[Steelfish]

This is the sophomoric stuff that low-information Protestants spew out. You see, they simply can’t digest the intellectual, historical, and liturgical practices of the early Church or its early hierarchal structure to present a ONE single truth as given by Christ in the Great Commission to Peter and His disciples. The great works of Augustine, Aquinas, St. Ambrose, Cardinal Newman (a Convert to Catholicism); Benedict XVI, or Richard Neuhas (The late Great American Lutheran theological scholar who converted to Catholicism) simply goes over the heads of low-information Protestant Christians.

Protestant theology today is reduced to bits and pieces which any FourSquare Church corner street pastor from Rev. Wright to Joel Osteen to Jimmy Swaggart is allowed to pick up and promote as “the” truth when it fact it is “their “ own personal version of the truth.They crack open the Bible and do a “Billy Graham” and say they found the truth. At last count some 35,000 different denominations and expanding. These are all the wild and poisonous mushrooms that scatter around the great Mustard Tree.

[smvoice]

In my mind's eye Steelfish has just poured himself a brandy and is swirling and sniffing for the required effect that anyone who pours himself a brandy must adhere. I sense a profound statement from him any moment now, formed from years of study and late night conversations over brandy and the meaning of life. The fireplace has the low glow of perfectly seasoned wood, crackling softly, and keeping time with Bach, playing discreetly in the background of the perfect setting for lessons from a master of life's moments and all that is important. Wait patiently...his words are beginning to form...and we will all be the wiser for having been invited to watch and listen. And learn.

"This is the sophomoric stuff that low-information Protestants spew out"...ah, the chance to impress those beneath his opinion of himself, has come. And gone. And we are left with a fleeting moment of comedic craving. Such as the fireplace suddenly losing a log as it rolls toward Steelfish's priceless rug, only to have him stomp out the sparks with his tawny taupe driving moccassins. While in desperation he pours his snifter of brandy onto his shoes and watches in horror as they poof straight out of existence. Never one to find the humor or irony in a situation he has claimed as the moral high ground, he grasps aimlessly toward the front door, smoke billowing and Bach just a distant memory. Asking us to find our own way out, he collapses into a corner, cursing the low-information Protestant Christians for not knowing the basics of fire prevention and sharing with him. After all, he cannot know everything. He was prepared to share his intellectual, historical, and liturgical practices with the heathens. The least they could have done was bring a fire extinguisher. Must he do EVERYTHING?