Many Easters ago, when my brother was almost five, he loooved to play cowboy. It was his favorite thing. He’d throw fits if he couldn’t bring one of his toy guns with him everywhere, and eventually, my mom just gave up and let him. However, she always made him take a gun that was just a solid chunk of plastic, not one of his cap guns.

Well, Mom was singing in the choir at church that year, and my dad was an Eucharistic minister, and she left it up to my aunt to get us around. My aunt didn’t know which guns my brother was allowed to bring, and he was being fussy, so she just grabbed one and threw it in the car.

We’re sitting there in the front pew, the whole big family, and my brother is at the end. The priest is walking around with a bucket of holy water, which he is sprinkling us with, and my brother is fiddling with his gun. When the priest approaches the pew, he points it at him and pulls the trigger.

Only it wasn’t a solid piece of plastic; it was a loaded cap gun.

The church is silent, and then BANG. The priest drops the bucket of holy water on the floor (which makes ANOTHER loud bang), clutches his heart (because he was an old man and it scared the crap out of him), and staggers backwards while people start freaking out because they think he’s just been shot.

My brother is crying, my dad just looks like he wants to die, and my sister and I are silent for a bit. Then we realize what happened and start laughing our a**es off because we can see that it’s a cap gun.

The church was in panic; the cops came… it was a mess.

It was also the end of my brother’s cowboy phase.

The congregation is gathering before the service starts. I overhear a little girl a few pews behind me say:

Little Girl: “God d*** it!”

Little Girl’s Mom: “You can’t say that! That’s basically the opposite of what you’re allowed to say in Church!”

There’s a moment of pause, where I think the lesson has sunk in, when the little girl says:

Little Girl: “Fine then, Satan bless it!”

Related:
The Devil’s In The Details, Part 4
The Devil’s In The Details, Part 3
The Devil’s In The Details, Part 2
The Devil’s In The Details

A church in the town I worked for was having a health fair that had been advertised in various locations. A woman came in to ask about the location of the fair, and when I told her which church it was at, this was her response:

Lady: “The black church? Are you sending me to the black church?”

Me: *Oblivious, but hilariously so.* “I think it’s brick.”

My Boss: “…”

The lady left, and my boss asked if I was being smart, or if that was my actual answer. It took me a moment, as I had apparently been briefly possessed by Amelia Bedelia, but I assured her that I was not and was actually that naive. We still laugh about it twenty years later.

We’ve been introduced to a new family at church. Our young son is confused by their names.

Son: *To the dad of the other family.* “Wait, your name is Thomas?”

Other Dad: “Yup!”

Son: *To the son of the other family.* “And your name is Thomas, too?”

Other Son: “Yeah, that’s why everyone calls me Junior.”

Son: *To me.* “Dad, how come I wasn’t named after you?”

Me: “Because After You would be a stupid name.”

I used to work for a church as an audio technician and a general hand for weekend services and things. A few years ago, the church pulled enough money together to record a live worship session to put on sale.

It was a really important thing that had been in the works for months, and in case you don’t know, it was really expensive to do. So, the decision was made to not allow children under the age of twelve into this recording service under the logic that kids that young can’t be quiet the entire night with the entire crowd being recorded with a ton of microphones as well. And this was advertised as the rule well in advance.

I am standing at the main entrance, welcoming people and explaining what to expect, when I see a mother walking up with her kids.

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am, but children under a certain age aren’t allowed in the service tonight. We have activities and alternative arrangements ready for them in the other building.”

Mother: “Um, what?!”

I explain again while still getting stared at.

Mother: *Trying to end the conversation.* “My kids are really mature and grown up. They will be fine, don’t worry!”

Me: *Still somehow being polite.* “Ma’am, that could probably be true, but if I let your children in, I would have to let other children in who wouldn’t be, and they could ruin the recording. I have to apply the rule equally.”

Mother: “I don’t care about other people’s kids. I want my kids with me!”

She sees my supervisor walking to the door to the audio booth next to me.

Mother: “Hey! This guy won’t let my kids come in, but you know they are fine, right!?”

Supervisor: “…no? You know the rules for tonight. He’s right, they can’t come in.”

Mother: *Looks at both of us, fuming.* “Well, if they can’t come in, then we ARE GOING HOME!”

Supervisor: “That is certainly your right.”

She stormed away with her embarrassed kids. We went on with the night without a care in the world.

The recording turned out great, and the church raised a lot of money for charity with it.