Ultimate Authority

There's a bit of a debate going on in Anglican circles about who can lead The Lord's Supper. It's no big deal, they're just working some things out, but it's been in the media, because it can be beat up into a fracas if you try hard enough.

One interesting comment that came out of the article (http://www.smh.com.au/national/legal-challenge-brewing-over-holy-communion-row-20091018-h2yo.html)

The rector of St John's Church, Gordon, Father Keith Dalby, said diaconal and
lay presidency contravened the type of church services and ministry role as
prescribed in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, which is the ultimate standard of
worship in the Anglican communion.

Penultimate, he should say. There's this book called the Bible...

Blast From The Past

Found this when cleaning up the study. A comment (cynical comment) arising out of the cafuffles in the Uniting Church at the time.

Faithless Hermeneutics

The Pièce De Résistance

I had a terrible dream.

I dreamt I was in a restaurant. The fanciest restaurant in town.

The service was impeccable from the valet parking to the genteel waiters. The setting was fantastic, the atmosphere was warm and actually exciting. It was buzzing. It was the most well appointed place I had ever been in. Everything was top of the range and shiny and smart.

It was a thrill to be in the most talked about restaurant in town.

I was made to feel welcome, I was fussed over, I was entertained, I was in heaven.

And then they served the meal.

A waiter, handsome and tall, came in brandishing a covered platter. And how elegantly he presented it with flourishes and smiles. And then he lifted the lid...

Grass.

Grass on a platter.

To be sure it was dipped in sugar, and artfully decorated, but it was grass.

I didn't understand. I tried to get up. I was stuck to my chair. I looked around. I hadn't noticed it before. Grass. The fat lady was forking grass. The family sharing a bowl of grass.

Everyone in the place was eating grass. And they were loving it.

I moaned, "No." and tried to escape but I was stuck.

I shook my head and kicked the floor but I was still stuck.

I screamed and woke up.

I was in a church.

A beautiful church, large and new and modern.

Everything was state of the art, from the sound system to the projection to the cappuccino machine.

I had been made to feel welcome as I came in. Even the seats were comfortable.

I had enjoyed the music and been entertained by the band.

And now the preacher had stepped up to the platform. Tall and handsome and full of smiles. Oh, he was easy to listen to, polished without seeming it, professional yet personal.

But he was feeding us grass.

I looked at my Bible on my knee and prayed he would use the passage we had just read. Just dip into it once without sounding just like Andy Robbins. I stared at my Bible and I willed him to say what it meant. Hoped he would explain how it called on our lives.

But he kept feeding us grass. Oh, it was sugar coated and artfully arranged, but it was grass.

I looked around and everyone was eating it up. The message tickled their ears, the presentation slid past their eyes, and they gorged themselves on its sweetness, its abundance, but they were never full.

I wanted to leave, I squirmed in my chair, I prayed again.

I screamed.

But I was already awake.