Category: default || By jt3y

Since I like to sleep late on the weekends, and our church offers a Sunday night service, I've gotten into the habit of going then.

Guess what last night's service happened to coincide with?

I'm not saying the crowd was small, but it was hardly worth turning the lights on. We could have held Mass around the kitchen table in the rectory, and still had room left to roll in a television and catch the game.

Not that we needed that kind of temptation. As it was, I have this feeling that several people were already following the game on their Walkmans. Otherwise, their reactions to the First Letter of Paul to the Corinthians --- "No! No, dammit!" --- were surprisingly vehement.

Even Father's hearing aid looked suspiciously large, though no one thought it was at all odd when he offered a petition "that the Patriots shall be fooled by the play-action fake, and that we can convert the third down, we pray to the Lord."

I'll admit, it was a bit much when Father dedicated the eucharistic prayer to "our bishop Donald, our coach, Bill, and all of his assistant coaches." And when the ushers brought up the offerings, I wish those two clowns in the back of church hadn't started yelling, "De-fense! De-fense!"

But the homily was nice, and made use of very effective imagery, as when Father called for "the infinite justice and wisdom of the Lord to split the uprights of our hearts."

Of course, as it turns out, the service ended a bit too soon. I got in the car just in time to hear the Patriots score the third touchdown of the first half.

If only we'd known, we could have stayed in church a few minutes longer, and asked for last rites.

...

For further meditation:

Big Ben is our Shepherd, I shall not want Maddox,
He leadeth us to the AFC Championship game,
But our receivers holdeth not the ball.
Yea, though we walk through the valley of the Field of Heinz,
We fear no Belichick, for thy Cowher art with us.
Though thy team kicketh on fourth down,
We shall not foresake them.
Thy Tunch and thy Bix comfort us.
Surely thy tailgaters shall returneth next year,
And shall dwell in the parking lots of the Rooneys for hours.

...

Give me the patience to accept the plays they could not change,
The courage to call the talk shows and complain about the ones they could have changed,
And the wisdom not to kick the television.