In a development that has sent shockwaves through the communion wafer industry, the Pope has reportedly issued a pointed warning about an impending schism following the ordination of several bishops with the theological subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window. The Church of England, meanwhile, has responded with the bewildered air of a man who has just been informed that his tea is, in fact, not properly steeped.
Let us set the scene. The Vatican, that gilded mausoleum of celestial bureaucracy, has apparently detected a whiff of sulphur emanating from Lambeth Palace. His Holiness, a man whose job description includes 'infallibility' and 'spectacular hat game', has expressed 'grave concern' over the consecration of bishops whose views on, well, everything, seem to have been workshopped in a pub garden after six pints of Old Peculiar.
These new bishops, you see, have the audacity to believe things that were fashionable in the 17th century. Or possibly the 16th. Who can keep track? The point is, they are 'controversial' because they have opinions that predate the internal combustion engine. The Archbishop of Canterbury, a man who looks perpetually as though he has just mislaid his car keys, has entered into 'dialogue', which is Church-speak for 'frantic, high-level waffling with no discernible outcome'.
Meanwhile, the faithful are left to ponder the eternal question: is this really about theology, or is it about who gets to sit in the big chair? My money is on the chair. It's always the chair. And the hats. Let's not forget the hats.
This is, of course, a golden opportunity for your humble correspondent to indulge in some good old-fashioned schadenfreude. After all, nothing says 'moral authority' quite like a bunch of celibate men in dresses arguing about who is more virtuous. The Pope, a man who has never met a ceremonial entrance he didn't like, has warned that such 'divisive actions' could 'tear the fabric of Christendom'. Translated from Ecclesiastical Hyperbole: 'Stop doing things I don't like or I'll write a sternly worded encyclical.'
The Bishop of Wotsit (I forget his name, but he looked very earnest on the BBC) has responded with the sort of oily condescension that suggests he has been taking lessons from a used car salesman. 'We are simply returning to the true faith,' he said, adjusting his mitre. 'It's not schism, it's a repositioning of the deckchairs on the Titanic of Anglicanism.' He may not have used those exact words, but the sentiment was there.
In related news, the gin reserves at the Vatican have been placed on high alert. Sources indicate that the Pope's personal supply of Plymouth Navy Strength has been moved to a secure, air-conditioned bunker, lest it fall into the hands of schismatic barbarians. The Church of England, ever the pragmatists, have responded by ordering a lifetime supply of Earl Grey and ensuring that every parish has at least one functioning kettle.
So what does this mean for the average pew-warmer? Absolutely nothing. They will continue to sit through interminable sermons about the importance of being nice, while the men in pointy hats squabble over who has the most direct line to the Almighty. The only schism that matters is the one between those who understand that religion is a metaphor for human decency, and those who think it's a celestial dominance hierarchy.
I, for one, welcome our new schismatic overlords. At least they make the Sunday papers interesting.
