OTHER SKETCHES
If told dramatically three characters are required: The Storyteller, the Churchman and the Tax Collector.
Two men walked into church one day
For both had felt the need to pray.
The first respected by the congregation,
Strode to his pew with pure elation.
An upright and a godly man was he
Known for sound doctrine and true piety.
"How good it is to speak with God
And sense His kind approving nod."
By heart he knew the BCP
The Bible and the litany.
For him churchgoing was a habit,
Unlike the second who like a rabbit
Scuttled to a corner at the back
As if he feared God would attack
Him, if he so much as showed his face
In this his hallowed, holy place.
For tax collection was his trade
And on the powerless he preyed.
Skilfully he used the law
To line his pocket as he crushed the poor.
All decent people crossed the street
Whenever him they chanced to meet.
The churchman paused, a little vexed,
For just before he read his text
From his big Bible cased in leather
He heard the other start to blether,
And weep and moan and groan upon the floor.
"That fellow should be shown the door,"
He thought, "How did he get in."
And then remembering it was a sin
To despise another of God's creatures,
Even one with dubious features
And the character to match,
Resolved to show him how to catch
The Lord's attention with true prayer.
Thus aloud he demonstrated there:
"Dear Lord, I'm sure you will agree
How blessed you are in having me.
Others may steal from homes or cars,
Rob shops and sell their loot in bars.
Others beat up old ladies, riot at football games,
Use foul language, or file false benefit claims.
Others cheat upon their lovely wives
© Copyright Don Dowling October 2001
And chat up hostesses in low dives.
Others are like this scoundrel here
Whose crimes force him to shake with fear.
"But thank you, Lord, I'm not that sort -
I've always done the things I ought.
I've prayed each day and read your Word
And never from its teaching erred.
Twice each Sunday with you I meet
I'm always here upon this seat.
Before I spend I give to you
One tenth of everything that's due.
And when the plate is passed around
My cheque's the biggest to be found.
For that is what your scriptures teach
And I practice what you preach.
So, Lord I know that you agree
How blessed you are in knowing me."
He waited for some sign on high
That the Lord had heard his cry.
Response there came, but from below
From the rogue in the back row.
His snivelling had drowned out the sound
Of the churchman's prayer profound.
"Have mercy, Lord," was all his plea.
"Have pity, God, on wretched me.
I'm a rotter through and through
For every ethical taboo
I have broken in my greed
Your forgiveness, Lord, I need.
I don't deserve it, God, I know
Only let your mercy flow."
The door slammed shut as in righteous rage
The churchman left his wonted stage.
"I can't believe that God can stomach
The rantings of that slimy lummock!"
When he had gone the air was stilled
As then an awesome presence filled
That place of prayer. For God drew nigh
To heed the broken man's heart-cry.
As for the proud, however holy seeming,
God sees through their pious scheming.
Their real God is self, not him,
And he won't answer to their whim.
Only those who know their need
From their shackles to be freed
Will he rescue from their plight
For they are precious in his sight.
The taxman made a new beginning
Sadly the churchman went home sinning.