Pastor Bartholomew Thompson’s sermon on the impending apocalypse took a dramatic nosedive this Sabbath, thanks to an unexpected inquiry from the congregation. As Thompson weaved a tapestry of biblical prophecies and fringe theories, his doomsday narrative was abruptly interrupted by a voice that echoed through the hallowed halls: “But Pastor,” it rang out, “is the potluck still on?”
The sudden interruption left the congregation in stunned silence, all eyes turning to the source: Mildred, renowned for her hearty appetite and distaste for long sermons. With a sheepish grin, she leaned forward, her stomach audibly rumbling. “I mean, the end may be near, but a good lentil casserole waits for no one, right?”
Pastor Thompson, momentarily caught off guard, sputtered and stammered, his face flushing the color of a ripe tomato. “Well, Sister Mildred,” he finally managed, his voice laced with barely concealed exasperation, “even in the face of imminent catastrophe, I suppose the time-honored tradition of the Sabbath potluck must, ahem, persevere.”
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