Holy Shenanigans: The Misadventures of Thomas Marler, Archdeacon Extraordinaire In the calm pastoral setting of Wiltshire, where sheep doze lazily under the watchful gaze of ancient oaks, one would naturally expect a parish filled with solemn worship and pious rectitude. However, lurking within this serene landscape was a man whose very title—Archdeacon—would become synonymous with comedic calamity. Enter Thomas Marler, the Archdeacon of Sarum, a cleric whose misadventures could rival those of the most notorious tricksters and whose very life seemed to resemble a series of divine bloopers, begging the question: Was this man favored by the Almighty or just a recipient of divine misfortune? Marler graduated from Trinity College, Oxford, in 1600, which no doubt equipped him with the erudition needed to navigate the treacherous waters of Anglican bureaucracy. Yet as he donned his clerical robes, one could almost hear the heavenly chuckles reverberating in the choir loft. "What does it mean to be an Archdeacon?" you may ask. Well, aside from opening dusty parish registers and ensuring the incense was always at the right level of *woozy*, it meant that Marler was expected to be a paragon of virtue, wisdom, and piety. Spoiler alert: Marler failed spectacularly at all three. Take, for instance, his tenure as rector of Lydiard Tregoze starting in 1612. Far from being a steely commander of the ecclesiastical helm, he instead epitomized the phrase "cat herding" in a pastoral context. His first Sunday service was met with a cacophony that could only have been orchestrated by the sousaphone enthusiastically rallying the local goat herders in a spontaneous shifting of the Holy Spirit. Legend has it that Marler thought he could quell the ruckus with a well-timed sermon about the virtues of silence, but those goats, undeterred, seemed anointed by Bacchus himself, dancing wildly in rhythm to the pew creaks. If there’s anything one learns in the ministry, it’s that some congregants simply do not take admonishments seriously—especially when they aren't smart enough to realize that goats were, in fact, the ones truly going *baa-baa*, not just the pastor. Now, let’s fast forward to 1625, when Marler was awarded the thrilling title of Archdeacon of Sarum. Surely this was a sign of respect and prestige, right? Wrong! This promotion did not translate to a flourish of grandiosity but a buffet of blunders. Picture the scene: parish meetings under candlelight that could hardly stand upright without moments of levity, as Marler attempted to balance ecclesiastical duties with a penchant for practical jokes. His best prank? Concocting a “Holy Water” mix that turned out to be nothing more than a particularly pungent goat's milk concoction—an event which saw nervous parishioners feverishly mopping their floors, convinced they were in the crosshairs of an avenging angel armed with foul-smelling milk. However, if there’s one thing that could distract from the raucous consequences of Marler’s impractical jocularity, it has to be the time he tried to organize a “Divine Wine Tasting” event. Unbeknownst to him, the consulting vintner was famed for his moonshine rather than his Merlot. And just like that, the Archdeacon led his flock to what could only be dubbed the “Great Swill” of Sarum. Many a parishioner went home with all sorts of new ‘spirits’ that day, leading to some rather unholy behavior—like dancing on the altar and attributing verses from the Book of Psalms to Lady Gaga. Add to this the fabulous episodes of “Lost Sermons,” where Marler routinely misplaced his notes before delivering homilies entirely based on his latest sheep-watching adventures, or worse, his secret wish to start a sheep-shearing contest in the name of charity—sparking an unexpected theological debate about whether the shearing or the shepherds were the “true” stewards of the flock! At last, Thomas Marler’s twelve-year run as Archdeacon met its culmination in 1643. The year didn’t just mark the end of his earthly escapades but also the beginning of endless parsonage folklore. Stories of his antics were recycled in taverns, church halls, and even amongst the sheep—who apparently learned not only how to baaa but also to chuckle whenever the name “Marler” was uttered. Thus a new archdeacon, who likely rolled their eyes upon reading the listing of Thomas Marler in the parish annals, was left to contend with shoes that were undeniably oversized for anyone seeking ordination in the preposterous legacy of their now-beloved predecessor. In the end, Thomas Marler’s life may not have been a series of unimpeachable praises but rather a Holler of Holy Shenanigans, a joyous testament to the fact that not even the most esteemed positions in the church can assure dignified decorum or prudence. His escapades remind us that laughter might just be the holiest transgression and that sometimes a good dose of silliness is the prescription a weary flock truly needs to energize their soul. Amen!