Hasta la vista, baby...

Isn't it heartbreaking, My Beloved Sinners, to see how Liberals and Atheists are trying to besmirch the reputation of the most inspiring advocate for anabolic steroids to have ever held public office? I'm speaking, of course, of former governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, the man who despite the obvious disability of being born a foreigner, proved that with the help of a well-filled posing pouch, body-oil, and plenty of intravenously injected hormones, nothing is impossible through faith.

I'm referring, of course, to the "outrage" over revelations that the ex-governor impregnated his family's housekeeper - tragic proof of the extent to which Apostate Episcopalians have rendered the world Biblically Illiterate, and compromised our once clear understanding of Scriptural teachings on the family. And in turning their backs upon these examples which were given for all men's edification (in addition to any women who as a result of having been raised in unbelieving households are able to read), these so-called "Anglicans" not yet in schism from Canterbury have reached now plumbed depths so perverse that they would even condemn those humbly walking in the footsteps of our own ancestor in God's salvific covenant.

Those of you who still have Bibles should please turn to Galatians 3:7 (those of you without your own personal copy of God’s Word should simply steal one of the Gideons’ after your next rendezvous at a local motel). Reading what you see there will show that even an Ould twin can’t quibble over the fact that Abraham is the spiritual father of all who would call themselves “Christian”. Then turn to Proverbs 4:1, where you will see the indisputable command for sons to pay attention and learn from their father’s instruction and example. Indeed, so seriously does the Bible take the issue of filial obedience that Deuteronomy 21:18-21 is it quite clear that disrespectful sons must be put to death – something so-called “experts” on the family like James Dobson invariably water down, like the wishy-washy liberals they really are.

No, My Sinners, an obedient son does as his father did. And our father Abraham generously shared the seed of his loins with his wife’s housekeeper – you can read of his faithfulness for yourselves in Genesis 16:1-4. Which is exactly what ex-governor Schwarzenegger did, presumably whilst enjoying a well-deserved break from repetitively lifting things (or one of the many other intensely cerebral challenges which comprise the sport of bodybuilding).

That’s right - he followed the example of our father Abraham! So it’s no wonder that those embracing the homosexualist agenda to allow people to live as God has made them are now criticizing the man Christians know and love as “the Governator”. Anyone wicked enough to hold that the Sacrament of Marriage - an institution which the inerrant word of Scripture clearly shows is for the benefit of one man, one woman, and the woman’s slave(s)/personal staff – was also given as a blessing to loving monogamous couples (including those with similarly-shaped smelly bits) - has clearly abandoned the “faith once and for all delivered to the saints”. As such it’s no surprise that they would also denigrate a god-fearing Republican for choosing to faithfully embrace a Biblical lifestyle.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

If I were Hal Lindsey I'd sue.

Honestly, My Beloved Sinners; all the attention currently being paid to little Harold Camping and his assertion that this coming Saturday evening is going to be a little more memorable than most is making this old Doctrinal Warrior sick.

I mean really, if God was going to spill any secrets that big, He’d do so with me. The mere idea that I would be left out of a loop this large is ridiculous - let alone the notion that the best person the Almighty could find to call the nations to repentance is some fool who hasn’t even put any Google advertisements on his web site in order to capitalize on all the attention. After all, Harold Camping isn’t even an Anglican, so how he can possibly claim to understand anything of what the Bible teaches? Although, I’ve got admit, neither are little Peter Jensen and his family, and that doesn’t stop them from laboring under the same delusion.

Not of course, that this isn’t proving a fabulous opportunity for us here at St. Onuphrius’. Our special Rapture Insurance® team of Lay Ministers/Sales personnel has been simply overun with enquiries, and their closure rate has hit an all-time high - currently few than one in ten contracts are involuntary, or made to persons deemed medically incapable of understanding what they’re signing. With one paltry down payment (cash only please, although welfare recipients are permitted to sign their check over) people can enjoy peace of mind knowing that in the event of their being raptured any unsaved loved ones will be provided for.

Naturally provisions apply - as with any reputable insurance product – and for the benefit of any of you big-government types out there I would like to stress that any offers made by or purporting to be made on behalf of Rapture Insurance Ministries® pertain only to persons residing in such jurisdictions as where this sort of thing can be got away with and I am in no way liable for any actions made which may appear to be in contravention of this fact. (Sorry about that, but one can’t be too careful about such matters. And there's never such a thing as too much fine print when you're a Conservative. Just ask little Peter Ould. Or Harold on Sunday morning.)

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Breaking News: Martyngale to Sing in Berkeley Square!

As those Beloved Sinners sufficiently righteous to be numbered among myFacebook friends will be aware, after years of trying Bishop Quinine has finally magnetized his skull plate.* Unfortunately he was in the Rectory kitchen at the time, and the force generated proved so powerful that that our Primate-in-residence was dragged across the room to the refrigerator, to which he has remained magnetically adhered ever since.

In search of a solution to this minor inconvenience he has been feverishly studying everything Charles Berlitz wrote on the Philadelphia Experiment (Mr. Berlitz, for those unfamiliar with his legacy, was to science what little David Virtue is to theology). Whilst so far finding nothing of any help in relation to demagnetization, he currently (no pun intended) has Evangelical Eric constructing a Tesla coil around himself and his conjoined appliance. Once completed and electrified he is certain this will result in the ability to travel freely through space and time – hopefully sans the parish Kenmore.

Mind you, I can’t see what the fuss is. I've never encountered a faux-bishop not floating around with his head in the clouds. For the latest example one need look no further than dear little layman Martyn Minns. Having bailed the CANA “lifeboat” for longer than could ever be reasonably expected of a man who’s eyes still gleam purple with ambitious desperation, he’s now announced an end to his life of simultaneously juggling Bobby Duncan’s sect whilst massaging egos in Lagos.

Instead he’s going to be heading up a “GAFCON Global Coordination office” in London, which among other important gospel essentials like have an impressive desk and a shiny computer from which he will speak with the authentic voice of Anglicans in the developing world, but will also be the planning nerve-center for the most exciting thing to happen to my Google ranking since the GAFCON pilgrimage itself – GAFCON 2. (Don’t worry Martyn: I’ve already registered “Gafcon 2” with Blogspot, and as we get nearer the big day I’m sure there’ll be no shortage of Beloved Sinners willing to post there to help keep Googling media-types heading our way).

Of course the best thing about this exciting news (which I notice at time of writing little Martyn hasn’t bothered to share with his flock via the CANA News site - but hey: what business has any of this to do with those who pay to keep him in the manner to which a faux-bishop is entitled?) is that it means little Bobby Duncan won’t have to cross his fingers any more when saying “Yes – the Province of ACNA is officially recognized in England.” How long after Minns’ has signed the lease on a nice little carpeted hole in the wall do you think it will be before Bobby issues a release to that effect? My money’s on twenty minutes, but Consuella gives him five max.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

*For the curious: Bishop Quinine’s skull plate was surgically implanted as a result of his childhood abduction by vivisectionists, who mistook him for a rare species of hairless monkey. Sold to a Swiss pharmaceutical conglomerate, it was only several months after experiments had commenced that he was identified as human and released.

Mother's Day Sermon, 2011

Following an overwhelming flood of requests (ok - one of you asked) I present the text of the inspiring sermon I delivered to my packed congregation of enthralled Sinners last Sunday morning.

In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Book…

Few things are more indicative of the Apostate Liberal Malaise afflicting our Church in this dark and shameless age than the lectionary’s bald reference to today as “The Third Sunday in Easter”. That’s right, My Beloved Sinners; were the recognition paid to this Holiest of occasions by our Ungodly Prelates and their Biblically Illiterate Liturgists anything to go by it might as well not be Mother’s Day at all, but merely one of a sequence of Sundays subsequent to the anniversary of some minor event which occurred way back in the mists of time.

However by the Grace of God, and a rewritten Parish Constitution appointing me as Rector in perpetuity, St. Onuphrius’ has been blessed with a Leader who will NEVER succumb to whatever flight of fancy is the latest to tickle the ears of those determined to take you all to Hell in a handbasket, and in this parish the second Sunday in May always has been, and always will be, known by its proper liturgical title: Mother’s Day. Just as it was by the Reformers, and St. James who wrote our Holy Scriptures, and even by St. Paul himself.

Nor should any of you ever allow your wicked hearts and uneducated minds to be led astray by those who would argue that the Church Fathers made no reference to this day, nor proscribed the date upon which all Christian nations ought celebrate it. That’s exactly the kind of picky detail with which those who would seek to destroy the Gospel by reducing the value of my substantial shareholding in a number of firms manufacturing greeting cards would say. Furthermore, don’t for one instant accept the glib protests made by those in Great Britain or Nigeria that their own heretical celebration upon the fourth Sunday in Lent is just as good. It’s Lent, for goodness sake! That’s a time for reflection, piety and increasing one’s giving to Church, not for spending up big on the one from whose loins you were expelled. If these heterodox so-called “Christians” were serious about wishing to celebrate Mother’s Day on a different date to the that which was ordained by God they would at least choose one after ours, thereby giving Bible-believers a chance to offload anything we couldn’t sell on the real occasion.

Mother’s Day is a sacred occasion on which every one of you must, in addition to purchasing a handful of the most expensive cards you can find, prayerfully remember not just your own Mother, and - if like me you are a man who has faithfully heeded Our Lord’s command to “Be fruitful and multiply” - the various Mothers of your offspring, but all women who have reproduced. Although you should never succumb to the temptation of permitting your reverence to be anything other than sentimental. This is no time for dwelling upon the pragmatic details of reality, or what members of the gender whom St. John Chrysostom sensitively described as able to "effect nothing of themselves" might mistakenly think shows respect for Motherhood - like affordable health-care, or universally accessible child-care

Rather it is a time to show how much you really value and esteem the Hallowed Calling of the maternal gender - by giving a bunch of flowers, and a new pot-holder. And have I mentioned the importance of buying cards?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Ding dong, the witch is dead?

Isn’t it what you’d expect from a bearded foreigner? I’d just completed writing an inspired and sensitive epilogue to my important role at the Royal Wedding, and was about to post it when news came through that Osama bin Laden has gone to meet his 72 virgins. Or whatever it is that happens to those choosing his manner of lifestyle when the big broker in the sky makes an option call. (The share market metaphor is especially for my dear little Jensenist readers, who visit on an almost daily basis, and whom I know have been feeling neglected in recent homilies.)

Still, Consuella has been complaining about having heard enough of this epic celebration of democracy, and keeps muttering something about “pan y circo para el pueblo”, so it’s probably better to postpone my original piece for a while. It may be spring, but here in Ichabod Springs the weather’s still not yet pleasant enough for a Doctrinal Warrior to keep his own bed warm at night.

So with no further ado, let me begin by stressing that Bin Laden's death signifies the beginning of a wonderful new era. Henceforth Christians should expect young Islamic men to cease growing beards and wrapping their heads in their grandmother’s tea towel. Instead of starting their day listening to some constipated mullah calling the faithful to prayer, they’ll be taking wholesome cold showers before enjoying a diligent Quiet Time studying Every Day With Jesus. Rather than mindlessly repeating “Allahu Akbar” they’ll be reverentially shouting “PTL!” and telling complete strangers about “the awesomely awesome time of teaching and worship we shared at fellowship last Friday night”.

Consequently it’s obvious this truly is an occasion for celebration. Stop and consider, if you will, how many internet-savvy sinners have today taken a break from their restless quest for nudie pics to glorify Christ by conducting Google searches based around the phrase “dead Osama gore”. And think how much media attention has been diverted away from the popish idolatry of John Paul II’s beatification – no wonder the Romans are trying to rain on the parade.

After all, just take a look at this picture I lifted from The Washington Post of bin Laden’s house:


I mean really; just look at that grass. It must have been weeks since the man made one of his wives mow it. Anyone capable of letting crabgrass go to seed like that is simply a menace to society. And don’t be fooled by the rest of the place, sure he’s got neat bits of what look like old pickup trucks lying around, and that satellite dish looks damn fine, but see how there’s no deck? And no barbecue! That means he was the kind of guy who never invited his buddies around to share the great reception he gets on Fox Sports over a few beers and pork ribs. Which proves beyond all doubt he was evil, and got what was coming.

Of course there’s always someone who thinks the Bible is relevant at a time like this. After finding someone else I wisely stopped looking. People who suggest the Bible has any relevance when It’s not talking about homosexualists, or being used to keep women out of leadership, are just dangerous as far as I’m concerned. Invariably they’re the same type who try and claim following Jesus involves a commitment to some ludicrous ethic transcending the god-given Babylonian precept of ‘an eye for an eye’.

What I am nervous about, however, is that having finally executed a man responsible for the death of thousands, the Coalition of the Willing is going to move on to those responsible for the deaths of millions. And where will that leave the fine upstanding men and women responsible for unsafe automobiles, tobacco, and unaffordable health care?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the bible.

Homeward bound.

Well, My Beloved Sinners, we’re all safely aboard the aircraft and flying back to dear old Ichabod Springs. I can’t deny that I’m disappointed to have not been able to enjoy a little more time in Britain: it would have been marvellous for Evangelical Eric’s ongoing formation as a Clergyman to have taken him to see something more of his Anglican heritage: the fan-dancing theatres in Soho, for example, where I faithfully served as Chaplain during the dark days of the Blitz; or the "cottages" of Hampstead Heath, where the best and brightest Ordinands have traditionally established networks which carried them up to the very pinnacles of the Ecclesiastic authority.

Then there’s the Tower, where by executing two of his six wives Henry VIII demonstrated the family values which still inspire Orthodox Anglicans today. And the London Eye - is anything as character-building for a young Curate as experiencing the pleasure of looking down upon everybody else? Or with more time we could have visited Madame Tussauds: a portrait taken with an effigy of Lady Gaga is the kind of heirloom which adds gravitas to any Vestry wall.

Indeed: as I sit here I can’t but weep at George Washington’s foolishness at rejecting proposals for an American monarchy. After all, what could be more Christian than the principle of rule passing down to the first-born male (providing, of course, he doesn’t do anything as sinful as wish to marry an American divorcee), and relegating children unfortunate enough to be born without a penis to the reserve benches? And it’s beyond me how any American patriot can believe the bunkum Jefferson and his cohorts sprouted about “all men are created equal” after seeing Prince Charles in action. Or Princess Beatrice’s hat.

My prayer today is that everyone in The Home of the Brave might seize this opportunity to correct the terrible error of their Founding Fathers. May they not just embrace ++Cantaur’s marvelous vision for oligarchy, but also turn from sinful notions like the belief success and privilege are just rewards for hard work, and in repentance realize they are actually rights based upon one’s birth, or getting very, very lucky in the marriage stakes.

Instead of intiative and a can do attitude America needs pomp, and ceremony; instead of education and equality the Land of the Free needs pedigrees, and a servant-class who know their place. That way the world could rest in the certainty that there’d be as much chance of another Obama rising to the White House as there is of the heir to British throne ever having a parent called “Lakshmi” or “Priyadarshini”.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Live blogging from Westminster Abbey: Update XVIII.

Oh dear, My Beloved Sinners, I must apologize for my coverage being terminated so abruptly. I’d set off during the Lord’s Prayer, crawling through the pews in search of a power socket and cable, when suddenly I was seized by a crack team of soldiers from Prince Andrew’s Clapham Common Doggers.

The next thing I’d been spirited away to Scotland Yard via secret wartime tunnels beneath the Abbey, where a charming officer began explaining that even though water-boarding isn’t exactly a British custom, he’d be more than willing to make an exception if I didn’t explain what I’d been doing wriggling between the guest’s legs during the opening bars of “Blest Pair of Sirens" (if there is one thing I’ve long felt lacking in contemporary worship it’s the lack of recognition and respect given to Sirens).

Insisting upon my rights as the holder of a diplomatic passport (if young men from upstate New York can obtain canonical residency in Kenya, there’s certainly nothing untoward in my purchasing Somalian diplomatic status, and given the nation's primary industry is piracy there's actually a natural and oft-overlooked synergy between Somalia and schismatic clergy), I was granted the right to a telephone call, whereupon I immediately dialled Betty’s cellphone.

Would you believe it, however, but here in England it's considered polite to turn one’s cellphone off during formal occasions - even during weddings! I’d certainly never heard of such a thing before, and I’m sure it will never catch on at home. I mean to say; how could people let friends attending a funeral know about a really exciting special at Walmart, or interrupt people attending a film or play to remind their significant other to pick up some milk on the way home? Still, after leaving a couple of messages explaining my urgent need for her to return my call (and allowing my stunned interrogator to hear Betty’s voicemail message as proof that I wasn’t as delusional as he seemed to think I was), I was escorted to a holding cell, and instructed to wait with a number of other obvious subjects of mistaken detention.

And who would have believed it, but there in the midst of the happy throng were Bishop Quinine and Evangelical Eric, still dressed in the tattered remains of their pantomime horse. They’d been spotted by Prince Charles – always a man with a keen eye for horse-flesh – who’d ordered they be bridled and taken to his stables, where he felt they’d make a valuable genetic contribution to his polo-ponies' bloodline.

Naturally Bishop Quinine was elated. Evangelical Eric, on the other hand, began shrieking (to be fair, he was in the costume’s hind quarters), and their ruse was quickly exposed by His Royal Highness’s perceptive ostlers. The authorities were notified, and before you could say ”George Michael” they’d been placed in custody.

No sooner had the pair finished recounting their adventures than the officer who’d questioned me earlier returned. In a pleasingly amazed voice he announced that Her Majesty was on the line, and wished to speak with me. She was, as you would expect, appalled at my treatment, although as a gentleman and a Christian I insisted it was all nothing other than a simple mistake, and that she should let the matter rest with our release; other than casting all those responsible into the Tower of London no further action was necessary.

In fact everything was going so wonderfully that I in closing tapped the speaker-phone button so that she might also convey her apologies to my companions. At which point Evangelical Eric had the foolish compulsion to clear his whining little throat and ask “By the way, Your Majesty, what happened to the groom’s mother, and why isn’t anybody mentioning her today?”

The line went dead, and before I could defuse his faux pax we were dragged away to a cell so deep within the building that were Scotland Yard a mammal I’d say we were taken to somewhere between the large intestine and the colon. Which is not to say things couldn’t have been worse, although Eric found the words written above the doorway to our temporary domicile (“Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here”) particularly distressing.

After a little while (how time flies when one is chained to the walls) another soldier came to tell us we’d be held down here until Long Kesh could be reopened. Which didn’t mean much to any of us, although a small quiet voice in my spirit suggested it mightn’t be a place where the other inmates afforded Reformed Bible-believing Anglican Protestants the respect to which we are entitled. For the first time things began to look as if we did indeed have a small problem, when Bishop Qunine suddenly recognized the soldier:

“Tickles?” he asked, “is that you?”
“Quinners, Your Grace?”
“Of course it’s me, you naughty little monkey. Don’t tell me the rest of the lads have been posted here with you?”

As the two chuckled and exchanged pleasantries it became clear that Bishop Qunine was in fact old friends with the officers and men of our warder's regiment - “Prince Edward’s Theatricals”. After a little more conversation, and a playful slap which would under any other circumstances have made Eric blush, and sent him scurrying away to compose yet another a letter of complaint to the Archdeacon, the soldier whom had by now been introduced to us Sgt Tickerthope left to consult his officers, assuring us that “there’d be no bother sorting something out for old Quinners and his chums”.

Not ten minutes passed before he returned with an impressive array of firm-chested British military types. It turned out Bishop Quinine had served for a time as the Theatrical’s Chaplain: as a battalion specializing in engagements demanding precision cross-dressing his pastoral skills had become legendary, and the expression “polishing the Bishop” had come to have a special meaning dear to the heart (and other places) of every man in the regiment.

A few more telephone calls and everything was sorted. Our terrible lèse majesté would be covered up, and we would be discretely deported along with a camera crew from “Girls Gone Wild”, who insisted they’d been invited to attend the festivities by Prince Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy.

Which brings us to where we are at present: travelling to Heathrow on board one of the Theatrical’s APCs. I'll write some more to you when we’re on the plane, but right now I’ve got to give Bishop Quinine his iPad back. For reasons neither you or I will ever comprehend he’d like to show his old friends the Donald Trump slideshow he put together on the flight over: I suppose someone other than Rush Limbaugh has to enjoy looking at pictures of the old bankrupt.

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.