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drumdude wrote: ↑

Tue Dec 24, 2024 2:17 am

**Twas the Night Before FAIRmas**
*(A Mormon Apologist’s Holiday Tale)*

'Twas the night before FAIRmas, and all through the land,
The scholars were scrambling, a rebuttal in hand.
Their essays were crafted with meticulous care,
In hopes that believers would still find them fair.

The critics were nestled all smug in their blogs,
While visions of Mesoamerica danced in the fogs.
With maps on their walls and quibbles galore,
They charted the Nephites from sea to shore.

When out in the newsroom arose such a clatter,
The apologists sprang to defend what’s the matter.
Away to the sources they flew in a flash,
To save the poor plates from a scholarly crash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen sleet
Lit the outlines of horses (or maybe just “beasts”).
When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a small mound of evidence—they gave it a cheer!

With a little old leader so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment it must be the trick.
“Now chiasmus! Now steel! Now DNA strands!
On Cumorahs! On LIDAR! On Quetzalcoatl's nail’d hands!”

To the top of the mountain, to the heart of the spin,
“Let us shore up the story; we *must* always win!”
So back to the pulpit the scholars they flew,
With their hearts full of faith and their arguments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the pew,
The turning of pages and whispers anew.
As I drew in my breath and was spinning around,
Down came The Afore with a soft "gospel sound."

He was dressed in fine robes, with a gleam in his eye,
And carried a manuscript just freshly dry.
It smelled faintly of parchment, of ink and of oak,
And he muttered a phrase about “misplaced yokes.”

His words, how they flowed! His logic, how merry!
But the leaps in his claims were just a bit hairy.
The stump of a theory he held tight in his teeth,
And he waved off the critics who mocked underneath.

He spoke with a wink and adjusted his tie,
“The Book is still true; the critics just lie.”
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He sprang from his pulpit, oh the faithful gave cheer,
And the doubts seemed to vanish from far and from near.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy FAIRmas to all, and to all a good fight!"

drumdude wrote: ↑

Tue Dec 24, 2024 2:17 am

**Twas the Night Before FAIRmas**
*(A Mormon Apologist’s Holiday Tale)*

'Twas the night before FAIRmas, and all through the land,
The scholars were scrambling, a rebuttal in hand.
Their essays were crafted with meticulous care,
In hopes that believers would still find them fair.

The critics were nestled all smug in their blogs,
While visions of Mesoamerica danced in the fogs.
With maps on their walls and quibbles galore,
They charted the Nephites from sea to shore.

When out in the newsroom arose such a clatter,
The apologists sprang to defend what’s the matter.
Away to the sources they flew in a flash,
To save the poor plates from a scholarly crash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen sleet
Lit the outlines of horses (or maybe just “beasts”).
When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a small mound of evidence—they gave it a cheer!

With a little old leader so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment it must be the trick.
“Now chiasmus! Now steel! Now DNA strands!
On Cumorahs! On LIDAR! On Quetzalcoatl's nail’d hands!”

To the top of the mountain, to the heart of the spin,
“Let us shore up the story; we *must* always win!”
So back to the pulpit the scholars they flew,
With their hearts full of faith and their arguments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the pew,
The turning of pages and whispers anew.
As I drew in my breath and was spinning around,
Down came The Afore with a soft "gospel sound."

He was dressed in fine robes, with a gleam in his eye,
And carried a manuscript just freshly dry.
It smelled faintly of parchment, of ink and of oak,
And he muttered a phrase about “misplaced yokes.”

His words, how they flowed! His logic, how merry!
But the leaps in his claims were just a bit hairy.
The stump of a theory he held tight in his teeth,
And he waved off the critics who mocked underneath.

He spoke with a wink and adjusted his tie,
“The Book is still true; the critics just lie.”
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He sprang from his pulpit, oh the faithful gave cheer,
And the doubts seemed to vanish from far and from near.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy FAIRmas to all, and to all a good fight!"

drumdude wrote: ↑

Tue Dec 24, 2024 2:17 am

**Twas the Night Before FAIRmas**
*(A Mormon Apologist’s Holiday Tale)*

'Twas the night before FAIRmas, and all through the land,
The scholars were scrambling, a rebuttal in hand.
Their essays were crafted with meticulous care,
In hopes that believers would still find them fair.

The critics were nestled all smug in their blogs,
While visions of Mesoamerica danced in the fogs.
With maps on their walls and quibbles galore,
They charted the Nephites from sea to shore.

When out in the newsroom arose such a clatter,
The apologists sprang to defend what’s the matter.
Away to the sources they flew in a flash,
To save the poor plates from a scholarly crash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen sleet
Lit the outlines of horses (or maybe just “beasts”).
When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a small mound of evidence—they gave it a cheer!

With a little old leader so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment it must be the trick.
“Now chiasmus! Now steel! Now DNA strands!
On Cumorahs! On LIDAR! On Quetzalcoatl's nail’d hands!”

To the top of the mountain, to the heart of the spin,
“Let us shore up the story; we *must* always win!”
So back to the pulpit the scholars they flew,
With their hearts full of faith and their arguments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the pew,
The turning of pages and whispers anew.
As I drew in my breath and was spinning around,
Down came The Afore with a soft "gospel sound."

He was dressed in fine robes, with a gleam in his eye,
And carried a manuscript just freshly dry.
It smelled faintly of parchment, of ink and of oak,
And he muttered a phrase about “misplaced yokes.”

His words, how they flowed! His logic, how merry!
But the leaps in his claims were just a bit hairy.
The stump of a theory he held tight in his teeth,
And he waved off the critics who mocked underneath.

He spoke with a wink and adjusted his tie,
“The Book is still true; the critics just lie.”
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He sprang from his pulpit, oh the faithful gave cheer,
And the doubts seemed to vanish from far and from near.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy FAIRmas to all, and to all a good fight!"

drumdude wrote: ↑

Tue Dec 24, 2024 2:17 am

**Twas the Night Before FAIRmas**
*(A Mormon Apologist’s Holiday Tale)*

'Twas the night before FAIRmas, and all through the land,
The scholars were scrambling, a rebuttal in hand.
Their essays were crafted with meticulous care,
In hopes that believers would still find them fair.

The critics were nestled all smug in their blogs,
While visions of Mesoamerica danced in the fogs.
With maps on their walls and quibbles galore,
They charted the Nephites from sea to shore.

When out in the newsroom arose such a clatter,
The apologists sprang to defend what’s the matter.
Away to the sources they flew in a flash,
To save the poor plates from a scholarly crash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen sleet
Lit the outlines of horses (or maybe just “beasts”).
When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a small mound of evidence—they gave it a cheer!

With a little old leader so lively and quick,
They knew in a moment it must be the trick.
“Now chiasmus! Now steel! Now DNA strands!
On Cumorahs! On LIDAR! On Quetzalcoatl's nail’d hands!”

To the top of the mountain, to the heart of the spin,
“Let us shore up the story; we *must* always win!”
So back to the pulpit the scholars they flew,
With their hearts full of faith and their arguments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the pew,
The turning of pages and whispers anew.
As I drew in my breath and was spinning around,
Down came The Afore with a soft "gospel sound."

He was dressed in fine robes, with a gleam in his eye,
And carried a manuscript just freshly dry.
It smelled faintly of parchment, of ink and of oak,
And he muttered a phrase about “misplaced yokes.”

His words, how they flowed! His logic, how merry!
But the leaps in his claims were just a bit hairy.
The stump of a theory he held tight in his teeth,
And he waved off the critics who mocked underneath.

He spoke with a wink and adjusted his tie,
“The Book is still true; the critics just lie.”
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He sprang from his pulpit, oh the faithful gave cheer,
And the doubts seemed to vanish from far and from near.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy FAIRmas to all, and to all a good fight!"