Saturday, 2 March 2013

Dorty doodlings


by Kim Fabricius

The fool says in his heart that there is no God. But one who says in his heart that there is may also be a fool – and a hypocrite to boot. 

Calvin was a Cancer, Arminius was a Libra. It was never going to work out.

The turban often features in negative portrayals of Muslims. Interestingly (according to the OED), from the Persian dulband, via the Turkish tülbent, we get the English word tulip. Interestingly, because TULIP often features in the negative portrayal of Calvinists. Or rather some Calvinists; for example, Westminster Confession Calvinists. The difference is that the latter negative portrayal may be accurate.

Abraham Kuyper famously said, “There is not a single square inch of creation concerning which Christ does not say, ‘Mine!’” Which rather makes Jesus sound like a spoiled child clutching his ball on a playground. I think what Christ says is more like, “Mia casa, tua casa.”

In an earlier doodling I suggested that a Pelagian is an Augustinian is who has never grown up. I should add that there are also Augustinians who have never grown up – precisely because they think they have. And then there are Barthians and Williamses …

The difference between a Barth and a Piper is that the former glorifies God, the latter deifies Glory.

Barth famously suggested that we should preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. There are, however, exceptions. For example, from preachers who occupy the pulpit with the AV and the Daily Mail you will hear sermons that manage to combine the unctuous and the odious.

I remember, as a convert, being YRR. Hell, I’m now ORR. But young or old, it is unseemly for the Reformed to be, in spirit, trop sérieux et grincheux

I think that the traditional furniture of Judgement is all wrong: I see God sitting in a rocking chair, not on a throne. How can you cwtch up to Tad on a throne?

On Matthew 3:11: John came with water to rid us of our sins; Jesus comes with fire to rid us of our virtues.

True Christian virtues may be described as “hobbits of the heart”.

We know the sanctity of a saint when we see one. If, stupidly, a church insists on sainthood being verified and ratified, surely it should not be by the dubious searching for and demonstration of a couple of miracles, but by the candid concession of shadows, weaknesses, sins.

In salvation-history there are pauses, breaks, excursuses, digressions – synaptic, dramatic, provocative, quirky – a succession of dashes, the holiest of punctuation marks, immortally enshrined in the poetry of St. Emily of Amherst –

God’s answer to prayer is: “Pray.”

“Please, Sir” / “Yes, Ma’am”: Gethsemane in inclusive language.

How Facebook Has Brought Me Closer to God; Tweety Bird: Microblogging with the Holy Spirit; and Social Networking: the New Reformation. Available soon from Screwtape Publishing House, in Christian bookshops near you.

It should hardly be surprising that the aggressive and violent make the best pacifists. After all, the sensual and passionate make the best monks.

Friends, on those extremely rare occasions when I poke the bear of the United States, remember that I am as American as Limbaugh, lynching, and lethal injection. And Lebowski, Little Big Horn, and left field.

Take ordinary Patriotism. Stew in a marinade of exceptionalism. Add ignorance, amnesia, fear, and lies. Stir vigorously. Grill under the intense heat of a national anthem, with its themes of battle and victory, written by a resentful ex-pacifist POW. Garnish with God. Voilà: Hatriotism. 

The Star-Spangled Banner is unsingable. It is also very hard to sing.

So the AFA is outraged by SNL’s trailer of Djesus Uncrossed. AFA, I share your pain and ire. With the NRA as a co-litigant, I’d sue for infringement of copyright.

Going to church to learn how to be a Christian can be like going to demolition derby to learn how to drive.

In the old Danish fairy tale, a child declares that an emperor has no clothes. In the contemporary British version, a writer suggests that a duchess has far, far too many. Both are statements of the bleedin’ obvious about royalty as spectacle and illusion – and both are denied by people mesmerised by the propaganda of its media sycophants.

No man is an island, but one island is a Man. Two, if you live in Wales: Barry (see Gavin and Stacey).

Burial or cremation? WWJD?

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