Questions for ye bishops

Further to yesterday’s effusion, and to round out my comments for a week through which I have tried, Lord have I tried, to avoid “news,” “views,” and unpleasant speculation from the Synod at Rome; … well, I’ve been chatting with some fellow hack on a phone, and he said he had some questions for the bishops. “So have I, so have I,” it occurred, and the first seven questions come to mind were these:

1. Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing pow’r?
2. Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
3. Are you walking daily by the Saviour’s side?
4. Do you rest each moment in the Crucified?
5. When the Bridegroom cometh will your robes be white?
6. Will your soul be ready for the mansions bright?
7. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

If I had a single criticism it would be that the old guys have nae clew on this topic of “the family.” They give a poor impression of old celibates altogether; especially the Aryans. They have missed the whole point, and it was left to some Romanian woman (here), and to some Russian with a beard (here), to remind them what’s what, and how it fits together.

’Tis not just from the beginning of the Christian faith, but as Christ said to Moses from the start of this world: the man and the woman, created He twain. And it is by this arrangement that His world is peopled. The family is not about young divorcees and old perverts, Your Eminences, nae; it is about the bairns. And more, if ye be patient, … gentle reader. It is about the childers of thy childers, playing in the dust when thou art old:

I was told by me aunt, I was told by me mother,
That going tae a weddin’ is the makins of another;
Well, if this be so, I will go without a biddin’
O kind providence, won’t ye send me tae a weddin’ —
    And it’s O dear me, how will it be,
    If I die an old maid in a garret?

I can cook and I can sew, I can keep a house right tidy,
Rise up in the mornin’ and get the breakfast ready:
There’s nothin’ in this wide world would make me heart so cheery
As a wee fat man to call me his own deary —
    And it’s O dear me, how will it be,
    If I die an old maid in a garret?