Dear Guy Standing Behind Me at Church Today:

Hi! It’s me. The redhead in front of you who is trying not to turn around and glare at you. Yeah. Me.

See. I actually belong to, oh, we’ll call it Parish A. So I know what you’re talking about when you say that you went to Parish A two years ago for Good Friday, and did not enjoy the service. In fact, you thought it was a little weird. That you think it’s a little weird that they’ve adapted certain aspects of it here. I was there. It was not weird. It was reverent. There’s a difference. And, except for our baptismal font/jacuzzi, we’re pretty damn reverent.

And I get that we’re at Parish B. You have every right to expect exactly the same service you’ve had your entire 50/60 years (I’m trying not to look/glare at you, remember?), and are probably miffed that things changed a little bit because today’s youth don’t find the prospect of a life filled with incense and celibacy the most exciting thing ever. But here’s the thing. Half of the people here? Are from Parish A. So SHHHHH.

Seriously. Have the decency to wait until you get to the car to tear things apart.


Not that I did that.

Totally not.



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