Clerical Comicalities
The blessed man that preached for us last Sunday, said Mr. Partington, served the Lord for thirty years—first as a circus rider, and then as a locust-preacher, and last as an exhauster.
Patience—Is your preacher sensational?
Patrice—I should say so! Why, he preached a sermon last Sunday and he took for his subject, It’s hard to keep a good man down. Well? Oh, it was all about Jonah and the whale.
A series of revival services were being held recently in a Missouri city, and placards giving notice of the services were posted in conspicuous places. One day the following notice was posted:
Hell, Its Location and Absolute Certainty. Thomas Jones, barytone soloist, will sing, Tell Mother I’ll Be There.
There was once a clergyman’s son, who was educated for the ministry. He finished his theological course at Oxford and returned home with the Oxford accent. On the following Sunday he was invited to fill his father’s pulpit for the morning service. The young preacher announced his text as follows: And they wequiahed of him Bawabbas. Now Bawabbas was a wobbah. At the evening service the old man resumed his pulpit and preached an eloquent sermon from the text, O Lord, have mercy upon us, for this my son is lunatic and we are sore distressed.
When was the automobile first mentioned in the Bible?
When Elijah crossed the river Jordan by a Ford and went up on high.
Clergyman—examining a Sunday School, Now, can any of you tell me what are the sins of omission?
Small Scholar—Yes, sir, they’re the sins you ought to have committed, and haven’t.
Rev. Goodman—Mr. Slick, our Sunday-school superintendent is a tried and trusted employe of yours, is he not?
Banker—He was trusted, and he’ll be tried if we’re only fortunate enough to catch him.
It is reported that Pope Gregory XVI offered his snuff-box to a Cardinal, who declined it, saying: No, your holiness, I have not that vice. To which the Pope replied in thoroughly human way, if it had been a vice you would have had it.
Mama, said little Elsie, do men ever go to heaven?
Why of course, my dear. What makes you ask?
Because I never see any pictures of angels with whiskers.
Well, said the mother, thoughtfully, some men do go to heaven, but they get there by a close shave.
The Bishop, addressing the little folks at the children’s service, became impressive. Only think, children, he said, in Africa, there are 10,000,000 square miles of territory without a single Sunday school where little girls and boys can spend their Sunday afternoons. Now, what should we all try to save up our money for?
The children (unanimously)—To go to Africa.
At a sewing circle all the women were talking, and some of the subjects got hopelessly confused. For instance, the subject of crickets and church choirs. I never heard such a horrid noise as they made last Sunday, said one woman, referring to the choir. Nor I, said another, thinking she referred to the fall crickets. They say they make that noise with their hind legs.
An evangelist who was conducting nightly services announced that on the following evening he would speak on the subject of Liars. He advised his hearers to read in advance the seventeenth chapter of Mark.
The next night he arose and said: I am going to preach on Liars tonight, and I would like to know how many read the chapter I suggested. A hundred hands were upraised.
Now, he said, you are the very persons I want to talk to—there isn’t any seventeenth chapter of Mark.
A Baltimore man tells us of attending a church on one occasion when the minister delivered a sermon of but ten minutes’ duration—a most unusual thing for him.
Upon the conclusion of his remarks the minister had added: I regret to inform you, brethren that my dog, who appears to be particularly fond of paper, this morning ate that portion of my sermon that I have not delivered.
After the service, the clergyman was met at the door by a man who, as a rule, attended divine service in another parish. Shaking the good man by the hand, he said:
Doctor, I should like to know whether that dog of yours has pups. If so, I want to get one to give to my minister.
A clergyman preached a rather long sermon from the text, Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting. After the congregation had listened about an hour, some began to get weary and went out; others soon followed, greatly to the annoyance of the minister. Another person started, whereupon the preacher stopped his sermon and said: That is right gentlemen; as fast as you are weighed, pass out! He continued his sermon some time after that, but no one disturbed him by leaving.
Not a few preachers would be glad to be the victims of such a practical joke as was recently played upon the Rev. Mr. Hageman, of Oxford, Mich. At the annual meeting of the church of which he is pastor the question of hiring a preacher comes up for discussion.
At the last meeting of this society, when the subject was brought up, a good deacon arose and said: All those in favor of retaining Brother Hageman for another year—at the same salary—will please rise.
Not a person rose, and the minister, who was present, felt as uncomfortable as possible, and heartily wished himself anywhere else. Then the good deacon who had put the question arose again and said, with a twinkle of the eye:
I see not one favors that motion, so I will put it again in this way: All those in favor of keeping the Rev. Mr. Hageman—at an increased salary—will please rise.
Everyone got upon his feet. Then it dawned upon Mr. Hageman that he had been the victim of a joke, and a smile lighted his eye, and the color returned to his cheeks. Some of his best friends had planned the surprise, and the little scheme had worked to perfection.
The deacons and other officers of a church had met to discuss the best method of getting rid of a pastor who had worn out his usefulness. After various methods had been suggested without any of them seeming feasible, one brother, who was a good deal of a wag, said:
I tell you what to do. Let’s pay him all his salary in arrears and raise him to a thousand a year and he will drop dead.
A certain Duluth clergyman was a rather prosy speaker, but occasionally he proved that he had ready wit. One evening he was addressing his congregation on the beauty of leading an upright life, when he suddenly paused and beckoned to the sexton. Brown, said he, in a clear, distinct tone of voice, open a couple of windows on each side of the church, please. Beg your pardon, sir! exclaimed the sexton, with a look of great surprise. Did I understand you to say, open the windows? It is a very bitter cold night, sir. Yes, I am well aware of that, Brown, was the cold, hard reply of the clergyman, as he gazed around the church, but it is not healthy to sleep with the windows shut! We refrain from going any deeper into personalities.
The late Bishop Beckwith, of Georgia, was fond of his gun, and spent much of his time hunting, says Representative Adamson. One day the Bishop was out with his dog and gun, and met a member of his parish, whom he reproved for his inattention to his religious duties. You should attend church and read your Bible, said Bishop. I do read my Bible, Bishop, was the answer, and I don’t find any mention of the Apostles going a-shooting. No, replied the Bishop, the shooting was very bad in Palestine, so they went fishing instead.
A preacher who went to a Kentucky parish where the parishioners bred horses was asked to invite the prayers of the congregation for Lucy Grey. He did so. They prayed three Sundays for Lucy Grey. On the fourth he was told he need not do it any more.
Why, said the preacher, is she dead?
No, answered the man, she won the Derby.
The Rev. Mr. Spicer had for three days enjoyed the telephone, which had been his last gift from an admiring parishioner. He had been using it immediately before going to church.
When the time came for him to announce the hymn he rose and with his usual impressive manner read the words. Then in a crisp, firm tone he said, Let us all unite in hymn six double o; sing three.
That Henry Ward Beecher was spared much embarrassment by his quickness at repartee is illustrated by the following story:
One evening as he was in the midst of an impassioned speech some one attempted to interrupt him by suddenly crowing like a rooster. It was done to perfection; a number of people laughed in spite of themselves, and the speaker’s friends felt that in a moment the whole effect of the meeting, and of Mr. Beecher’s thrilling appeals might be lost. The orator, however, was equal to the occasion. He stopped, listened till the crowing ceased, and then, with a look of surprise, pulled out his watch.
Morning already, he said; my watch is only at 10. But there can be no mistake about it. The instincts of the lower animals are infallible.
There was a roar of laughter. The lower animal in the gallery collapsed, and Mr. Beecher was able to resume as if nothing had occurred.
The maid had been using surreptitiously the bathtub of her employer, an elderly bishop. He was a bachelor, very fastidious about his toilet, and desired the exclusive use of his tub.
He reprimanded the maid with much indignation:
What distresses me most, Mary, is that you have done this behind my back.
A certain minister in a certain flock took permanent leave of his congregation in the following manner:
Brothers and Sisters: I come to say good-bye. I don’t think God loves this church, because none of you ever die. I don’t think you love each other, because I never marry any of you. I don’t think you love me, because you have not paid my salary. Your donations are moldy fruit and wormy apples, and by their fruits ye shall know them. Brothers, I am going to a better place. I have been called to be chaplain of a penitentiary. Where I go ye cannot come, but I go to prepare a place for you, and may the Lord have mercy on your souls. Good-bye.
Sister Henderson, said Deacon Hypers, you should avoid even appearance of evil.
Why Deacon, what do you mean? asked Sister Henderson.
I observe that on your sideboard you have several cut-glass decanters, and that each of them is half filled with what appears to be ardent spirits.
Well, now, Deacon, it isn’t anything of the kind. The bottles look so pretty on the sideboard that I just filled them half way with some floor stain and furniture polish, just for appearances.
That’s why I am cautioning you, sister, replied the Deacon. Feeling a trifle weak and faint, I helped myself to a dose from the big bottle in the middle.
An archdeacon engaged as new footman a well-recommended youth who served as stable boy. The first duty which the youth was called upon to perform was to accompany the archdeacon on a series of formal calls.
Bring the cards, Thomas, and leave one at each house, ordered his master. After two hours of visiting from house to house the archdeacon’s list was exhausted. This is the last house, Thomas, he said; leave two cards here.
Beggin’ yor pardon, sir, was the deferential reply, I can’t; I’ve only the ace of spades left.
Senator Gore, of Oklahoma, is given credit for this story, told on his recent visit to a Methodist convention at St. Joseph. It is related by the Rev. Mr. Williams, pastor of the Baptist Church of Pleasant Hill, who happened to hear it.
According to Senator Gore, there was an accomplished hen with a brood of chickens—five roosters and five pullets. The chicks matured and went their various ways, while the mother hen busied herself with a new brood. In course of time Methodist ministers came into the vicinity of Chickenville to hold a conference, and, as might be suspected, the five young roosters, fat, yellow-legged and extremely tender, were feasted upon by various and sundry preachers. The young pullets, left behind, were met by the mother hen a few days later. My children, she asked, where are your brothers?
They have entered the ministry.
Bracing herself from the shock of disclosure, a look of resignation spread over Biddy’s countenance as she replied:
Well, my dears, perhaps it is all for the best. They would not have made very good lay members, anyway.
A Philadelphia clergyman, visiting an old schoolmate in Montana, was called upon to speak during revival services in a large camp of Swedish miners.
Looking straight at a powerful looking man who sat in front of him, the minister asked:
My friend, don’t you want to work for the Lord?
The Swede thought a few seconds and replied slowly:
No, I tank no, de Norden Pacific fallers is good enough for me.
A short time ago a somewhat laughable incident took place in a northern church. The minister, after proclaiming the banns of matrimony between a young couple, concluded by saying, If there be any objections, they can now be stated. A fashionable youth, an old admirer of the intended bride, noticing the eyes of a portion of the congregation fixed upon him, rose up and exclaimed, I have no objection for my own part, to the astonishment of all about him, and resumed his seat, as if he had done a mere formal piece of business.
Each Sunday the parson rode three miles to church. On this particular Sunday it was raining very hard. He rode the distance on horseback and, when he reached the church, was soaking wet.
Several of the good old sisters who were there early placed a chair before the fire for him and hung his wet coat up to dry.
I am so afraid I won’t be dry enough to preach, he said.
Oh, said one of the sisters, when you get in the pulpit and start preaching, you will be dry enough.
Whenever a Sunday school teacher comes to Louisville invariably a good story is in order. Last night one of them was at a local hotel, and he brought along his story. Morrison R. Kendrick is his name, and Chicago is his town. The story is told by Mr. Kendrick as follows:
Sunday School Superintendent—Who led the children of Israel into Canaan? Will one of the smaller boys answer?
No reply.
Superintendent (sternly)—Can no one tell? You little fellow on that seat next to the aisle, who led the children of Israel into Canaan?
Little Boy (badly frightened)—It wasn’t me. I—I just moved here last week from Missouri.
An amusing incident occurred at the close of Sam Jones’ sermon at Pulaski. Stepping down from the pulpit, folding his hands across his breast, and looking solemnly over the audience, the great revivalist said—
I want all the women in this crowd who have not spoken a harsh word or harbored an unkind thought toward their husbands for a month past to stand up.
One old woman, apparently on the shady side of sixty, stood up.
Come forward and give me your hand, said the preacher.
The woman did so, whereupon Jones said—
Now turn around and let this audience see the best-looking woman in the country.
After taking her seat, the revivalist addressed the men—
Now I want all the men in this crowd who have not spoken a harsh word or harbored an unkindthought toward their wives for a month past to stand up.
Twenty-seven great big strapping fellows hopped out of the audience with all the alacrity of champagne corks.
Come forward and give me your hands, my dear boys.
Jones gave each one a vigorous shake, after which he ranged all of them side by side in front of the pulpit and facing the audience. He looked them over carefully and solemnly, and then, turning around to the audience, he said—
I want you all to take a good look at the twenty-seven biggest liars in the State of Tennessee.