Paddy's Playful Pipe Ponderings on Organ Music by Paddy Allen

 

Paddy’s Playful Pipe Ponderings on Organ Music

By Paddy “The Golden Doodle” Allen

The house has been awfully quiet this week, or at least it was until Monday morning. Grandma Carol packed her bags and headed out to celebrate our grandson Max’s high school graduation a week ago Saturday. We are so incredibly proud of that boy, but her absence left a pretty sizeable hole in the daily routine here on the home front… and left the refrigerator entirely unguarded.

So, there we were: Grandpa Jim and yours truly, a couple of bachelors left to fend for ourselves. Now, when a Wisconsin farm boy and his trusty Golden Doodle are left alone, things can go one or two ways. You can either sit around moping over the lack of premium dog treats, or you can turn the kitchen into a ballroom. Grandpa chose the latter.

Early Monday morning, Grandpa walked over to the stereo system and cranked the loudspeakers up to a volume that I’m pretty sure they could hear all the way over in New Harmony. He was hovering over the stove, whipping up a bachelor-style breakfast for the two of us, when suddenly the airwaves were hit with a blast of pure, unadulterated vintage bubblegum pop.

It was “The Twist” by Chubby Checker.

Before I could even blink, Grandpa dropped the spatula, grabbed my front paws, and we were tearing up the linoleum! You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a former Air Force Sergeant and a furry, thirty-pound Golden Doodle doing the twist between the refrigerator and the kitchen table. My tail was wagging in 4/4 time, and Grandpa was moving with the agility of his old high school wrestling days, though I’m fairly certain his knees were making a few sound effects of their own. I tell you, the joy in that kitchen was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

After we finally caught our breath and polished off a pair of perfectly cooked breakfasts, I looked up at him, panting a little, and decided to ask a serious question.

“Dad,” I said, tilting my head, “I know you are having the new organ installed in the Church, will you be playing music like this? I feel the Spirit when I hear this music.”

Grandpa smiled, leaned back in his chair, and gave me a look that was both warm and a little bit fierce.

“I do too, Paddy,” Grandpa said, nodding honestly. “But unfortunately, the people who dominate the traditional ‘pipe organ’ world are often musical elitists. And musical elitists usually are so worried about playing for the other musical elitists sitting in the audience, they rarely play songs the average listener actually wants to hear. That is why our Pipe Organ Dedication on Sunday, September 13th—right during River Days Weekend—is going to be completely different. Those high-brow critics get so caught up in the technical perfection and the rigid complexity that they forget music is meant to move the human heart and stir the soul. They forget that Mozart was the rock star of his day and felt the same way.”

Grandpa continued, tapping his fingers on the kitchen table to an imaginary beat. “People look at classical music today like it belongs in a museum, under glass, only to be touched by folks in stuffy tuxedos. But back then? Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was writing catchy hooks, playing to packed, rowdy rooms, and putting on a show! He wrote music to make people feel alive, to laugh, to cry, and yes, to move. He wasn’t writing for a boardroom of rigid academics; he was writing for the crowd.”

Grandpa leaned forward, his eyes lighting up the way they always do when he gets passionate about ministry and music.

“If we lose the joy, Paddy, we lose the whole point. King David didn’t dance before the Ark of the Covenant with stiff, calculated steps to impress a committee of critics—he danced with all his might because the Spirit moved him! That’s the disconnect with these elitists. They’ve turned a vibrant, living tool of praise into an intellectual exercise. They are so busy making sure their technique is flawless for the two or three experts in the room that they completely bypass the hearts of the ninety-seven ordinary people who just came to encounter the Lord.

“And you know what else, Paddy? They forget how Jesus modeled ministry,” Grandpa said, his voice dropping to a serious, reverent tone. “Jesus didn’t spend His time locking Himself away in ivory towers with the religious elite of His day. He took His ministry straight to the streets. He went to the outcasts, the sinners, and the winebibbers—the everyday people who knew they weren’t perfect but desperately wanted to meet God. The high-and-mighty religious leaders looked down their noses at Him for hanging out with the ‘wrong’ crowd, but Jesus knew that the people on the street were the ones whose hearts were wide open to receiving the truth.

“Music was meant to be that same kind of common element to bring ordinary people, whom God considers extraordinary, together,” Grandpa continued, waving his dish towel for emphasis like a symphony conductor. “It’s the soundtrack to our lives, Paddy. The average guy does not usually say, ‘Ah, yes, when I first met your mother, Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor was playing majestically in the background.’ No, that’s just not how human hearts connect!

“No, he usually says, ‘I was holding hands with your mother, gazing into her eyes as Jose Feliciano’s “Light My Fire” came on the radio,’ or ‘Herman’s Hermits “I’m into Something Good” came on the radio.’ It’s those simple, catchy, soulful melodies that stick to our ribs. They embed themselves into our memories because they capture a real, living moment of human connection. They belong to the people, not to a conservatory archive. When they look down their noses at simple, heartfelt melodies, they are looking down on the very things that bind us together as human beings. Music isn’t supposed to be an entry exam where you have to prove you’re smart enough or cultured enough to enjoy it. It’s supposed to be a bridge.”

Grandpa stood up straight, looking determined as he thought about the upcoming Sunday at the Church.

“This is exactly why when William Booth, later General Booth the founder of the Salvation Army, decided to take his ministry to the streets of London, he did something radical. He brought a bunch of children into his local parish, and because the children were rambunctious and dirty, the ‘proper’ Church people were terribly upset. Their Sunday best was apparently too holy for a little street grime. So General Billy followed the Lord’s example and went straight out to the streets where the people actually were, and furthermore, guess what music he used?”

“What?” I asked, tilting my head and letting out a soft, curious whine.

“Since he ministered right outside the bars, he took the actual bar songs the people of the street already knew by heart, and he reclaimed the lyrics for the Lord! He famously asked, ‘Why should the devil have all the good music?’ He knew that if you want to touch a man’s soul, you have to speak—and sing—in a language he understands. And you know what, Paddy? Many of our grandest hymns are old bar songs, traditional folk melodies, or tavern tunes that were baptized for the Kingdom. For instance:

·         “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” – The melody for this deeply solemn passion hymn was originally a secular love song written by Hans Leo Hassler around 1600 called ‘Mein G’müt ist mir verwirret’ (‘My Peace of Mind is Shattered’), which folks sang in public taverns long before it was adapted for Sunday morning.

·         “What Child Is This?” – This beautiful Christmas carol completely borrows its melody from ‘Greensleeves’, which was a traditional, gritty English romantic ballad sung across British pubs and streets for generations.

·         “Amazing Grace” – While the words were written by John Newton, the famous tune we all know, ‘New Britain’, is deeply rooted in early American folk music traditions. It was the kind of melody passed down through working-class communities, sung on front porches and in local gatherings long before it ever saw a printing press.

“So, what about the organ dedication? What kind of music will be played?” I asked, looking up at Dad with my ears perked and my expectations high.

“Well, we need to celebrate,” Dad said, a big grin spreading across his face. “And we want to invite all our folks in the greater community to attend. So, I have invited a Church Organist by the name of Jeremy Boyer.”

“Wait! You are bringing in a Church organist?” I exclaimed, my tail completely dropping. “Dad, I thought we were going to rock and roll!”

“Well, if you give me a moment, Paddy,” Dad chuckled. “This Church organist for St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in Oakville, Missouri, also happens to be the official Stadium organist for the St. Louis Cardinals and the St. Louis Blues!”

“Wow!” I barked, my tail instantly going back into high gear. “A stadium organist?!” I did a quick lap around the kitchen table. “I can wear my Cardinals shirt and ball cap!”

“Shh! Quiet down, Paddy!” Grandpa hissed, playfully putting a finger to his lips. “Remember Grandma is a die-hard Dodgers fan! I told you to keep that Cardinals shirt hidden in the back of the closet if you know what’s good for you!”

Once we cleared up the baseball diplomacy, Grandpa continued. “Yep, Paddy, even some Church organists have a ‘fun’ side. It’s just some of them are too shy to release it. But not Jeremy. And guess what? We are going to have a guest baritone voice, Charles Blesch, the Pocket City Powerhouse… The Baron of Baritone, but we will call him Chuck Blesch. He is going to start our program off with the National Anthem, Chicago Blackhawks Style!”

“You don’t mean...” I sat in absolute awe, my jaw practically hitting the kitchen linoleum.

“Yes, Paddy,” Dad smiled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I explicitly told Chuck and Jeremy I want the plaster falling off the Church ceiling and people running for their lives when that deep baritone voice hits the rafters! We want to shake the very foundations of the building with joy! Then Jeremy is going to follow right up with his famous medley called ‘The Charge’ that he plays in Busch Stadium to get tens of thousands of people up on their feet and cheering.”

I let out a joyful, echoing bark right there in the kitchen. Now that is how you dedicate an instrument! No stuffy elitism, no polite golfing claps—just pure, thunderous praise that the whole community will be talking about for years to come.

“So, no religious music at all?” I asked, looking up curiously.

“Oh, au contraire!” Grandpa muttered with a grin. “When we are in God’s Church, we sing the hymns as well. But when you hear Jeremy’s versions on those pipes, Paddy, you will be moved like the Apostle Paul straight into the Third Heaven!”

Grandma Carol might be away celebrating Max, but Dad and I knew this was going to be one historic party. I just have to remember to keep my Cardinals cap out of sight until September!

 

Pastor Jim Allen is the shepherd of Trinity Evangelical Church in Mount Vernon. Pastor Jim invites you to come and join us each Sunday morning worship at 10:10AM. Throughout the summer we also offer Church on the River each Sunday at 8am, through end of September at River Bend Park (except for June 7th and 14^th). Bring your dogs, pets, and even your in-laws! And don’t forget to CIRCLE THE DATE of Sunday afternoon, September 13^th (Time to Be Determined) for the Dedication Recital with Jeremy Boyer the organist of the St. Louis Cardinals and baritone guest soloist Charles Blesch.

Paddy Ponders Space Aliens

 

Paddy Ponders Space Aliens

By Pastor Jim Allen, ThD candidate

 

Paddy trotted into Pastor Jim’s workspace, his claws clicking a frantic, Morse-code rhythm on the hardwood. He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose twitching as he scanned the room. The air was vibrating… literally. The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations” was blaring from the desk speakers, that eerie, high-pitched “woo-oo-oo” of the electro-theremin filling the room with a sound that felt like it was beamed in from a flying saucer. No wonder Miss Mary, the Church secretary, had her earplugs in!

 

Now, Pastor Jim’s office was usually a bit cluttered with half-finished sermons, multiple projects,  and fiber optic diagrams, but today it was messier than usual—which, as any dog knows, means it was a total disaster zone. This is how Pastor Jim worked, his mind no doubt looked like his office, piles of thoughts and projects to get done all at once!

 

Every available inch of wall space and floor space was covered. There were sketches of “Grey” entities with oversized eyes, diagrams of glowing football-shaped craft, and maps of the stars taped right next to portraits of the grandkids. Books were stacked like towers ready to topple, and papers were fluttering in the draft from the window. Paddy looked around, his head tilting as he tried to make sense of the chaos.

Paddy’s eyes darted to the desk, where he noticed the laptop was open. On the screen, grainy infrared clips of UAPs were running in a continuous loop, objects zig-zagging at impossible speeds and then vanishing into thin air, timed perfectly to the rising whistle of the music.

 

“Yikes!” Paddy barked over the synth-line, jumping back a step. “Dad, are you all right??? Between the wall art, the light show on your computer, and this space-age music, I’m starting to worry. I know you’ve been working on that dissertation about signs and metaphors, but these signs look like they’re from the wrong side of the galaxy. Have you finally spent too much time in the Hebrew lexicon and snapped?”

I leaned back in my chair, pushing aside a stack of notes and books from Astrophysicist Dr. Hugh Ross.

 

“I’m fine, Paddy. I don’t believe in space aliens,” I said.

 

Paddy’s head cocked so far it nearly hit his shoulder. “You don’t?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Why?” Paddy asked, his tail giving a confused flick.

 

“Because I understand physics,” I replied. “Although I have some theories about dogs and cats as an invasive species,” I said, smiling at Paddy.

 

He gave a playful huff. “Hey, watch it, Dad. I’m a domestic treasure, not an invader. But if you don’t believe in space aliens, what’s with the command center?”

 

“All these pictures and clips are ideas I’m getting to prepare a brochure and a poster for my new Bible study class called “Close Encounters of the God Kind.” With all the noise in the news lately about declassifying UFO files, I want the congregation to be grounded. We’re going to look at the Christian and biblical view of Aliens, UFOs, and UAPs. It’s exactly like it says in Ephesians 6:12: ‘For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world’s rulers of the darkness of this age, and against those real evil spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.’”

 

“Whaaat?” Paddy’s ears went horizontal. “You’re bringing the little green men into the sanctuary? Is there even enough room in the pews for those big heads?”

 

“Paddy, don’t be like a lot of folks who get their theology from the movies like Independence Day,” I warned him. “It was a great movie, but it’s not good theology. It’s not about welcoming visitors from another planet to the potluck, Paddy. It’s about discernment. I don’t want people to be gullible or easily led astray. The Enemy is the master of the ‘Black Flag’ operations, creating distractions or a false threats to lead the flock away from the Truth. If the world starts screaming ‘Aliens!’ the Church needs to know if we’re actually looking at those ‘spiritual forces’ the Apostle Paul warned us about.”

 

Paddy sat down, still eyeing a sketch of a translucent orb. “So... spiritual warfare with a high-tech coat of paint? Clever! But wait, I heard Mom telling the grandkids that your Mom was an alien. Is that why we have so many weird gadgets in the house? I mean, I’ve seen some of those fiber optic sensors you tinker with, and they look like they belong on a starship. And frankly, Dad, some of the grandkids seem a little ‘otherworldly’ themselves when they get going.”

 

I laughed out loud. “Paddy, my Mom was Canadian. Although, I have always had my suspicions about the Canadians. In any event, Mom had a ‘Green Card,’ and she definitely wasn’t green. And as for the grandkids, that’s just the Allen energy, though I’ve always told the kids that we Allens are only a vowel away from being Aliens. It’s in the DNA.”

 

Paddy rolled his eyes so hard he nearly tipped over. “Dad, that’s a ‘groaner’ even by ‘Dad joke’ standards. But I get it. We need to sift the info. Especially since I’m staying here with Grandma Carol while you head across the pond. I don’t want to be looking for UFOs over the roof when I should be guarding the backyard.”

 

“Can I come to the study when you get back?” Paddy asked, his tail giving a hopeful wag. “Because I have a lot of questions. Like, if these things move at 20,000 miles per hour and then just stop, do they have really good seatbelts, or are they just breaking the rules of the road?”

 

“You’re always welcome, Paddy,” I said. “And hopefully, we’ll have the answers. We’ll look at Hugh Ross and how he explains the ‘physics of the impossible.’ He argues that these UAPs might be RTVs (Residual Thermal Venues), manifestations that move through extra-dimensional space. Since God created more than just the three dimensions we see, these ‘travelers’ might be stepping in and out of our time-space from a higher dimension. They don’t need seatbelts because they aren’t always ‘physical’ in the way we think.

 

Paddy’s eyes widened. “Higher dimensions? So, they’re like spiritual ninjas?”

 

“Not exactly, Paddy,” I said firmly, looking him in the eye. “I believe they are fallen angelic-type beings called lower elohim. What people think are visitors from another planet are actually the ‘rulers of the darkness’ that Dr. Michael Heiser talks about. Heiser’s thoughts regarding the Divine Council suggest that what we call ‘aliens’ are often the same elohim (el-o-heem; gods) the ancients encountered. They aren’t from another planet; they are from the Unseen Realm, and their ‘ABC,’ their Astral Baptism of Culture agenda, is to convince us that they are our creators so we’ll stop looking to the One true God who actually made the stars.”

 

Paddy let out a low whistle. “So, Ross says they’re skipping through dimensions, and Heiser says they’re trying to hijack the Divine Council’s seat? This isn’t a sci-fi movie, Dad. This is a cosmic turf war!”

 

“Exactly,” I said. “And when I get back from Europe, we’re going to help the Church understand what these entities really are.”

 

“So, Dad,” Paddy asked, his tail wagging with a sudden burst of administrative curiosity, “what do people have to do to sign up for this course?”

 

I adjusted my glasses and looked over the stacks of paper. “It’s simple, Paddy. They just have to call up Miss Mary in the Church Office and say, ‘I want to sign up for the course on Close Encounters of the God Kind, and Mary will sign them up.” It is open to the community. Here is a prototype of the brochures for the course.

 

Paddy perused the brochure…

---

🚀 Upcoming Bible Study Series:

“Principalities and Propulsion: Sifting the Unseen Realm from the UAP Mystery”

The Curriculum Highlights:

• The Heiser Protocol: Decoding the Divine Council. We’ll discuss his thoughts regarding the “Mount Hermon” incident and how rebellious spiritual entities use technology as a mask.
• The Ross Multi-Verse: Exploring the Testability of Extra-Dimensions. How the Creator of c (the speed of light) maintains sovereignty over the 10+ dimensions these UAPs seem to inhabit.
• Black Flag Awareness: How the Church can spot a spiritual “psy-op” designed to undermine the authority of Scripture (Ephesians 6:12).
• Angels Unawares: Differentiating between a holy messenger, a fallen entity, and a traveler from Toronto.

---

Paddy stood up, his mind spinning faster than a fiber optic signal. He decided he needed a break from the cosmic deep-dive, so he padded down the hall to check on Grandma Carol, who was always working on some sort of craft.

 

He entered the Church kitchen, but stopped short. Grandma Carol turned around, beaming with pride. Grandma was wearing a bright, crinkly tin foil hat perched perfectly between her ears.

 

“What do you think, Paddy?” she asked, adjusting a stray piece of foil. “I’m making a craft for Grandpa’s new Bible study class.”

 

Paddy stared at the shiny headgear, then at the infrared clips still faintly audible from the office, and finally at the ceiling.

 

“I think I will go back to sleep and dream about squirrels,” Paddy mumbled to himself, turning around and trotting toward his favorite rug. “At least squirrels are three-dimensional and mostly local. If Grandma and Dad are this crazy in their seventies, what will they be like in their eighties? No one said Trinity Evangelical Church was a boring place.”

 

Pastor Jim Allen is the shepherd of Trinity Evangelical Church in Mount Vernon. Pastor Jim invites you to come and learn more about the Bible and even SPACE ALIENS.  Join us each Sunday morning worship at 10:10AM. Starting on Sunday, May 24^th at 8am we will begin our Church on the River services at River Bend Park. Bring your dogs, pets, and even your in-laws! If you meet a SPACE ALIEN, invite them as well! Canadians are welcome too!

Paddy Article: Grandma Won't Share!

 

Paddy Article: Grandma Won't Share!

By Pastor Jim Allen, ThD candidate

Ever since Christmas, there has been a territorial dispute in our living room that rivals the most stubborn wrestling match from my high school days. It all started when our daughter, Sarai, gifted Grandma a new blanket. Now, this isn’t just any ordinary throw; it is one of those impossibly plush, super soft, snuggly blankets that practically traps you in comfort. Naturally, it immediately became Grandma’s go-to accessory for her “Lazy Grandma” chair whenever she settled in to watch the Dodgers play. Now don't you Cubs and Cardinals fans get all huffy... our daughter-in-law works for the Dodgers.

 

However, Grandma wasn't the only one who appreciated the luxury of that fleece. Our seventeen-month-old, curly-haired Golden Doodle, Paddy, had been eyeing that blanket since the day Sarai pulled it out of the gift box. With his thick golden curls covering his eyes, he often reminds me of the sheep I used to raise back on the farm in Wisconsin—though, to be fair, none of my sheep ever talked back to me or had the boundless energy of a toddler!

 

The real trouble began a few weeks ago. Grandma inadvertently left the prized blanket unguarded on the couch. Paddy seized the opportunity, hopped up, and claimed the soft turf as his own. When Grandma returned, a tug-of-war ensued. They went back and forth, but on that particular day, Paddy won the battle. He curled into a triumphant, curly-haired ball of victory.

 

His reign, however, was short-lived. Later that afternoon, Paddy made a fatal tactical error: he left his post to go into the kitchen for a snack. Grandma, seizing her window, swiftly reclaimed her property. When Paddy trotted back into the living room and found his cozy throne usurped, he let her have it. He stood there barking at her, absolutely convinced that Grandma had just robbed him in broad daylight. This cold war over the snuggly blanket has been going on for weeks now, but it finally reached a boiling point last night.

 

I was sitting nearby, typing away on my laptop, trying to ignore the escalating rustling sounds across the room. Paddy was making several brazen attempts to grab the edges of the blanket with his teeth. Grandma was holding the line, pulling it firmly back into her lap and resisting his every move.

 

Suddenly, the situation escalated. Realizing his stealth maneuvers weren't working, Paddy hopped up on his two back feet. Standing there tall on his hind legs, he started barking and yelling at her, throwing a full-on tantrum and using words we don't allow in Pastor Jim's house. Now, you have to realize something crucial about our family dynamics: absolutely no one—not our four kids, their spouses, our twelve grandchildren, and certainly not Grandpa—ever, ever, ever takes on Grandma.

 

Annoyed by the ruckus, I looked up from my laptop, ready to issue a stern pastoral rebuke. But before I could get a word out, Paddy turned his head toward me, thoroughly exasperated, and yelled, “Grandma won't share!”

 

Without missing a beat, Grandma clutched the fleece tighter to her chest and shot back, “The blanket is mine!”

 

I had to bite the inside of my cheek. Sitting there looking at Grandma and my curly-haired Golden Doodle locked in a turf war, they looked exactly like two petulant children demanding their own way.

 

Seeing that neither of them was willing to surrender an inch of that incredibly soft Christmas blanket, I decided it was time to bring a little scriptural authority into the situation, much like maintaining order when I was a Sergeant in the USAF.

 

I looked over at the dog, who was still pouting near the couch. “Paddy,” I said firmly, “go get your Bible.”

 

Paddy huffed, crossed his front paws, and looked me dead in the eye. “I don't want to,” he grumbled.

 

I didn't raise my voice. I just looked at him with that classic dad-stare and calmly started the countdown.

 

“Three...”

 

Paddy held his ground, stubborn as a young ram refusing to be sheared.

 

“Two...”

 

I could see his resolve fracturing. It was like watching the structural integrity of a fiber optic cable bend just past its tolerance point.

 

“One...”

 

“Okay, okay!” Paddy sighed dramatically, throwing his paws up in surrender. “I’ll get my Bible.”

 

He trotted off and returned a moment later, nudging his well-worn Bible open with his nose. Amazingly, it automatically flopped open to the exact page he wanted. He tapped his paw triumphantly on the Gospel of Luke and looked up at Carol.

 

“Right here,” Paddy announced, his tail giving a self-righteous wag. “Luke chapter 3, verse 11! 'He answered them, “He who has two coats, let him give to him who has none.”' Grandma has her own sweater on and she also has the snuggly blanket. I am practically freezing. The theology is clear!”

 

Carol rolled her eyes and pulled the fleece tighter around her shoulders, completely unbothered by Paddy’s exegesis.

 

I had to suppress a chuckle. You must admire the dog's hermeneutics, even if his motives were entirely self-serving. But it was time to correct his course and get the harmony back in the house, much like tuning the brass section of the school band.

 

“Nice try, Paddy,” I said, leaning forward. “But you're conveniently ignoring the rest of the counsel. Go over to the book of Acts.”

 

Paddy let out a long, long groan and flipped the pages with his nose until he landed in the right neighborhood.

 

“Read Acts 20:35,” I instructed him.

 

Paddy squinted at the page and mumbled the Bible text under his breath, his ears drooping lower with every word. “...and to remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

 

He looked up at me, then over at Grandma, who was now smiling smugly from her Lazy Grandma chair, cozy as could be.

 

“See?” I told him gently. “If you let Grandma enjoy her blanket, you get the blessing of giving. Isn't that better?”

 

Paddy let out a heavy sigh, flopped down onto the carpet with a thud, and rested his chin on his paws. His brain was probably processing the information faster than a high-capacity fiber optic network, trying to find a loophole. “I guess,” he muttered. “But a blessing isn't nearly as soft as that blanket.”

 

I decided to press my advantage while he was feeling philosophical. “You know, Paddy,” I said, adjusting my glasses, “one of the reasons Grandma might be so hesitant to share her blanket with you is your... hmmm… modifications. You have a tendency to chew holes into things.”

 

Paddy's head snapped up from his paws. The sheer indignation on his fluffy face was Oscar-worthy. “Not me!” he retorted, his curls bouncing defensively. “I am a gentleman!”

 

“Oh really?” I raised an eyebrow. “Are you forgetting my socks?”

 

Paddy waved a paw dismissively. “But socks are play toys! They practically come with a giant 'Tug-O-War' sign printed on them.”

 

“They could be play toys in your mind, but I actually need to wear them without my toes hanging out of the end,” I pointed out. “And let’s not forget the incident where you chewed a massive hole right through the middle of my blanket.”

 

Paddy looked away, suddenly intensely fascinated by an invisible speck of dust on the living room rug. “Well,” he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact. “I was much younger then.”

 

“Paddy, that was three months ago.”

 

“In dog years, that's a lifetime!” he shot back, his tail thumping indignantly against the floor. “I have matured! My teeth are strictly for kibble and squeaky toys now!”

 

Over in her chair, Grandma just patted her pristine, hole-free Christmas blanket, perfectly content to let the “mature” Golden Doodle stay right there on the floor.

 

Pastor Jim Allen is the shepherd of Trinity Evangelical Church in Mount Vernon. Pastor Jim invites you to come and learn more about Trinity and the Bible by attending our Sunday morning worship at 10:10AM. Starting on Sunday, May 24^th at 8am we will begin our Church on the River services at River Bend Park. Bring your dogs, pets, and even your in-laws!

 

Paddy Solves the Mystery of the Two Passovers in One Week

 

Paddy the Golden Doodle Solves Another Mystery:

The Greatest Calendar Heist in History: How Jesus Outsmarted Judas with a Water Jug

By Pastor Jim Allen

 

I walked into the study, and there he was. Paddy, my Golden Doodle, was sprawled out on the rug, his paws delicately holding open a copy of the Book of Enoch—specifically the section on the Luminaries.

 

“What are you doing there, Paddy?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

 

Paddy didn’t even look up. He just adjusted his reading glasses (don’t ask me where he got them... I really need to check my Amazon purchase history again) and let out a long, scholarly sigh. “Have you ever wondered why there were two Passovers during Holy Week in 33 AD?”

 

I blinked. “No, I guess I haven’t, Paddy. I usually have my hands full with the sheep and the Sunday bulletin. How were there two Passovers?”

 

Paddy peered over his spectacles. “You would think with your big, fancy theological education, you would know. But you see, that’s the problem with you academics. You spend so much time answering the professors’ questions, you never think to ask and answer your own!” Paddy snipped.

 

I thought for a moment. Paddy had a point. Sometimes in seeking the degree, we forget to learn along the way. To take our own rabbit trails. I was beginning to realize that maybe instead of going to seminary, I should have bought a Golden Doodle in the first place.

 

“Hello, in there!” Paddy barked, snapping me out of my daze. “Did I lose you for a moment?”

 

“Just a moment, Paddy. Please, go on!” I replied, taking a seat.

 

“And,” Paddy continued, finally looking up with that scholarly glint in his soulful brown eyes, “have you ever wondered why Jesus gave orders to follow a man with a pitcher of water (Mark 14:13, Luke 22:10) to find the place where they would hold Passover on a Tuesday night? Talk about a strange ‘GPS’ coordinate, Dad.”

 

“No, I guess I never spent a lot of time on that Scripture, Paddy. Help me out. After all, you are evidently the Second Temple Judaic literature scholar in the family.”

 

Paddy sat up, wagging his tail once—thump—for emphasis. “Grab a stool and listen closely, because I’m about to tell you about the slickest tactical maneuver in biblical history. I call it: The Greatest Calendar Heist in History: How Jesus Outsmarted Judas with a Water Jug.”

 

The Ultimate Scheduling Conflict

“Now look, Jim,” Paddy said, pacing the rug like a seasoned professor. “If you’ve ever tried to organize a simple dinner party with twelve of your mates, you know it’s an absolute nightmare. Now, imagine trying to organize a dinner party where the meal is the foundation of a New Covenant, the authorities are out for your head, and one of your twelve mates is actively trying to sell you out to the enemy.”

 

“Sounds like a bad day at the sheep shearers,” I muttered, suddenly wondering why Paddy had adopted a slight Australian-English accent.

 

“Worse! For centuries, scholars have been scratching their heads over a massive plot hole. Matthew, Mark, and Luke make it sound like Jesus and the lads are sitting down for a proper Passover feast. But then John (John 18:28) chimes in and says that on Friday morning, the Pharisees wouldn’t enter Pilate’s headquarters because they didn’t want to be defiled before they ate the Passover. So, did Jesus eat it early, or were the Pharisees just running terribly late?”

 

“Go on,” I replied, leaning forward. He had my total attention now. I was realizing that the Friday Jesus was crucified—alongside the lambs at 3:00 PM in 33 AD—was Passover. So how could Jesus have held the Passover meal that instituted the Lord’s Supper, the Holy Communion, the Holy Eucharist beforehand? I am not too proud to be taught by my Doodle.

 

Paddy tapped his paw on the Book of Enoch. “Jesus had a logistical paradox. He needed to be two things:

1.     The Participant: He had to eat the Passover Meal to institute the bread and the wine... the Lord’s Supper!

2.     The Sacrifice: He also had to be the Passover Lamb, hanging on a Roman cross on Friday afternoon, exactly when the Temple priests were slaughtering the lambs.

“If He waits until the official Friday Passover to eat the dinner, He’s already dead. If He eats it on Thursday night, it’s not a legally recognized Passover, just a very tense Thursday supper.”

 

Operation: Secret Essene

“So, what’s the play?” I asked.

 

“A covert op,” Paddy whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “In Mark 14, Jesus tells Peter and John to go into Jerusalem. But He doesn’t give them an address. If He gave them an address, Judas—that ultimate snake in the grass—would have slipped out the back door and brought the temple guards to arrest Jesus before the appetizers even hit the table. Instead, Jesus gives them a secret signal: ‘Go into the city, and there you will meet a man carrying a pitcher of water. Follow him.’”

 

Paddy gave a little doggy grin. “Dad, in first-century Judea, carrying water from the public wells was strictly women’s work. A man hauling a water pitcher through the streets was about as subtle as a donkey in a tuxedo. He would stick out a mile away! Why was he carrying it?”

 

“I give up, tell me!” I said, anxiously awaiting the answer.

 

“Because he was an Essene,” Paddy replied smugly.

 

“You mean the guys from the Dead Sea Scrolls?”

 

“Exactly! They lived in male-only, ‘guys-only’ monastic communities.”

 

“Not exactly a woke community, huh?” I attempted to joke.

 

Paddy rolled his eyes, ignoring my dad joke entirely, and continued. “No women meant the lads had to fetch the water themselves. By telling the disciples to look for the bloke with the jug, Jesus was sending them straight into the believers of the Essene Quarter of Jerusalem.”

 

The Tale of Two Passovers

“The Essenes hated the official Jerusalem Temple calendar,” Paddy explained, pointing to a chart he’d apparently drawn on a napkin with a Sharpie. “The mainstream priests used a lunisolar calendar based on the moon. But the Essenes? They followed the ancient Book of Enoch, which demanded a 364-day solar calendar. Because their calendar was a perfect mathematical grid, their holidays never shifted. They believed the beginning of each new year should begin on Wednesday just like in Genesis 1 when God created the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars.

 

Feature	The Temple Calendar (Mainstream)	The Essene Calendar (Enochic)
Timekeeper	The Shifting Moon	The Fixed Sun
Passover Day in 33 AD	Friday	Tuesday
The Vibe	Public, official, crowded	Secretive, monastic, rigid

 

“Because the Essenes lived on a totally different timeline, they were prepping their dining rooms on Tuesday, completely ignoring the mainstream world that was waiting for Friday.”

 

Checkmate, Judas

“By utilizing the ‘man with the water,’ Jesus tapped into this alternate, fully legal Jewish timeline. He sat down for a legitimate, culturally recognized Passover meal on Tuesday night. Judas was completely blindsided! He was probably expecting a Thursday betrayal, only to realize the New Covenant had already been instituted right under his nose.”

 

Paddy hopped up onto the armchair, looking incredibly proud of himself. “Even better, a Tuesday Last Supper solves the timeline of the crucifixion. It buys three full days for the legal circus. It gives the authorities time to drag Jesus from Annas, to Caiaphas, to the Sanhedrin, to Pilate, over to Herod, and back to Pilate. Trying to cram all those trials into a few hours between Thursday midnight and Friday morning is a logistical nightmare!”

 

“So, Jesus used the calendar against them?” I asked in awe.

 

“Like a grandmaster,” Paddy said, his tail wagging furiously now. “He wasn’t an Essene—He broke their purity rules constantly by hanging out with tax collectors and healing the lepers—but He used their solar calendar to secure the VIP room. He outsmarted the traitor, instituted the Eucharist, and walked straight into His destiny on Friday afternoon, perfectly on time.”

 

Paddy hopped down and looked back at his book. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to ask Miss Mary to go fetch me a pitcher of water. After all, that is women’s work.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that, Paddy,” I cautioned quickly.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I would leave off the part about it being ‘women’s work’ if you ever want another treat from the Church Secretary!” I replied.

 

“Fair point,” Paddy mumbled.

 

“In any event, Paddy, you are remarkable. A little naïve about office politics, perhaps, but remarkable!”

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Pastor Jim Allen is the shepherd of Trinity Evangelical Church and is a doctoral candidate in the study of Biblical Semiotics. If you are interested in further Bible Study, come and join us each Wednesday morning at 10:00 AM in the Trinity Church Fellowship Hall, or on Thursdays at 11:30 AM at the American Legion, or at 1:45 PM at the Senior Citizen Center. Pastor Jim also invites you to Sunday Worship at 10:10 AM at Trinity Evangelical Church located at 505 Mulberry Street, Mount Vernon, Indiana. Call for more information: (812) 838-3805.