Pastor Daniel Remmings shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring out over the congregation with heavy-lidded eyes. He cleared his throat for the tenth time, prompting a few members to perk up briefly before glazing over again.
“And that’s why…” he droned, struggling to remember what biblical platitude he had been expounding upon for the last 45 minutes. Something about patience being a virtue?
Turning the other cheek? His voice was a monotonous hum at this point, the spiritual equivalent of a dusty metronome.
Brother Norris was engaged in a spirited battle against narcolepsy in the front pew, his chin becoming dangerously well-acquainted with his sternum. Mrs. Pritchett’s knitting needles clicked in a steady lullaby, endless rows of yarn adding up to…well, something vaguely rectangular.
Pastor Remmings finally wound down, himself not entirely sure if he had provided any actual insights or merely induced a unique trance-state through ennui. “And so, in conclusion…um, love thy neighbor. Can I get an ‘amen’?”
The few conscious congregants mumbled a pained “Amen,” already eagerly awaiting the sweet release of the potluck meal after the service. Pastor Remmings took his seat, silently questioning if anyone would have noticed had he simply read directions from the Playmobil set.
SPONSORED LINKS
.
Share this:
