Would You Like A Service With Your WOF?

Would You Like A Service With Your WOF?

If you cast your memory back through the cloudy haze that has purported to be our summer, you may remember a bit of a to-do around a certain poster erected by St Matthews in the City Church, Auckland at Christmas. Depicting a rather shocked looking Virgin Mary holding a pregnancy test, it caused such outrage amongst the more fanatical and narrow minded God-botherers in the community that it led them to vandalise it.

But in this modern age of iPads and interwebbery, is it any wonder that a church has to turn to a bit of lateral thinking in order to draw in the punters? While it could be argued that God should well be above passing fads and fashions, the ecumenical desire to hang on to the rites and rituals of millennia past does rather put it out of touch with your average 21st century Jack and Jill. It sometimes comes as a bit of a surprise that the dress code for church attendees doesn’t specifically mention the need for a ruffed collar and cloak.

So while – no pun intended – old habits die hard, it seems that if these institutions do want to continue to be relevant to the modern world then perhaps they should make some concession to the fact that their target audience no longer dwell in huts made from wattle and daub and fall quaking at the first mention of fire and brimstone. But if they want to have some real impact, then posters – no matter how clever and inflammatory – are really not the way to go. Experience tells us that people are never more likely to turn to God than in the moments of greatest terror and peril and with that in mind churches should perhaps consider selling up the acres of prime real estate they currently occupy and setting up branches in locations where they can seize on these moments of human frailty: VTNZ.

You need tyres and an exhaustcism

For those of you who schlep around in shiny new motors then the yearly trip to pass your WOF is likely to be no more taxing than spending a quiet night in with Stana Katic and a bottle of baby oil. However, for those of us who make our daily commute in what is essentially a wheeled skip with most of the rubbish removed, every six months we get the privilege of a day so stressful that it could turn you to religion.

It’s bad enough when you arrive knowing full well that your tyres are shot and at least one major panel is being held on by spray adhesive and duct-tape, but as a series of neatly attired men poke and prod around your dilapidated steed, there is the terrible foreboding that they are going to walk back in with a sheet full of other, horribly expensive issues that need to be remedied.

I know this because the Mercedes went through this last Sunday and the whole process was a nightmarish ordeal; I kept throwing nervous glances into the inspection bay and quickly returning my head to my hands and offering silent prayers to the Gods of internal combustion. Any religious organisation – and I mean any – that had sidled up at that moment, offered to help me during this difficult time and promised to support me through the afternoon of misery fixing the minor power steering leak would have been up a member on the spot.

Although upon returning later in the day – a matted mess of power steering fluid and blood – and presenting my bodged remedy for re-test I was informed that my hours of toil and swearing were pretty much time wasted. According to the very helpful attendant it would have been just as easy to unleash a can of engine degreaser and quickly wipe up the mess with an old rag. Any leak would have been undetectable enough to sweep through the WOF with no problems at all.

God, it seems, is all very well, but it never pays to forget that the Devil is in the detailing.

If you cast your memory back through the cloudy haze that has purported to be our summer, you may remember a bit of a to-do around a certain poster erected by St Matthews in the City Church, Auckland at Christmas. Depicting a rather shocked looking Virgin Mary holding a pregnancy test, it caused such outrage amongst the more fanatical and narrow minded God-botherers in the community that it led them to vandalise it.

But in this modern age of iPads and interwebbery, is it any wonder that a church has to turn to a bit of lateral thinking in order to draw in the punters? While it could be argued that God should well be above passing fads and fashions, the ecumenical desire to hang on to the rites and rituals of millennia past does rather put it out of touch with your average 21st century Jack and Jill. It sometimes comes as a bit of a surprise that the dress code for church attendees doesn’t specifically mention the need for a ruffed collar and cloak.

So while – no pun intended – old habits die hard, it seems that if these institutions do want to continue to be relevant to the modern world then perhaps they should make some concession to the fact that their target audience no longer dwell in huts made from wattle and daub and fall quaking at the first mention of fire and brimstone. But if they want to have some real impact, then posters – no matter how clever and inflammatory – are really not the way to go. Experience tells us that people are never more likely to turn to God than in the moments of greatest terror and peril and with that in mind churches should perhaps consider selling up the acres of prime real estate they currently occupy and setting up branches in locations where they can seize on these moments of human frailty: VTNZ.

You need tyres and an exhaustcism

For those of you who schlep around in shiny new motors then the yearly trip to pass your WOF is likely to be no more taxing than spending a quiet night in with Stana Katic and a bottle of baby oil. However, for those of us who make our daily commute in what is essentially a wheeled skip with most of the rubbish removed, every six months we get the privilege of a day so stressful that it could turn you to religion.

It’s bad enough when you arrive knowing full well that your tyres are shot and at least one major panel is being held on by spray adhesive and duct-tape, but as a series of neatly attired men poke and prod around your dilapidated steed, there is the terrible foreboding that they are going to walk back in with a sheet full of other, horribly expensive issues that need to be remedied.

I know this because the Mercedes went through this last Sunday and the whole process was a nightmarish ordeal; I kept throwing nervous glances into the inspection bay and quickly returning my head to my hands and offering silent prayers to the Gods of internal combustion. Any religious organisation – and I mean any – that had sidled up at that moment, offered to help me during this difficult time and promised to support me through the afternoon of misery fixing the minor power steering leak would have been up a member on the spot.

Although upon returning later in the day – a matted mess of power steering fluid and blood – and presenting my bodged remedy for re-test I was informed that my hours of toil and swearing were pretty much time wasted. According to the very helpful attendant it would have been just as easy to unleash a can of engine degreaser and quickly wipe up the mess with an old rag. Any leak would have been undetectable enough to sweep through the WOF with no problems at all.

God, it seems, is all very well, but it never pays to forget that the Devil is in the detailing.

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