Electric Sermon

Father Brody nearly spilled his sweet, red wine, and he was sure his heart skipped a beat.

"You can't be serious," Father Brody said to his companion across the table, while placing down his glass, carefully, on the almost soiled, cotton white tablecloth. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as Christmas is a Christian holiday," said Father Kincaid, a good friend of his dinner guest for many years.

"When did they actually approve it?" Father Brody inquired.

"The decision was made two weeks ago," Father Kincaid replied. "I had dinner with the Bishop last night, and he filled me in on the whole what, when, and where of it."

"I can't believe they would succumb to such an idea. I mean, have things really gotten that bad? Do we really have such a shortage of men who will take up the good Lords work?"

"That's just the problem, John," answered Father Kincaid across the table, " we have a terrible shortage of men."

"But not of women," said Father Brody, bringing up an old disagreement between the two, "and if we just gave them a chance up at the pulpit..."

"Oh, you already know how I feel about that," said Father Kincaid with a wave of his hand.

"I'm afraid I do, and it’s precisely that old-time, conservative kind of thinking that’s gotten us into this mess in the first place."

A silence hovered over the table for a time, except for an occasional clank of knife or clink of glass.

Fathers John Brody and Martin Kincaid had shared many a nights’ dinner in conversation before, covering numerous topics, but none quite as unusual as tonight’s. None that could leave them with a space of silence long enough to fill a glass with a fine wine.

Father Brody sighed, looking deep into his own glass, as if expecting it to reveal something, like a crystal ball. "So, just when is it to happen?" he asked calmly.

"This Sunday. All of the paper work, arrangements, as well as the proper programming, should be done by then."

"And where, may I ask?" said Father Brody, almost accusingly.

"Well...," Father Kincaid started, then grabbed his glass and drank long, and slow, causing Father Brody’s eyebrows to lift heavenward and look suspiciously. Another silence fell for a moment over the table.

"At St. Agatha. There, I said it," spat out Father Kincaid, not knowing how his friend would take his admission that the event they spoke of tonight would take place at their very own church.

At first, Father Brody’s eyes nearly dove out of their head, but he settled down shortly, and gave his friend a knowing look and a small frown.

"I might have know," he said sardonically, "And you, with your love of things technological, were all too happy to oblige."

"Well, what else can we do? With application to the priesthood the lowest it’s ever been, and getting worse year by year, they felt they had little choice. Give it a chance, it may not be so bad. I think it’s kind of exciting."

"I wonder what the congregation will think?" asked Father Brody.

"Aye, now there’s the rub," quoted Father Kincaid, "That is the question, indeed."

* * *

The weather accommodated Sunday afternoon perfectly. Few clouds marred the beautiful, blue sky, and all manner of flowers and plants were in full, late spring bloom.

At a slow, deliberate pace, the usual church-going crowd, of the upstate New York town of Candlewick, gathered at St. Agatha wearing their Sunday best. And each in turn entered the church, asserted themselves into a pew, and settled down in preparation for the upcoming mass.

Mr.