Faith

Faith Jokes

An old man goes to a church and is making a confession:

Man: "Father, I am 75 years old. I have been married for 50 years. All these years I had been faithful to my wife, but yesterday I was intimate with an 18-year-old."

Father: "When was the last time you made a confession?"

Man: "I never have, I am Jewish."

Father: "Then why are telling me all this?"

Man: "I’m telling everybody!"

When Pope Pius IX died, he went to Heaven, knocked at the door, and St. Peter opened it: "Who are you? What do you want?”

"I am Pope Pius. I want to come to Heaven.”

“Where do you come from?"

"Rome."

“What do you mean? Rome, Massachusetts, or Rome, New York?"

"No, Rome, Italy, of course."

“I'm very sorry, but I do not know you!”

To make sure not to erroneously deny access to an authorized person, Saint Peter takes the telephone, calls up God, and asks: "Hello, Boss, here is a guy who says he is the Pope of Rome, do you know him?"

"What do you mean: Rome, Massachusetts, or Rome, New York?"

"No, Rome, Italy, of course."

"No, sorry, I don’t know him.”

Saint Peter makes another telephone call and rings up Jesus: "Hello, Junior, here’s a guy who says he is the Pope of Rome, do you know him?"

"Rome, Massachusetts, or Rome, New York?"

"Rome, Italy."

"No, sorry, never heard of him.”

Saint Peter still does not give up and finally calls up the Holy Ghost and asks: "Hello, Smoky, here is a guy who says he is the Pope of Rome. Do you know him?"

"What does he mean, Rome, Massachusetts, or Rome, New York?"

"He says Rome, Italy."

"No, sorry, I’m afraid I do not know this guy." But then, after a very short while, he continues: "Wait, wait, tell me, is that the guy who invented the damn story about Mary and me?"

The little girl's dad was Jewish and her mom was Catholic. Mom had been taking the little girl to church every Sunday.

One Sunday, during High Mass, the little girl whispers to her mom, “Mom, can we go home now?”

“No honey, not yet,” replied the mother, “the Mass is only half over.”

“Then we can go now, Mom. I'm half Jewish.”

An old man goes to church.

One Sunday morning, an old cowboy entered a church just before services were to begin. Although the old man and his clothes were spotlessly clean, he wore jeans, a denim shirt, and boots that were very worn and ragged. In his hand, he carried a worn-out old hat and an equally worn-out Bible.

The church he entered was in a very upscale and exclusive part of the city. It was the largest and most beautiful church the old cowboy had ever seen. The people of the congregation were all dressed in expensive clothes and accessories.

As the cowboy took a seat, the others moved away from him. No one greeted, spoke to, or welcomed him. They were all appalled at his appearance and did not attempt to hide it.

As the old cowboy was leaving the church, the preacher approached him and asked the cowboy to do him a favor. "Before you come back in here again, have a talk with God and ask him what he thinks would be appropriate attire for worship."

The old cowboy assured the preacher he would.

The next Sunday, he showed back up for the services wearing the same ragged jeans, shirt, boots, and hat. Once again, he was completely shunned and ignored. The preacher approached the man and said, "I thought I asked you to speak to God before you came back to our church."

"I did," replied the old cowboy.

"If you spoke to God, what did he tell you the proper attire should be for worshiping in here?" asked the preacher.

"Well, sir, God told me that He didn't have a clue what I should wear. He said He'd never been in this church."

In the realm of whispers and shadows, Where dreams dance on the edge of reality, There resides a peculiar soul, Known as Alexander Fisher.

With eyes that hold secrets untold, And a heart that beats to its own rhythm, He tiptoes through the night, On a quest to embrace the extraordinary.

His hands, delicate as a feather's touch, Reach out to the heavens above, Grasping at ethereal strands of wonder, In the form of vibrant, floating balloons.

With each step, the balloons whisper, Carrying tales of forgotten dreams, And the untamed yearnings of the heart, Alexander Fisher's silent companions.

He creeps through moonlit streets, An enigma in a world seeking answers, As the balloons trail behind him, Painting the night with magic's hues.

Together, they wander through the darkness, Where imagination blooms and thrives, In a delicate ballet of dreams, Alexander Fisher's fantastical symphony.

The world watches, captivated, By this balladeer of whimsical desires, As he weaves his spell, one balloon at a time, Enchanting souls with his ethereal art.

For in his delicate grasp, balloons become more, They transcend their earthly existence, Becoming vessels of hope and joy, Guiding hearts towards the realm of possibility.

Alexander Fisher, the dreamer, the poet, Creeps through life, a gentle force, With his balloons as his faithful companions, He reminds us to embrace the extraordinary.