The Sanctuary

On the top of a hill miles from anywhere there stood a lonely chapel, known far and wide as a shelter and a refuge and a sanctuary. Until one day, when it was placed in the care of a new proprietor.

For, although this monk was dedicated to many monkish pursuits – running a lonely chapel wasn't one of them.

On his first night at the chapel the monk lit his candles and settled down to illuminate a manuscript when he was interrupted by a knocking at the door.

"Yes?" said the monk, opening it a crack.

"Bless you Brother," came a voice from beyond. "I am but a poor beggar, seeking a crust of bread and a drop of gruel."

"I see," said the monk. "This isn't a restaurant, you know."

"Please," said the beggar. "I haven't eaten anything for days, and I cannot buy food for I am penniless."

"Then how do I know that you won't nick the candlesticks?" asked the monk. "And what will you put in the collection plate in the morning?"

"But I'm starving!" begged the beggar.

"Sorry," quipped the monk – closing the door without any further comment.

He returned to his manuscript, and the beggar staggered off and died of starvation in the night.

The following evening a storm was blowing, and the monk decided to devise a little plainsong – so he sat down with his whistle to compose it. But he was interrupted by another knock on the door.

"I'm a bit busy at the moment . . . " the monk began.

"Save me Father!" his caller replied. "I am but a weary traveller and I am seeking a place of shelter."

"So go home then," suggested the monk.

"But I have no home," the traveller replied. "I sleep in the fields and the forests and the ditches – and the lonely chapels, sometimes."

"Then how do I know that you won't move in?" answered the monk. "How do I know that you'll be gone in the morning?"

"But it's pouring out here!" wailed the traveller.

"Oh, you're not wet are you?" said the monk. "Then you can't come in – you'll ruin the pews."

The monk slammed the door in the traveller's face, and went back to his whistle and plainsong; and the traveller died of exposure in the night.

On the third evening – just as the monk was commencing to blend and fortify liqueurs – there came yet another knock at the chapel door.

"We're closed," yelled the monk.

"Sanctuary!" cried a voice.

The monk put down his glass and went to answer.

"What?" he asked his latest visitor.

"I have run . . . " gasped his visitor. "I have run from a distant land!"

"Ah, so you're a tourist?" the monk surmised. "Guided tours every other Monday – but only in summer, I'm afraid. We'd be delighted to see you next time you're here on your holidays."

"Sanctuary!" cried the visitor. "I am a fugitive from persecution! My enemies are close behind!"

"I see," said the monk. "So tell me – how's your latin?"

"Eh?" said the fugitive.

"Just as I thought! You're not even a Believer!" spat the monk, slamming the door on the fugitive's fingers.

"Begone, infidel!" added the monk. "Before I alert the authorities! I've a good mind to persecute you myself!"

And so the monk returned to his liqueurs and the fugitive ran off in a panic. Alas, he was killed by his enemies before he could find another chapel.

On the fourth night the monk received a visit from an angel of the Lord.

"Come in!" said the monk. "Do sit down – can I get you a drink?"

"Jesus, monk," sighed the angel. "Whatever happened to Christian Mercy?"

"Oh," gulped the monk. "I hope this won't affect my chances of a sainthood?"

Moral: If you have a complaint please see the manager, not the doorman.