Church of St Paul & St Margaret (1866)
Town Street, Nidd, N.Yorks, HG3 3BN
10.30 Prayer Book service every Sunday
Updated 18 February 2019
Church humour : what you won't hear from the pulpit.
God and Eve
"God, I have a problem." "What's the problem, Eve?"
"I know that you created me and provided this beautiful garden and all of these wonderful animals, as well as that hilarious snake, but I'm just not happy." "And why is that Eve?" "God, I am lonely and bored, and I'm sick to death of apples!"
'Well, Eve, in that case, I have a solution. I shall create a man for you."
"Man? What is that, God?"
"A flawed, base creature, with many bad habits, He'll lie, cheat and be vain, He will be witless and will revel in childish things. He'll be bigger than you and will like fighting,”
“I can cope with that" says Eve, with ironically raised eyebrows, "but what's', the catch, God?"
"Well... you can have him on one condition." "And what's that God?" "As I said, he'll be proud, arrogant and self-admiring... so you'll have to let him believe I made him first. And it will have to be our little secret. You know, woman to woman." (from The Reader magazine)
Bert and his vicar were playing a round of golf. Each time Bert sliced or hooked a shot he would say "damn and blast ... missed!" This happened fairly frequently and whilst the vicar was no prude, the language began to grate on him. Eventually he said to Bert after yet another outburst "Have you ever considered divine intervention if you continue to swear like this?"
At that moment the heavens opened and a mighty storm followed, thunder and lightning so fierce they both ran for cover under a tree. Suddenly a shaft of lightning lit the sky and hit the vicar, followed by a voice from on high "damn and blast ... missed!"
Almighty and most merciful Conductor,
We have erred and strayed from thy beat like lost sheep.
We have followed too much the intonations and tempi of our own hearts;
We have offended against thy dynamic markings;
We have left unsung those notes we ought to have sung,
And we have sung those notes which we ought not to have sung,
And there is no support in us.
But thou, O Conductor, have mercy upon us miserable singers.
Succour the chorally challenged;
Restore thou them that need extra note-bashing;
Spare them that are without pencil.
Pardon our mistakes and have faith that hereafter
We will follow thy direction and sing together in perfect harmony.
The village vicar was looking forward to Christmas lunch with his young family, when he remembered the retired, widower bishop down the road. He was a boring old windbag, but couldn't spend Christmas Day on his own.
He decided not to tell his wife until the day and then he invited the bishop to lunch. The bishop duly arrived on time and took his seat at table. The wife was none too pleased, but contained her feelings for later.
The bishop turned to the young daughter and said "Would you like to say Grace my dear?" The girl looked to her father for guidance who said "Just say what your mother said at breakfast."
She closed her eyes and with hands together said "Dear God, who invited this boring old buffer to lunch?"
From The Times
Sir, Robert Trench, the Victorian Archbishop of Dublin, was a hypochondriac, obsessed that he would one day be incapicitated by a stroke. At a state banquet he kept muttering, as he massaged his leg: "It's come at last, total paralysis, all feeling gone, utterly numb."
The young duchess sitting to his immediate right eventually interrupted him. "It may be of some small comfort to your Grace to know that it is my leg you have been vigorously rubbing and pinching for the past ten minutes!"
(from the Rt Rev David Wilbourne,
and again from The Times
Feeling he ought to go to Confession after a long absence, the man nervously entered the Confessional. He felt much better on seeing a half bottle of gin, three lagers and a copy of Playboy. Just settling in he heard a loud voice "You're in the wrong side."
From the Darley Parish Magazine ,
Dear Lord and father of mankind,
Forgive our foolish ways;
For most of us; when asked our mind,
Admit we still most pleasure find
In hymns of ancient days,
In hymns of ancient days.
The simple lyrics, for a start,
Of many a modem song,
Are far too trite to touch the heart;
Enshrine no poetry, no art;
And go on much too long,
And go on much too long.
O, for a rest from jollity
And syncopated praise!
What happened to tranquility?
The silence of eternity
Is hard to hear these days,
Is hard to hear these days.
Send the deep hush subduing all
Those happy claps that drown
The tender whisper of the call;
Triumphalism is not all
For sometimes we feel down,
For sometimes we feel down.
Drop thy still dews of quietness
Till all our strummings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress
of always having to be blessed;
Give us a bit of peace,
Give us a bit of peace.
Breathe through the beats of praise guitar
Thy coolness and thy balm;
Let drum be dumb, bring back the lyre,
Enough of earthquake, wind and fire,
Let's hear it for some calm,
Let's hear it for some calm.