The Morning Sermon

It is currently 9 a.m. It is currently December 25th 2015. I am currently sitting in the pews of the Pemberton Methodist Church. I am currently bored. At 8 a.m. on December 25th 2015 I had been reverently consuming the first service from St. Paul’s on the living room plasma, smothered in Christmas sweater, a mug full of incredibly hot cocoa slowly searing its way into the side table, but Sarah, tutting louder than an industrial strength metronome, had emphasised that we couldn’t just sit around all morning and so I had been dragged to church and into a state of dim, reclusive consciousness known as the morning sermon. Father Morgan had insisted that we take one of the pews near the back of the nave and turn it to face the East as “That would be good for the Feng Shui” which was something he was “pretty sure God was into”.

Sarah had made that kind of panicked fidgeting like a baby bird that she does when something goes wrong, worried that the sermon might only be half as holy if heard through one ear, but as it had turned out Father Morgan had forgotten to bring his only Bible anyway and had instead dropped into his backpack that morning “From Haddock to Mackerel: A Fish Identification Guide by Borris M. Withersmite”. While he assured us that they were the same basic books, he stated that due to minor differences in beliefs between Methodism and other Christian denominations, the church as an institution did not condone the teaching of the ichthyological tome. Mike, the man who brings the collection plate (a green slab of plastic with the outline of Garfield etched on it) had asked Father Morgan whether there might be another Bible in the building, to which he had replied “In the church? Oh goodness, no”.

In lieu of appropriate literature Father Morgan had suggested that we imagine things that the Bible might say about Christmas time. “You know the gist by now. Tiny baby, big star, I seem to recall something about a barn?”. Mike spoke up “What about Charlie Brown, is he in there?”. “Yes I think he is.” Father Morgan replied. “Let’s, all of us, think about Charlie Brown”. I did not know anything about Charlie Brown. I suspected that Father Morgan did not know anything about Charlie Brown either as he had repeatedly claimed that pop culture media “Made God cry” and was “Blasvemous”. That is not a typo. In order to ensure that his field of view always remained holy and that he did not view any “blasvemous” images Father Morgan had for three years worn a pair of sunglasses which he claimed had images of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” taped to the inside, until an unfortunate incident outside the train station one day.

I and a couple of the congregation had been standing near him on the station platform in the dead of winter as he clutched a railcard with an unnecessary degree of force. I sidled up to him, hands buried deep in my pockets, discovering an extraordinary amount of ice cream sandwich in my right outside jacket. I assumed Sarah had put it there but I didn’t really know when or why. I asked Father Morgan where he was going, to which he replied “Oh, just to see friends” and it was at this point I discovered that the railcard did not have any valid dates or English words printed on it but a random series of vowels inked into every possible field. The strangest part was that he’d later be able to convince a British Rail ticket inspector with an expression like a stony castle wall that he was a legitimate passenger. I wondered for a moment where he even got the ticket but not before a biting winter breeze snatched it from his half-frostbitten fingers and swept it down onto the platform next to him. As he bent down to retrieve it the many pouches and zips of his 2 Live Crew vest jacket unloaded their cargo onto the concrete.

I might not have remember this vast outpouring of personal bric-a-brac so vividly were it not for the fact that Father Morgan had convinced the congregation to learn photographic memory skills, informing us “It will be vital for the series of complicated visual puzzles you will have to complete before you may battle St. Peter and enter the Kingdom of Heaven”. And so I present to you the contents of Father Morgan’s pockets:

Three pistachio nuts whittled into the shape of Roger Daltry’s face.
An “English to Slightly Worse English” phrase book.
A magnifying glass taped to the reverse side of another magnifying glass which made the things that appeared through it seem normal-sized.
Many, many ants.
Some ham.
A set of incredibly detailed diagrams instructing how to eat ham.
A set of incredibly detailed diagrams instructing how not to eat ham.
A clock with every hour marker replaced by the term “Party Time”.

And then lastly, laying alongside all of that, were the sunglasses from Father Morgan’s face, which as it had turned out were backed with two miniature polaroids of Father Morgan’s face. After he left on his train we did not see Father Morgan again for three months. When he returned he not only denied the incident, but denied the existence of any and all forms of glasses, which is what led to his popular catchphase “There’s no such thing as glasses. Why would people need something like that so close to their face? The idea that you could superheat sand into a hard, clear material is tantamount to belief in unicorns” which he would chant over and over at us while we tried to sleep.

When I snapped back to reality Father Morgan had apparently, desperate not to lose the crowd, found a way to continue the sermon. “The Pacific Herring can be identified via its silvery scales and single dorsal fin. As the name suggests it resides in the Pacific Ocean and its diet primarily consists of-” My back hurt. My ass and back hurt. The no-nonsense wooden benches were presumably meant to keep your mind focused on the lectures and rituals, but this one was having the opposite effect. Maybe it was broken, or maybe God wanted peoples’ minds to wander. Maybe it was divine intervention that I started thinking about which chocolate bar I’d date if they were people (definitely Toffee Crisp). Or perhaps it was instead that God considered comfy chairs unethical and that the distraction from these sermons was a fair price to pay for the purge of the immoral cushions from his house. Then what did that make my house? Is my sofa a sin? Are my armchairs an affront to the creator of the universe?

It was when Father Morgan reached roughly his third species of cod that I decided I was going to leave. “Sarah” I said. “I’m going to go home. Maybe put some more tinsel on the tree”. Her face moved about like she was sucking on a boiled sweet, trying to position it comfortably in her mouth. “At least say a prayer before you leave” she said. I grumbled and shifted, but eventually figured it was just easier to give in and bowed my head. “Hey God. I’m going to say something. I know how many times I’ve said it before, but this isn’t a drill, this is the real-deal, we are all-systems-go, this is action stations. I’m going to get up and I’m going to say what we always should have said, that this is ridiculous and that this man has no business talking to any other human being, let alone trying to interpret the word of God. I’m going to do it and there’s nothing that anyone can do here to prevent this from happening!… Amen I guess”.

A voice came back. “Just let him read the fish book”.