Father Mercy

I’ve sat in the booth for decades and nothing has turned my little white collar.

One day, a non-parishioner came stepping into the confessional.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I am not Catholic and have never been to confession.”

“Why are you here,” I asked the woman with the piercing brown eyes.

“I sold my soul.”

“How much did you get for it?” I inquired.

“Two hundred.”

The spirit entered me. I looked at her and replied, “Child, you are forgiven. Anyone who paid you two hundred is the one who committed the sin.”

“Thank you Father. God is truly merciful isn’t he?”

“Yes he is. But next time offer him some for free and watch how bread is supposed to be broken.”

“I feel so much better now. Where is the wine?” she asked.

“Are you married?”

“Yes, with two children.”

“You cannot pour old wine into new wine skins, but you can drinketh from my rod and staff if it will take the edge off.”

“One hundred,” she said.

“Fifty,” I replied.

“Cheap Jew bastard!” she shouted while running from the church.

Many are called, but few are chosen, I reminded myself.