the New Pantagruel

The Accidental Ecumenist

by Peter J. Leithart

ir Reginald Piddleby-Squeak was in a pickle. The pickle he was in was no ordinary pickle, but a pickle of the most unusual size and sourness, a pickle from which he had no prospects of being rapidly extracted. He expected at any moment that he would begin turning green and breaking out in small garlicky lumps.

It all started a week ago Monday, Monday of course being the day when Sir Reginald met at the golf club with his schoolfellows, Sir Allan Pennymain and the Right Rev. Harold Puffmelon. Harold was wearing his clerical collar under a worn wool sweater, and Sir Allan was questioning him closely about his attire.

“Why must you wear that holy shirt when we’re on the golf course? Does the Archbishop forbid you to remove it?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, why must you wear it then?”

The Right Rev. Harold Puffmelon looked Sir Allan in the eye and replied, not without pride, “I have important pastoral duties after our morning round.”

“Do you?” Sir Reginald asked incredulously. He didn’t like to butt into a conversation that was not his own, but this was too much. It was well-known throughout the diocese that Harold was rarely seen doing anything that could be classified as pastoral. He liked to spend his days puttering in his flower garden, checking the progress of his peas and lettuce, taking long afternoon naps in what he called his study.

“Of course I do,” he replied. “I have been charged, you know, with the cure of souls.”

Sir Reginald proved to be more disciplined than Sir Allan, for the latter snorted out the very guffaw that Sir Reginald had successfully pushed back into my gut.

“Since when have you cared a wit for souls? You’re far more interested in bodies, and indeed in only one body, your own.” It was quite true that the Right Reverend had been growing considerably more rotund of late, but Sir Reginald had been far too polite to point out the fact.

“You obviously know nothing about my calling, my vocation.” The word “vocation” was pronounced with such an air of mystery that Sir Allan almost felt that he was serious. Taking another look at Harold’s nicely rounded belly, his smooth rounded laughing face, his bright bulging eyes, however, was enough to convince Sir Allan that the Right Reverend was the same good fellow who had helped him raid the buttery when both were at Christchurch. Something was up, to be sure, but what was up was not Harold’s sense of pastoral obligation.

Before Allan could pursue the matter, Sir Reginald broke in again. “Why can’t you bring that shirt in a shopping bag, and change in the lockers after our round?”

“Does my shirt offend you?”

“Certainly not,” Sir Reginald said hastily, “but it does inhibit me.”

“Hear, hear,” said Sir Allan, reentering the conversation that had locked him out.

“Inhibit you how?”

“Come, come, old man,” Sir Reginald began. “Surely you know how the game of golf works. We set the ball on a tee, take a couple of elegant practice swings, step up to the ball, and take a whack. What follows is this: The ball bounces sideways into a pile of leaves or the long grass, we curse loudly, throw our club, and move to the next shot.”

“Yes?” The Right Rev. was not known for being quick on the trigger.

“Don’t you see that we can’t do this with you wearing that shirt of yours?” asked Sir Allan.

“Whyever not?”

“Let me be blunt, Harold,” said Sir Reginald, fighting for his life to get control of the conversation that Sir Allan kept interrupting. “It’s the cursing part. We don’t feel comfortable cursing when you’re out here in that collar.”

“But I have no problem cursing,” said the Right Rev. This was perfectly true. Harold was the worst golfer of the three, and he always cursed like a soldier whenever he hit a bad shot, which meant every time he hit the ball.

“Yes, of course, but you’re a clergyman. That makes all the difference.”

“I fail to see how my being a clergyman makes any difference. If anything, it should mean that I’m more concerned about cursing than you.”

It was the first time that Sirs Reginald and Allan had considered this novel theory. A clergyman more concerned with holy behavior than the average person was almost too much for them to ponder.

“You mean, you don’t get a ‘bye’?” Sir Reginald was struggling to find the correct theological term.

“A ‘bye’?”

All Pages | 1 |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  6  |  7  |  8  |  9  |  10  |  11  |  12  |  13  |  14  |  15