The Goat That Got Religion

When I was a kid, I thought church was about pinching my brother when Mom wasn’t looking and trying to stay awake through the preacher’s third use of the word “righteousness.” We’d sit in the third pew on the left side, the wood worn smooth from decades of fidgeting kids, behind Mrs. Lacy and her hat collection that could’ve rivaled a Vegas showgirl’s.

But that summer, something strange happened—something none of us forgot, not even Old Man Holloway, who’d forgotten most everything else, including his wedding anniversary three years in a row.

Someone decided to have a sunrise revival service at Miller’s Pond. The preacher said it’d help us connect with nature and the Lord. I think it was mostly to give us a break from the sweltering sanctuary where the fans moved the air with the enthusiasm of a napping cat.

So we all showed up before the rooster did, dragging lawn chairs, thermoses of weak coffee, and enough bug spray to deforest a jungle. Mama wore her blue dress with the white daisies that made her sneeze if she stood too close to herself.

Now, what no one accounted for was the goat.

Clarence was his name, and he belonged to Mr. Luther Dale, a wiry bachelor who’d been trying to train Clarence to pull a wagon for reasons known only to Luther and possibly Clarence. Luther claimed Clarence had “potential,” though most folks suspected he had brain damage from the time he tried to headbutt a moving Ford truck.

The revival had just hit full stride. Brother Mallory was reading from the Book of Acts in a tone that suggested fire, brimstone, and indigestion. The sun peeked over the pines, setting the pond aglow like God Himself had shown up with a flashlight.

And that’s when Clarence made his entrance.

He came trotting out of the trees, flopping ears, beard swinging like a professor with somewhere to be. Then he spotted the preacher and thought the pulpit—a plywood crate with a cloth over it—was a challenge.

Clarence charged.

Brother Mallory yelped and leaped aside, losing his place in Scripture and dignity. Clarence climbed atop the crate and stood there, regal as a mountaintop prophet, tail twitching in approval.

Nobody knew what to do. And for thirty seconds, we just sat there, mouths open, while Clarence surveyed his flock.

Then Luther–mortified beyond words, came sprinting from the tree line, slipped on a patch of wet grass, and slid face-first into the pond. His hat floated after him like it had second thoughts.

The goat sneezed.

We never really got back on track that morning. But something about it stuck with me.

Maybe it was how the morning mist lifted or the sound of laughter rising where scolding should’ve been. Mama said later that maybe Clarence had the Holy Spirit–and was a little confused about how to share it.

Brother Mallory didn’t think it was funny, but he had to admit the turnout the coming Sunday was more than usual. Folks came hoping for a sequel.

There wasn’t one.

Clarence retired from public ministry and returned to pulling Luther’s wagon full of squash to the farmer’s market. He never climbed another pulpit, but he’d earned a kind of reverence around town.

And I suppose that sometimes the unexpected is exactly what we need. The Good Book might not mention goats with a calling, but I reckon God’s got a sense of humor–and maybe even a soft spot for a goat named Clarence.