So yesterday was the Fourth of July. We had a good time at the city's hot dog feed at the park, and met up with several of our parishioners there. As we were saying goodbye, M. said to my husband, "See you Sunday, Pastor!"
To which the Man in Black replied, "Do I need to get out to the golf course for that?"
This isn't the first time Punk Pastor has gotten away with this sort of thing. When we were on vicarage, he visited H., a parishioner who hadn't attended church since anyone could remember, in the hospital. Now, this was in southern Arizona in the summertime, and temperatures were soaring into the 100s. The sidewalks were like the walls of an oven, and H. was in the hospital for treatment of second degree burns on his hands and thigh that he gotten falling on his driveway. "It was hot like hell," he told the vicar.
With holy love and almost-apostolic authority, the vicar speaks. "Hmm. Let that be a warning to you, then."
Blame the office of the Holy Ministry. "That must have been my office talking," he told me later, "because it wasn't me!"