All posts by SandyM

A Fable

Envy

There is a fable that Satan’s agents were failing in their various attempts to draw into sin a holy man who lived as a hermit in the desert of northern Africa. Every attempt had met with failure; so Satan, angered with the incompetence of his subordinates, became personally involved in the case. He said, “The reason you have failed is that your methods are too crude for one such as this. Watch this.”

He then approached the holy man with great care and whispered softly in his ear, “Your brother has just been made Bishop of Alexandria.” Instantly the holy man’s face showed that Satan had been successful: a great scowl formed over his mouth and his eyes tightened up.

“Envy,” said Satan, “is often our best weapon against those who seek holiness.

Michael Green, Illustrations For Biblical Preaching, Baker 1993, p. 121.

Children Sermon Idea

Easter

Children sermon idea, takes some prep time…
“When we visited our son in San Antonio I saw the eggs they sell on the streets. I believe it is a Mexican tradition. I forget what they are called. I had never seen it before. Maybe someone in the southwest knows what I’m talking about. The eggs are hollow and filled with confetti or glitter, etc. The idea is to break them over people for good like, I believe.
Here’s what I did. The eggs are blown out (poke a small hole at the top and bottom of the raw egg and then blow through until all the contents squirt into a bowl.) Rinse them out and let them dry, then dye them or otherwise decorate them. Glue a small piece of tissue paper over one of the holes (the tissue becomes fairly transparent and isn’t really noticeable) and fill the egg (through the other hole) with glitter or confetti or anything else like that. Then glue the other opening with tissue paper. They look like regular old Easter eggs.
Discuss the symbolism of the egg as a tomb and as a symbol of new life.
Tell the kids you made some Easter eggs but you didn’t remember to boil them first (not a lie). Talk about what would happen if you cracked open a raw egg. You can play this up and talk about how you need to be VERY careful because the a so fragile and you would hate for someone to get raw egg all over themselves.
See if you can get a volunteer to let you crack the egg over their head, or toss it around and “accidentally” break it over one of the kids. Everyone is usually surprised that some thing completely different comes out – not what they expected.
Talk about the women who went to the tomb and found something different than they expected. “He is not here. He is risen! (Luke 24:6a) We had a lot of fun with it the times I did it.
Linda Eberly First UMC Bennington, VT
Posted on Sermon Discussion list at www.desperatepreacher.com

It’s Friday, but Sunday’s a comin’

Easter, Resurrection

Tony Campolo tells the story of a black Baptist preacher in the inner city of Philadelphia who preached a sermon Tony says he’ll never forget. Tony preached first. He was “hot,” so “hot” he says, that he even stopped and listened to himself. He sat down and said to his pastor: “Now see if you can top that one!”
“Son,” said the black pastor, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” For an hour and a half the pastor repeated these words over and over again: “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s a comin’.”
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” Tony said. “He just kept saying it. The congregation was spellbound by the power of it.”
“It’s Friday. Mary, Jesus’ mother is crying her eyes out. That’s her son up there on the cross. He’s dying the agonizing death of crucifixion as a criminal. But it’s only Friday,” the preacher said. “Sunday’s a comin’.
“The apostles were really down and out. Jesus, their leader, was being killed by evil men. But it was only Friday. Sunday is a comin’.
“The Devil thought he had won. ‘You thought you could outwit me,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got you now.’ But it was only Friday. Sunday is a comin’.”
“He went on like that for 30 minutes, 40 minutes, an hour. Each time he said, ‘It’s Friday,’ the crowd began to respond, ‘but Sunday’s comin’. An hour and 15 minutes.
“It’s Friday and evil has triumphed over good. Jesus is dying up there on the cross. The world is turned upside down. This shouldn’t happen. But it’s only Friday. Sunday’s a comin’.
“It’s Friday. But Sunday is comin’. Mary Magdalene was out of her mind with grief. Her Lord was being killed. Jesus had turned her life from sin to grace. Now he was dead. But it’s only Friday. Sunday is a comin’.”
The place was rocking. For an hour and a half. “Friday! But Sunday is a comin’. Friday. But Sunday is a comin’.
“The sisters and the brothers are suffering. It just isn’t fair…all they have to go through, but it’s only Friday. Sunday is comin’.”
“I was exhausted,” Tony said. “It was the best sermon I’ve ever heard. The old preacher was saying it and the people were with him. ‘It’s Friday, but Sunday is a comin’. It was powerful,” Tony said. “It was personal.”

Quoted from www.mthollywood.org/sermon12.htm

Some Of Us Stay At The Cross

Easter, Resurrection

Some of us stay at the cross,
some of us wait at the tomb,
Quickened and raised with Christ
yet lingering still in the gloom.
Some of us ‘bide at the Passover feast
with Pentecost all unknown,
The triumphs of grace in the heavenly place
that our Lord has made His own.
If the Christ who died had stopped at the cross,
His work had been incomplete.
If the Christ who was buried had stayed in the tomb,
He had only known defeat,
But the way of the cross never stops at the cross
and the way of the tomb leads on
To victorious grace in the heavenly place
where the risen Lord has gone.

Annie Johnson Flint

A Man Fell Over A Cliff

Doubt, Faith, Trust

A man fell over a cliff and, as he tumbled down the sheer drop, managed to grab on to a scrubby bush growing from the side of the rock. Terrified, he hung in space, his life flashing before him. In desperation, he shouted toward heaven, ‘Is there anyone up there?’

To his astonished delight, a voice floated down: ‘I am the Lord God, and I am here.’

‘What should I do?’ called the man.

The voice replied, ‘Let go of the branch and, with my protection, you will float harmlessly down to the beach below.’

The man glanced under his feet to the jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff, hundreds of metres below. He gulped, and looked back toward heaven.

‘Well… is there anyone else up there?’

Ready Salted, Peter Graystone, p35

Forgiven, Unable To Pay

Debt, Forgivenness

It had been the custom of a kindly doctor to go through his book from time to time noting those who had not paid. When he realised that the debts remained because the patients could not pay he put a red line through the debt and wrote by the side of it, ‘Forgiven, unable to pay’.

After his death, his wife was looking through his books and saw all the marks and said to herself, ‘My husband was owed a lot of money. 1 could do with that money now.’ She took the matter to the local court to sue the debtors of the money. The judge, however, looked at the doctor’s account book and said, ‘No court in the world will give you a verdict against those people when your husband, with his own pen has written, “Forgiven, unable to pay.`

From ‘Drive The Point Home’ Graham Twelftree p67

Information Please

Death, Eternal Life, Funerals

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person -her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know.
“Information Please” could supply anybody’s number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn’t seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.

The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the foot stool in the parlour and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlour and held it to my ear. “Information Please,” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

“Information”

“I hurt my finger…” I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. “Isn’t your mother home?” came the question. “Nobody’s home but me.” I blubbered. “Are you bleeding?” the voice asked. “No,” I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.” “Can you open your icebox?” she asked. I said I could. “Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice.

After that, I called “Information Please” for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called “Information Please” and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?” She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.” Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. “Information Please.” “Information,” said the now familiar voice. “How do you spell fix?” I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. “Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialled my hometown operator and said, “Information, Please.” Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, “Information.” I hadn’t planned this but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.” I laughed. “So it’s really still you,” I said. “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time.” “I wonder”, she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls.” I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. “Please do,” she said. “Just ask for Sally.”

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered “Information.” I asked for Sally. “Are you a friend?” She said. “Yes, a very old friend,” I answered. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, she said. Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.” Before I could hang up she said, “Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?” “Yes.” “Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.

Let me read it to you.” The note said, “Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.”

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

A Minister A Priest & A Rabbi

Death

A minister, a priest and a rabbi die in a car wash. They go to heaven for orientation. They are all asked ‘When you are in your casket, and friends, family, and congregants are mourning over you, what would you like to hear them say?’ The minister says, ‘I would like to hear them say that I was a wonderful husband, a fine spiritual leader, and a great family man.

The priest says, ‘I would like to hear that I was a wonderful teacher and a servant of God who made a huge difference in people’s lives.’

The rabbi replies, ‘I would like to hear them say, ‘Look, he’s moving!’

Quoted from funny(at)net153.com email list

Doctor I Am Afraid To Die

Death, Funerals

A sick man turned to his doctor, as he was preparing to leave the examination room and said, “Doctor, I am afraid to die. Tell me what lies on the other side.”

Very quietly, the doctor said, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You, a Christian man, do not know what is on the other side?”

The doctor was holding the handle of the door; on the other side of which came a sound of scratching and whining, and as he opened thedoor, a dog sprang into the room and leaped on him with an eager show of gladness.

Turning to the patient, the doctor said, “Did you notice my dog? He’s never been in this room before. He didn’t know what was inside. He knew nothing, except that his master was here, and when the door opened, he sprang in without fear. I know little of what is on the other side. I know my Master Jesus Christ is there, and that is enough.

Quoted from http://www.cybersalt.org Illustrations email list

Day Date & Time

Death

You’ve got a day, you’ve got a time and you’ve got a place and your name is on it. People keep that appointment every day, three every second, 180 people every minute keep that appointment, 11,000 people very hour keep that appointment, 260,000 today kept that appointment. This year 95 million people will keep this appointment. You cannot delay it and you cannot deny it.

Quoted from Sermon Fodder email list

Magic Lamp

Death, Judgement

A man was walking on the beach and found a magic lamp. When he rubbed it a genie appeared who told him he had one wish. Immediately the man asked for a copy of the stock market page from a newspaper printed one year later.

Suddenly the newspaper was in his hands. The genie had disappeared. With greed in his heart he scanned the columns, deciding what to invest in, knowing ahead of time what profitable stocks he could buy.

Turning the page, he noticed an obituary column. His name was at the top of the list.

Get the Point Across, p97

Heaven

Death, Heaven

Some years ago radio evangelist Charles E. Fuller announced that he would speak the following Sunday on “Heaven.” It was to be broadcast on radio. During that week he received a letter from an old man who was very ill.
Here is part of that letter:
“Next Sunday you are to talk about “Heaven.” I am interested in that land because I have held a clear title to a bit of property there for over 55 years. I did not buy it. It was given to me without money and without price. But the donor purchased it for me at a tremendous sacrifice. I am not holding it for speculation since the title is non-transferable. It is not a vacant lot.
“For more than a half-century I have been sending material out of which the greatest architect and builder of the universe has been building a home for me, which will never need to be repaired because it will suit me perfectly, individually, and will never grow old.
“Termites can never undermine its foundation for it rests upon the Rock of Ages. Fire cannot destroy it. Floods cannot wash it away. No locks or bolts will ever be placed upon its doors, for no vicious person can ever enter that land where my dwelling stands, now almost completed and ready for me to enter it and abide in peace eternally without fear of being ejected.
“There is a valley of deep shadow between the place where I live in California and that to which I shall journey in a very short time. I cannot reach my home in the City of God without passing through the dark valley of shadows. But I am not afraid, because the best friend that I have ever had went through the same valley alone, a long, long, time ago and drove away all the gloom. He has stuck by me through thick and thin since we first met and became acquainted 55 years ago, and I hold His promise in printed form, never to forsake nor to leave me alone. He will be with me as I walk through the valley of shadows, and I shall not lose my way when He is with me.
“I hope to hear your sermon on “Heaven” next Sunday from my home, but I have no assurance that I shall be able to do so. My ticket to heaven has no date marked for the journey…no return coupon…and no permit for baggage. Yes, I am ready to go and may not be here while you are talking next Sunday, but I shall meet you there some day.”
–Author Unknown

Tie A Yellow Ribbon

Death, Forgivenness, Funerals

I remember being touched by the popular song “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.” It tells of a man who’s been sent to prison. He’s served his time and is now coming home on the bus. But he admits that she who once loved him has every right to reject him. He’s to blame. So he’s written to tell her that if she forgives him, she should “tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree.” If there’s no yellow ribbon, he’ll just go riding by on the bus.

As the miles roll by, all the man thinks about is that oak tree. When he gets home, will there be a yellow ribbon on it?

The song ends in triumph with the entire busload of people cheering as the man sees not one but a hundred yellow ribbons on that old oak tree! His lover not only forgives him, but she exuberantly welcomes him home.

Like the man on the bus, we’re fearful of death and what’s ahead. We know our own hearts, and we wonder if God will really forgive us, let alone celebrate our coming.

But the Word assures us of God’s welcome. The yellow ribbons will be there.

Harold L. Myra, Living by God’s Surprises (Word, 1988); quoted in Men of Integrity (January/February 2001)

Benjamin Franklin’s Epitaph

Death, Funerals, Resurrection

In one of his lighter moments, Benjamin Franklin penned his own epitaph. Franklin didn’t profess to be an orthodox Christian; he was more a deist, a believer in a clock-maker God than in the personal God of Jesus Christ. But it seems he must have been influenced by the Church’s teaching of the resurrection. Here’s the epitaph he wrote for himself:

“The body of B. Franklin, printer, like the cover of an old book its contents torn out, And stripped of its lettering and guilding, lies here, food for worms, but the work shall not be wholly lost: For it will, as he believ’d, appear once more in a new & more perfect edition, corrected and amended by the author.”

“Easter Is A Joke,” by Rev. Dr. C. Eric Funston

Washed Clean Magic – Magic Cross Trick

Cross, Easter, Evangelism, Jesus, YouTube Videos

This is BRILLIANT – I’ve used it in both All Age Services and School Easter Assemblies/Services.

I eventually worked it out with Iodine, spray starch and Sodium Thiosulphate. I used some of the links and information below to work this out.

http://www.crosstrick.com/cross-trick.htm

http://childrensministryperspectives.blogspot.co.uk/2007/02/object-lesson-on-salvation.html

http://professorwonder.com/magic3.htm

Another version:

You will need a large clear jar with a lid that can be sealed, a second container of some type, some Chlorine bleach, some Iodine, and two light colored sponges. Cut one sponge in the shape of a heart. Cut the other in the shape of the cross. Both need to be of a size that will fit in the jar with a lid.

Fill the jar with a lid about half full of water, and the other container with a very strong solution of bleach and water (half and half will do). Set the cross in the bleach solution as you begin your lesson (not too long before, it could disolve the sponge).

For the lesson, show the children the heart shaped sponge. Talk about sin and put some drops of iodine on the sponge to represent those sins. You can talk about how impossible it is to remove those stains by yourself. Even dip the heart shaped sponge in the jar of water and show it is still dirty. Then, put the heart shaped sponge in the jar of water and leave it. Now take the cross out of the bleach solution, keeping as much of the solution in the sponge as possible. Tell the children about the power of the cross to cleanse the heart from sin. Put the cross in the jar with water and the stained heart, seal it with the lid, and shake it up a bit as you talk some more about the cross. Then, open the lid and take the heart out. It will be clean.

You should experiment with this lesson once before you actually give it to be sure you have a strong enough bleach solution to clear the iodine from the heart shaped sponge. Be sure to rinse the heart shaped sponge very clean with clear water so the iodine stains will remain when you do the real lesson.

Here is a YouTube video of this process being used in the context of an alternative worship event:

Tools:
2 Clear Glass Bowls
1 small bottle of Iodine
1 bottle of Film Fixer
1 Purificator or Handkerchief

Preparation:
Fill the two bowls with approximately 1 litre of water, in one bowl have approximately 150-200mls of fixer in the bottom [adding the water could be part of the story]

Words From The Crowd

Cross, Good Friday

This collection of reflections by JOHN L. BELL focuses on these seven words; a different character responding each time, in their own way, to what they’ve heard.

Father, forgive them; they do not know what they are doing.

…. on the contrary;
you do not know what you have done.

The stage of history
was erected, trod and tested
long before your brief sortie
from the wings.

The drama of salvation
– you are religious,
you will understand –
has been played, continuous,
in repertory
and found, in the main,
to please….
and that without a saviour
except God and the system.

But you, upstart from outside,
decided to change the script,
to subvert the plot,
to personalise the absolute,
and, ad libbing with the audience,
to infer that the new travesty
is true.
Who are you?

You do not know what you have done.

But it is not irreparable.
Two days, three perhaps,
and your face will be forgotten
as the actor is
who plays the clown at night
and, unmasked,
feels a fool in the morning.

Your listeners will stop speaking of you;
your followers will stop following;
religion will return to normal –
we’ve had such sects before –
and your theatre in the round
will close its invisible doors
forever
when the hero dies and
exeunt omnes.

– A travelling player

Today you shall be with me in paradise.

In paradise
a boy with lice
is showered clean with kisses;
a girl with spots
gets lots and lots
of cuddles that she misses.

Eachie peachie, eachie peachie
where’s the evil eye gone?
Where’s the bogey, where’s the polis,
where’s the ones they spy on?
Eachie peachie, eachie peachie,
children who were naughty,
always got their trousers torn
or always missed the potty
now can sit on Jesus’ knee
and now can feel him tickle.
What a shame that adults get
the Saviour in a pickle.
Eachie peachie, eachie peachie
where’s the evil eye gone?
Where’s the bogey, where’s the polis,
where’s the ones they spy one?

In paradise
the doctors find
that surgeons all are men born blind;
the clergy find
that those who teach
were all beyond their preaching’s reach.

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief
find that heaven’s like a coral reef,
a coral reef that sinks a ship
and all the differences on which we trip.
We trip on past, we trip on present,
we loathe the prince and we mock the peasant.
But paradise is where we find
that good and bad are of a stranger kind.

In Paradise
you sometimes stare
at who’s arrived and at who’s not there;
and bigger yet
is the surprise
that you are there in Paradise .

– A child

Mother, there is your son… there is your mother.

Knit two, purl two, knit two,
drop a stitch…
which…
wumman?

Knit four, purl four, drop two,
knit one…
which…
son?

Jamesie, cum here.
Who’se thir mammie’s boy?
Jamesie, gie back that toy
tae the wee lassie.
It’s hur teddie.
Jamesie, when yoo’re ready!!

Don’t greet hen.
Ye’ll get him back agen.
But here’s anither wan tae haud
till that wee bugger brings back yir wain.

Knit two, purl two, knit two,
drop a stitch…
which…
wumman?

Knit four, purl four, drop two,
knit one….
which….
son?

– A woman with child

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Him too?…
like every other Jew
or, if not all,
like me.

Through God created,
to God related,
by God mistaken,
by God forsaken.

His groan,
like every heavenward moan,
or, if not all,
is mine.

Through God extracted,
to God attracted,
by God conceived,
by God deceived.

He asks
what every fear unmasks,
or, if not all,
mine do.

Through God undaunted,
to God unwanted,
by God impressed,
by God depressed.

He’ll cry
and like all flesh he’ll die
or, if not all…

This Jewish Jesus must be listened to,
though many hear, only a few
or less might dare to see
that either society’s scarecrow
is hanging on the tree
or God, if He’s his father,
is like this broken creature
looking through much pain at me.

– An agnostic

I thirst

Thursday?…
Whit?…
Aw….thursty?
I thoat he wis a day oot!

Right enuf, it’s awfa waarm.
The swet’s rinnin oot ma oxter
like creesh oot a mutton pie…
Oh laam of God…

Sorry,
nae offence, missus.

Whit’s he daen there onyway?
The last time I saw him
I wis as pisht as a fart in a trance.
An I asked him fur a shullin.

An then he dauneret intae big Susie’s hoose
an made fur me tae jine him.
Hur settee’ a fold-doon bed, but.

Bad memries…
know whit I mean?…
Brewer’s droop an….

Sorry,
nae offence, missus.

So noo he’s thursty
an no a pub in sight
an too early fur a cairy oot…
no that I could stretch ma airm that faur
tae gae him a sook et ma boattle if I hud waan.
But I’d gie it a try,
even though I’d maist likely boak up
if ma haun went near that bloody mess…

Sorry,
nae offence, missus.
So, whit dis that say, lady?
Thon thing abuv his heid.
That’s no his name!
That’s no whit I’ve heard him caa’d.
Aw….
it’s his title.

Oh well,
I must go hame an tell the wife
that the day’s the day
the Saivyir of the World
waantit a drink!

Christ,
I’ve a fair drooth on me, masel.

– A drunk man

Father, into your hands, I commit my spirit

It will not end,
not now.
Not with what he said.

In life,
we often give till it pleases,
seldom till it hurts,

never when pain sears, soars
and roars for death to come
and life to die.

It will not end,
not now.
Not with what he said.

This wrecked, wracked pastime of a body,
this taught, untreated plaything of a man
takes much,
but even in the throes of death
he shows his strength
and gives more.

Cling firmly to your spirit
and nothing you’ll receive.
But let it go and God
the human race’s running sore,
its civil sin with private core
will conquer and relieve.

You will not end,
not now
with what you said.

For on the cross you came
forgiving,
you finish,
giving.
All will return
and rise with you,
living.

– A watching woman

It is finished
Move along, my lovely ladies,
sure, you’ve seen it all before:
nasty sight for nasty people,
nothing works like blood and gore.
But for ladies sore with crying,
sunken eyes in sunken cheeks,
there are better sights to stare at
than three decimated freaks.

Move along, my boozie cronie,
lift the foot you think is stuck.
Had you come an hour early
you might just have chanced your luck
Playing pitch and toss with soldiers
who were gambling for the clothes

his, now mine, are these and those.

Move along, my little children,
time for school or time for bed.
Fill your minds with dreams or wisdom
which will last. Don’t lift your head
any higher than my elbow.
Him above’s about to die.
Then we’ll clear this messy business
which obscures the sun and sky.

Move along you sundry people,
suited to your Sunday best,
rooted gazing at a failure
destined for eternal rest
unless God, in his own humour,
has in mind another goal,
topping heaven’s celestial goblets,
shovelling hell’s unwanted coal.

Move along. Bert, did you hear him?
Sounded like he thinks it’s done,
though his voice almost suggested
that perhaps he’d just begun
to expect some other ending.
What a queer fish. I don’t know.
Still, for now, the show is over.
Move along please,
move along please.
Bert, wake up
it’s nearly time to go.

– A soldier

Quoted from: www.iona.org.uk/goose_liturgy.php