Good morning, Middle America! Whoo-hoo! As in, One Fish, Two Fish, Red State, Blue Fish!

Never mind me. God isn't finished with me yet, after all -- and neither is Dr. Sinclair down at Bellview, when it comes to that. Mind you, he thinks I'm making excellent progress. Hey, listen: Every day and in every way, I'm more like everybody else. How's that for an ambition for ya, huh? Well, now, a body has to aim high in this life. Remember: four out of five theologians will tell ya, we only live twice. (Unfortunately at least 1 out of every four of those stodgy divines seems to think that the second "go-round," so to speak, is apt to transpire in a lake of boiling pitch -- but let's not go there. And to keep that from happening, Man has invented church -- and that's where I come in: Reverend Hodgepodge here, at your service, making you more moral than you ever thought possible. Aye, ya sinners: Eyes straight ahead, abject faces bowing downwards in pained reflection upon your no-doubt sordid past....)

But I digress.

Let's all turn to our neighbors and say, "Season's Greetings!" shall we?

Come on, now: Say it with a little feeling! You guys sound like you're actually on your way to the flaming pit! Well, don't you believe it: I'm paid top dollar to make you moral, remember? I'm your "Get Out of Purgatory" Free Card up in here tonight! Whoo-hooo!





Amen! There you go! That was a very chipper reiteration indeed -- of the requested formula, as it were -- ahem, so to speak.


Incidentally, I've received a few (ahem!) "polite" questions about the title of today's upcoming sermon as it's been listed on the roadside plaque in front of the church since Monday last. Now, I'll be the first to admit that "Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy" is a somewhat unusual title for a late December sermon here at Our Lady of the Disaffected Secularist. In fact, some have even ventured to suggest that the sermon title is perhaps a trifle "flippant" given the majesty of the season to which it apparently refers. "Imagine," they say, "naming a sermon after a silly and long-since hackneyed jingle from a nineties cartoon!" But I can explain: You see, this morning's screed (coming up right after the much-anticipated choir solo by the ever-popular Widow Brimley, "When Shepherds Watched Their Flocks of Yore") was originally going to be called something much more prosaic, such as "Christmas Reflections with Pastor Andy" -- (that's me, by the way: Pastor Andy) -- but then the Church's legal department got ahold of it and promptly excised every reference to any religion-specific holiday whatsoever, especially "the Big C." And what with me being no lawyer, I reluctantly decided to adapt my comments as requested. Still, you may rest assured that I'll insert as much seasonal sentiment into my harangue as possible without running afoul of the PC dictates of Messieurs Crabtree, Crabtree, and Fitch. Speaking of which, are the Crabtrees here this morning? Sammy? Chin? If so, I'd ask them to stand up with Harvey Fitch here in the front pew right now and accept a quick round of polite but ideally brief applause before we move on to our first hymn. Remember, these guys are working pro bono from that little inadequately heated room on the third floor of the Education Building. I say "room," but it's little more than a closet, right? In fact, I think it used to BE a closet before last summer's still-controversial remodeling frenzy spearheaded by Deacon Elroy. (Speaking of which, if Mavis is in the house, he can stand, too. And no booing, please: I'm sure he did his best on the blueprints.)

Well, come on then, everybody: 1, 2, 3, and CLAP!!!



And CUT! Well done, gang.

Let's turn now to our first Christmas -- er, first SEASONAL hymn! -- number 258, "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

Oh, and we have a treat this morning: after we sing the first verse, the remainder of the song is going to be "rapped" to us by our very own extremely cool teenager named (what was his stage name again?) 34 cents? Something like that. So remember, no singing after the first verse, because I'm going to hand the microphone over to Claymore -- Oops! I mean 34 cents, of course!

Now then, are we ready, organist Ann?

And a-one, and a-one, two, three, four:

Congregation:

Said the night wind to the little lamb,
"Do you see what I see?
Way up in the sky, little lamb,
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star, dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite,
With a tail as big as a kite."

Rapper:

Said the lamby-lamb to the shepherd laddy,
Modulate the vibes, that's a wailin' daddy,
High above the trees like a bottle rocket,
Sheepy heart be fuller than a courtroom docket

(Does ya hear? does ya hear?
Does ya hear? does ya hear?)


Child was a-shiverin' in the cold of night,
Put the king to shame in his palace bright,
Let the child in or you will regret it,
Try to bust my rhyme, you can forget it

(Does ya hear? does ya hear?
Does ya hear? does ya hear?)

Said the little laddy to the big fat king,
Ixnay on the gold, I don't want your bling,
A little bit o' worship from your folded hands,
Spread my word completely through your far-flung lands

(Does ya hear? does ya hear?
D-d-d-Does ya hear? Does ya hear?)


Said the king to the people, "Now dig my rap,
Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men, and all that --" Hey-oh!,
There's goodness and there's light from that crazy child,
Spiritually speaking I'm about to go wild!

(Does ya hear? Does ya -- Yo, check this out...)

Do ya hear what I hear? one last time,
Puff the magic rapper smokes a sacred rhyme,
Listen very closely, here he goes again,
Peace on Earth, you motha's, Good William Robinson to men...



(Does ya hear? does ya hear?
Does ya hear? Does ya hear?)

...and women, too, yo! peace out.

Very good, Clay -- I mean, 34 cents. ("Good William Robinson to men," eh? Oh, dear! Well, you're the expert, I suppose! Ha ha! No, seriously, it was a great rap!)

Now if the ushers would come forward. Ann, how about a little Chopinesque etude while our stereotypically suited and masculine quartet of somber deacons hies themselves hither?

Well, come on, ushers: Hie yourselves! Hie!

By the way, if you weren't here last week, we're experimenting with a sort of portable point-of-sale terminal that we pass down the pews so that you guys can automatically transfer your tithes into our Roth IRA account here at Our Lady. Just use your normal bankcard with its normal pin number. Remember, please do not select the "cash back" option. I think we can all agree that it's inappropriate, to say the least, for you guys to be getting money back during a tithing transaction. At best, you'll confuse God. At worst, you'll make him angry. And that's a big no-no. Just ask a fig tree. (Remember that business in the bible where J. himself blew his top: "Blasted fig tree! Why makest thou not figs out of season, yo?!" Which, incidentally, is a tremendously reassuring biblical passage to remember whenever you find yourselves getting in a snit -- I mean, if even God can blow his top, then we're in good company here-below when we ourselves "lose it.") I need hardly add that you're not to take advantage of the "buy stamps" option either. Our church programmer Bob says he's going to remove all these superfluous options soon, but until he does, please just ignore them. (Programmer Bob, ladies and gentlemen, on the left side of the second pew up in the balcony: Take a bow, Bob. Ah, what an unassuming boffin: The deacons call him "the Meek Geek." Ha ha! All right, now, sit down, Mr. PHP up there! Don't let your intelligence go to your head, now!)



Organist Ann, ladies and gentlemen! Whoo-hoo! That was "Ave Maria" by Gounod.

Ahem. And now a brief secularly correct prayer before today's sermon.

Oh, Dear Power,

Let me speak good coming up next. And let people listen good as I do. And above all, O God: Teach me to write these prayers in advance from now on since I suddenly realize that I am not exactly Billy Graham when it comes to making up these things as I go. In fact, forgive me for this very prayer because it is worded so poorly and make me better -- indeed, until I'm... ahem... the "bestest" I can be. Amen.

Whew! Well, that's the last time that I ad-lib a prayer. I was like: "O God, Let me speak good coming up next." And God was like: "What in the blazes is he talking about????"

Widow Brimley will now sing this morning's offering: "When Shepherd's Watch Their...." something, something. Sorry, Widow, I seem to have misplaced my bulletin, but we all get the general idea.

That's it, raise the mike a tad... and WARBLE!

Brimley: When Shepherd's Watched Their Flocks of Yore....

Give it up for Widow Brimley, Ladies and G-men! Whoo-hoo!

Ahem. But we move on.

By the by, there will be no children's sermon this morning --

Stop whining, kids, please: it's most unseemly!

Anyway, let me finish: There's no children's sermon because... today's sermon will be very short.

Hey now, stop applauding, gang. I can understand the children being happy about a short sermon, but if anything, the adults should be sad about it -- ideally, at any rate. (I think I even heard Deacon Dudley back there barking his approval like some hip audience member on a daytime television talk show! Say it isn't so, Dudley!)

Now then, my sermon:

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

What do these words mean to you?

They're just four simple words, aren't they? In fact, they're really just two simple words that have been spoken twice. One might almost say that they're only ONE word since they are virtually synonymous. Let me elaborate.

Ahem. Sorry. I've apparently lost my place in these note cards here. (Let's see... "they're two simple words... they are virtually synonymous.... Let me elaborate..." Oh, yes, here we are.)

But what IS Joy? What IS Happiness?

I submit to you, ladies and gendarmes, that JOY is nothing more than the acceptance of Divinity in our lives.

So as we come to that time of year that is so special to many of us but not necessarily to all of us (hint: It starts with a "C" and sometimes with an "H" and occasionally with an "R" or an "L") let us cultivate the JOY and HAPPINESS that comes from giving and living...

and... and loving and...

Dang. I've lost my place again. Excuse me. ("That time of year that is so special... let us cultivate... giving..." Oh, yes!)

And let us remember spirituality in our lives -- to the extent appropriate according to our individual philosophical stance toward the Great Unknown.

Oh, fiddlesticks! One doesn't come to the last church service in December expecting a long sermon anyway: You're hear to sing hymns, aren't you?

With that in mind, let's finish early today so that we can go home and eat the big turkey that in many cases will probably be waiting for us when we get home.

Again, we're honored to have 34 cents (that's right, Claymore is about to "say" more, folks! Ha ha!) to "rap" the end of our Christmas Carol -- er, our SONG -- after we sing the first verse.

Let's turn now to our closing hymn, number 194, "Angels, We Have Heard on High!"

Take it away, Ann!

Congregation:

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o'er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains

Gloria in excelsis Deo
Gloria in excelsis Deo

Rapper:


Angels, yo, we have heard you rappin'
Skippin' cross the mountains with your finga's tappin'
Swayin' through the plains with your vestments flappin'
Wakin' up the sinners from their faithless nappin'

Gloria -- check it out -- Gloria -- uh-huh
In excelsis deeeeo -- word
Gloria -- check it out -- Gloria -- uh-huh
In excelsis deeeeeeeeeeeeee

Oh, Angels -- check it out -- Gloria -- uh-huh
In excelsis deeeeo -- word up
Gloria -- check it out -- Gloria -- what?
In most righteous and extraordinarily pristine and rock-solid funkified...... (Gasp!!!) DEEEEEOOOOOOOO!

(Deo come and me wanna go home, y'all!)

Amen! (I think.) "Rock-solid funkified," Clay? How long exactly have you BEEN a rapper, anyway?

Just kidding: Let's give it up for Claymore, ladies and germs -- I mean for 34 Cents or whatever! Whoo-hooo!

And now before we go in peace, I'd like to personally wish each and every one of you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

I say I'd LIKE to do that, but I can't -- because our above-mentioned legal team won't let me. (SIGH!) Are you sure, guys? Oh, come on, Sammy Crabtree: Not even if I say "Happy Hanukah," too? Oh, very well!

Still, one can always say "Season's greetings!" ad infinitum, I suppose. So let's turn to our neighbors before the postlude and say it like we mean it, shall we?" (For the record, Anne's going to take us out with, let's see here.... Oh, what a surprise: "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" by Johann Sebastian Bach. Oh, well, I guess even organists have a rerun season: Ha ha! Just kidding, Anne.)

Ready? Here we go:

And a-one, and a-one, two, three and...

"Season's Greetings!"

Oh, phooey, guys: Say it like you MEAN it!

"SEASON'S GREETINGS!"

Amen. Oh, and happy, happy, joy, joy to the lot of ya, yes?

Now beat it, see?

Oops, sorry, I mean: Go in peace! (Oh, I am TERRIBLE!)