picture in the advertisment, only to be disappointed when the little crustaceans finally hatch, but there’s something about his optimism that for me really sums up what Christmas is really all about.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.