Identity Crisis

I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting up at the counter weighs two hundred fifteen pounds and knows how to handle himself. I know the best place to look for a gun is the cab of the gray truck outside, and at this altitude, I can run flat out for a half mile before my hands start shaking. Now why would I know that? How can I know that and not know who I am?

-Jason Bourne, The Bourne Identity


Well, Toads and Toadettes,

It seems that Christmas is fast approaching Toad Pond, and, here in the upper southern Midwest, we cosmopolitan amphibians have donned our fezzes and smoking jackets for indoor festivities and a general bout of rejoicing. Less prudent bufodinae-those without fireplaces and central heat--already are frozen down, perhaps to emerge in the New Year. They should have gotten that last delivery from Hiram Distilleries. But, hey, someone has to be a “spring peeper,” right? Rawk!*

It’s time to reflect on the dyspepsia of the year past. We’ve eviscerated Episcopalians, lanced Lutherans, ambushed Anglicans, stabbed seculars and vilified vagantes. The Toad has even tumbled the truth on so-called “traditional” Christians, both to maintain consonance and to harpoon hypocrisy. (C’mon, boys and girls, that’s good even by the Toad’s standards. Rawk.*)

So, whilst firing up another cigar and mixing a few Identity Crisis cocktails (see below so you can drink along, bunky), the Toad had a look at the latest e-mails. Apart from the customary “enhancement” pitches (hey, the Toad doesn’t need ‘em, they're for a friend) and Nigerian widows needing bank information to stash the huge sums of money hubby left, the Toad saw a bunch of e-stuff purporting to “unmask” him.

“We know who you are, and we know where you live” messages get a bit tedious. It was so nice of the blog host to give us an application to identify message originators. Now the Toad can say with confidence to Fr. K. that you really ought to check out a German dictionary or consult a retired shop teacher from Cleveland (“No, I vas never camp guard during ze var-I vas window cleaner.”) before attempting German.

In case you missed it, boys and girls, the Toad is a mélange, a volatile mixture, but, damn it, not a potpourri-that’s for Episcopalians. Several personae appear here, which is why the Toad writes third person. It’s true that someone owns this site and even owns the trademark. But, never count on knowing who might be doing the actual poking, japing and bearding of your favorite objects of derision. Nosireee, pally. This site is satirized…er…sanitized for our protection.

But, you go on. Keep sending those amusing little menacing e-mails. Guess, what? The Toad won’t publish them. There might be theft of any good material, what little there is, but your ego won’t be gratified by seeing your pitiful efforts in electronic ink. The Toad doesn’t care. He doesn’t have to because he’s comfortable with his amphibious identity.

Not so with some of you boys and girls sending messages. The Toad has seen Lutheran monsignors, Episcopagans, archiwhozisses from “relatively new jurisdictions”, and clergy of every shape and kind bound together with the common string of fraudulent credentials and thirst for “authority”. These are the boys (and occasional girl) who have done Rotary, the animal clubs (Elk, Moose, Platypus and such), Masons, the Legion and now know that they are absolutely “called” to be clergy. It’s going to be alright—the Toad will expose you as you pop up out of the dark like mushrooms after a good rain whatever sun porch seminary you are hiding in.

But, now, there’s a new kind of identity crisis abroad. An alert reader whose posts the Toad will never publish has hit upon a blog run by several guys calling themselves “Anglo-Catholic”, but who appear to be ultra-Montane Roman Catholics. The Toad steeled himself with a few Identity Crisis cocktails, and went to view this latest Christmas apparition.

Well, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Looks like the operation is run by the members of the same “jurisdiction” that has the disbarred chancellor on whom the Toad reported a couple of months ago. Now, backed by the same bishop or at least supported by his “cathedral” operation, these folks are making Opus Dei adherents look like Calvinists. All the while, the main web site of the sponsor (what is his real name, exactly?) claims to be an “Anglican” operation.

It sure does look like anything remotely Anglican has been tossed over the side of an Orlando charter boat. A little net surfing has proven to the Toad this has not set very well in “Anglo-Catholic” land, and that, as a result of “misinformation” it seems as though a number of people in that small group (and it really is small, boys and girls) aren’t particularly happy about being bartered off by the bishop (consonance, fear it) to Rome to strains of It is Well With My Soul. Rawk, rawk.*

The Toad’s favorite purveyor this bit of religious incontinence in all of this is the Anglican clergyman (you are not a priest over here, pally) the Toad will call “Christmas”, because we don’t say “holiday” here, bunky. Seems that Doctor Christmas bills himself as a “cooperator” in the Priestly Society of the Holy Cross, an association of clergy “intrinsically united with Opus Dei.” You Toads and Toadettes who might not be familiar with Opus having been living on a desert island during the DaVinci Code flap (think homicidal Albino monks), should understand that it’s a bit like Freemasonry for Roman Catholics. On steroids. With much, much more flagellation.

Doctor Christmas is quite taken with all of this, particularly given that, as a cooperator, he can “receive the spiritual goods the Church grants to those who collaborate with Opus Dei. These include indulgences which the cooperators, provided they observe the conditions established by the Church, can gain on specific days of the year, and whenever out of devotion they renew their obligations as cooperators.”

Whoa! Indulgences! Great jumping Tetzel! Guess the good doctor was out the day that they covered indulgences over at the Reformed Theological Seminary way back in 2002. (Quick trip through being an Anglican, but, unlike many “continuing Anglicans,” at least it’s legit.)

Take comfort, bunky. After assisting “in the effort to bring tens of thousands into the Church”, one day you might get to be a supernumerary or even a numerary. The Toad wonders if you’ll get a special hat. Just remember not to tie that cilice (a/k/a spiked mortification chain) too tight, or in the wrong place, pally! Rawk, rawk, rawk!*

Or, how about “The Discipline” which is described on the Opus Dei Awareness site as “a cord-like whip which resembles macramé, used on the buttocks or back once a week. Opus Dei members must ask permission to use it more often, which many do.” The Toad will spare you the story of how hard and frequently “the Founder” liked to use it. It is nearly Christmas (not “holiday” damn it) after all. The Toad will keep the macramé on the hanging plants in the orangery, thank you.

Because they are there, we will just share a soupcon of relevant quotes from the writings of Opus Dei Founder, Josemaria Escriva. How about, “Blessed be pain. Loved be pain. Sanctified be pain. . . Glorified be pain!” (The Way, 208) Hey, you Anglican Toads and Toadettes, that doesn’t mean doing without the kneelers. Or, how about this one from “The Founder”? “Your worst enemy is yourself.” (The Way, 225) And, then, “You have come to the apostolate to submit, to annihilate yourself, not to impose your own personal viewpoints.” (The Way, 936) How do you spell cult, boys and girls?

So, here’s the deal. This particular little group wants to play the Palace. Fair enough, but, the Toad smells fakery. Things aren’t straight up where the cultists roam, and, the good Doctor, having one of the few real degrees among the flock of clergy in “Anglo-Catholic” land just may be marching to a very different drummer. It may also be, Toads and Toadettes, that the Acme Company, heartily endorsed by one Wiley E. Coyote, is in the cilice business and got the directions off. Putting such a thing around one’s neck will have certain problematic “side effects”. Worse than those “enhancements”. Rawwwwwwwk.*

Now, it’s time to get back to serious winter entertainments as the snow falls. But, soft! Is that the UPS representative in with the rum delivery from Santo Domingo? The Toad doesn’t remember an Albino delivery man with a limp on this route. Hmmmm.

The Identity Crisis (ok-it’s a Boston Sidecar, the cocktail with an identity crisis)

1 oz light rum
1/2 oz brandy
1/2 oz triple sec
1/2 oz lemon juice

Mix all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Strain into a chilled Martini glass.

A couple of these, pally, and you’ll be wondering, “If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?” (With the Toad’s apologies to Chuck Palahniuk, but, hey, you ain’t sellin’ any books lately, bunky.)

Yr. Obed. Serv.

Roy “The Cooperator” Toad, LSMFT, D-Phil. (Oxen.)
Seuerdupernumerary
*The Sound of One Toad Barking