Sacré bleu! Profanity from the pulpit!

If that man dedicated as much of his time to creating  heartfelt, life-changing sermons as he does to making my life miserable, Jesus would quickly be kicking either James or John out of the seats next to Him to make room for Calvin. By the way, I always thought that it took a lot of...nerve to ask Jesus for reserved seating like the Messiah is a maître d. 

But no. Rather than spending grueling hours suffering for his craft, MY pastor is rubbing his hands together gleefully, googling biblical terms that, when read aloud, would make a grown woman blush.

"What am I suppose to do with this?" I growled at my husband who, despite my endless complaining, keeps encouraging me to volunteer. Brad glanced at the word. "What's the problem?" he asked. "Read it aloud," I snarled. He did. Oh. 

Micah 6:5. Remember your journey from Shittim to Gilgal that you may know the righteous acts of the Lord. 

One syllable? Terrible. Two syllables emphasized the naughty word even more. I was at a loss. I'm no stranger to the salty language but I'm usually pretty reserved from the pulpit. "Did you google the pronunciation?" Brad asked. "Yes," I snapped. "It sounds like it's spelled!" Additional research revealed that the term refers to the wood from the acacia tree. Super helpful. 

I couldn't even practice like I normally do. I spent the bulk of the time freezing my face into a placid, reserved expression as I uttered a word more at home in a septic tank than a sanctuary.  Brad's jaw clenched as I practiced in the van as we drove to service. "That sounded good," he insisted as I offered a few words of my own about my pastor's choice of verse selection. A half hour later, I took a deep breath as I approached the podium, taking note of the diabolical smile pasted to my pastor's face. What could I do but throw a Hail Mary? With my best French accent, I addressed the word that could have been my downfall..."Remember your journey from Sh'tem to Gilgal..." I recited. I finished with a flourish, smiled sweetly at my pastor and skipped down the steps...redeemed. Thank goodness I became so fluent during my trip abroad. "Parlez-vous français?" I was asked. "Un petit couleur," I'd answered flawlessly, again deftly navigating yet another conversational conundrum.