“A-men.”
As the last notes of the hymn echoed around the rafters, and the sound of the church organ faded, the elderly congregation sat in a rustle of paper, a waft of too much perfume, and a bustle of perfectly coiffured Sunday hairdos. The vicar remained standing as his flock settled, gazing out over the one-third full church, before smiling gently.
“I’m very pleased to say,” he said, “that we’ve a visitor in the congregation today, young Michael there, who’s about to be ordained. He’s exactly the sort of person that a modern, forward-looking Church should be looking to engage with.”
A young man at the front beamed with pride.
“He’ll be giving today’s lesson,” the priest continued, “and then he’s trying something new for St. John’s. Although I can’t say I understand it, he has built a… what was it Michael, a social media presence? Where he will be livestreaming my sermon, I think it’s called.”
The little old ladies on the third row looked confused, but he continued regardless.
“We had a most insightful chat yesterday about ecumenical matters and, at my request, he’s providing some thoughts for the sermon that I’ll be dipping into, and he’ll be lending me his tablet. Apparently, that’s a computer, not stone; we must move with the times… anyway, Michael?”
The man stood and walked to a lectern, nervous, but smiling.
“Today’s lesson,” he said, his voice quavering a little, “is from the book of Matthew, Chapter Three, verses one to eleven.”
A few minutes later, after another hymn, he stood again and handed an iPad to the minister.
“Thank you, Michael. Let’s see, now… Ok.
“Of course,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, “the passage Michael read so wonderfully from was about the humility of Jalfrezi the Balti and the famous saying ‘Reopen, Kanye, for the Kingdom of Heaven is your hand.“
He looked over his spectacles to the front row, where Michael was quietly cringing.
“Is this the right piece of…? Oh, I see. Apparently, it’s something called “predictive text”, and there may be a couple of minor errors, as it fills in things based on his past searches and messages. One moment.”
The vicar stepped away from the pulpit to scan the rest of the text, then beckoned Michael over.
“Erm…” he said, sotto voce. “I’m pretty sure that the prophet was called Esaias, not ‘Easy as‘, that it was a raiment of camel’s hair, not ‘Ramen Noodles and Camel-toe hair’, whatever that may be. And I don’t think the river had ‘Jordan’s biggest boobs ever’, or was married to Peter Andre? Goodness! There certainly weren’t any seductions at the baptisms, it was Sadducees. And the one who was to follow John The Baptist, not Jalfrezi the Balti, most certainly would not anoint anyone in “the Wholly Goat’s cheese.”
He frowned, handing the machine back.
“Young man, we will talk after the service about your suitability for the priesthood. Excuse me, I have a sermon to deliver.”
