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I’m a rabbi
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Murphy rushed along the corridor of the train, opening every compartment door and asking:
‘Is there a priest or a vicar here?’
After four attempts he came to a compartment where a man said:
‘I’m a rabbi if that’s any good.’
‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘I’m looking for a corkscrew!’Joe
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‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Father,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘But I’m afraid I have a complaint to make.’
‘What’s that?’ asked the parish priest.
‘Well, Father, it’s the youngsters attending the Friday night dance,’ explained the nun. ‘When they’re coming home they pass the convent and they make such a noise. Last night I couldn’t sleep for the noise.’
‘Do you know,’ said Father Kelly, ‘I had the same trouble meself. And really there’s no excuse for behaviour that rowdy. Wait till Sunday. I’ll give it to them in the sermon.’
Sunday morning came and nine o’clock mass saw the Reverend Father, red-faced, up in the pulpit, bellowing at full volume. ‘Now the boys and girls who attend the Friday night dance. Youse are making far too much noise. Last Friday me and Reverend Mother couldn’t get a wink of sleep!’
There followed the complete collapse of the congregation in laughter.Joe
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The preacher, a Jesuit no less, stood in the pulpit, high above the congregation and ranted and raved about sin, damnation and kingdom come. For twenty minutes he roared out a tirade, whilst pounding the pulpit with both hands.
Eventually young Eugene O’Malley, five years old, turned to his mother and said: ‘Mum, whatever shall we do if he gets out of there?’Joe
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It was preaching each Sunday that made Father Brown a few pounds extra on the side. You see he had a weekly bet with the altar boy that he could improvise a sermon on any subject at a moment’s notice.
Each week the altar boy left a note on the lectern, and each week the priest ad-libbed his way through. Finally the youngster thought he had the priest stone cold by leaving a note that merely said: ‘Constipation’.
Totally unconcerned, Father Brown glanced at the paper looked up and began:
‘And Moses, taking the tablets, went up into the mountain …’Joe
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If there was one problem in the parish it involved the constant rows between Sean and Bridie Flynn. Fearsome were their tempers and long were their memories.
So Friday evening saw them rowing over some small happening from months before. Bridie struck Sean with the phone – Sean countered with the back of his hand. Bridie came back with a broom handle across his shoulders.
Sean grabbed the implement and pulled Bridie down the stairs. With the impetus of her fall, Sean spun her out of the open front door and into the street. He threw himself astride her winded frame and began slapping her across the face, just as Father Murphy came round the comer on his Friday visits.
Looking up and seeing the priest, Sean thought quickly and glowering at his prostrate spouse he roared: ‘Now will you go to Mass?’Joe
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Murphy approached Mulligan’s bar. On the step outside he was accosted by a nun, Sister Marie, who said:
‘Surely a fine man like yourself is not going into this den of iniquity? Surely you’re not going to waste your hard-earned cash on the devil’s brew. Why don’t you go home and feed and clothe your wife and children?’
‘Hang on, Sisters,’ spluttered Murphy. ‘How can you condemn alcohol out of hand? Surely it’s wrong to form such a rash judgement when you’ve never tasted the stuff?’
‘Very well,’ said Sister Marie. Till taste it just to prove my point. Obviously I can’t go into the pub, so why don’t you bring me some gin. Oh, and just to camouflage my intent, maybe you should bring it in a cup not a glass!’
‘OK,’ said Murphy and into the bar he breezed.
‘I’ll have a large gin,’ he said to the barman. ‘And can you put it in a cup?’
‘My God,’ said the barman, ‘that nun’s not outside again is she?’Joe
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The man was immaculately dressed. Kitted out more for the Ritz than the street. But in the street he lay dressed in black tail suit, patent leather shoes, top hat and bow tie, and very dead.
‘How did he get here?’ asked patrolman Muldoon.
‘He threw himself off the roof,’ said a bystander.
‘Does anyone know the man?’ said Muldoon.
‘I do,’ said Barrie Quinn.
‘What religion is he?’ asked the policeman. ‘Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim?’
‘None at all,’ said Quinn. ‘He’s an atheist!’
‘What a shame,’ said Muldoon. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go!’Joe
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So Father Murphy was making his usual Friday night calls on various houses in his parish. He genuinely worried about the religious affairs of the Mullen family, few of whom he ever saw at Sunday Mass, and decided to call in just to chivvy them along.
‘Come in, Father,’ said Katy Mullen. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you call. Have a cup of tea and a bun.’
Duly fed and watered, Father Murphy began the inquisition.
‘I hope you’re all still going to Sunday mass,’ he said.
‘Indeed we are,’ replied Katy. ‘Every Sunday regular – sometimes in the week as well.’
‘And I hope you’re all still saying the rosary together,’ he furthered.
‘Oh yes, Father,’ said Mrs Mullen. ‘Every evening without fail, twice at weekends.’
‘And I trust you’re still reading the Bible to these children?’ said the priest.
‘Oh yes, Father, every morning and every evening,’ said Katy. ‘Josephine, go and get that big book I’m always reading.’
Josephine returned with a Argos Catalogue!Joe
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The convent had been presented with a new car, a red Mini Metro, the pride of its breed. Sister Lucy, the only qualified driver, became the chauffeur for all and sundry. Every Saturday she would drive Reverend Mother into town for the shopping.
All went well till Bank Holiday weekend when the town was so packed with people and cars that it became evident that there was no earthly place to park.
‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ said Sister Lucy. ‘You go into the supermarket and I’ll drive round the block until you come out.’
Off sped the car, and Reverend Mother bustled round the store quickly, picking up all the necessary goods and then rushing back to the kerbside. There she stood for five minutes, ten, fifteen, twenty. No sign of Sister Lucy. Where could she be?
Eventually Reverend Mother approached a patrolling policeman.
‘Excuse me, officer,’ said she, ‘have you seen a nun in a red Mini?’
‘No,’ replied the copper, ‘but these days nothing would surprise me!’Joe
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The Jesuit preacher decided to visit a small island off the coast of Connemara. The inhabitants numbered no more than a couple of dozen, but the Jesuit threw himself into the Lord’s work with a vengeance. Having taken over the bar of the pub for Mass, and having delivered a fire and brimstone sermon, he questioned the congregation.
‘How long is it since any of you had your confessions heard?’ he asked.
‘Well, Father,’ answered Brendan, the oldest inhabitant. ‘It must be three years since the last priest was here.’
‘Why didn’t you make a trip to the mainland?’ asked the priest.
‘Well, Father,’ said Brendan, ‘the water between us and the mainland is very rough, and our boat is old and leaky. So you see if we’ve only venial sins to confess it’s not worth the bother, and if we’ve mortal sins it’s not worth the risk!’Joe
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So there stood the visiting missionary Father O’Sullivan, six feet tall, so red in the face he was nearly purple. As he stared from the pulpit he scanned the crowded church and, without warning, launched into an almighty tirade.
‘Let me tell yez all this. Then I’ll tell you no more,’ he bellowed. The whole parish is going to hell. Everyone in this parish is going to hell!’
Stunned silence – open mouths – fear filled eyes -laughter. Laughter? Laughter? – from whom? Laughter from a little old man in the front row.
The whole parish is going to hell. Every man, woman and child is going to hell. No escape, yez are all doomed.’
Silence – well, almost. All were transfixed except our little friend at the front. He was almost in hysterics.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ said Father O’Sullivan. ‘I said the whole parish is going to hell.’
‘I know,’ said the old man, ‘but I’m from the next parish, Father.’Joe
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So little Eamonn had returned from Sunday School and his mother asked what he’d learned that day.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Father O’Malley told us how Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt and into the Promised Land.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mother. ‘And what exactly happened?’
‘Well,’ went on the little fellow. ‘Moses got all the people together and loaded them into buses, lorries and cars. They drove off into the desert at night time and it wasn’t till the morning that the Pharaoh found out they’d gone. When he realised what happened he was angry and he gathered all his army together, tanks, halftracks, jeeps and everything.
They chased after the Israelites and they caught them at the Red Sea. Moses had built a pontoon bridge and he’d thrown it across the water and his people were just starting to cross when the Egyptians came up firing their rockets and anti-tank missiles and completely destroyed the Pharaoh’s army. Then the people crossed the bridge into the Promised Land.’
‘Wow, what a story,’ said the mother. ‘Is that what Father O’Malley told you?’
‘Well, no,’ replied Eamon. ‘Not quite. But the way Father O’Malley told the tale you’d never believe it!’Joe
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Father O’Flynn was visiting his flock trying to raise money for new bells at St Margaret’s Church. Much as the parishioners tried to dodge him, he knew where all their hiding places were. Even the back room of Dooley’s bar where he managed to pounce on Flanagan, Nolan and Dolan who were playing cards and putting the world to rights.
‘Come on, boys, just a few quid all round would play for the bells. Sure you hardly notice it out of your gambling money.’
‘Fair dos,’ they thought, and up they tipped with the money.
Nolan gave £10.
Dolan gave £10.
But, because Mick Flanagan was well ahead, he gave £50.
Thanks, lads. God bless you. See you at church on Sunday,’ said the reverend father.
Sunday came, the bells rang out from 6 a.m. till the Angelus at noon. All the parish turned out to rejoice at the sound. All, that is, except Flanagan. Where could he be? Not ill, surely?
Father O’Flynn went to his house after lunch and found the man slumped in front of the TV.
‘Why weren’t you there to celebrate the bells?’ asked the priest.
‘Celebrate,’ said Mick. ‘Celebrate! After all the money I paid. What do I hear? From 6 a.m. the bells have never changed. Nolan, Dolan, not a word about Flanagan!’Joe
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The plane had developed engine trouble and the pilot had collapsed while trying to control the steep dive. The passengers scrambled for safety, but they could only find three parachutes and there were four of them. What to do? It was hard to think for the noise of the big Texan yapping off about what he’d done in the war and how he’d succeeded in life and how he should be saved above all the others.
‘Indeed that’s true,’ said the archbishop, ‘you should take one parachute.’ Without further argument the American grabbed the chute and leaped out.
‘And you, my dear,’ said the holy man to the young nurse. ‘You must be saved. Because you have so much to offer and so much to live for.’ Out leapt the nurse with the second chute. ‘And now,’ said the archbishop. ‘Now …” ‘Wait a moment,’ said the boy scout. ‘There’s only one chute left your eminence, and you must take it.’ ‘Indeed, my son, we will both be saved. There are two parachutes left,’ said his grace.
Two?’ stuttered the boy scout. ‘How so?’ ‘Simple,’ said the archbishop. ‘I gave the big-mouthed Yank your haversack!’Joe
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Father O’Sullivan did like his golf. ‘Twas the only earthly passion that he had and he unashamedly indulged in it whenever possible. Regrettably he had one minor defect in his personality that ill-equipped him for the game and that was his quick-fire temper. So rather than calm and tranquillise the holy man, the golf served to incense him to the nth degree.
One Tuesday morning in particular, while playing in the Curates Cup event he really went overboard, slinging clubs and constantly shouting ‘Missed you, you swine!’
‘Calm down,’ said Reverend McGee. ‘Sure the Almighty will lose his rag with you if he hears what you’re shouting.’
This did nothing to stop O’Sullivan’s rampant behaviour. He swung, he failed to connect:
‘Missed you, you swine!’ he screamed.
He readdressed the ball, swung, failed to connect, ‘Missed you, you swine!’ he bellowed.
Think what you’re saying,’ said Reverend McGee, to no avail.
Again the club was swung, again a fresh air shot. ‘Missed you – you swine!’ roared O’Sullivan.
Just then the clouds parted, deep thunder was heard and a bolt of lightning struck Father McGee. And a voice from heaven called out:
‘Missed you, you swine!’Joe
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