Why do Primates Kill their own Kind? A Christmas Epistle to Anglican Archbishop Fred Hiltz

Dear Fred,
You may have heard of Crazy Walter, since he collapsed the pomp and dignity of one of your predecessors on a memorable spring day in 1990, at the Vancouver seminary I attended.
Walt went on to a street corner preaching in Toronto and the kind of insane joy so unfamiliar to the Church of England, and Primate What’s His Name undoubtedly is retired by now: but the memory of their brief encounter is forever pristine.
Walt was a bearded wild man who hung around our seminary, and everyone tolerated him with such apparent liberality because we were all too scared to ask him to leave.
He was trying to liven up the place that morning, as was his wont, for the sight of all of us oh-so-serious aspiring clerics tended to piss Walter off. His intense blue eyes jabbed at us unmercifully as he expounded the truth of what the Bible really meant, using waving arms, suggestive hip thrusts and touches of ribaldry that made the novices among us blush and look away.
“I’m here to skewer you ungrateful little fuckers with the Word!” he explained, to the scowls and mutters of those of my erstwhile church colleagues who obviously had never met a real life prophet before.
Walt was on a real roll by then, and my buddy Rich Lang and I were close to breathless exhaustion from the reluctant laughter that spilled from us, when the announcement burst through the door.
An excited young woman stepped unsuspectingly into the lounge and declared to us with the bland attempt at enthusiasm of a processed Christian,
“The Anglican Primate is here!”
Like a pilgrim on the verge of a sacred orgasm, Walter’s eyes sparkled at her words, and he shouted out gleefully,
“The fucking Primate?”
The old guy then leaped up and hurried to the doorway, and believe it or not, actually pointed his rear end towards the front hallway of our Vancouver School of Theology and the general direction of His Eminence, and began to quickly rotate and thrust his ass with all the passion of a baboon in heat.
“It’s the Primate!” Walt kept shouting. “The fucking Primate!”
Rich and I were both on the floor by then, screeching and gasping for air, and through tears of laughter I caught Walter jumping up and down in the hallway, his ass still offered to the churchman, as the Anglican Primate’s shocked entourage stood bewildered and embarrassed in front of the guy.
Being Canadians, none of them said anything, but the top Anglo gave Walt a strange sort of look and muttered to his shocked brethren, and then shuffled off with the school Principal to sip coffee and blabber somewhere.
By the time Crazy Walter returned to us in triumph, most of our career-conscious friends had scattered in terror. Walt beamed with avuncular pride at Rich and me for staying, threw his weary buns down on the couch, and announced,
“Sorry guys. It was all that purple that fucker wore. Made me randy as hell!”
I realize now that Walter knew more than he was saying.
Fred, I know the whole topic of anal intercourse must make you nervous, knowing what you know about your own church, but bear with me. Let me try to lubricate (sorry) the topic with a theological reference, to make the impact a bit gentler.
If Jesus ever did walk the earth, I imagine he was a lot like Crazy Walter. According to the Book, JC got executed, don’t forget, for pissing off guys like you, Fred.
After all, his prescription for child rapists was to tie a ten ton grinding stone around their necks and toss them into the nearest ocean, presumedly with loving non-violence. So we know where that leaves you guys, and those you protect: shit out of luck, as Walter would have said.
What is the Anglican church punishment for raping a child, Fred? The Catholics call it a forgivable sin. Canadian law requires only a wrist-slapping one year mandatory sentence in jail for child rape. So it’s not as if you’re under any pressure to go hard on the sickos in your midst, even when they ended up flogging to death their little victims, and then burying them in shallow graves: like at the Brantford Indian residential school.
Besides my sheer delight in recounting a tale about Not so Crazy Walter, what’s causing me to drop you this little note is something you said last month: that you have no power to release documents held by your Bishop Bob Bennett about kids who died at the killing grounds known as the Mohawk Indian residential school in Brantford.
It’s an odd thing for you to say, Fred, because hell: you’re the fucking Primate, boy. You speak on behalf of she whom my Irish nationalist family members like to call “that Bitch in Buckingham Palace”. That means you not only get to wear all sorts of sexy purple outfits, Fred, but you can tell any priest, or a Bishop Bob, precisely what to do.
So your strange remark got me wondering: why would the top Anglican in Canada want to conceal documents from the Mohawk Indian school?
One doesn’t need a Master of Divinity degree to figure that one out, which is frankly what makes you and the whole situation laughable, more than anything: because you all know the score, and yet you pretend not to.
The blood stains from all those little kids are still all over your church, Fred, even after all the official scrubbing and whitewashing. You know that you’ve sealed away documents that prove your church and the “crown” intended to eradicate the Mohawk nation. You know about the bones we’ve uncovered at the Brantford school. Like I told your co-conspirator, Bishop Bob Bennett, the graves are opening now, and your lies don’t work anymore.
So let me remind you of something you may have forgotten, along the way to grasping your Archbishop’s miter: since the truth always comes out, full disclosure is the only way left for the guilty.
You won’t disclose anything, of course, and not only because your lawyers will not allow it. But that really doesn’t matter. In the final days of any dying regime like yours, the decisions of the people “at the top” always become more self-destructive, irrational and just plain silly – which is why the abomination you represent can only be laughed at and mocked, like Walter did, and Jesus.
So relax, Fred. Nothing’s in your hands anymore. The great wheel of destiny is turning, and those with eyes to see and hearts to feel will know where they belong now.
One final point, however: I hear that Bishop Bob recently instituted a new policy in his diocese (you gotta love those quaint old Roman terms), that no Anglican clergyman can drive alone in a car with a child anymore.
I guess that goes to prove that Crazy Walter couldn’t have been that far off the mark, Fred.
Merry Christmas.