CHURCH of the NEBULAS SPIRIT
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Sunday, March 28, 2004
Today's Sermon: Back To The Future
Well.. I'm not in Reedley anymore. And I felt better once I was outa there too. One would think a weekend in a sleepy.. well catatonic little American town would be somehow soothing. But Reedley is a dying town. The packing plant, one of Reedley's major organs, has already shut down.
It was reflected in the church service I attended too. In the sparse and elderly congregation described in last weeks sermon. It was also reflected in the fixed somewhat sardonic smile that the reverend wore as well. If he had been a sports figure I would have called it his "game face".
It is the lent season now. The last couple of weeks before Easter. The sermon was about Peter. The Three Strikes Your Out sermon.. I called it.
He read the bible version of Peter thrice denouncing Jesus.
Then he interpreted it.
How Peter being an "outa towner" felt threatened by the locals who could tell by his speech and mannerisms that he was "foreign".. like that Jesus dude. Plus they had been seen together.. Guilt by association.
And so in fear Peter not once, not twice but three times stated that he did not know this Jesus dude.
I'm not sure how the rest of the congregation saw this parable. But as I looked at the worried grin of the preacher man standing next to that American flag.. I saw those paranoid townspeople as America and Peter as almost any foreigner (especially and ironically anyone from the Middle-East).
I left that congregation with rather mixed feelings. I'd be happy to explain them to you.. but I haven't exactly sorted them out yet.
Maybe a hymn would help. Please turn to page 69 of your hymnal.
Eleanor Rigby
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice
In the church where a weddin' has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearin' the face
That she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong
Father McKenzie writin' the words
Of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him workin', darnin' his socks
In the night when there's nobody there
What does he care
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby died in the church
And was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wipin' the dirt from his hands
As he walks from the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ahhhmennn.
Anyway.. as Reedley fades in the rearview mirror my eyes are fixed ahead. I've turned off highway 99 and am once again speeding along the Information Highway.
Will write again soon.
Love,
Sister Jomama
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the word was delivered at:
.........................Well.. I'm not in Reedley anymore. And I felt better once I was outa there too. One would think a weekend in a sleepy.. well catatonic little American town would be somehow soothing. But Reedley is a dying town. The packing plant, one of Reedley's major organs, has already shut down.
It was reflected in the church service I attended too. In the sparse and elderly congregation described in last weeks sermon. It was also reflected in the fixed somewhat sardonic smile that the reverend wore as well. If he had been a sports figure I would have called it his "game face".
It is the lent season now. The last couple of weeks before Easter. The sermon was about Peter. The Three Strikes Your Out sermon.. I called it.
He read the bible version of Peter thrice denouncing Jesus.
Then he interpreted it.
How Peter being an "outa towner" felt threatened by the locals who could tell by his speech and mannerisms that he was "foreign".. like that Jesus dude. Plus they had been seen together.. Guilt by association.
And so in fear Peter not once, not twice but three times stated that he did not know this Jesus dude.
I'm not sure how the rest of the congregation saw this parable. But as I looked at the worried grin of the preacher man standing next to that American flag.. I saw those paranoid townspeople as America and Peter as almost any foreigner (especially and ironically anyone from the Middle-East).
I left that congregation with rather mixed feelings. I'd be happy to explain them to you.. but I haven't exactly sorted them out yet.
Maybe a hymn would help. Please turn to page 69 of your hymnal.
Eleanor Rigby
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice
In the church where a weddin' has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearin' the face
That she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong
Father McKenzie writin' the words
Of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him workin', darnin' his socks
In the night when there's nobody there
What does he care
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby died in the church
And was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wipin' the dirt from his hands
As he walks from the grave
No one was saved
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ahhhmennn.
Anyway.. as Reedley fades in the rearview mirror my eyes are fixed ahead. I've turned off highway 99 and am once again speeding along the Information Highway.
Will write again soon.
Love,
Sister Jomama
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the word was delivered at:
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Hi! Joe here. Sorry for the delay. Sister sent us this letter to post on Sunday. But it was Mo Tolerance's birthday on Saturday and well you can figure out the rest. Anyway we found the letter this morning stuck to the tire of a wheel barrow that someone was using as a taxi to and from the bathroom.. Hey I gave all the tip money I made to charity. Anyway without any further adieu...
This Week's Sermon: Postcard From The Prodigal Sister
Howdy saints and sinners!
Here I am in Reedley, California. It lies a few miles south of Fresno (the raisin capitol of the world.. or so they say) in the San Joaquin Valley. I don't believe there has been a new structure built in this town since 1945.
I am visiting a Methodist Fellowship Church this Sunday. It is a pitiful little congregation. Not the people themselves but the number of them. It is a congregation of about 20-30 elderly to very elderly worshippers. Still what they lack in numbers they make up for in spirit.
The service is comfortably informal.. with bantering between pulpit and pews. When the father or whatever announced the date and time of next weeks choir practice Mrs. Smith the choir director softly interjected that they had decided to change it to Wednesday at 6pm. The entire servie was conducted much like a meeting really. The reverend or parson or preacher forgot to bring the collection can for that weeks special charities collection and so he used his Duke University baseball cap. He took prayer requests from the pulpit. A prayer for so and so's birthday.. For Joe Blows cataract surgery. "Anyone else?" the man at the pulpit said. "No?"
Then let the prayin commence.
As for the church itself.. well it was Spartan (as all good churches should be). There was no fancy stained glass or statuary But it did have one of the most beautiful quilts that I'd ever seen hanging on the wall near the pew I was sitting in. It wasn't real big. Maybe 4x3 or there abouts. It was a pure white dove presumably in a dark surrounding. But the dove itself was giving off a glow. The effect of course was done with light patches of material working out into darker ones. But the material was a beautiful quality and the work was exquisite. I actually spent most of the service just staring at it.
I won't go into the actual sermon or my thoughts on the pastor or padre or whatever right now. Just haven't the room or the time. But I will get back to it very soon.
I do want to mention that I found the presence of an American Flag near the pulpit to be a bit of a concern. This is a practice that may be done in many American churches.. I'm not to sure.
But I promise you'll never see it at the Third Church!
Hope you're all behaving for Sister AniD2!!
And Sister you are a saint! Thanks for watching over the flock for me. I'll bring ya back a real cool T-shirt or something!
Peace!
Sister Mary Jomama
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the word was delivered at:
.........................This Week's Sermon: Postcard From The Prodigal Sister
Howdy saints and sinners!
Here I am in Reedley, California. It lies a few miles south of Fresno (the raisin capitol of the world.. or so they say) in the San Joaquin Valley. I don't believe there has been a new structure built in this town since 1945.
I am visiting a Methodist Fellowship Church this Sunday. It is a pitiful little congregation. Not the people themselves but the number of them. It is a congregation of about 20-30 elderly to very elderly worshippers. Still what they lack in numbers they make up for in spirit.
The service is comfortably informal.. with bantering between pulpit and pews. When the father or whatever announced the date and time of next weeks choir practice Mrs. Smith the choir director softly interjected that they had decided to change it to Wednesday at 6pm. The entire servie was conducted much like a meeting really. The reverend or parson or preacher forgot to bring the collection can for that weeks special charities collection and so he used his Duke University baseball cap. He took prayer requests from the pulpit. A prayer for so and so's birthday.. For Joe Blows cataract surgery. "Anyone else?" the man at the pulpit said. "No?"
Then let the prayin commence.
As for the church itself.. well it was Spartan (as all good churches should be). There was no fancy stained glass or statuary But it did have one of the most beautiful quilts that I'd ever seen hanging on the wall near the pew I was sitting in. It wasn't real big. Maybe 4x3 or there abouts. It was a pure white dove presumably in a dark surrounding. But the dove itself was giving off a glow. The effect of course was done with light patches of material working out into darker ones. But the material was a beautiful quality and the work was exquisite. I actually spent most of the service just staring at it.
I won't go into the actual sermon or my thoughts on the pastor or padre or whatever right now. Just haven't the room or the time. But I will get back to it very soon.
I do want to mention that I found the presence of an American Flag near the pulpit to be a bit of a concern. This is a practice that may be done in many American churches.. I'm not to sure.
But I promise you'll never see it at the Third Church!
Hope you're all behaving for Sister AniD2!!
And Sister you are a saint! Thanks for watching over the flock for me. I'll bring ya back a real cool T-shirt or something!
Peace!
Sister Mary Jomama
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the word was delivered at:
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Moving on To Greener Pastures
Everyone has heard of death being referred to as someone moving on to greener pastures. This sermon is not about death so that saying has no meaning here. If you’re looking for the death thing you’re in the wrong spot.
Today’s Sermon:
By Sister AniD2
When I was growing up there was this one particular road we always took over the river and through the woods to go to my Grandmother’s house. Being a tight knight family, it was a pretty frequent trek. On the way there was this big green and gorgeous pasture with quite a few horses in it. We always drove by but never stopped.
Then one day when we were driving by I saw a new arrival in the pasture! One of the mares had a little colt. I proceeded to beg my mom to stop and of course she did. Luckily we had some groceries in the back and she let me pull out a little carrot to feed to the little fella. I walked over to the fence and after much clucking and coaxing I got him to come over to the fence. He was still a little wobbley, but he loved the carrot.
From then on we’d stop whenever we were driving to Grandma’s. I’d hop out of my car with a treat and here my little buddy would come bucking and running up the pasture to me. That’s how he got his name, and from then on we called him Bucky. Months slowly passed and Bucky was getting bigger and bigger he still would race up the field to me whenever I’d stop… but the bottom half of the pasture had been sold to a big company. After all the “animals” didn’t need that much land and what better place to put a warehouse?
Some of the horses were moved because it just wasn’t big enough. But not my Bucky! He stayed. Another few months and even more of his beautiful pasture was sold off. This time to put in a Coca-Cola Plant and parking lot… They quickly built it… couldn’t have all that useful land going to waste!
More of Bucky’s friends were moved and all that were left were Bucky and his mom. They were living in a little bitty area shoved in between the road and the warehouses. He still loved to run but there was nowhere to do it. He’d come as fast as he could whenever we stopped but I could tell he wasn’t happy. He no longer had his beautiful big pasture. Now it was just a pitiful little field.
I wanted to take him away to a place where he could run and play and buck all the way to get his treat. I patted him on the nose and scratched his cheek and said that I’d find him a better place away from all the noise and buildings and cars if he was mine… he snorted his agreement. I hugged his neck and told him I’d see him next week. I loved Bucky, my feisty little colt with so much life and it made me mad that Capitalism was once again reigning king and taking it’s subjects lands away (of course at that time I didn’t know the word Capitalism but I still hated it.).
The next week I got quite a shock when we drove up and parked by the field. Right under Bucky’s favorite three was a big backhoe, and a sign saying future home of some office space renting company. Of course why didn’t I think of that…
There were mounds of dirt. My Bucky was gone…
Mom said they’d moved him to greener pastures where he’d be able to run and play again. I was very sad as all little kids are when things change but I knew Bucky would be happier without the money grubbers (early childhood word for corporations and money hungry governments), and the traffic and the buildings. I never saw my Bucky again. But somewhere out there is a horse who remembers this goofy kid who used to feed him apples and carrots… Who knows maybe he had a kid of his own too! I’ll never forget the little fella that’s for sure, he always fascinated me.
And the moral of this one… no matter how much or how little you have contact with others you will have an effect on them. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do about the circumstances that they are in, but you can do your best to make their life better, and in the process make your life better. Sure a lot of times they will move on to greener pastures… or you will, but when it’s said and done what will they remember? Someone full of life with places to go? That really nice person that changed their life? Or something else… or nothing at all? Think about it.
A move to greener pastures doesn’t necessarily mean the end, that’s your choice.
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.........................Everyone has heard of death being referred to as someone moving on to greener pastures. This sermon is not about death so that saying has no meaning here. If you’re looking for the death thing you’re in the wrong spot.
Today’s Sermon:
By Sister AniD2
When I was growing up there was this one particular road we always took over the river and through the woods to go to my Grandmother’s house. Being a tight knight family, it was a pretty frequent trek. On the way there was this big green and gorgeous pasture with quite a few horses in it. We always drove by but never stopped.
Then one day when we were driving by I saw a new arrival in the pasture! One of the mares had a little colt. I proceeded to beg my mom to stop and of course she did. Luckily we had some groceries in the back and she let me pull out a little carrot to feed to the little fella. I walked over to the fence and after much clucking and coaxing I got him to come over to the fence. He was still a little wobbley, but he loved the carrot.
From then on we’d stop whenever we were driving to Grandma’s. I’d hop out of my car with a treat and here my little buddy would come bucking and running up the pasture to me. That’s how he got his name, and from then on we called him Bucky. Months slowly passed and Bucky was getting bigger and bigger he still would race up the field to me whenever I’d stop… but the bottom half of the pasture had been sold to a big company. After all the “animals” didn’t need that much land and what better place to put a warehouse?
Some of the horses were moved because it just wasn’t big enough. But not my Bucky! He stayed. Another few months and even more of his beautiful pasture was sold off. This time to put in a Coca-Cola Plant and parking lot… They quickly built it… couldn’t have all that useful land going to waste!
More of Bucky’s friends were moved and all that were left were Bucky and his mom. They were living in a little bitty area shoved in between the road and the warehouses. He still loved to run but there was nowhere to do it. He’d come as fast as he could whenever we stopped but I could tell he wasn’t happy. He no longer had his beautiful big pasture. Now it was just a pitiful little field.
I wanted to take him away to a place where he could run and play and buck all the way to get his treat. I patted him on the nose and scratched his cheek and said that I’d find him a better place away from all the noise and buildings and cars if he was mine… he snorted his agreement. I hugged his neck and told him I’d see him next week. I loved Bucky, my feisty little colt with so much life and it made me mad that Capitalism was once again reigning king and taking it’s subjects lands away (of course at that time I didn’t know the word Capitalism but I still hated it.).
The next week I got quite a shock when we drove up and parked by the field. Right under Bucky’s favorite three was a big backhoe, and a sign saying future home of some office space renting company. Of course why didn’t I think of that…
There were mounds of dirt. My Bucky was gone…
Mom said they’d moved him to greener pastures where he’d be able to run and play again. I was very sad as all little kids are when things change but I knew Bucky would be happier without the money grubbers (early childhood word for corporations and money hungry governments), and the traffic and the buildings. I never saw my Bucky again. But somewhere out there is a horse who remembers this goofy kid who used to feed him apples and carrots… Who knows maybe he had a kid of his own too! I’ll never forget the little fella that’s for sure, he always fascinated me.
And the moral of this one… no matter how much or how little you have contact with others you will have an effect on them. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do about the circumstances that they are in, but you can do your best to make their life better, and in the process make your life better. Sure a lot of times they will move on to greener pastures… or you will, but when it’s said and done what will they remember? Someone full of life with places to go? That really nice person that changed their life? Or something else… or nothing at all? Think about it.
A move to greener pastures doesn’t necessarily mean the end, that’s your choice.
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Sunday, March 07, 2004
Today’s Sermon: For What It’s Worth
As everyone in the world watches the US Presidential campaigns and elections what more likely question to come up than that of money? We all know that politicians are loaded, and this time I’m referring to loaded as having lots of money, and not all the other things they’re loaded with like drugs, booze, interns, cigars, sneaky officials in their pockets, or any of that. Just plain old money! So just what does the Omnipotent Being think of money? Well, Dorothy Parker hit the nail on the head as far as I’m concerned! Look who God gave the money to… the shit-slinging, turd-winging, skanky-wanking, tomahawk-chipper-shredders-from-Troybuilt, sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigots. It says a lot.
I’m not just saying anyone who has any money is bad… or even that everyone who has vast amounts of money is bad. There are always exceptions to every rule, but that’s just it. They are EXCEPTIONS! The exceptions are typically hard to find too, so that makes them even more exceptional… I’m sure I could find someone who has lots of money and who uses it wisely and nicely… it’d just be a bit of a search… I guess Angelina Jolie does fairly nice things with her fortune in Cambodia, and Lucy Lawless and Renee O’Connor and crew help out with lots of good causes. There are tons of others I’m sure… wonderful exceptions…there’s that word again…
So when you’re thinking about the likelihood of someone being honest, especially in politics, take a quick second and note the cash they throw around versus the cash they spend on humanitarian, world saving causes and aid programs. Look at their use of funds with regards to both their “personal” spending and their “job” spending and see just who is getting the benefits from it… are they benefiting themselves, or are they helping others? Are they the exceptions or was money their “God Given Right?” There’s the question…
Now remember we here at the Third Church only charge $3.99 for a full cyber breakfast… even with vegemite.
We’ve taken you on a trip all the way around the world for free… How nice is that…?
It’s just too bad that Sister Jo-Mamma can’t run for president. That would be one hell of an adventure!
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the word was delivered at:
.........................As everyone in the world watches the US Presidential campaigns and elections what more likely question to come up than that of money? We all know that politicians are loaded, and this time I’m referring to loaded as having lots of money, and not all the other things they’re loaded with like drugs, booze, interns, cigars, sneaky officials in their pockets, or any of that. Just plain old money! So just what does the Omnipotent Being think of money? Well, Dorothy Parker hit the nail on the head as far as I’m concerned! Look who God gave the money to… the shit-slinging, turd-winging, skanky-wanking, tomahawk-chipper-shredders-from-Troybuilt, sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigots. It says a lot.
I’m not just saying anyone who has any money is bad… or even that everyone who has vast amounts of money is bad. There are always exceptions to every rule, but that’s just it. They are EXCEPTIONS! The exceptions are typically hard to find too, so that makes them even more exceptional… I’m sure I could find someone who has lots of money and who uses it wisely and nicely… it’d just be a bit of a search… I guess Angelina Jolie does fairly nice things with her fortune in Cambodia, and Lucy Lawless and Renee O’Connor and crew help out with lots of good causes. There are tons of others I’m sure… wonderful exceptions…there’s that word again…
So when you’re thinking about the likelihood of someone being honest, especially in politics, take a quick second and note the cash they throw around versus the cash they spend on humanitarian, world saving causes and aid programs. Look at their use of funds with regards to both their “personal” spending and their “job” spending and see just who is getting the benefits from it… are they benefiting themselves, or are they helping others? Are they the exceptions or was money their “God Given Right?” There’s the question…
Now remember we here at the Third Church only charge $3.99 for a full cyber breakfast… even with vegemite.
We’ve taken you on a trip all the way around the world for free… How nice is that…?
It’s just too bad that Sister Jo-Mamma can’t run for president. That would be one hell of an adventure!
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the word was delivered at:
