Once there was an elderly priest who had heard just about everything a confessional could offer—and far more than he ever wanted. For decades, parishioners lined up behind the wooden screen to unload their souls, but one particular sin kept appearing so often that it eventually wore him down.
Adultery.
It was always the same: different voices, same guilt, same shame. One Sunday, standing at the pulpit and gripping the edges as if to hold himself together, he spoke with unusual bluntness:
“If I hear one more confession of adultery,” he said, “I will leave this parish.”
The church went silent.
No one wanted to lose him. He was gentle, patient, wise, and more tolerant than most. The congregation, desperate to keep peace, improvised.
They agreed on a code word.
From that day on, anyone who had committed adultery simply said they had “fallen.” No details, no explanations—just a fall.
The system worked perfectly. Confessions continued, the priest relaxed, life went on smoothly—until he passed away peacefully at a ripe old age, respected by all.
Soon after, a young, earnest priest arrived, eager to serve the parish. He spent his first week learning names, blessing homes, and listening carefully in the confessional.
Then he noticed something alarming.
Nearly everyone spoke of having “fallen.” Some fell last night. Some twice last month. Some regularly. Others claimed it happened unexpectedly, in moments of weakness.
Concerned, the priest concluded it wasn’t a spiritual problem—it was a public safety issue.
He scheduled a meeting with the mayor.
“Something must be done about the sidewalks in this town,” he said gravely.
“The sidewalks?” the mayor blinked.
“Yes,” the priest said. “People keep coming in, saying they’ve fallen. Some multiple times. It’s alarming.”
The mayor laughed.
The priest, offended, wagged a finger. “I don’t know what’s funny—your wife fell three times this week!”
The laughter stopped immediately.
On another occasion, during a blisteringly hot summer, a minister, a priest, and a rabbi went hiking together. By mid-afternoon, sweat drenched them, and exhaustion had set in.
They came upon a secluded lake with a sandy beach, hidden by thick trees. Without hesitation, they stripped, tossed their clothes on a log, and ran into the cool water.
The swim was glorious.
On the way back, disaster struck: a group of women appeared on the trail.
The minister and priest immediately covered themselves and ran into the bushes.
The rabbi, however, covered his face.
After the women passed, the minister asked, “Why cover your face instead of… you know?”
The rabbi shrugged. “In my congregation, it’s my face they’d recognize.”
Then there was the elegant lady flying home from Switzerland, clearly nervous. She leaned toward a priest with a conspiratorial smile.
“Father,” she whispered, “may I ask a favor?”
“Of course, my child. What troubles you?”
She explained she had purchased an expensive hair-removal device but exceeded the customs declaration limit. Could he hide it under his cassock?
The priest hesitated. “I can, but I cannot lie.”
She smiled. “Father, you look so honest—they won’t ask anything.”
At customs, the officer politely asked, “Father, do you have anything to declare?”
“From the top of my head to my sash, I have nothing to declare,” said the priest.
“And from the sash down?”
“I have a marvelous little instrument designed for women, but never used,” he replied without missing a beat.