It’s funny how things that weren’t so funny when they actually happened can be so funny years later, when time erases the fact that murder was a consideration and consequence for being so stupid. That was the case with my Church’s annual Bar-B-Que some twenty years ago.
It’s been said that as members of the faith, we are all a part of the body of Christ. But at my church, it seemed like we got our share of the buttholes. There was always one or two, in competition, to see who could get the most glory this side of heaven, making most projects pure hell for all the participants. If the truth were to come out, I think most folk that can’t find grace if it were delivered by UPS and postmarked “GOD” as the sender, should be subject to an annual review and mercy killing if necessary. Breaking one of the top ten, just to keep peace, seemed reasonable enough to me.
Our Bar-B-Que and Bazaar, held annually on the grounds of our small 163 year old church (with some original living members) was one of the primary ways we, as a mens group, raised money to do work in the community, keep the roof from leaking, and fill in the blanks money wise when offerings were down. I half jokingly called our church “Siberia United Methodist” due to the fact that our church had a revolving door of sorts for preachers meaning none stayed for more than two years tops. That was most unusual in the Methodist system, as preachers would get assigned to a church for at least three years, shorter if they got lucky and died first. Our little church was so remote, each preacher assigned there was more afraid that he might get stuck there and forgotten. Add in the fact that most of the elderly congregants disapproved of air-conditioning and padded seats, and were certain they all knew more than any old preacher, and it made for a rough short stay for whomever might get the short straw and get sent to our way.
We had this one fellow, I’ll call him Bryce, who decided he was the designated “know-it-all” and generally in charge of everything. He decided that he would run the bar-b-que that year meaning he would give the orders and if it were a success, he’d claim victory for himself without lifting a finger, delegation being such hard work on such a devoted man. If the project were to come up short, well, he’ d blame every thing including the barometric pressure rather than take any of the responsibility. Every church I’ve ever been a member of has one. I had a preacher tell me one time, if you walk in a church and you can’t spot the busy body, you’d better leave because you’re probably it. I’m not sure of the validity of that theory, but I have used the same acid test when looking for a “sucker”, not the Tootsie Pop kind mind you, I’m talking about the kind that talk. I’m talking about the kind that P.T. Barnum said was born every minute. If you have to be involved in any sort of negotiations and you can’t spot the sucker, keep your mouth shut (or leave) because you’re probably it kinda stuff. Bryce, the fellow described earlier, was the sucker, he just didn’t know it. He was the kind of fellow that would cry in church, shout “hallelujah” and talk about you behind your back, even saying how bad the preacher was but delivering a cheese covered casserole on que, every Sunday after church to critique, eating the lion’s share of the same casserole himself.
This particular year, a group of us men decided that we would just omit telling Bryce about our plans to cook our famous annual pig fest, along with the best home-made Brunswick stew and cole-slaw I have ever tasted this side of Memphis, Tennessee. There was an old guy in our church that owned a relatively famous BBQ restaurant that served every item we dished out to our once yearly loyal following. He sold the restaurant but kept the recipes for us to make each and every year. His directions were exact, and he insisted that they be followed to the letter for the best results. Now I must say, this guy was the single nicest fellow I had ever met in my life and could get along with anyone…except Bryce. He told me one time that if Bryce were laying in front of him, on fire, he’d piss over him to prevent shortening his pain. He even said he might wind up in Hell because of it, but also figured if Bryce were in Heaven, he might turn Catholic just before he croaked just to land in Purgatory rather than wind up in the same place as him. I blamed Bryce for 95% of the discord, even considering him to have bad taste, because the man with the BBQ recipes, I noticed, could be friends with just about anybody he met.
Except Bryce.
C'mon back around Wednesday.
Except Bryce.
C'mon back around Wednesday.
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