‘Beagling’ the Buggers Out
PREAMBLE :-
Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is Abel your brother?" He said "I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper?" And He said, "What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood cries out to Me from the ground. Genesis 4:9-10 NKJV
Explanation | A few years ago now, I remember being called to a quarterly prayer meeting of churches in a local Southern association. The Host church laid on the grub, great as usual, whilst the Pastor of the church moderated and his diaconate sung in the choir, leading us all in prayer and praise. Leaders all, we all knew, however, that the Moderating Pastor had been going through a most terrible time, his good leadership openly challenged, whilst he and his family were persistently hounded out of the church. Yes, we all knew this deacon possessed church wanted to ‘run him off.’ What did we do about it? Nothing. Sure, someone offered him a shoulder to cry on, even to pray with him about the situation, but as usual, we watching leaders did nothing about the real problem, which was the brotherhood of the Masonic handshaking diaconate. This particular manifestation of infestation may have been peculiarly Southern in its exp
ression, (we were in backwoods Kentucky) but the symptoms are global. The Kingdom of God, it would appear, has its limitations and its parameters when we, the quiet ones, become both its limitation and boundary of help. When we do this, God help us, we are often the silent enablers of the darkness within.The attrition rate among Pastors is shocking. This is our business.
PERFORMANCE TIPS:
I do not think this is a performance piece. Except that it should maybe be read at the beginning of many a meeting of those who claim to Shepherd the Shepherds. No, this is a reflective piece, which I hope will get some church members to repent and abandon their cannibalistic clubbing, and love and honor their leaders. Do this, and you will be utterly surprised at how wonderful your church leadership could become.
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The moderator had removed the target he had been wearing from
The dread diaconate
Who had petitioned a list full of hate, wanting his
Holy head on a silver plate
For months now
He had stood and sang so sweetly to
The wolves in the waiting and watching choir
Who, undertakers all, old wizened buzzards,
Barnacled bald and spotted eagles
Lovingly draped their fallen feathered liver spotted wings
Over their hunting beagles
Still dreaming of screaming down the holler and
Flying through the mire
The rotting remnants of the business of the day
Agenda’d by old Fred
Was picked over by those players, those
Lousy living dead
When we, the possessors of the knowledge of those vampires
Should have dragged them to the sunshine and
Hung them on the spires
I needed a weapon! A pump action shotgun with
Wide and spreading pellets
To blast those brown teethed monsters, those
Mad Masonic zealots
And blow them from the county and
Blast them from the shire
YES!
We should have dragged them to the sunshine and
Hung them on their spire
But no! Instead, we all smiled sweetly and
Sung our little heads off
Raised our chins to God Almighty and then
Stuck our noses in the pig trough
Later, I heard that the Pastor wrote his little letter,
Resigned and then retired
The moderator had removed the target he had been wearing from
The dread diaconate
Who had petitioned a list full of hate, wanting his
Holy head on a silver plate
For months now
He had stood and sang so sweetly to
The wolves in the waiting and watching choir
Who, undertakers all, old wizened buzzards,
Barnacled bald and spotted eagles
Lovingly draped their fallen feathered liver spotted wings
Over their hunting beagles
Still dreaming of screaming down the holler and
Flying through the mire
The rotting remnants of the business of the day
Agenda’d by old Fred
Was picked over by those players, those
Lousy living dead
When we, the possessors of the knowledge of those vampires
Should have dragged them to the sunshine and
Hung them on the spires
I needed a weapon! A pump action shotgun with
Wide and spreading pellets
To blast those brown teethed monsters, those
Mad Masonic zealots
And blow them from the county and
Blast them from the shire
YES!
We should have dragged them to the sunshine and
Hung them on their spire
But no! Instead, we all smiled sweetly and
Sung our little heads off
Raised our chins to God Almighty and then
Stuck our noses in the pig trough
Later, I heard that the Pastor wrote his little letter,
Resigned and then retired
© 2012 Victor Robert Farrell
