The old church was going to be two hundred!

Walls that had never seen paint for over a decade were now scraped, rubbed, primered and painted. Doors and windows hanging on hinges for dear life were lifted, rehinged. An old architect with French beard looked at drawings and looked at the building, looked again at the drawings, again looked at the building, then tore out the shades, “These are not original!” he muttered under his breath, then continued pulling out flooring, pillars and masonry, “these are not original!” he muttered again. The treasurer and padre marveled at his knowledge.

The choir which till now consisted of an organist who sang soprano, tenor and rumour had it had even managed bass one Christmas night after a midnight party, and who conducted by waving her hand at herself in the mirror fixed on the pipe organ, now looked at dozens of former members who suddenly filed in for rehearsals for the two hundredth year celebration.

“We were married in this church,” said a former bass singer as he looked at his wife of fifty years, “she sang soprano and I sang loud to win her heart! So now we will sing for this occasion and relive happy romantic memories!” The soprano of many moons smiled coyly and the organist cum conductor cum soloist smiled back.

In the parsonage, the priest smiled to himself as he prepared his sermon. He picked up his phone and called the press, “Two hundred years old!” he said with authority, “you will cover the event? Please see my name is put down and spell it right!”

“What has the church done in the last two hundred years?” asked the reporter.

“I can tell you what we have done in the last six months! We have redone the steeple, repainted the structure, revamped the pipe organ and rebuilt the altar!”

And finally, the day arrived. The choir looked splendid with ladies in pastel shades and men in suits and blue ties. The old soprano screeched, the old bass howled and the congregation clapped as the TV crew covered the event.

Just outside stood a man with nail scars in his hands and feet. An angel stood next to him, “What’s wrong over here my Lord?” asked the angel.

“What’s wrong is what’s happening inside!” sighed the Lord, “when a people start loving their building more than bringing others to love me, when they stop sharing the Good News and instead share the space just for their weddings and christenings, the church dies!”

The angel and God walked away from the celebrations of a repainted, refurbished structure where an orator in priest’s robes talked only about the history of the building to the press who waited for their free dinner being arranged outside!

T’was a church without God..!

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