Mamma AMiA!

Schisms are like eating potato chips: once the packet is open it’s impossible to have just one. No matter how great your resolve, your hand will have dived back for another wholesome handful before the first salty morsel has oozed its oily way to your artery walls. Next thing you’ve got yourself a beer (or, for those who studied at Nashotah House and really enjoy discussing vestments, something colorful in a glass with a parasol), and then before you know it your buddies from Focus on the Family have come by, someone’s slipped a porno in the DVD player, and you’ve sent your Curate down to the 7-11 for another six packs.

Which is why I had no problem believing George Conger when he went public with the news that little Chuck Murphy has been growing increasingly restless in his role as the Rwandan Archbishop’s North American houseboy – a.k.a. “a Missionary Bishop of the Province of the Anglican Church of Rwanda and a bishop of, and chairman of, the Anglican Mission in the Americas” (never forget that when it comes to ecclesiastical titles pomposity is always inversely proportional to one’s true worth in the Kingdom of God). So restless, in fact, that George suggested Chucky’s talking about abandoning his faux-Rwandan status and taking the golden calf that is the AMiA to chew the cud in greener pastures.

Naturally rumors of disloyalty aren’t something Chucky wants flying around until the foundations of his new structure have well and truly set, so the serfs at Pawley’s Island were quickly ordered to issue a release describing George’s exposé as “false”, “erroneous”, and “irresponsible”. Which is more than a little harsh: I’ll admit that whenever I hear the expression “journalistic integrity” the three names that invariably spring to mind are George Conger, Tokyo Rose, and Axis Sally, but in my experience he never speaks disrespectfully of those with a penchant for ad-hoc ecclesiology. Even so, and just in case anyone still didn’t understand how folks are expected to think on the AMiA side of town, Chucky and his supposed Rwandan master followed this with a “nothing to see here – move along quickly” statement.

Which they clearly hoped would settle things, although it appears they forgot to tell this to someone called “Bishop” Terrell Glenn. (Is there anybody in the AMiA not claiming elevation to the Prelacy?) Who then, in the subtle manner delightfully endemic to my imitators, publically announced his resignation from Rwanda’s beacon of orthodox harmony, citing “personal issues” between Chucky and himself.

Not of course, that this would of itself have caused much of a problem – it’s not as if Chucky doesn’t have plenty of other “bishops” more than ready to take over whatever it was that Mr. Glenn was responsible for. Rather it would have been the cat let out of the bag in the ex-faux-Rwandan-prelate’s (phew! – although what’re the odds Mr. Glenn will continue using the title “Bishop”?) penultimate paragraph:

"First, please do not take our decision as an indication or recommendation from me as to what any of you should do in response to the proposed changes in the life of the Anglican Mission as it considers becoming a Missionary Society currently engaged concerning its future."

No wonder there were “personal issues”: judging from this the man didn’t even try believing Chucky’s insistence that “The work and the relationship between the AMiA and the Province of Rwanda remains solid and cherished”. When subordinates start speaking out like that it’s only a matter of time before they start refusing their morning glass of Kool-Aid – and then all the funny hats and preposterous titles in the world won’t keep them in line – will they Chuck? Or should that read "Will they ++Rwaje"?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

11:11 11/11/11 (This post goes to eleven.)

Some years ago, whilst temporarily suspended from Ministry as the result of a trivial misunderstanding concerning a few threatening letters and a home-made incendiary device (which despite allegations by the godless atheist forensic scientists investigating, was technically not thermonuclear in construction), I was forced to seek employment outside of my vocation.

Although not yet formally known as Global Anglicanism's Leading Doctrinal Warrior, I was nonetheless massively over-qualified for most advertised positions. Indeed: were it not for my brilliant ability to speak authoritatively about nothing for hours at a time (a skill finely-honed through years of Conservative exegetical preaching) maintaining the lifestyle to which I have been called might have proven impossible. As it was, however, I simply proclaimed myself as the world's finest Caucasian feng-shui master, and consultation fees began rolling in from wherever infomercial channels were foolish enough to let me advertise on credit.

Naturally this isn't something I generally make public: these days the big-money end of Evangelical giving prefers their heresies to be of a Donatist/Gnostic kind. Yet there's no denying the legacy of this profitably superstitious interlude on my journey to Orthodox Supremacy, and thus it is that I find myself unable to resist offering all My Beloved Sinners a Special Blessing to mark today's auspicious date. Besides, nobody has ever been able to give me one good reason as to why the Lectionary doesn't formally recognize the contribution made to Christianity by Spinal Tap.

Consequently I present this delightful image for you to all print, frame, and hang wherever it might inspire you daily contemplate the future of our Church. Sent to me directly from the Diocese of Mordor - a place so perverse that I have been told it is currently Spring, and not Fall as is the case in Christian nations - it features little Dobby Ould modelling his Lord Jensen's latest statement in Summer vestments. Surrounding the house-elf (who, incidentally, can't possibly be a racist on account of the fact that he's sired three offspring with an Asian woman - irrespective of the filth he shamelessly endorses) is a splendid collection of evango-fundie ministry tools.

Study it closely, My Beloved Sinners. For this is the future of the glorious Anglican schism.

I'm Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

If St Paul's day be fair and clear...

Despite being cursed with a hopelessly dated interior, I’ve always considered St. Paul’s Cathedral as having a great deal of potential. Granted, the dreadful pipe organ desperately needs replacing with a nice modern electronic unit: would you believe that during my last visit the tour guide actually admitted their monstrosity doesn’t even have a bossa nova button!!!! And how their webmaster can keep a straight face while claiming “Music is integral to the worshipping and educational life of the cathedral” when there’s no plinth upon which three young people and an overweight and highly suspect older one can lead the congregation by strumming on badly tuned guitars is utterly beyond me.

Even so, there’s absolutely nothing about St. Paul’s interior design which couldn’t be fixed with a little drywall from Home Depot. Rip out all the fussy woodwork and boring memorials, lift everyone’s mood with some cheery and colorful synthetic carpet, and before you can say “I know someone who’ll do the work cheap if we pay cash” the place would become a really practical ministry space in which Christians could quibble over the minutiae of Galatians or Colossians unhindered by pesky unbelievers foolishly seeking a sense of the numinous via Christopher Wren’s architecture.

Yet as those of you who sinfully use the internet for more than just studying my homilies and visiting my informative and entertaining advertisers are probably aware, St. Paul’s has recently been in the news for reasons entirely unconnected with the outmoded decor. Rather than a problem with undesirable furnishings, the Dean and his Clergy are facing something much more trivial: undesirable people. And do you know, My Beloved Sinners, the reason why these godless liberal apostates don’t know what to when confronted by an instance of people they don’t like daring to lower the tone of their precious Church property and surrounds? I’ll tell you: because they don’t know Scripture!!!!!!

Every Bible-believing Conservative knows that the Gospels aren’t exactly the most useful part of God's Word, but when it comes to dealing with people loitering around one’s Church, King James left us not just one, but four indisputable accounts of how Jesus handled things. My personal favorite is in John 2:13-16: here Jesus not only sent them packing without so much as a tract explaining that clinical depression is caused by sin, but He even made a whip and gave them a good thrashing on their way out. You can call me old-fashioned, but this worked back in Jesus’ time and, more importantly, works for me today – do you think any trick-or-treating kiddies so much as dared to ring the Rectory doorbell this week? (Although a group of local mothers concerned about Bishop Quinine taking turns to stand on the pavement outside and warn any unsuspecting little ones to keep away may also have played a small part).

Indeed: if the Prelates Knowles and Chartres knew the first thing about Biblical Ministry they’d be outside whipping their unwanted guests until the ingrates either fled in terror or repented of their incapacity to appreciate the importance of global merchant banking when it comes to proclaiming the Kingdom of Heaven. After which their Graces would undoubtedly contact me for help contemporizing their tired old building – did I mention that I can get them a good price on some really lovely and only marginally toxic partitioning?

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

Love's Labour's Tossed.

What’s in a name? It all depends: if your name is “Bill Gates” then it’s the confidence that nobody’s going to call the fraud squad when you feel the urge to pass million dollar checks. Or the name “Steve Jobs” means that when you die the world will call you a visionary for selling recordings to people who’ve already purchased them twice before. While, on the other hand, the undertaker rarely breaks out premium grade formaldehyde for people called “Jane Doe”. And if one's family name is “bin Laden” it’s probably best to abandon your lifelong dream of a career at West Point. Or on the Alabama monster truck circuit.

Indeed, My Beloved Sinners: some hack called Shakespeare may well have said “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”, but when I told the peroxide blonde who does “special” waxing at Cindy’s E-Z Nailz ‘n’ Beauty in the mall that she is the fragrant personification of Rosa Rubignosa she slapped my face and screamed that a three month course of antibiotics had “done fixed that rash fo’ good an’ any folks sayin’ diffrunt are cruizin’ for a learnin’ from muh step-cousin which won trophies fo’ kickboxing.”

Hence I must now implore you to learn from a recent occurrence within my own Ministry Team. By way of catching up on what had been happening in the parish during my recent absence I was studying the Church office internet logs, when, much to my horror, I discovered Evangelical Eric (my miserable excuse for a Curate) had been googling everything there is to know about someone called “Billy Love”. Naturally, given my decades of selfless research into the sin in people’s lives, I have the gift of spotting a homosexualist nom de porn faster than you can say “Hugh Jorgan or “Dick Hunter. Or even “non-stipendiary Church of England priest”.

Hence I immediately knew – with the unshakeable certainty unique to those whose qualifications are in dubious theology (as opposed to godless liberal faux-sciences like psychiatry, medicine, psychology, or anthropology) when speaking on matters pertaining to sexuality – that my own Curate had been partaking of material featuring people making decisions with regard to their manner of life which involved engorged poles of man-flesh. And incoherent grunting. Needless to say the situation called for urgent pastoral intervention, and the rest of the St. Onuphrius' team were eager to assist (with the exception, I'm sorry to say, of Consuella, who just muttered something in Spanish about us "surely having something better to do with our time").

We began by implementing the the reorientation program Brother Richthofen and his Friends from Seminary have thoughtfully developed after being inspired by this well-balanced young man. (Don’t worry if you can’t make it to the end of his sermon. Neither can Bishop Quinine, who says there is something about the boy’s accent which always compels him to take the parish hounds out for a walk. Although curiously enough he generally forgets to take the dogs with him when he leaves, and only ever seems to get as far as the sports field change rooms.) Yet the wicked Curate continued denying everything. Instead of meekly repenting while we gently beat him about the lower limbs with facsimile editions of the Geneva Bible, Eric persisted in maintaining his innocence. In fact so pathetic were the boy’s shrieks as we (in love, of course) tightened his correctional thumbscrews that I even stopped and listened to what he was trying to say. And – would you believe – he kept insisting that this “Billy Love” is actually a Conservative Bishop in northeastern New York.

That’s right my Sinners; and have you ever heard of such a thing? Then, as if this wasn’t outlandish enough, he claimed this supposed Prelate is actually a faithful disciple of my own Ministry Principles: encouraging Episcopalians to embrace prosperity teaching; being rude (especially to those whom God has appointed to exercise authority over him); fraternizing with dubious friends - not to mention being really obsessed with homosexualists.

Of course we paid no heed to such a pathetic delusion, and while there’s absolutely no empirical evidence to show Eric’s reorientation therapy is proving successful, we all know that a little thing like that isn’t enough to stop our program soon developing into a world-wide and highly profitable venture. Especially since our anecdotal evidence shows it works perfectly, and once his new obsession with suicide settles down into a more manageable case of chronic self-loathing my Curate should be almost as functional as any other emotionally-crippled Conservative. Although it'll probably never be a good idea to allow him to watch figure-skating unsupervised. Which just goes to show how blessed he is that we haven’t been fooled by his fanciful tales of this erstwhile “Billy Love” actually being a Bishop – when it comes to Love one should always give more weight to preconceptions and cultural phobias than to the Gospels and the Holy Spirit.

Isn’t that right +Albany?

I’m Father Christian I teach the Bible.

Yesterday’s Poo-poo (Remember Martin Ssempa?)

“Today’s news, tomorrow’s fish wrap.” That’s what my dear old mother always said, although she generally concluded the old truism with an additional line less common in these apostate and wicked times: “the day-after’s basis of a tasty seafood bouillabaisse for which your father’s Curate should be deeply grateful.”

Naturally I’d like to believe My Beloved Sinners faithfully strive to emulate my obsession with the most righteous men in Christendom. Yet the reality is that most of you are no less fickle in your admirations than the average evildoer, and when I make a hissing snake-like “Ssssss” sound all too few you respond by heartily cheering “Ssempa!” Indeed, the name that was a mere sixteen months ago synonymous with the inspiring cry of Eat Da Poo-Poo appears now forgotten as a host of my imitators from Rick Warren down try their hardest to avoid making any mention of their former best friend.

Granted, one can still occasionally find news of the most modest man in Kampala since Idi Amin proclaimed himself “Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea” – if you only click on one link in my entire homily make it this one - but not even the happy nepotists and house-elves of Mordor, who have gleefully proclaimed Uganda ”the future of evangelicalism” (and you thought the past was miserable?!), seem eager to keep Pastor Poo-poo’s name on everyone’s lips.

Which is why I’m so deeply grateful to the young man who took the trouble to register the Blogspot name Quidra in order to leave a comment on a homily I posted back in June 2010. At the time of his missive’s reception the boy’s profile had been viewed a massive two times: now over a month later I see the count has now already reached five, so he’s clearly on his way to becoming a living global meme for all that Pastor Ssempa represents, and it’s with this in mind that I reproduce his marvelous effort verbatim:

“all u people are wrong about this. but if you think you can tarnish pr. Martin's reputation, you have got it wrong. and watch out because our Lord is watching. you may cover your self with titles as fathers but stop taking your flock astray. do not mess with Pr. Martin for trouble awaits you. so watch out.”

What more can be said? Although I must add that I doubt it’s possible for anyone to do as much for "Pr." (Prior?) Martin’s reputation as he has himself. As the author’s fine grasp of punctuation, grammar, and capitalization illustrates, Martin Ssempa’s congregation is largely comprised of students at Uganda’s oldest university, which last month was closed indefinitely following industrial disputes by both students and faculty. The parish mission statement (“TO PREVENT AIDS AND MENTOR LEADERS THROUGH CHURCH PLANTING ON AFRICAN COLLEGE CAMPUSES”) summarizes the Great Commission with an eloquence Jesus so obviously lacked. But it’s the fact that little Martin Ssempa’s flock at Makerere Community Church refer to their spiritual gulag as “MCC” that really has our sidesman Professor Sigmund jumping up and down…

I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.

UPDATE: For a fascinating report on the whole mess of poo-poo that's currently little Martin's life visit GayUganda here.

Friday Evening Palate Cleanser (Chocolate Jesus)

Given the folks at one of my flaccid imitators appear regularly obsessed with the many dangers of an unclean palate it seems only right that we also kick off the weekend with a little aural oral hygiene courtesy of Archdeacon Tom Waits.

Even if as the result of a terrible childhood accident you're incapable of enjoying anything not played by a praise band, at least listen for the reference at 0:27 to "an immaculate confection". If only Graham Kendrick was blessed with such eloquence...

Behold the Captive is Released!

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.