Just when I was growing convinced the only way my freedom could be regained would involve an earthquake (possibly caused by the small thermo-nuclear device Brother Richthofen’s Friends from Seminary have begun assembling from stolen smoke detectors), a miracle intervened in the form of a threat involving something far more unpleasant. That’s right - Alex Jones!
You see, My Beloved Sinners, once the FBI became serious about the alleged similarity between my DNA and that of an extraordinarily handsome and obviously learned Biblical Christian of whom I’ve never heard, Bishop Quinine contacted a few of the young agents to whom he ministered back when J. Edgar Hoover still took a personal interest in ensuring each of his most senior officers was a man’s man. After reminding them of how much he’d hate to have to tell Alex Jones the truth about what really happened in Roswell on one warm July evening back in 1947 (we all know drinking Thunderbird with mescal chasers can produce the occasional adverse reaction, but how could anyone have possibly expected it to kill the poor bug-eyed little aliens?) they immediately agreed there was no need to further investigate the matter. Especially as retesting found my DNA samples prove I’m actually a 22 year old lingerie waitress, with absolutely no relationship to a certain brilliant Orthodox Leader with unique skills as both a parachutist and parish fundraiser.
Consequently I am now once again free to minister to highways and byways of my wonderful parish. Dear old Ichabod Springs may not be blessed with the beautiful panoramic scenery of Akron, Ohio, and we don’t enjoy the mild, pleasant winters of Minneapolis (nor the gentle, balmy summers of Yuma, Arizona), and we mightn’t, for that matter, have the unforgettable public architecture of Natural Bridge, Alabama, but even so there’s still nowhere else on God’s earth that I’d rather share the sound of my weed-whacker at half-past five in the morning.
Indeed, so charming a place is this town so blessed as to be called my home that there can be no doubt of the role it has played in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s alleged decision to retire next year. For years there’s been no secret about Rowan’s yearning to join My Ministry Team in an honorary capacity (given young people just don’t get excited by the idea of a five hour lecture on Dostoevsky the way they used to - personally I blame video games – there’s no way the parish could justify his appointment him upon a stipendiary basis), and so after the past few years of monkeying around with the Primates (as opposed to primating around with Monkeys?) it looks like the young man finally feels qualified to join us.
But now, My Beloved Sinners, I must break your hearts by returning to tasks more important than teaching lost and ignorant evildoers such as yourselves. You wouldn’t believe the amount of correspondence awaiting my urgent attention – and it’s not just all emails from Russian women proffering psycho-sexual pharmaceuticals at a fraction of the legitimate retail. No indeed, the first task once this homily is evangelistically displayed upon the intertubes will be to advise a delightful little man of the cloth who has been simply begging for my assistance. In fact he may well be someone with whom many of you are familiar: he lives in Charleston and is generally known as by the name of “Bishop Quisling”...
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9/11/2011. No show today.
A decade ago today thousands of people were killed in New York. Hundreds more were killed in Pennsylvania and Washington. Some of them were the partners of people reading this; others were their daughters, or sons. Or their sisters, or brothers. Or mothers, or fathers, uncles or aunts. Still others were friends, or colleagues. Or perhaps someone you’d once met at a party, or with whom you occasionally shared an elevator. Most were unknown to you (especially since North Americans comprise only about 70% of this blog’s readership), and quite possibly lived in a country oceans away from wherever it is you call home. Yet regardless of your relationship to them (or lack thereof) they mattered. Not least because they were human, and to be human is to be made of the same stuff as God incarnate.
And today they are gone. But not forgotten.
Maybe someday I’ll find the right words to say more than that: God knows I’ve been trying for the past week to write something more profound, something which might – albeit in just the smallest of ways – offer consolation to those grieving. But nothing seems to come out how I want it. In a perfect world I could bring some sort of meaning to the evil which is death at the hands of murderous young men under the delusion which is fundamentalism (irrespective of the theological façade – Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or whatever – it’s invariably young men who are the most eager to taste blood, just as it is a much smaller group of old men who spur them on, and women who are forced into subserviently keeping the whole diabolical performance operational). But then again, in a perfect world September 11, 2001 would have been just another day.
Nor in a perfect world would fundamentalists continue killing people. Granted, flying aircraft into buildings is (blessedly) rare, but most fundamentalist murderers prefer the vastly more efficient modus operandi of preventing the victims from living as themselves, free from fear, persecution, and shame. By denying their right to affordable health care, or education, or contraception, or equal employment. In a perfect world the obscene sexism of euphemisms like “complementarianism” would be as archaic as the hideous racism of “peculiar institution”. And the Christ who brought hope to the powerless would never - but never - be perversely conscripted into the service of those who would have us believe that the Sermon on the Mount was “Blessed are those who are the doctrinal heirs of the Pharisees”.
But I’m drifting off-topic again. Because all I really wanted this post to say is that those who are gone are not forgotten. And because they are not forgotten, it is love, not evil, which shall triumph. If today you are grieving – for whatever reason – please know that you do not grieve alone.
Father Mychal Judge inspire us.
Saint Mychal pray for us.
Holy Spirit be among us.
And today they are gone. But not forgotten.
Maybe someday I’ll find the right words to say more than that: God knows I’ve been trying for the past week to write something more profound, something which might – albeit in just the smallest of ways – offer consolation to those grieving. But nothing seems to come out how I want it. In a perfect world I could bring some sort of meaning to the evil which is death at the hands of murderous young men under the delusion which is fundamentalism (irrespective of the theological façade – Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or whatever – it’s invariably young men who are the most eager to taste blood, just as it is a much smaller group of old men who spur them on, and women who are forced into subserviently keeping the whole diabolical performance operational). But then again, in a perfect world September 11, 2001 would have been just another day.
Nor in a perfect world would fundamentalists continue killing people. Granted, flying aircraft into buildings is (blessedly) rare, but most fundamentalist murderers prefer the vastly more efficient modus operandi of preventing the victims from living as themselves, free from fear, persecution, and shame. By denying their right to affordable health care, or education, or contraception, or equal employment. In a perfect world the obscene sexism of euphemisms like “complementarianism” would be as archaic as the hideous racism of “peculiar institution”. And the Christ who brought hope to the powerless would never - but never - be perversely conscripted into the service of those who would have us believe that the Sermon on the Mount was “Blessed are those who are the doctrinal heirs of the Pharisees”.
But I’m drifting off-topic again. Because all I really wanted this post to say is that those who are gone are not forgotten. And because they are not forgotten, it is love, not evil, which shall triumph. If today you are grieving – for whatever reason – please know that you do not grieve alone.
Father Mychal Judge inspire us.
Saint Mychal pray for us.
Holy Spirit be among us.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Second Epistle to The Beloved Sinners
From Fr. Christian Troll, a prisoner for the sake of our Lord Holy Bible:
By the grace of my own righteousness the trifling matter which brought me here is just about resolved,. Unfortunately, however, apostate Federal authorities have successfully sought to continue my detention whilst clarifying an apparent similarity between my DNA and that of someone named D. B. Cooper: obviously they’re completely mistaken as I’ve never so much as even heard of the man, whom I must say does appear to be extraordinarily handsome, and is undoubtedly a remarkably wise and mature Biblical Christian.
Not that this should cause My Beloved Sinners any further stress than that you’re already enduring as a result of my current inability to generously deliver internet homilies on a more regular basis. One way or another I’m sure to be out of here soon: Bishop Quinine has purchased a toy helicopter from a Chinese guy at a stall in the mall, and has been making Evangelical Eric continuously practice flying it while watching a video of Breakout: as soon as the young man has finished growing a Charles Bronson moustache (which I regret to say is taking him rather longer than I would wish) the pair of them will be a chartering a full-size chopper and lifting me to freedom before you can say Isaiah 40:31 (or perhaps “Pascal Payet” if you’re not familiar with those few parts of the Old Testament not directly concerned with homosexualism).
In the meantime I must say how terribly boring the news has been from the broader world of the glorious Anglican Schism. After all – it must have been months since little Bobby Duncan announced a new plan to establish 20,000 new churches, or even appointted a few hundred new bishops. In fact the most exciting thing to have happened in Christendom seems to have been Dobby Ould’s recent world trip (what’s the name of the delightful furry rodent renown for deserting sinking ships again?), in which he got terribly excited about some Arizona fundamentalists with a predilection for guns.* I believe on his next holiday our favorite house-elf will be visiting the South Pole, where he’ll be amazed to find snow. Followed by a hiking trip in the forest, wherein we shall all be blessed with a fascinating blog post vis-à-vis his astonishing discovery that bears excrete in the you-know-where.
All of which is in stark contrast to the tremendous victories of my own ministry in here: I’m proud to say I’ve now prepared a great many of my fellow inmates for ordained ministry in ACNA, and their transition from Bishop Quinine’s smuggled contraband (mainly cigarettes and girly books) to the trinkets of the ever-munificent Jack Iker and Bobbie Duncan (funny faux-mitres and rented Adventist meeting houses) should surely be a simple one. Nor very different to that undergone by those who preceded them.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
*If you really must cut and paste: http://www.davidould.net/index.php?/blog/comments/adult_sunday_school_in_arizona_automatic_weapons
The comments following are funny: he is accused of telling untruths concerning his hosts' firearms.
By the grace of my own righteousness the trifling matter which brought me here is just about resolved,. Unfortunately, however, apostate Federal authorities have successfully sought to continue my detention whilst clarifying an apparent similarity between my DNA and that of someone named D. B. Cooper: obviously they’re completely mistaken as I’ve never so much as even heard of the man, whom I must say does appear to be extraordinarily handsome, and is undoubtedly a remarkably wise and mature Biblical Christian.
Not that this should cause My Beloved Sinners any further stress than that you’re already enduring as a result of my current inability to generously deliver internet homilies on a more regular basis. One way or another I’m sure to be out of here soon: Bishop Quinine has purchased a toy helicopter from a Chinese guy at a stall in the mall, and has been making Evangelical Eric continuously practice flying it while watching a video of Breakout: as soon as the young man has finished growing a Charles Bronson moustache (which I regret to say is taking him rather longer than I would wish) the pair of them will be a chartering a full-size chopper and lifting me to freedom before you can say Isaiah 40:31 (or perhaps “Pascal Payet” if you’re not familiar with those few parts of the Old Testament not directly concerned with homosexualism).
In the meantime I must say how terribly boring the news has been from the broader world of the glorious Anglican Schism. After all – it must have been months since little Bobby Duncan announced a new plan to establish 20,000 new churches, or even appointted a few hundred new bishops. In fact the most exciting thing to have happened in Christendom seems to have been Dobby Ould’s recent world trip (what’s the name of the delightful furry rodent renown for deserting sinking ships again?), in which he got terribly excited about some Arizona fundamentalists with a predilection for guns.* I believe on his next holiday our favorite house-elf will be visiting the South Pole, where he’ll be amazed to find snow. Followed by a hiking trip in the forest, wherein we shall all be blessed with a fascinating blog post vis-à-vis his astonishing discovery that bears excrete in the you-know-where.
All of which is in stark contrast to the tremendous victories of my own ministry in here: I’m proud to say I’ve now prepared a great many of my fellow inmates for ordained ministry in ACNA, and their transition from Bishop Quinine’s smuggled contraband (mainly cigarettes and girly books) to the trinkets of the ever-munificent Jack Iker and Bobbie Duncan (funny faux-mitres and rented Adventist meeting houses) should surely be a simple one. Nor very different to that undergone by those who preceded them.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
*If you really must cut and paste: http://www.davidould.net/index.php?/blog/comments/adult_sunday_school_in_arizona_automatic_weapons
The comments following are funny: he is accused of telling untruths concerning his hosts' firearms.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
At Last! (A New Prison Epistle)
From Father Troll, a prisoner of Holy Scripture, unto His Beloved Sinners weeping and ignorant in the darkness of the intertubes:
Grace and Peace to you! Such is the wickedness of these apostate latter days that this Epistle comes to you from prison, where I await trial for no other crime than that of proclaiming the Gospel without fear, compromise, nor compassion for those who would deny the Doctrinally Sound their right to speak on behalf of God. Bishop Quinine has finally remembered to smuggle in some notepaper and a pencil, and thus it is that with my Own Hand I am dictating this to one of the few faithful-but generally-illiterate prisoners gathered about me capable of such an important task - “Scribbles” was convicted for sending menacing letters, and thanks to my pastoral guidance is now looking forward to upon release using his skill and experience as a member of the team at Viagraville.
Nor is he my only convert here. After being cavity searched upon his first visit, Bishop Quinine has dropped by on a daily basis (twice daily if his favourite warden is on duty). Since not even the most indiscriminating of guards is desperate enough to go there a second time, he’s taken to bringing in more contraband than there are whacking pics on an Evangelical’s hard drive. As a result of which My Ministry has been enjoying the kind of respect normally only shown by travel agents to Gafcon Primates. Although the sudden influx is beginning to cause hyper-inflation (services which could once be purchased for a few cigarette ends now cost at least several packets and an autographed picture of the Ould twins - obviously the latter aren’t really genuine, but if Brother Richthofen’s facsimile is good enough for Dobby’s credit card provider it’s fine here) . Consequently the prison’s economy is already a pleasing foretaste of how things will look a few years after Mark Meckler and his fellow party-goers have saved America from the tyranny of just and equitable taxation.
Of course I must also reassure my British Sinners that this exciting new phase in my unequalled walk with Jesus has absolutely nothing to do with looting, rioting, or generally running amuck as an excuse to obtain new sneakers and a plasma television. Although I do think that words simply can’t convey how worthy of our respect those young men and women are for diverting attention away from St. Rupert Murdoch’s unfortunate difficulties. And as for Amy Winehouse’s ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the man whose newspapers fought so hard to preserve her privacy, self-esteem, and dignity… tears well up in my eyes at knowing it’s not just Biblical Christians like myself who love the man who owns both Fox News and Zondervan. Not, of course, that their core market is able to distinguish between the two.
No, it is purely due to my faithfulness to Scripture that things have taken this turn. The Bible explicitly calls us to “Praise him upon the high-sounding cymbals” (Psalm 150:5), and thus I can do no other. Accompanied by the tuneful blasts of my sackbut (“mine horn shall be raised as an unicorn” – Ps 92:10 ) my bold proclamation of Righteousness (in case you’re wondering I tie the cymbals to the inside of my knees, freeing my hands to manfully grasp my sackbut), was deemed in violation of a restraining order corruptly issued in favor of the local baptists, and - as if there’s any hour at which we’re exempt from praising the One who called us to serve the Scriptures - it appears that the irrelevant fact of it being half-past two in the morning caused the acting district attorney to successfully oppose my bail.
None of which should be any cause for alarm on your behalf, My Beloved Sinners, even if it has resulted in you all having been left for more than a month without any Biblical guidance. The reason my trial has been delayed is so that things could wait until the regular DA returned from vacation – a man whom has not infrequently availed himself of the ministry provided by Consuella’s pole-dancer’s fellowship, and whom when confronted with photographic evidence of the same is sure to seek a more appropriate sentence. Naturally since the charge is essentially one of preaching the gospel I can do nothing other than plead guilty, but rather than the period of incarceration currently proposed (I could have been mistaken, but I believe I heard the phrase “throw away the key” being bandied about) I expect something more along the lines of that enjoyed by Little Don Armstrong - charity service and a comparison to Mandela. And of course the charity will be my own “Leaf blowers for Africa”, although if the Murdochs are prepared to establish a suitably fraudulent trust fund I’ve no doubt I would instead be called to act for them as a consultant. In a strictly Biblical context, of course.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Grace and Peace to you! Such is the wickedness of these apostate latter days that this Epistle comes to you from prison, where I await trial for no other crime than that of proclaiming the Gospel without fear, compromise, nor compassion for those who would deny the Doctrinally Sound their right to speak on behalf of God. Bishop Quinine has finally remembered to smuggle in some notepaper and a pencil, and thus it is that with my Own Hand I am dictating this to one of the few faithful-but generally-illiterate prisoners gathered about me capable of such an important task - “Scribbles” was convicted for sending menacing letters, and thanks to my pastoral guidance is now looking forward to upon release using his skill and experience as a member of the team at Viagraville.
Nor is he my only convert here. After being cavity searched upon his first visit, Bishop Quinine has dropped by on a daily basis (twice daily if his favourite warden is on duty). Since not even the most indiscriminating of guards is desperate enough to go there a second time, he’s taken to bringing in more contraband than there are whacking pics on an Evangelical’s hard drive. As a result of which My Ministry has been enjoying the kind of respect normally only shown by travel agents to Gafcon Primates. Although the sudden influx is beginning to cause hyper-inflation (services which could once be purchased for a few cigarette ends now cost at least several packets and an autographed picture of the Ould twins - obviously the latter aren’t really genuine, but if Brother Richthofen’s facsimile is good enough for Dobby’s credit card provider it’s fine here) . Consequently the prison’s economy is already a pleasing foretaste of how things will look a few years after Mark Meckler and his fellow party-goers have saved America from the tyranny of just and equitable taxation.
Of course I must also reassure my British Sinners that this exciting new phase in my unequalled walk with Jesus has absolutely nothing to do with looting, rioting, or generally running amuck as an excuse to obtain new sneakers and a plasma television. Although I do think that words simply can’t convey how worthy of our respect those young men and women are for diverting attention away from St. Rupert Murdoch’s unfortunate difficulties. And as for Amy Winehouse’s ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the man whose newspapers fought so hard to preserve her privacy, self-esteem, and dignity… tears well up in my eyes at knowing it’s not just Biblical Christians like myself who love the man who owns both Fox News and Zondervan. Not, of course, that their core market is able to distinguish between the two.
No, it is purely due to my faithfulness to Scripture that things have taken this turn. The Bible explicitly calls us to “Praise him upon the high-sounding cymbals” (Psalm 150:5), and thus I can do no other. Accompanied by the tuneful blasts of my sackbut (“mine horn shall be raised as an unicorn” – Ps 92:10 ) my bold proclamation of Righteousness (in case you’re wondering I tie the cymbals to the inside of my knees, freeing my hands to manfully grasp my sackbut), was deemed in violation of a restraining order corruptly issued in favor of the local baptists, and - as if there’s any hour at which we’re exempt from praising the One who called us to serve the Scriptures - it appears that the irrelevant fact of it being half-past two in the morning caused the acting district attorney to successfully oppose my bail.
None of which should be any cause for alarm on your behalf, My Beloved Sinners, even if it has resulted in you all having been left for more than a month without any Biblical guidance. The reason my trial has been delayed is so that things could wait until the regular DA returned from vacation – a man whom has not infrequently availed himself of the ministry provided by Consuella’s pole-dancer’s fellowship, and whom when confronted with photographic evidence of the same is sure to seek a more appropriate sentence. Naturally since the charge is essentially one of preaching the gospel I can do nothing other than plead guilty, but rather than the period of incarceration currently proposed (I could have been mistaken, but I believe I heard the phrase “throw away the key” being bandied about) I expect something more along the lines of that enjoyed by Little Don Armstrong - charity service and a comparison to Mandela. And of course the charity will be my own “Leaf blowers for Africa”, although if the Murdochs are prepared to establish a suitably fraudulent trust fund I’ve no doubt I would instead be called to act for them as a consultant. In a strictly Biblical context, of course.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Princess Leia's Conservative Conjugal Bliss.
From a thread at Viagraville (sigh: where else?) following a really special piece by Dobby Ould (double-sigh: who else?) comes a few words of wisdom from a graduate of the Ike Turner School of Marital Counseling who likes to be known as “Jedinovice”. Which you’ve at least got to admit explains why Darth Vader developed so many problems a whole lot better than Star Wars Pt. 1 and those other two stupid prequels.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
“My wife was talking to a wife with marital difficulties. She made good suggestions to the woman in question. To each suggestion the retort was, 'I can’t do that. I have my pride.'Since I can see you’ve all collapsed on the floor it’s probably best we leave things for now. Anyone who thinks the quote can’t possibly be genuine can read it here. If they must.
'Then you can eat your pride.' My wife said eventually. 'In marriage there is no such thing as pride. Where there is, there is no marriage'.
Bingo.
The natural order is unequal. Rights and Pride are impediments to salvation. Frankly they are impediments to marriage and family!”
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Oh what a tangled web we weave,,,
... when our Orders sworn we plan to leave.
A few hours ago a Beloved Sinner left a comment pointing us all to a fascinating post by a gentleman who, while not actually swimming the Tiber, has certainly donned his water wings and waded out further from the shore than could ever be considered healthy.
So fascinating was this post, in fact, that a few hours later our sacerdotal swimmer appears to have had second thoughts, and deleted the piece. Which is a great pity, since it contained an enthralling tale of how the trustees of a well-known Anglican organization donated £1 million to the Ordinariate (that's right My Sinners - One Million Pounds! Which is a whole lot of incense and man-lace in anybody's currency) before then themselves heading off for a spot of synchronized swimming.
Fortunately Brother Richthofen's friend from seminary is wise in the ways of something called "Google Cache", and by clicking here the original piece can still be accessed.
Under legal advice I'm not going to reproduce it here (and yes, I have saved a copy lest the cached version also vanish), but I can't urge My Sinners strongly enough to click here and marvel at the way little Bobby Duncan's tactics can work on both sides of the Atlantic. Or Tiber.
And thank you once again to Child of Light who drew my attention to this gem.
I'm Father Christian and you can give me £1 million anytime.
A few hours ago a Beloved Sinner left a comment pointing us all to a fascinating post by a gentleman who, while not actually swimming the Tiber, has certainly donned his water wings and waded out further from the shore than could ever be considered healthy.
So fascinating was this post, in fact, that a few hours later our sacerdotal swimmer appears to have had second thoughts, and deleted the piece. Which is a great pity, since it contained an enthralling tale of how the trustees of a well-known Anglican organization donated £1 million to the Ordinariate (that's right My Sinners - One Million Pounds! Which is a whole lot of incense and man-lace in anybody's currency) before then themselves heading off for a spot of synchronized swimming.
Fortunately Brother Richthofen's friend from seminary is wise in the ways of something called "Google Cache", and by clicking here the original piece can still be accessed.
Under legal advice I'm not going to reproduce it here (and yes, I have saved a copy lest the cached version also vanish), but I can't urge My Sinners strongly enough to click here and marvel at the way little Bobby Duncan's tactics can work on both sides of the Atlantic. Or Tiber.
And thank you once again to Child of Light who drew my attention to this gem.
I'm Father Christian and you can give me £1 million anytime.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sorry Charles.
"Revisionists will no doubt express various degrees of outrage at the emergence of the AMiE..."
Could be, Charles my boy, but so far all I've heard is schadenfreude and laughter. Which I've got to tell you (since, like most of your ilk, you're incapable of picking up subtleties unassisted), ain't with you.
I'm Father Christian, and my degrees are in the Bible
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