You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘tomfoolery’ category.
Long time readers may remember that a couple of years ago I discussed the scandal surrounding the Annual Possum Drop held in the village where we live. Briefly — for those who do not wish to read that entry again, or are simply distressed by even thinking of such a thing — the man who owns the gas station downtown (so to speak – in the aerial photo, it is the wide place in the road) holds a big New Year’s Eve bash every year, which features gospel singing, a womanless beauty pageant (don’t ask) and assorted types of merriment, and is capped by the lowering of a caged possum to the ground at the stroke of midnight. Riotous celebrating ensues. In any event, while we were in Greece several years ago, PETA threatened to sue over the event. The organizer didn’t help his cause, since he reported that “…once the crowd leaves, we turn him (the possum) loose. He runs across the road, and we run over him and eat him for New Year’s dinner.” Still, they were so chastened by the threat that they released that year’s candidate and found a dead possum on the road, which they washed, blow dried and propped into a life like position, and carried on.
It occurred to me this morning that there may be readers who have fretted ever since, wondering what has happened to the Possum Drop. I am here to tell you that it is better than ever. Our local paper, The Cherokee Scout, carried a large front page article on developments. The good news is that the organizers have discovered that the key to success is to follow all the applicable laws. In this case, that means that before they go to catch the possum, they have obtained three state permits and one federal permit. This is rather puzzling, since I doubt that any of the possums one sees dead in the middle of the road were run over by persons holding all of the necessary permits, but there you have it. In any event, it means that even as I write this a live possum is enjoying the best catfood available, and waiting for New Year’s Eve.
PETA is still upset about the event. The Scout quoted their representative as saying “Obviously, PETA is amazed an event as ill conceived and cruel as the Possum Drop is still taking place in 2006. Capturing, confining and forcing an animal to take part is needless and inappropriate. I know everyone thinks it’s harmless fun, but the truth for the possum is its a terrifying event. I saw a videotape of last year’s event, and the animal was exposed to a scary situation. It was in a glass box with lights all around and suspended in mid air for the duration of the event. I cannot imagine how terrified the possum is awaiting his fate.”
Well. I guess so. In the meantime, don’t tell PETA about the cans sold there labeled “possum”. It is available both in regular and diet configurations. The Scout took a poll of neighborhood kids, and none of them showed any interest in eating any of it, although one adventurous boy volunteered “Sure I’d eat it, if you gave me money.” More startling, a tourist admitted that she actually spent a moment considering “whether to buy the lite or regular variety”, before coming to her senses.
Oddly, I report all this as a person who avoids the Possum Drop himself. Ever since the New York Times picked it up a couple of years ago it has become too big to be believed. Still, it is fairly consistent for our village. With only 240 souls, it possesses a sense of humor far out of proportion to its size. When the thousands of merrymakers return home, that makes this a very decent little place to live.
(Disclaimer: the last time I wrote something like this, asking why we couldn’t be as passionate as people in the middle east, people left comments expressing concern that I really was going out with the Lion’s Club and burning cars. In this one, I wonder what the U.S. would be like if Christians were divided into two virulently opposed camps over who was the legitimate successor to Jesus. I mean, if Muslims can still be exercised about a 1500 year old succession problem, why can’t we? This is satire. Really. It is.)
Washington, D.C., Oct. 23 – Government officials today expressed dismay at the prospects for bringing peace to the nation’s warring Christian factions. Always volatile, levels of violence have soared in recent weeks, as every day brings the discovery of dozens, or even hundreds, of decapitated and mutilated bodies scattered about the sectarian neighborhoods around the country. Frustrated security planners are now pinning their hopes in trying to secure the District of Columbia, arguing that they may then work outwards and bring peace to the remainder of the country.
The root of the problem lies in the age old Christian dispute over who was the proper successor to Jesus. Roman Catholics, known as Peterites, insist that the Apostle Peter was the legitimate successor. Opposing them are equally violent Episcopalians, combined with some Methodists and Unitarians, who insist that the legitimate successor was Jesus’ son-in-law, Sonny. The latter group are known as Sonnis. In the 2000 years since Jesus, the two groups have clashed repeatedly. In recent months, for a variety of reasons, the number of kidnappings and killings has soared.
For many years, the warring factions were relatively quiet, as the government kept in place stringent security measures, under which malefactors were severely punished. As the Christian Holy Season of Christmas approaches, however, restrictions have become less effective, and the government has largely lost control of the situation. The Peterites, primarily through the militia known as the Knights of Columbus, struck first. In a coordinated attack, gangs of intoxicated middle aged men poured out of Catholic neighborhoods. Setting up checkpoints at downtown intersections, they pulled hapless civilians from cars, beating and killing many. In response, Sonni militia forces blew up St. Patrick’s Cathedral during Sunday mass, and initiated widespread campaigns of kidnapping and terror. Since the initial attacks, the cycle of violence has spiraled out of control.
Ordinary citizens can only live in fear. One young Sonni woman, speaking anonymously, said that since she lives close to a Peterite neighborhood she has started to wear a Catholic school uniform whenever she goes out. Such camouflage, she says, is the only way to assure her safety. Other Sonnis in similar circumstances have started to put “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” bumper stickers on their cars. Conversely, Peterites who live in or near Sonni districts make modifications in dress or appearance in order to appear less conspicuous. Some go so far as to carry books by Dan Brown in an effort to blend in, and avoid unwanted attention from militia members.
After months of asserting that the situation was well in hand, the government has now conceded that it has lost control of substantial parts of the country. The new strategy, announced today by military leaders, is to try to pacify the nation’s capital. Planners hope that if the District of Columbia can be brought to heel, other towns and cities across the country will fall into place. They admit, however, that the task will be extremely difficult. General Abdul el-Akbar, chairman of the joint chiefs, acknowledged as much.
“This violence between Christians over who was the legitimate successor to Jesus,” he said at a press conference, “is deeply engrained. They have always been divided in this way. Still, we think Christianity really is a religion of peace, so we hope. Always, we hope.”
We’ll return to our blog in a few minutes, but first we want to update you on our fall fund raising drive. As you can imagine, bringing you Ancient Church is an incredibly expensive undertaking. A lot goes into the production of Ancient Church: writers, producers, big name talent. None of that comes cheap. It’s not like its just some bozo pounding out a few loose thoughts, is it Sandra?
You bet, Terrance. Here at evlogeite.com, we bring you only the best in big name blogs, and that costs money. But we don’t mind spending that money, because we know the programming is important to you, our readers. We get letters and e-mails constantly, telling us how important Seraphim is to you, as you drive the kids to school, make dinner, relax around the pool, or even during those romantic evenings with that special some one. Ancient Church is a part of your life, and that is why we bring it to you.
Right you are, Sandra. I don’t think I’ll ever forget some of the great guest stars we’ve seen on Ancient Church: Geena Davis, William Hurt, Brad Pitt, even Brittany Spears. You just never know what amazing thing you’ll find, right here on this blog.
Exactly, Terrance. But like we said, it does cost money. In fact, it costs us two million dollars a year to bring you this fascinating blog. And it’s worth every penny. We have to have the help of you, the loyal blog reader, though. We can’t do it without you.
So that’s why we’re asking you, right now, to reflect on what Ancient Church means to you. A dollar a day? How about a dollar a minute? Your first born child? Whatever that is, we’re asking you to help us bring you this fine blog, by calling right now and pledging your support. Our goal is to raise two million dollars so Seraphim can quit practicing law, and devote all of his attention to entertaining you.
How much have we raised so far?
Good question, Sandra. Let’s turn to the board. So far, we’ve raised…well, nothing yet, but I’m sure the phones will start ringing momentarily. Operators are standing by.
I think we should be entirely honest here, Terrance. Our readers need to know that this is the second annual fundraising drive, and frankly, the results of the first one were extremely disappointing. I mean, what’s wrong with a society where the spring fund raising drive for such a fine blog raises only $10, which Seraphim’s daughters promptly took and went out for ice cream? I mean…geez!
You’re right, Sandra. It is a terrible commentary on western civilization, but I think we have the problem licked this year, because we have some incredible premiums. If you call right now and pledge $1,000 or more, Seraphim himself will come to your house and talk endlessly about things that don’t really interest you.
Seriously, Terrance?
Absolutely. And if you pledge $10,000 or more, we’ll go to your house and bring him home, and leave you this lovely coffee mug. Or try this — every $100 pledge receives an autographed picture of Seraphim. But if you then pledge an additional $100,000, we will retrieve and destroy the picture and pay for therapy for a year as you try to drive the terrible image from your mind.
Well, you can’t beat that. So folks, call right now. The sooner we raise two million dollars for Ancient Church, the sooner we can return to our regularly scheduled blog. Remember: without you, the loyal readers, we could not bring you Seraphim. How much poorer would your life be then?
There is at least one advantage to hanging around a courtroom, as excruciating as that often is. Lawyers — especially bored lawyers — are often excellent tellers of tales. Typically these are true, or mostly true, or maybe kind of true. You have to decide. I’ve heard ghost stories, love stories, stories of sleeping judges and bemused jurors. Every once in a while, believe it or not, I hear a story that makes me glad I’m Orthodox.
I heard one today, from a friend of mine. He grew up back in a mountain cove a county or two over, and turned out just fine. He is a deacon in his Baptist church, but is fascinated by my own adventures. He loves to hear my stories of incense and icons and candles, and what life is like in the northern reaches of Pennsylvania. Today he returned the favor by telling me about a revival he experienced as a kid back in the mountains.
If you are Orthodox, you probably have figured out that revivals are just an attempt to bring confession back into the protestant church. Highly emotional, focused on reminding a person of their backsliding ways, each session is capped off by a long altar call, characterized by about a kazillion verses of ‘Just as I am’ and the evangelist’s eagle-eyed search for people wearing a guilty expression. In my own experience, I would often think about responding to the call, not so much out of conviction but in the hope that I was the one they were waiting on, and once I took the stroll up front we could call it a night.
Anyway, my friend’s story:
His cousin, John, had been drafted into the military, and had gone off to do his hitch in the service. Several years later he returned, and people in the cove were struck by the change in him. Tall, proud, strong, and he had even picked up a smattering of foreign talk, like ‘wee wee’ and ‘bone jure’. It goes without saying that John was quite the object of feminine desire, and life was good as he settled back into his job at the sawmill.
After only a few months, it was time for revival at the little church in the cove. An annual event, it was unheard of that anyone might not attend. It was not that a person felt like their salvation was in peril. Once saved, always saved, after all, was the theological watchword of the cove. Instead, the attraction was seeing who might become overcome by grief and remorse, and stumble to the front to rededicate their life to the Lord. That was an excellent way of confirming whether or not gossip was actually true.
John, therefore, although changed by his foreign experiences, succumbed to peer pressure, made his way to the church with everyone else, and settled in to listen to the evangelist. This year they had a real barn burner. From one cove over, he was a graduate of Fruitland Seminary near Hendersonville, where he apparently majored in pew jumping and arm waving. After two hours of vivid descriptive material about Hell and the contents thereof, everyone was primed for the climax — the altar call. Directing the congregation to the appropriate page, Myrtle struck the first chords on the piano, and the whole crowd surged into — of course — ‘Just as I am’.
This is what John had been waiting for. Foreign language skills were not all he picked up in the service. He had also perfected the art of throwing his voice. He had neglected to tell anyone about that skill. He had a plan.
The altar call started out slowly. The only volunteer was Jeb, who immediately stumbled weeping and sobbing to the front. Jeb was 45 years old, and this marked the 40th time he had been saved. Like the turning of the leaves in the fall, it was expected. The next volunteers, however, were slow in coming.
At that point, everyone in the church heard a disembodied voice, apparently emanating from the ceiling, near the fan.
“Bill!” it said.
Bill was sitting about midway back in the crowd. His mind was wandering, and he was not immediately paying attention. He would pay for that.
“Bill!” the voice returned, louder and more insistent this time. “I know you’ve been messing around with Widder Dockery! Get up there and repent!”
In fact, Bill had been messing around with the Widder Dockery, who was seated with the Baptist Ladies’ group toward the back of the church. She had been paying attention, and her eyes were as big as full moons. Bill himself was in a state of shock, and had not yet complied with the voice.
By this time, my friend, about eight at the time, had climbed up to stand on the pew so as to see the proceedings more clearly. Prior to this the most entertaining thing about church was sitting behind Susie Robinson and pulling her pig tails. This was better.
“Bill!” the voice thundered. Clearly God was getting impatient.
Bill was galvanized into action, and tumbling from his pew he half-sprinted, half-shambled down the aisle. He could tell from the heavy breathing that Widder Dockery was close behind. My friend was fascinated. Widder Dockery was not a small woman, and he had never seen all of her component parts move in such a concerted and willful fashion. He had never realized that adults were capable of such speed and athleticism.
As the couple collapsed in front of the pulpit, the singing faltered. Clearly something powerful was going on, but just as importantly there was some concern about who might be called out next.
“Donna!”
“Wilfred!”
“Jack!”
Finally the voice seemed to be satisfied, and a dozen or so bewildered sinners were being ministered to by the Fruitland graduate. The revival was slated to last four nights. To say that everyone planned to be there every night would be a great understatement.
The next two nights were similar to the first. Person after person, man and woman — it seemed that everyone who had reached puberty was called to account, although some were given a kind of grudging respect, like Don and Wilma who were congratulated on ‘a right fair mating’, but then told in no uncertain terms to repent. My friend was captivated, even as his parents debated whether or not he should be there. This was religion! This must be what it was like for Moses and the Israelites! He considered a career in the ministry.
The mystery collapsed, however on the last night of the revival. By that time it was standing room only, as people from the coves on either side made the journey over the mountains to view the proceedings. One person was absent, however, that person being John. Being the omniscient diety had produced a powerful thirst, and he had travelled to Asheville to slake it. Back in the church, everyone waited breathlessly for the voice to return, but to their immense disappointment and relief, God failed to show up. Then they realized that John had not either. It did not take too long for the association to be made.
In the end, my friend decided against a career in the pulpit, settling on law instead. You get to hear confessions in law, too, except there isn’t much you can do about them.
He finished his story. “Do you have confession in your church?” he asked. I allowed as we did, but it was not near as exciting as in his childhood church. I also allowed that I was glad it was not. The next time you are embarrassed to stand with the priest in front of the icon of Christ to gve confession, think about this tale. It could be worse, you know.
Quite different from the first recommendation. After I posted the BBC link Olga, no longer pale and wan but fully recovered, reminded me that Labor Day festivities are also complemented by high culture. That, she said, is best provided by Geoffrey Chaucer’s Owne Blogge. Not the first entry, offputtingly titled “hotte or nat”, but the spoiler-ridden (or so it is claimed) ‘Serpentes on a shippe’, a gripping retelling of you-know-what. A representative slice, to whette y appetitte:
Sir Neville cam to wher the folke of the shippe wyth the snakes yfought, and he sawe the bodyes of the dede and the sight grieved hym sore, for the battel had waxed passinge hard and the folke had little wherewithal to defend hemselves. And Sir Neville then fared wood as a lion and with his swerd he cutte in twayne the snakes that at him lept.
‘Builde a walle for to kepen out the serpentes’ he seyde, and the folk obeyed hym and piled up her luggage, the whiche did stop the onslaught of the serpentes as an othir walle had long agoon ystopped the onslaught of the Scottes. And the WOMAN WYTH A BABYE AND AN ACCENT coud sum thyng of leechcraft and so put salues and poulticez on thos who had been bitten and yet had nat perisshed. And oon of the FOUNDLINGES was bite and hys arm was sore sore.
At what other blog can you obtain, in two successive short entries, both the sacred and psuedo-literate profane? Nowhere, I’m thinking. On balance, I recommend the BBC program more than Chaucer, but if you are in one of those moods…
Meeting in Prague, the International Astronomical Union is expected today to downgrade Pluto, long one of the solar system’s starting nine, from a planet to a dwarf planet. “I think that today can go down as the ‘day we lost Pluto,’ ” said Jay Pasachoff of Williams College in Williamstown, Mass., in an e-mail message from the conference. The scientists are expected to agree on a definition of planet which would group Pluto with other small icy balls as “dwarf-planets”, meaning that they are bigger than a breadbasket, but less important. It was only last week that scientists had announced that Pluto was indeed a planet, and the sudden reversal is catching many by surprise. Harvard astronomer Owen Gingerich, chairman of the Planet Definition Committee of the union, acknowledged as much, saying “There’s not happiness all around, believe me.”
On Pluto, there was no happiness at all to be found, although those interviewed as they ate lunch and enjoyed absolute zero temperatures took the news in differing ways. “Oh, I never pay attention to the news anyway,” said Xrgphs, a young mother/father/something watching her/his/its children/smaller things anyway playing in the park. “Its not important to me. If its not about my family, I don’t care.”
Most other Plutonians were not so easy going. Students demonstrated, carrying signs which read “Earth is a Planet of Imperialist Pigs!” and “Pluto: Planet for the People”. Dgpermt, a leader of the students, told reporters that Earth would end up getting some of its own medicine back.
“Nobody in their right mind would want to live on Earth anyway. Its hot, its sticky, and its got New Jersey. So we say to @&%# with Earth!”
Still others were more resigned. “Its the International Astronomical Union, dude! I mean…what can you do against those guys?,” said office worker Ifvosjh, tears glistening in his eyes. “I mean, it makes you feel bad, but I guess we have to be the best second rate heavenly body we possibly can be.”
Back on earth, reaction was mixed. Walt Disney Studios protested the move, saying that it devalued the worth of Pluto the dog, a franchise character. Stock in Disney fell ten percent as investors tried to guess the ultimate impact it would have on the hapless company. Although Disney promised to sue, most legal observers concluded that the lawsuit would have little chance of success, “’cause its the International Astronomical Union, dude!”
In Washington, the State Department announced that the news would result in the government classifying Pluto as a third world country, which could result in increased foreign aid. On the other hand, said a White House spokesperson, that would also make it more likely that it was a member of The Axis of Evil. “I think we can conclude that the most evil governments are those that are small enough to run over with impunity,” he said. “With a planet you know you have respectability and stability. But these dwarf planets…lets just say you never know about them.”
That attitude was mirrored by NASA, which announced that liquids and gels would no longer be allowed on space shuttle missions.
In the blogosphere, reaction was mostly in favor of the change. It had been hotly argued for some months that Pluto suffered from a certain fatal degenerate nature and historical inconsistencies which made its humiliation inevitable. Others seized on the same theme developed by the White House, and urged immediate military action against the dwarf planet, arguing that they were now dwarf fascists. “If we don’t act now,” declared one blogger, “it will be too late. After all, we already know that they have plutonium! If that’s not a weapon of mass destruction, I don’t know what is.”
When her own blog careens from the First Lady of Bulgaria to observations of Max the Wonder-Labradoodle:
They’re Pinky and the Brain…
Max, labradoodle of doom, destroyer of worlds, has one toy which is his favorite in all the world: a squeaky hot pink ball which may have had legs at one point. Max and Mr. Squeaky, don’t you know. Max will come up to any sitting person and drop it in their lap, and will wait for practically forever for us to throw Mr. Squeaky.
However, keeping track of Mr. Squeaky is not as easy as one might think, considering his bright hue. You see, Mr. Squeaky likes to escape. He rolls under the couch! Into closets! Under the icon table! He loves small spaces. And Max loves to try and dig him out, although all he succeeds in doing in ripping out the under layer of the couch. So he gets depressed, because he misses Mr. Squeaky.
Mr. Squeaky is, in fact, the cunning and ever-watchful-for-an-opportunity Brain. Max is an obvious fit for Pinky.
With those two around, we never have need for television.
*bounce bounce skid SLAM*
Dad: “Oh no! Mr. Squeaky has escaped AGAIN!”
*bounce bounce SKID SKID WHACK SKID BARK*
D: “Again he escapes under the couch!”
*bounce SMACK*
D: “Maybe you should just avoid the couch, Max.”
*bounce bounce bounce WHAM! BANG! SKID SKID SKID OF DOOOOOOOOOOOOM*
Ad nauseum
Actually, Max really is a lost soul without the comforting presence of Mr. Squeaky. And, truth be told, we are only a few days from Olga returning to her school. Marina, flushed from her First-in-Class-finish at the Feral Cow Home School, also begins college in earnest at the local community college. Both girls started there, then they get to go off to a place of their choosing. So we’ll still have Marina around, but the end is clearly in sight. Maybe, just maybe, my wife and I will have to get our own Mr. Squeaky. Just for entertainment purposes, of course.
Mr. Squeaky update: having come out from under the couch, Monsieur S. was bouncing down the hall when he unexpectedly detoured into the kitchen, landing in the dog’s water bowl just as one of the cats had his head down in it, snatching a quick drink.
We are always told not to laugh at the misfortunes of others, but honestly, there is nothing quite so gratifying as the look on a cat’s face when he is unexpectedly drenched by a hot pink rubber ball.
Those of you who read yesterday’s post have doubtless been holding your breath waiting for the answer to the really important question posed this week in the blog. Forget that stuff about the Decalogue, and coveting what and all that business. No — this is a blog for lovers, and so everyone has been wondering all day what the answer is to this question: is the way to a woman’s heart found in hiding under her porch with some beer, an ipod and a machete? Oh…and a dozen roses.
Before giving the answer, I have to say that I am disappointed that my readers of the feminine persuasion did not leap into the breach and answer this for us. I know I have women readers — I can hear you breathing, you know — yet apparently they are not sufficiently caring to lend us males a little guidance. O fickle women of Orthodoxy! Do you not know that the men who stand next to you on Sunday are sensitive and caring, thinking of little but romance and affairs of the heart? When we get together for some manly talk you hear nothing but fears and insecurities — does she love me? Am I sufficiently sacrificial? Besides wearing a cassock, what else can I do to rev the engine of this relationship? Truly, I say to you, O Orthodox women, that in Orthodox men you see romance personified, caring developed to an art form, heart on the hoof, if you will. See you how important this is to us? Even I, widely acknowledged as the King of Romance, was agog with anticipation: would some beer, a machete, an ipod and some time under the porch make Mrs. S swoon?
Now, since I represented the woman in this pas de deux I knew that she had not been impressed. She had swooned, but not in a good way. But I am also a fair minded person, who knew that my client might be outside the mainstream. Would all women be negative about this experience? So this afternoon we tried the case. My client spoke directly about the porch happening, and was plain that she had not been impressed in a heart pitty patty kind of way. Then the Defendant got up to testify. He had not been under the porch, he insisted. He had been beside the porch. I glanced at my client, and saw her roll her eyes. Clearly the exact location was irrelevant to her. In the end, the judge agreed with her and held the Defendant too unstable to have unsupervised visits, at least for the time being, with their two year old child.
So there you have it. It appears to be official: this is not the height of romance. Of course, I’m glad I won the case, and I can see that it was not a great idea. But still: how will I ever impress Mrs. S?
You don’t believe me? Footage of the exciting match is here!
Father Joseph over at Orthodixie had a fine idea, which is to conduct an Orthodox tent revival. I don’t know where you live, but in North Carolina where Father Joseph and I are from, tent revivals are a powerful, powerful draw. In fact, at an abandoned drive in theater only a couple of miles from my house a tent goes up every summer, and does a pretty good business for a week or so. In this culture, tent revivals are a combination religious/entertainment/get out of the house on a hot summer night event. I am pretty taken with the idea. I really am — as Sts. Herman and Innocent showed us, you meet people where they live.
But, having said that, I can’t help but imagine what it might be like. Consider, on a muggy summer evening, the big tent is aglow, and enticing sounds drift out, coming from a bluegrass band. Remember where you are — we’re talking hymns like “I’ll Fly Away” and “Down to the River”. I can even imagine an extra verse tacked on to “I’ll Fly Away” —
One fine morning when my life is done,
I’ll fly away!
Through the tollhouses, I won’t have to pay!
I’ll fly away!
And then a certain subdeacon gets up to introduce the guest evangelist, who we are going to need to refer to as Father Joe:
I can feel the presence of the Lord! Its a powerful presence! Can you feel the presence? Say hallelujah!
I’m here tonight to introduce our evangelist, Father Joe. Right now, Father Joe is riding the range for the Lord in Texas. He is a stranger in a strange land, he is bringing the slaves out of Egypt! But in his heart, Father Joe is still the tarheel he grew up as. Yes, he has left the great North State and gone west, having received a command of the Lord. He is obedient! But his heart has always yearned for home, for the high green hills, for the streams where the trout jump and the woods where the bear roam.
So when the Lord laid it on his heart to come back home, to preach to the brothers and sisters in his home state — why he got down off that horse and got into his pick up truck, and he came back. He came back because he is a tarheel born and bred! He came back because he loves his home! He came back at the command of the Lord to save souls from the grip of the devil, from the lion that roars and goes here and there even in these quiet mountains, looking to devour souls.
I’ve got to tell you a story. When I called Father Joe and asked him to come back and preach this revival for us, he cried “Hallelujah”! Just like that. And then he wept and told me this:
‘Jim-Bob, I’m out here on the plains, and its a fine place, but I always think to myself that if the Lord took a giant iron and ironed down the mountains of the county where you live, why the county would be bigger than Texas! But it is the high ridges and deep hollows that God loves, and not the flat plains! That is what the Lord told me, and that is why I am so excited about coming for this revival.’ (See footnote one)
So here he is, back from Egypt, with a message the Lord has laid on his heart just for us! Father Joe!
I mean, I really like the idea. I know it sounds like I’m being funny, but I’m not really. Meet people where they live. Herman and Innocent and Cyril and Methodius can tell you that much. And after Father Joe talks to them about being catechized and baptised and chrismatized so that they can then be eucharized — well, all of a sudden we just might have a parish.
Footnote #1 – There was once a DA here who started every jury argument pretty much in those words, inserting the proper county name, but insisting that if God ironed it flat it would be bigger than Texas, but that God loves it just the way it is. At the end of one trial, as I got up to take the first argument, Buck had to leave the courtroom for some reason. I seized the moment: “Mr. District Attorney will come back in here in a minute and tell you that you live in God’s country — which we do — and if God took a giant iron and flattened our hills it would be bigger than Texas, but that God loves his mountains! That He does, but the real reason he doesn’t flatten this county is because He loves his people here, people who have learned common sense in these hills and hollers. No sir — its not about mountains, its about common sense…”and then I was off, just as Buck walked back in. Unaware of what I had done, he started his ironing the county bit, and the jury started giggling at him. He never could figure out what had happened.
Ancient Church 