Thursday, 31 May 2012

HEEE HEEE MEME !!!

Welcome to the latest Meme intended to spread laughter and hilarity throughout Blogland.

Joining this Meme is easy. Here are the rules:

1   You must write the Meme whilst looking somewhat ridiculous. For example right now I am balancing a shoe on my head and I have a hot dog sausage behind my ear (no ketchup or mustard). The cat is eyeing me suspiciuosly and licking his lips.

You may opt for any other method of looking ridiculous, if you don't already.

For example you may choose to write your Meme whilst swinging upside down from a trapeze, although this is not advisable if wearing a kilt or a dress. On the other hand you may even decide to eat brocoli whilst writing, which I must admit is somewhat absurd, but on the lower end of the ridiculous scale. Be adventurous and stick a celery in your ear and shout out loud "The Triffids have landed ... The Triffids have landed". That'll frighten the neighbors.

Whatever you do to look and feel ridiculous, tell us about it.

2   Next you must tell us something funny or silly about yourself; or something that happened to you that made you look ridiculous.

3   Then LINK to three other people and invite them to join the Meme.

4   Finally don't forget to LINK back to the person who invited you so that your readers can read about them and JOIN THE LAUGHTER.

OK ... now something about me to get things started ...

I must confess I’ve always wanted to be a professional dancer. Just like Fred Astaire or any other dancers you see in the movies and on TV.

The problem is I have big feet. Enormous feet!

When I get on the dance floor there is no room for anyone else because of my big feet. They take over the whole dance area.

And when I dance I tread on other peoples’ feet. If it’s a slow dance with the lights dimmed right down people trip on my feet and fall all over the place. I’ve had to put little flashing yellow lights on my shoes and a bleeping sound so that people can see my feet in the dark.

People say that the lights add to the atmosphere on the dance floor but the bleeping sound interferes with the music.

Someone suggested I take up line dancing. In line dancing people stand next to each other and mostly move sideways; so there’s no danger of stepping on anyone’s toes.

I tried line dancing. My big feet moved so slowly sideways that other dancers tripped over them as they moved left or right.

I tried ballet dancing. When I stood on tip-toe my head hit the ceiling and brought down a few tiles.

At a wedding once I danced the Hokey Cokey (Hokey Pokey). You know the one?

You put your left leg in, your left leg out,
In out in out, you shake it all about,
You do the Hokey Cokey and you turn around
That’s what it’s all about.

It was quite a sight seeing everyone else fall all over the floor whenever I stuck my feet out. At one point my big foot came out so suddenly it hit Aunt Matilda in the face sending her spectacles flying in the air. Everyone stopped to search for her glasses and I inadvertently kicked a few of them to the floor as I continued dancing not realizing what had happened.

The birdie song wasn’t a success either … nor was the conga line dance when they all follow each other across the floor.

So regrettably, Fred Astaire and all other famous dancers will get no competition from me. I’ll just sit on the side lines tapping my feet to the music … and watch everyone else bounce about as I shake the floor boards with my big feet.

And now I invite the following three funny bloggers to join the Meme: Mary, Sue and Vicky.

Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Father Gaston


Father Frederic, our Parish priest, is away for two weeks and has been replaced by Father Gaston, a priest of French origin, until our regular priest returns.

Father Gaston doesn’t say much, maybe because he hasn’t much to say to us. Who knows! He is tall and thin and looks very severe. He has one of those unfortunate white skinny faces which look like a skull. A long oval shape with sunken eyes and boney features revealing the contours of his jaws as he grins benignly rather than smile. I bet he could turn someone into a pillar of salt by just thinking it.

I don’t mean that he is nasty or evil in any way; he just looks that way and would frighten any cat out of its nine lives. Maybe I should introduce him to mine.

Last Saturday I went to confession. Father Gaston was in attendance.

We have one of those wooden confessionals which consists of a compartment in the middle which the priest enters and sits on a bench, and we genuflect on either side, pulling the curtain behind us so no one sees us, and tell him all our wrong-doings. We have to whisper, of course; otherwise everyone in church would hear our sins. If they were to hear mine they would no doubt be in hysterics of laughter!

I knelt down and whispered closely to the opening in the confessional: “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned …”

“I cannot hear you!” said Father Gaston in his strong French accent loud enough to be heard in Paris.

“Ehmmm…” I cleared my throat as I got nearer still to the little window opening in the confessional. At that point my knee slipped off the kneeler on the floor and I crashed forward hitting my face hard against the panel behind which the priest was sitting. He must have jumped out of his tightly stretched skin dropping his jaw to the floor in the process. I know that the rest of the penitents in church must have been startled out of their meditations too as I heard murmurs echoing behind the confessional curtain.

I straightened myself and soon realized that the knock to my face had started a nose bleed. I took out a handkerchief quickly and said in a loud enough voice to be heard by everyone “We’ll have to continue this conversation at another time …”

I got out of the confessional holding my head back and covering my face with the now red handkerchief.

As I made my way to the exit I heard a lady say to another: “I’m not going to confession today. This new French priest is rather violent with his penance!”




Watch the birdie


Prehistoric Art


You'd better believe it


Old technology


Sunday, 27 May 2012

I have sinned.


It was another Saturday morning and Father Ignatius made his way into the confessional and sat there praying silently.

It was one of those old fashioned wooden confessionals consisting of a large cubicle into which he sat and at either side of him there was a little window covered by a thick curtain. On the other side of the window his parishioners would kneel to confess their sins; alternating one on the left and one on the right.

He was half-way through reciting the Hail Mary when he heard two people kneeling at either side of him. He leant to his right and said quietly “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

This was his signal for the person at the other side of the curtain to start his confession.

At first he had two or three young children confessing their usual “I have been naughty … I disobeyed my parents … I forgot to say my evening prayers …” type of sins.

These were then followed by a few adults with more mature sins to confess. Nothing too serious though like murder or robbing a bank; but the usual sins he had heard times before perfectly symbolizing the frailty of human nature and the tendency to fail again and again at the same stumbling block.

It got to the point that, over the years, he got to recognize his parishioners by their voices and he could foretell their litany of sins before they even started speaking.

“Ah … it’s Mrs Salter once again …” he would think, “and here comes that same old sin once more … it’s like going to the doctor for a repeat prescription for the same old ailments!”

He would yet again, gently and with love and sympathy, dispense his words of wisdom before absolving her and mete out a penance.

And Mrs Salter would be followed by Mrs James … and Mr Collins … and so on and so forth … all religiously kneeling beside him confessing, more out of habit rather than determination, the same old sins week in and week out.

He’d fantasized that one day he’d stop one of his parishioners before they started and he’d say, “Now let me guess … you’ve done this and that once again this week … and you’ve also done this …”

Of course, Father Ignatius would never sully the sanctity of the Confession by doing such a thing, but the thought had crossed his mind many a time. Besides, if he did such a thing they’d probably think he was a mind-reader … and that would be worse for his reputation!

One Sunday morning he resolved to address the problem head on; but he had to do it with kindness and diplomacy.

He approached the lectern and said:

“I love ginger marmalade!”

Well … that certainly focused his parishioners’ attention.

“I have ginger marmalade on toast for breakfast every morning,” he continued, “sometimes Mrs Davenport, our kind and very helpful housekeeper, only serves me two slices of toast for breakfast …

“So I wait when she's not looking and sneak into the kitchen for two more slices!”

Mrs Davenport frowned in the front pew as the congregation laughed.

“Mrs Davenport says that I am putting on weight …” said Father Ignatius, “and it’s true that when I stand on the weighing machine it confirms what she says …
“So I have resolved to do something about it …

“From now on, I promise to stop weighing myself!”

The congregation laughed again. The priest waited until they’d settled down before going on.

“You see … ginger marmalade is my weakness. You may call it my sin.

“No matter how much I try … I always weaken and have some more. Sometimes I serve a little bit more marmalade than I need on my plate; and then, having finished the toast, all four slices, I enjoy the extra marmalade by itself …

“But this is not my only sin of course. I confess many others to Father Donald and Monsignor Thomas when he visits here …

“Now I don’t know about you … but I find that I frequently seem to confess the same sins I committed before …

“Just like ginger marmalade … the wily old devil seems to know my weakness and he tricks me yet again into the same sins.

“Do you remember I wonder when the Pharisees brought to Jesus a woman caught committing adultery?

“Now that was a whopper of a sin! Not just an extra spoon of ginger marmalade … was it?”

The congregation laughed.

“And according to Jewish law she had to be stoned to death for that sin,” continued Father Ignatius gently.

“Now we’re told in the Gospel of John that Jesus wrote in the sand with His finger.

“We’re not told what He wrote … I guess He wrote ‘Dear God … will they never learn?’

“But that’s not important … what is important is that after He said let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone … and when they all left one by one … Jesus turned to the woman and asked ‘Is there no one left to condemn you?’

“She said ‘No one …’

“And Jesus replied ‘I do not condemn you either. Go, but do not sin again.’ ”

Father Ignatius paused for a few moments.

“Go, but do not sin again,” he repeated.

“Now Jesus did not mean do not sin any sin whatsoever ever again for the rest of your life …

“He knew that that would be impossible. The woman was human, and it is natural that she would sin again.

“Jesus knows our human nature and He knows that we are liable to sin again and again …

“What Jesus said to the woman is, do not commit that particular sin again … it is serious enough to get you into a lot of trouble with the Pharisees as well as with God Himself.

“And that’s what Jesus is saying to us today …

“He knows we are weak … He knows that we will sin … which is why we have the Holy Sacrament of Confession.

“By saying ‘do not sin again’ Jesus is warning us to beware of those particular sins which are serious enough to lead us into damnation, and into an eternity of exclusion from our Father in Heaven.

“As we prepare for our weekly confession we need to consider carefully the seriousness of our sins. Which ones are ginger marmalade sins; and which ones are grave enough to exclude us from God’s ever lasting love.

“In our propensity to sin, God is loving and caring enough to forgive us again and again.

“But with our confession there should also be remorse and guilt for what we have done. Confession should not be just a laborious recitation of the same old sins; and a futile exercise which serves no one and certainly does not fool God Himself.

“Without true remorse, and a genuine resolve not to repeat our sins; then confession means nothing. And it would be better not to come to confession at all. At least that is honest in the eyes of God."

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

At the vet


It’s that time of year again. I had to take the cat to the vet. Nothing serious of course, how could there be? This cat has nine lives and nine more to spare. He’s as agile and fit as can be with a brain as sharp as it could get and all too ready to plot against me and plan my downfall in my own domain.

If this cat was a politician he’d charm everyone so much that even his electoral opponent would vote for him. Fortunately he is a cat and no more than that … that’s what I keep convincing myself of. He is a cat whose only aim in life is to make mine miserable. He brings dead mice and birds in the house … a matter which I’ve complained about many times and I’ve been told that it’s only natural … He’s being friendly and wants to share his trophies with me. Well … thank you very much but I’m not interested. I’d rather he sticks to cat food like all civilised cats do.

I suppose I understand his instincts to prey on his victims and hunt them down … after all most politicians do that. But does he have to bring them into the house?

Anyway … back to my story before I got carried away! Figuratively speaking of course. I’m still sitting here relating my latest adventure. If I’d been literally carried away the story would have ended here and now. But it hasn’t. I hear some of you muttering “More’s the pity!” but that’s very unkind. After all I’m the victim here not the cat.

So I had to take him to the vet for his annual vaccinations. You know the kind … Immunisation against all sort of feline diseases and allergies appertaining to cats. Except being cunning, conniving, plotting and scheming … there’s no vaccinations for that apparently.

 First you have to put the cat in this small carrier cage especially designed for the purpose. Easier said than done … Have you ever seen one of those contraptions? They are small … cat sized actually … there’s no point in having a cage as big as a house is there? Difficult to carry for a start!

It’s a small box with a little door on the side. You open the door, put the cat in, and closed the door again. Simple … if the cat is willing to co-operate that is. It is dark in there and of course the cat is not interested is he? He’s had previous experience of that box. It always leads to the vet where bad things happen … as far as he’s concerned. And as far as I’m concerned too … have you seen how much the vet charges? His treatment costs more than the cat itself!

So I pick the cat … He hisses and struggles. He rolls round on his back to escape. He bares his teeth. He scratches for all he’s worth. He somehow manages to close the cage door just as I’m putting him in. The cage falls on the floor landing right on my foot. I jump and hobble in pain whilst the cat is permanently attached to my face with all claws drawn out like daggers. In my blind confusion I trip over the cage and land head first into the box of cat litter; whilst the cat escapes up a tree and laughs raucously at my misfortune.

Several attempts and First Aid plasters later the cat’s in the cage and we’re at the vet. And the same rigmarole starts again. The cat won’t come out of the cage. He wriggles and turns on the vet’s table. He runs up the curtains. We hunt him down and try to hold him still for a second or two whilst the vet prepares the injection. The cat hisses and scratches at the sight of the needle. I feel a sharp pain in my arm and all is over.

Now the vet did say that the injection is not harmful to humans … and the side effects are only temporary.

How could this be? If it’s not harmful then why have any side effects? Temporary or otherwise? In order to pacify me the vet agreed to waive the usual fee and asked me to come back next year without the cat.

The side effects of the injection are quite disturbing. I’ve noticed that recently I’ve started to lick my hands for no particular reason. I have an urge to climb trees and I sit purring happily at people when in public. It’s very embarrassing on crowded trains and buses … especially when I want to cuddle closely to people.

I went to see a psychiatrist. He said, “Get on the couch!” I told him I’m not allowed on the couch.

He gave me some red tablets to take once a day. I asked him what they do. He said “I don’t know. They’re samples I’ve received this morning and I’m trying them out on new patients!”

He asked me whether I get sudden headaches and pain on the knees. I said that I didn’t. He said that he’d had these symptoms for a week and couldn’t work out what it was.

He then gave me a saucer of milk and a piece of fish from his lunch box. He presented me with an invoice for $300. Can you imagine that? $300 for some milk and a piece of sardine sandwich!

That cured me instantly I tell you.

I said I’d report him to the Veterinary Society. He replied that he was not a vet.

“What business have you to treat a cat then?” I asked him directly.

He had no answer to that and he too agreed to waive his fee.

More cat stories in FELINE CATASTROPHES. Download your FREE copy from the link on the right.

Monday, 21 May 2012

Uphill young life


Father Ignatius came out of the Sacristy and found a young boy at the back of the church crying. It was Tim Bryant.

The priest knew the eleven year old well. He came from a very poor family and had a difficult life despite his few years on this world.

Tim often worked hard after school to supplement the family budget. He delivered groceries for Mr Harris to all the customers in the vicinity. The priest had seen him often pushing his bicycle up the steep hill in Carrington Road and Heath Avenue. Those two roads were steep all right … but not as steep as Nelson Gardens right up the hill where Tim often delivered cans of food as well as vegetables and other items purchased from Mr Harris.

He certainly enjoyed the ride down the hill when the deliveries were finished and his bicycle was light; but going up was really difficult, especially when it was dark and cold in winter.

He’d been working for Mr Harris for about a year now and proudly gave his mother the £3 a week he earned to help her pay the rent and buy food.

She too worked hard. She took in washing from a number of people every week to earn a little more than what she got by cleaning people’s homes.

Some time ago Father Ignatius decided to help her without appearing to be charitable and risk losing her dignity. He decided that the Altar boys vestments needed washing and ironing at least once a month, as well as various other church items such as the Altar cloth and other items of linen. He asked Mrs Bryant to take on this task for a monthly fee, which she gladly did.

However, this upset Mrs Davenport, his housekeeper, who felt she was perfectly capable of doing this work as she had done for years … thank you very much!

The priest diplomatically explained that Mrs Davenport’s talents were in the kitchen and that her culinary expertise made many a professional chef green with envy. It would be wrong to waste such skills on washing vestments.

Mrs Davenport acquiesced and peace was restored once again in the Parish House.

Tim’s father, Mr Bryant, was partly the cause of much unhappiness in the poor household. He earned a pittance doing odd jobs as a gardener; but whatever he earned was soon spent on drink. He often got home in a bad state, got into an argument which he started, and then beat his wife and son.

Mrs Bryant often begged Father Ignatius not to say anything to anyone, least of all the Authorities for fear that her son Tim would be taken into care and she’d lose him for ever. The priest understood well this dilemma, yet could not let such a situation continue where mother and child are often beaten up, sometimes violently. He had spoken to Mr Bryant on many occasions, sometimes harshly threatening to report him to the police, yet Mr Bryant would be totally and fully repentant, promising not to lay a finger on his family ever again and to stop drinking forthwith … only to repeat his behavior in a few weeks later.

Understandably, young Tim performed very badly at school. When you work hard delivering groceries every night, and you go home not knowing whether your parents will be there, or whether you’d be beaten for no reason and often went to bed hungry because there is no food in the house, it is very difficult to concentrate on your studies.

And now there he was … the poor eleven year old crying at the back of the church.

Father Ignatius approached him and asked gently, “What’s the matter Tim? Has your dad beaten you?”

“No … it’s much worse.” said the boy wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

What could be much worse, thought the priest. “Would you like to tell me about it?” he asked.

“You know I deliver groceries for Mr Harris?” said the young lad.

The priest nodded.

“Well … today as I was delivering in Wilson Lane someone stole from my bicycle when I left it there to go to one of the houses. They took a few vegetables and packets of sugar and flour.

“Mr Harris got very angry with me and said I stole them. He didn’t believe me when I told him what happened and he fired me.

“Mom will be very upset because she needs the money I give her every week. Dad will go mad … as always.”

“Is Mr Harris the greengrocer just by the corner at the end of the street?” asked the priest gently, not forgetting to say a silent prayer for the Lord to help in this situation.

“Yes!” said Tim.

“Well … I need some fresh air. Let’s walk there and see what the Lord Jesus will do to help us about this! Always trust in Jesus, Tim. He will help change a bad situation for the good, if you trust Him.”

As they arrived at the small shop Father Ignatius asked the boy to wait outside and went in alone.

“What can I do for you Padre?” said Mr Harris from behind the counter.

“We haven’t met,” said the priest, “I’ve come with that young boy outside. He used to work for you until today …”

“Oh … yes …” said Mr Harris looking through the shop window.

“I’ve known the boy for years … he’s not the type who would steal, Mr Harris. I tend to believe what he told you …”

Mr Harris raised his eyebrows.

“Are you the priest from the church up the hill?” he asked.

“Yes, how rude of me. I should have introduced myself. I’m Father Ignatius from St Vincent Church!”

“Yeh … I’ve heard about you …” continued Mr Harris, “you lot buy a good deal from me. Good customers you are.

“Your housekeeper, Mrs Davenport, is always here fussing about what she buys. ‘Must have the best vegetables for Father Ignatius’ she says … ‘These are not fresh enough … these are too big … these are too small …’ and on and on she goes. My wife calls her Mrs Fusspot … behind her back of course.”

“Oh!” said the priest who had no idea where his household purchases came from, “is she here often?”

“Yes … every week! She fills her trolley to the brim and pulls it behind her up the hill. It must be very difficult for a woman her age.”

“Why doesn’t she have everything delivered?” asked the priest.

“She’s too mean …” said Mr Harris, “I suggested the idea to her but she said that the church is short of cash and she will not waste good funds on delivery charges!”

“I tend to agree with you!” Father Ignatius went on, “it’s wrong for her to pull a heavy trolley up the hill every week. She should have everything delivered … if only you had a delivery boy!”

“I see where you’re coming from …” laughed Mr Harris, “perhaps I was wrong to accuse the lad of stealing. He’s a good boy and works hard. Bring him in and tell him he’s hired!”

And that’s how the Lord Jesus helped Tim Bryant get his job back delivering for Mr Harris.

Father Ignatius had a little difficulty explaining to Mrs Davenport why it was better to have everything delivered, but it wasn’t a task that his diplomacy couldn’t handle. Three months later Mr Bryant, Tim’s dad, died suddenly of a heart attack. The beatings stopped once and for all, and in time, Tim started to improve with his work at school.

Friday, 18 May 2012

A Labra what?


A friend of ours asked if we could look after their dog whilst they go away for the weekend.

Now if it was up to me, seeing I’m always kind and ready to oblige, I would instantly have said “No!”

The reason being that if anything is likely to go wrong it surely will; and more often than not it will affect me.

But I was not asked and the dog duly arrived last weekend. It’s a white Labradoodle. They tell me it’s a cross between a Labrador and a poodle but I’m not sure which parent was more cross when this creature entered the world. It looks more like a big sheep with fluffy white fur everywhere including its legs. A low lying cloud more like!

And it’s called … wait for it … “Koocheekoo”.

Note the spelling. The owners insist on it. Apparently it’s registered in some kennel or other by that name and they can trace its lineage further than I can trace my family tree.

It’s pronounced “Koo … chee … koo …” You must leave a little space in-between the three syllables and change the intonation in your voice as you call his name.

Anyway … I was made to volunteer to take this ball of fluff out for a walk. As soon as we got out in the street he started bouncing and galloping as if he was fitted with springs on its legs. I tugged gently at its lead and got him close to me so he couldn’t bounce all over the place as a helium balloon.

We walked up our street and then we stopped on the edge of the sidewalk to cross the road. He stood on his back legs and tried to lick my face. I gently got him down again and waited for a gap in the traffic so we could cross.

As I looked left and right for enough space in the traffic to cross the road the stupid creature lifted his back leg and did his business on my leg.

Now why did he do that? I mean … I know I was wearing my brown corduroy trousers and a green jacket at the time. But that is no reason to mistake me for a tree.

I also had my large cowboy-type hat with the big feather on at the time. Surely that should have alerted the dim-witted dog that I was not a tree inviting him to leave his territory marking deposit.

I lifted my right leg, almost as a reflex action to see the damage done to my corduroy when, at that very instant, the dog noticed a cat some distance away and made a run for it. He caught me off-guard and off-balance … I dropped flat sideways like a felled tree. I’m sure I heard someone shout “Timber!”

I held on tight to the lead whilst the dog was pulling hard, standing on its hind legs, and barking its head off to attract the attention of every passer-by.

It was at that point, whilst lying flat on the ground, that I noticed that my nose was only inches away from another solid deposit left there by another dog.

I got up hurriedly and put my hat on. I calmed the dog down, cleaned myself a little … I’ll never wear those brown corduroys and green jacket again … and we made our way to the park.

At the park the dog bounced like a balloon at the end of the lead and barked at everything in sight. It was friendly barking … more to say “Hi … look at me … am I not beautiful?” and it had the effect of attracting several sideways glances and smiles as if to say “What is an idiot like him doing with a dog like that?”

And then disaster happened.

Somehow the tiny collar round the dog’s neck broke and the animal ran away at speed.

I stood there for a second or two totally frozen as he fled at the speed of light.

Then, more as a moral duty, or because it is the stupid thing to do, I ran feebly after him with no hope on earth of ever catching him and shouting at the top of my voice “Koo … chee … koo … … Koo … chee … koo …”

It must have been quite a sight.

A man in brown trousers and green jacket, with a feathered large hat, prancing about in the park shouting “Koocheekoo!”

I don’t know what people must have thought, but I noticed parents hurriedly packing up their picnics, gathering their children, calling their dogs and rushing to their cars. An old lady walking her small dog waved her umbrella at me menacingly to defend herself. A group of young men playing football all stopped to watch whilst their coach blew his whistle loudly and shouted “Play on! Play on!”

I eventually reached the large pond in the middle of the park totally out of breath and mentally calling the dog every expletive and unrepeatable name I could think of except Koocheekoo.

To my horror the crazy animal was swimming in the middle of the pond and upsetting the ducks, swans and other wildlife.

His immaculate white fluffy coat had turned into a soggy dirty black mess as he yapped happily at the water fowl around him

Two young men in their early twenties saw my dilemma and offered to get him. They stood by the edge of the pond and whistled at the dog throwing bread on the water they had brought with them to feed the ducks.

The dog swam towards them then seeing me he got out of the pond and ran at me standing on its hind legs to lick my face.

My lovely green jacket was covered in mud, and then, as if this was not enough, the dog stood there and shook himself violently to spray me from head to toe with dirty water off its coat.

The two men managed to use the lead I was holding to tie the dog again and then, slowly and fumingly, I walked him back home.

Should we ever meet, dear readers, please do me the great favor of never uttering the word “Koocheekoo” as it stirs in me several memories of suppressed anger and dread.

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Love ... Love?



I was reading a letter the other day from a man named Paul to some friends of his in Corinth. Here’s what he says:

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.” 1 Corinthians 13:1-3.

Wow !!! That’s powerful stuff I thought. If we have Faith to move mountains yet have not love it counts for nothing. Even if we give all we own to the poor? I’m not so sure about the burning body bit; but this man is over the top I tell you.

Let’s see what Jesus has to say about this. Better go to the expert, I always say.

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbour as yourself.” Matthew 22:37-39.

What?

Love my neighbour? Even though he continuously parks his car opposite my drive and blocks me going in and out?

Love the guy driving that big van this morning and keeping a distance of just three inches from the back of my car? And hooting his horn time and again even though I was driving within the speed limit. Perhaps he was in a hurry to go to the toilet !

Love that obnoxious pompous boss at work who seems to delight in making everyone suffer?

Is this what Jesus says? And He goes on:

"But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also. If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them do to you." Luke 6:27-31.

And there I was thinking that going to Heaven is a matter of ticking the right boxes:

Baptism? Done that. Tick.

Go to church on Sundays? Done that. Tick.

A few more ticks here and there and my passport and visa are ready for me to enter Heaven !!!

On reflection, being a Christian is much more difficult than it seems at first.

"Not everyone who calls me 'Lord, Lord' will enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but only those who do what my Father in Heaven wants them to do." Matthew 7:21.

In other words – There are no parrots in Heaven.

Understanding Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians




I entered the house after delivering another load of tents to the local Outdoor Pursuits Shop.

Paul was sitting at the table writing on another pile of parchment papers.

“Hello” I said, “would you like a hot drink?”

“What have you to offer?” he asked without looking up.

“Hot boiled fish water sweetened with honey …” I replied casually.

“The same old brew …” he mumbled in disgust, “when will someone discover coffee, or tea or hot chocolate drink?”

“There’s also hot milk and honey from the Promised Land!” I said encouragingly; but he did not answer.

I asked him what he was writing.

“It’s a letter to the people of Corinth …” he said, “I have to finish it today and send it before postage costs go up yet again …

“They’ve asked me for advice on how to live … just basic advice. I mean … can’t these people think for themselves. Here, have a read” he continued, as he passed me some bits of parchment which smelled like old goat skins.

I read … “Chapter 7 - Verse 1”

For some reason Paul always wrote his letters by numbering every chapter and every verse. I don’t know why he did that. Must be some affectation of some kind I suppose. He wrote:

“A man does well not to marry.”

“Hein?” I thought, “what’s he on about?” I kept on reading what seemed to be rather personal advice to these Corinthian people; albeit good advice I must say, and then again, at Verse 7 he wrote:

“Actually, I would prefer if all of you were single as I am …You single people and widows, it is better if you continue to live alone; just as I do …”

I stopped and looked at him writing there. I wondered why he’d never got married. Perhaps having met my mother-in-law he got frightened out of matrimony altogether.

But his advice made no sense. How can he possibly say a man should not marry, and in fact he’d prefer all of them to remain single and live alone?

I asked him “How would people multiply if they followed your advice?”

“What’s Mathematics to do with it?” he replied without looking up, “they can learn their multiplication tables like every one else!”

“No …” I said hesitantly, “I mean … you know … doing it … having babies …”

“Oh … I gave them a let out clause in Verse 9” Paul continued nonchalantly, “I told them if they can’t control themselves they’d better get married anyway.

“I really can’t understand those people … why can’t they distract themselves by playing card games, or Monopoly or similar board games. The shops are full of them!”

I kept on reading and I must admit I got a bit embarrassed at the personal advice which followed. He meant well, I suppose, and maybe those Corinthians were a little slow on the up-take and needed very detailed advice on how to live as early Christians.

Then at Verse 26 he repeated his opinions again.

“If a man is unmarried he should stay this way. If he is married he should not get rid of his wife!”

“Charming” I thought, “no doubt he’s considered the costs of divorce and alimony when giving this advice.

But then his letter continued:

“Are you unmarried? Then don't look for a wife ... I would rather spare you the everyday troubles that married people will have.”

Well, my mother-in-law certainly has had an influence on him; I thought.

I got out of the house somewhat more confused than those Corinthians will be when they receive this letter.

I was met by my wife and mother-in-law coming home from a shopping trip. Before I had time to welcome them mom-in-law said:

“What are you doing lazing in the sun? Have you no work to do?”

Tuesday, 15 May 2012

At the Gates of Heaven,


This post has been written especially for MARY who asked me to.


One day I died and went straight to Heaven where I was met by St Peter at the Gates.

“Ah … you’ve arrived!” he said looking at his electronic notepad, “it says here that you claimed to have a sense of humor when alive … let’s test that shall we?

“Tell me a joke … make me laugh and I’ll let you in!”

I was astounded at his attitude on such a solemn occasion; I stumbled to find the right thing to say.

“Ah … not so funny now, are you?” continued the Saint.

“But … ehm …” I mumbled sensing my throat getting drier with nervousness.    

“So … what will it be? A funny joke … or will you go straight down without a parachute?” chuckled St Peter through his thick beard.

“You’ve just laughed … a little …” I pointed out sheepishly, but not without a modicum of forlorn hope, “surely that counts as a joke!”

“That’s true …” replied St Peter, “you’ve always been ridiculous to look at anyway … so I’ll let you in.”

I smiled, wiping the cold sweat from my brow.

“Not so fast … not so fast …” said St Peter standing at the doorway blocking my view of who was already there. “I need to check a few things first to see whether you need to spend some time at the Purification Center.”

“Purification Center?” I asked.

“Yes …” he replied with a chuckle, “you Catholics call it Purgatory. It’s like a car- wash to make sure everyone who enters here is cleansed.”

I gulped and waited as he tapped furiously on his electronic notepad. It bleeped once or twice and then he said.

“I see that a few years ago you prayed an indulgence to St Victor; your namesake. I remember he was quite pleased about it at the time. Not many people tend to mention him in prayers and for weeks he went around with a big smile on his face. Normally people pray to the more popular Saints … First Division Saints, you know.

“It works both ways I suppose. It’s nice to get so many prayers and requests; but quite honestly I get so many that I hardly have time to read them all.

“Anyway … for your indulgence to St Victor you get one week off from the Purification Center.”

I smiled silently.

“What’s this I see … you also started another indulgence to some obscure Saint I’ve never met. This place is so large it’s just full of Saints. You can hardly walk a few yards without bumping into one. But I’ve never met this one.”

I tried to remember that particular indulgence but couldn’t.

“That’s a pity …” said St Peter, “you never finished the indulgence. So it doesn’t count. In fact I’ll have to add two extra weeks in the Purification Center.”

I began to despair when the telephone in the little guard-house by Heaven’s Gate rang. He answered it and then said.

“Hmmm … it looks like you have friends in high places here. I’ve been asked to let you in.”

I smiled and moved forwards a few feet; but he blocked my way yet again.

“You’ll have to get changed first.” he said, “Go behind that curtain and put this white gown on … we all wear them here!”

“But …” I hesitated gaining a little confidence, “this looks very much like the gowns they give you in hospital … it is all open at the back!”

“That’s right …” he replied, “it is exactly the same gown. As I said, we all wear them here … just don’t stand too close to a hot radiator, and watch out when you sit on a cold park bench!” then he chuckled very loudly once again.

He saw my hesitation and then continued in a much gentler voice with as serious a face as he could muster.  

“We like people to be helpful to each other here in Heaven; it’s not a selfish place you know. When you wear this gown, go around and find someone who is very handy with a thread and needle and ask them to sew it up at the back. That’s what everybody does. Help each other.

“In time, you’ll learn to sew and then you too will be able to help newcomers.

“Also, this gown will teach you humility. You’ll be able to swallow your pride and ask others for help. You’ve always been a bit proud and a little independent … Now’s the time to learn how to rely on other people and to accept their offer of help. Oh … and be grateful too when they help you. Don’t forget to say: Thank you!”

“I will … I will …” I replied timidly.

“Remember” he said, “this gown open at the back will teach you to help one another, will give you humility, make you accept people’s offer of help, and remind you to say Thank you! You’ll also learn how to sew, and of course how not to stand too close to a hot radiator!”

He laughed heartily once again and then said, “So, what will it be? Will you wear the gown or are you going down with no parachute?”

I grasped the gown from his hands and woke up in a cold sweat clutching the bedcovers tightly in my hands.

I must stop having cheese and whisky before bedtime!

Monday, 14 May 2012

God and Logic. Logic and God.


Harry was a practical man. Pragmatic, calculating and very very logical. He always thought things out thoroughly and his conclusions were logical and well worked out.

One day he asked Father Ignatius if he could spare some time for a chat. The always approachable priest took Harry to his office in the Parish House and after a cup of coffee and biscuits he encouraged him to speak.

“It’s something I’ve had on my mind for years Father,” started Harry, “I’ve never actually confessed it at Confession, which might be a sin in itself I suppose, but it still keeps niggling me at the back of my mind. So I’d assume this chat is a Confession in itself.”

The kindly priest smiled and nodded to encourage him to continue.

“Years ago,” Harry said, “someone hurt me very badly. It totally changed my life, and even today, my circumstances and my life are the result of that person’s action towards me.

“That person then moved on to another town far away and we haven’t seen each other since.

“I believe I have forgiven that person. Truly and honestly forgiven them in the sense that I do not seek any retribution, revenge and nor do I bear any ill will whatsoever towards that person. Even though, as I said, my life is still affected by what that person did. I even pray for that person sometimes, would you believe Father!”

The priest smiled and said nothing.

“But I tell you in all honesty Father,” continued Harry, “I hate that person. I don’t wish that person bad as I said, but I don’t like that person at all. I still get angry at times, thinking at what has been done to me. Even though I forgive again deep in my heart I still hate.

“That person never asked for forgiveness. And the likelihood is that the person doesn’t even care for forgiveness.

“Does my private hate negate … wipe away my forgiveness?”

Father Ignatius said nothing for a while; then, cautiously he said.

“When we forgive, our forgiveness should be total. Without any conditions and given in love.”

Harry interrupted.

“Yes I understand that. And strictly speaking Father I have forgiven totally. But how can I possibly love a person who has totally changed my life for the worse; and that of others too?

“My hatred, as I call it … my anger towards that person … is a private hatred and a private anger within me. The person does not know about it and is not harmed by my personal feelings in any way.

“That person has moved on to another life and doesn’t even care about forgiveness.

“How can a personal feeling, which technically speaking does not harm another person, be considered a sin? Surely God can’t accuse me of harming that person?”

Father Ignatius waited a while and then replied, “You say the person does not know nor cares about your forgiveness, and is therefore not harmed by your private thoughts and feelings towards them.

But … is your sin against God perhaps. In that your forgiveness is not total since you hold some hatred back?”

“But Father …” Harry continued, “I have done my utmost best to forgive totally in that I wish that person no ill-will whatsoever.

“I just can’t help disliking, and sometimes hating that person.

“Surely God knows how I am made up as a human. He created me and He gave me all these emotions we humans share.

“Dislike and hatred are such emotions. God knows very well that my hate is borne from anger and perhaps unhealed hurt and a sense of injustice within me. God gave me all these feelings and He can’t possibly blame me for reacting naturally to what’s happened to me.

“If my hatred resulted in harm and revenge towards the other person, then I understand it’s wrong.

“But my private hatred hurts no one. Neither that person, nor any one else, knows about it so how can it possibly hurt them or be a sin?

“If anything, the hatred is hurting me as it burns inside me … but I can’t help it. It’s the way I’m made.”

The priest prayed silently for a few seconds. He understood that the man was still hurting badly and yet, Harry used his impeccable logic to reason that his private feelings were no sin towards man or God.

“Let’s look at it another way” said the priest calmly, “you’re right Harry in saying that your private hatred is not physically or in any other way hurting the other person.

“You’re also right in saying that your hatred is an emotion given to you by your Creator together with all the other emotions we have as human beings.
  
“But God also gave us the emotion and power to love. In fact Christ told us clearly to love one another; especially our enemies.

“So by hating the other person, however privately, you are denying them your love. You can’t love and hate at the same time.”

“So is it a sin?” Harry interrupted again, “because I can’t help how I feel about this person. No matter how I try. I bear no ill-will as I said, but I just can’t like or love the person as you suggest!”

“I understand …” Father Ignatius said gently, “the world has seen many evil leaders do many evil things over the years. It is not always humanly possible to love them and forgive them as Christ did on the Cross.

“He is God … and we are not.
“But at the very least we should try as best as we possibly can to forgive wholeheartedly, even though, in human terms, our hearts can’t always genuinely love as He commanded.”