the divine afflatus
Evening at the Chateau.
Uncle Throgmorton is in conference with the mighty Heelers.
"My kids," sez Uncle Throg, "don't go to church."
Uncle Throg's kids are kids in the Irish sense of the word kids.
That is to say their ages range from 38 to 51.
The uncle has been praying that they might have a Christian conversion.
I'm telling you folks I wouldn't bet on it.
And I bet two grand on John McCain to win the US presidency.
Arf arf.
That old gag.
Bear with me gentle travellers of the internet.
I'll be using it again soon.
I intend to get two thousand smackeroos worth out of that joke one way or the other.
Anyhoo.
Uncle Throg's family of little atheists.
There are four of them.
Cousin Rowena, a brash commercial secretary whose own kids I keep secretly baptising.
My gambling Cousin Benjie, whose exploits in gambling, we should note, have been a good deal more successful than mine. He at least has been able to buy a big house and drives a Jaguar.
Cousin Ronald, known to scholars of my writings as "The Meek That Shall Inherit," because he's heir presumptive to Uncle Throg's electronics business. At least I presume he is.
And Cousin Drusilla, a tough minded corporate career woman with a heart of gold, who works as an accountant and legal adviser for one of Ireland's richest men. It's noble work. She is paid a princely monthly sum for making him coffee, and helping him prise up the floor board where the doubloons are stashed.
I'm serious about her having a heart of gold by the way.
And as well as having a heart of gold she also has lots of the real stuff.
Gold, I mean.
But I digress.
(You're always digressing. Stop it. It's dirty. - Ed note)
None of the cousins appear overtly drawn to spiritual conceptions of the universe.
The Uncle is waiting for my reaction to the great dilemma.
With an air of great benificence, sanctity even, I deign to comment.
"What do you care if they go to church or not?" quoth me brutally.
The uncle looks pained.
"Ah James," he mutters. "You know yourself. They're dealing with life without any of the consolations of faith. Even to have that anchor, that guidance, that consolation, in the little every day challenges. I don't see how anyone can cope without prayer."
I favour him with an austere stare.
"Those aren't reasons to go to church," sez I.
"Why not?"
"There's only one reason why you should ever recommend the Christian faith to another human being."
"What do you mean?"
"You should never recommend to anyone that they pray because it's good for them, or good for their digestion, or because the Catholic mass will give them a sense of belonging, or faith will give them a sense of citizenship."
"Why then?"
"The only reason to believe in Jesus or to ever advocate him as a solution to any of life's problems..."
"Yes?"
"... is because Jesus is the truth."
Uncle Throgmorton is in conference with the mighty Heelers.
"My kids," sez Uncle Throg, "don't go to church."
Uncle Throg's kids are kids in the Irish sense of the word kids.
That is to say their ages range from 38 to 51.
The uncle has been praying that they might have a Christian conversion.
I'm telling you folks I wouldn't bet on it.
And I bet two grand on John McCain to win the US presidency.
Arf arf.
That old gag.
Bear with me gentle travellers of the internet.
I'll be using it again soon.
I intend to get two thousand smackeroos worth out of that joke one way or the other.
Anyhoo.
Uncle Throg's family of little atheists.
There are four of them.
Cousin Rowena, a brash commercial secretary whose own kids I keep secretly baptising.
My gambling Cousin Benjie, whose exploits in gambling, we should note, have been a good deal more successful than mine. He at least has been able to buy a big house and drives a Jaguar.
Cousin Ronald, known to scholars of my writings as "The Meek That Shall Inherit," because he's heir presumptive to Uncle Throg's electronics business. At least I presume he is.
And Cousin Drusilla, a tough minded corporate career woman with a heart of gold, who works as an accountant and legal adviser for one of Ireland's richest men. It's noble work. She is paid a princely monthly sum for making him coffee, and helping him prise up the floor board where the doubloons are stashed.
I'm serious about her having a heart of gold by the way.
And as well as having a heart of gold she also has lots of the real stuff.
Gold, I mean.
But I digress.
(You're always digressing. Stop it. It's dirty. - Ed note)
None of the cousins appear overtly drawn to spiritual conceptions of the universe.
The Uncle is waiting for my reaction to the great dilemma.
With an air of great benificence, sanctity even, I deign to comment.
"What do you care if they go to church or not?" quoth me brutally.
The uncle looks pained.
"Ah James," he mutters. "You know yourself. They're dealing with life without any of the consolations of faith. Even to have that anchor, that guidance, that consolation, in the little every day challenges. I don't see how anyone can cope without prayer."
I favour him with an austere stare.
"Those aren't reasons to go to church," sez I.
"Why not?"
"There's only one reason why you should ever recommend the Christian faith to another human being."
"What do you mean?"
"You should never recommend to anyone that they pray because it's good for them, or good for their digestion, or because the Catholic mass will give them a sense of belonging, or faith will give them a sense of citizenship."
"Why then?"
"The only reason to believe in Jesus or to ever advocate him as a solution to any of life's problems..."
"Yes?"
"... is because Jesus is the truth."
posted by heelers | 3:59 AM
2 Comments:
James I'd sooner risk the wrath of the right wing Christians and the Ultra right white supremacists than bait 'cousin Rowena' by calling her a secretary
Frances, it's not baiting if Cousin Rowena never finds out about it.
Also, it's a different Cousin Rowena to the one you think you recognise.
James
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