The foul smell descended upon the church like an unholy cloud, shattering the pious peace. All heads turned as the rotten egg stench filled the sanctuary.
For a few awkward moments, every eye darted between neighbors, silently pleading “Not me!” as if a deadly sin had been committed.
Sister Pentygrass dramatically gasped and waved her palm, shifting blame to Brother Smythewaite known for his love of baked beans. Not one to back down, Smythewaite acted shocked, subtly gesturing toward the Criddle family of avowed fruitarians.
And so the denial volleyball continued, sailing up and down the pew lines. At one point, young Timmy leaned over and inhaled deeply, proclaiming innocence by exhaling his own foul kindergarten breath. But even such dramatics couldn’t identify the true source.
Eventually, with no one left to blame, the congregation turned their noses toward the furnace vents and ductwork as the obvious flatulent offenders. Such is the perpetual dance of Adventists avoiding any whiff of guilt.
Just another unfortunate aroma disrupting the austere decorum, met with well-practiced denial. For as the Word states, “He who smelled it, surely dealt it, unless it be the ventilation’s crime.”
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