Your Brylcreem hubby here!
While confined in this dank Ferguson jail cell following devout and bare-skinned acts of ministry in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, it occurs to me that I probably won’t make it back to Cubic Zirconium Cathedral in time for the Sunday evening community potluck.
And here you’ve been slaving over your Cajun crab goulash all week. With such intense, agape love do I cherish your secret ingredient homemade sunflower oil mayonnaise!
Instead, our Heavenly Father, in His mighty and infinite will, has other plans for me this weekend. Like those little sparrows (and the quail that Mr. Cheney never seems quite able to shoot), with constancy God has the back of those in His flock who are most prosperously faithful.
While the cells surrounding me are packed like sardine tins with hordes of strangely embittered colored folk and negligently defiant Holocaust survivors and Nazi journalists, I fortunately have a few connections with St. Louis municipal officials, who, let’s just say, may or may not be Platinum Plate-level Donors to CZC Ministries Global Outreach. At any rate, while my arrest could not be prevented—a U.S. Marshal actually tracked me down from Atlanta to this St. Louis suburb—fortunately I have been able to arrange a private cell.
And thus, I find myself in surprising physical comfort. I pen this letter to you from the “sactional” bliss of a $1,250 King Phur Cover BigOne beanbag from Lovesac. The prison personnel were kind enough to let the middle infielders from the CZC interracial softball team haul it in from the team traveling bus.
Perhaps I should start this tale from the beginning—as I have no doubt that my epistolary efforts will be no less important to Christendom’s future than certain of the lesser of St. Paul’s apostolic letters, such as III Corinthians or II Jude.
As you know, I awoke last Monday with a touch of the Holy Ghost upon me—a call to take the CZC church league championship softball team to Ferguson in order to strike some interracial stickball harmony with the riled ethnic natives of that community. Of course, concerned that we didn’t have a single non-Caucasian on the team, I reached out to Wilbur Hothsmoak, the half-Dominican Republic, half-Austrian assistant manager down at Advance Auto Parts who’s always kind enough to change my windshield wipers for me and whose wife sings for our worship team—and asked him if he’d be willing to make the trip.
Thank God he said yes. And, as God’s grace would have it—he’s a veteran leftfielder!
As you know, I planned to stop in Atlanta to pick up a few items at Lenox Square Shopping Center. We were taking the church bus, after all, and I wanted to load up on Lovesac items for the youth group room renovation project.
Also, I had placed special orders at Lululemon for several Moisture-Wicking Performance Cassocks. Nothing keeps the spiritual sweat at bay like a Lululemon MWPC. And, as Jehovah-jireh provided, those $120 baptismal swimwear pieces we were talking about the other day just happened to be one-third off with the purchase of a Vinyasa scarf! (Shoot, there goes your Christmas present surprise.)
Anyway, I bumped into an executive from the Atlanta Braves at Lululemon, who invited me to throw out the first pitch at that night’s game. Before I know it, I find myself standing on the Turner Field pitching mound, donning one of my brand new Moisture-Wicking Performance Cassocks—when I heard the voice of the Lord from Isaiah 20:
Then the LORD said, “Just as my servant Isaiah has gone naked as a polecat for three years, as a sign and portent against Egypt and Cush…”
And suddenly I knew that Jesus too was calling me to don a prophetic birthday suit.
I tossed aside my MWPC and made a breezy beeline for the leftfield bullpen, where most of the softball team awaited me. The softballers bull-rushed security—and, to my knowledge, only lost our second string second baseman—then we made our way back to the bus and hightailed it for Missouri.
I might have avoided custody altogether had our good Lord not commanded me to continue my naked ministry in Ferguson. Kind of hard for a naked underhand pitcher to escape notice.
The Airport Road Popeye’s Chicken manager reported me during our first urban stickball match with the Ferguson natives. Frankly, he wasn’t very pleased that we had commandeered his drive-in window as third base.
Long story short: here, naked I sit, in Lovesac comfort, certain that the Lord will deliver me soon a la the Apostle Paul and his angelic earthquake prison rescue in Philippi.
In the meantime, I’m seriously considering donating all of the Lovesac beanbags we bought and even some of my Sweat-Wicking swimwear to the Ferguson chapter of the Fraternal Order of Police. You should hear what the ignorant natives are saying about the upstanding local law enforcement officers here!
Do you know that some of my fellow prisoners are actually accusing St. Louis metro area police of shooting citizens in cold blood and tear gassing protesters? Balderdash, Poopsie. Pure balderdash!
I’m not so sure now that this whole Stickball Mission wasn’t a diabolical deception of Baphomet!
Anyway, not sure when I’ll be back to the Pillow Red Letter Horse Ranch. But do me a favor and get Seth from legal on this whole prison thing pronto.
And maybe you can have your leftover Cajun crab goulash air-freighted to Ferguson in one of those human organ transplant cases. Send enough for the prison guards, too. Their arms are tired from beating so many of my ingrate cellmates.
Yours ever in immaculate Incarceration,
Please open your hymnals to No. 1981.
Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on
Behold, the Christian Right Weekly Round-Up!
5. Nuns Spanking Bishops, over at Religious News Service: “‘Let a Female Speculate’: Full Text of Sister Elizabeth Johnson’s LCWR Talk”
In case you haven’t noticed, Catholic nuns—once the ruler-wielding bane of parochial schoolchildren worldwide—seem to be holding the world together these days. And the same bishops who would rather pretend that Pope Francis was still canticling anonymously down in Argentina don’t seem to like these newfangled progressive nun troublemakers all that much.
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