“Dear Father Spencer Vale, what is to be done about our parish priest? A fellow parishioner was in the very back pew on his phone watching football. Broncos vs. Chargers. Instead of reprimanding him, our priest yelled from the pulpit, ‘What’s the score, son?!?’ then proceeded to hoot and holler, fists in the air when the Broncos scored a touchdown. It was a disgrace, Father! What do we do here?”

PART I — THE SETUP: CAMERA, CASSOCK, ACTION

Father Spencer Vale leaned forward toward the camera, his brown Franciscan hood draped loosely behind him, his hands folded over a steaming mug of chamomile tea. Behind him, as always, was the cozy set of his popular YouTube program Ask A Friar: a warm-toned bookshelf of saints and philosophers, a small wooden cross, a St. Francis statue holding a clay bird, and—because the show’s editor knew what pulled in views—an occasional humorous prop. Today’s prop was a tiny foam football resting next to a stack of theology books. The live chat was already exploding with laughing emojis.

Father Spencer cleared his throat in the dramatic, exaggerated way his audience loved.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, “we have ourselves a… spirited… inquiry today.”

The chat scrolled faster.

SPILL THE TEA, FATHER!

BRONCOS COUNTRY LET’S RIDE—AT MASS??

No way this is real. No way.

I bet the priest put money on the game.

As a Chargers fan, this hurts more than it should.

He lifted a sheet of paper.

“Ahem. Today’s question—our opening—is as follows. And yes, this is verbatim.”

He read it word-for-word, his voice alternating between mock-formal, mock-scandalized, and mock-exasperated. It was the way he read every wild question that ever found his inbox.

When he reached the line ‘What’s the score, son?!?’ he paused, blinked at the camera, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“My dear flock… you all keep me employed.”

The chat detonated.

HELP I’M CRYING

FATHER NO YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT

This beats the raccoon-in-the-baptismal question from last week.

Father Spencer continued.

“And then”—he tapped the letter with his finger—“your priest proceeded to hoot and holler, fists in the air, when the Broncos scored?”

He set the letter down slowly, leaned back, and uttered the longest, most dramatic sigh in the Western Church.

“My beloved viewers… I have questions.”

THE FRIAR BEHIND THE CAMERA

Father Spencer Vale was not a typical friar. True, he wore the rough brown habit, true he lived in a community of men who prayed the Liturgy of the Hours and tended a small urban garden, and true he spent his afternoons handing out peanut butter sandwiches to the homeless at St. Jude’s Shelter.

But he was also the closest thing the Church had to a wholesome YouTube celebrity.

His channel, Ask A Friar, had started modestly—simple theological Q&A filmed in the friary’s pantry, audio echoing off canned vegetables. But after a clip went viral (him explaining purgatory using a malfunctioning toaster), the channel’s subscriber count skyrocketed.

Now he had a small studio.

And merch.

And a surprisingly devoted fanbase of retired grandmothers, college theology nerds, and exhausted youth ministers who needed a laugh.

Today, however, he sensed the episode would ascend to the mythical archives of internet lore. “The Broncos Mass Incident,” as it inevitably would be called.

He placed his mug beside the foam football and turned on his Serious Friar Voice™.

“Well,” he began, “first, my dear letter-writer, bless your heart.”

THE REENACTMENT (BECAUSE OF COURSE THERE WAS ONE)

By Episode 47, Father Spencer had learned that the best way to both instruct and entertain was through reenactments. The more ridiculous the scenario, the more solemn his performance.

“Let us imagine,” he intoned, lowering the lights slightly, “the moment as it likely occurred.”

He donned a pair of dollar-store reading glasses—his acting glasses—and stepped aside from the desk to a makeshift “church” area set up by his editor: three folding chairs, a miniature cardboard pulpit, and a battery-operated electric candle.

Soft organ music played, courtesy of his sound guy, Brother Matthew, who took far too much joy in adding unnecessary dramatics.

Father Spencer stood at the cardboard pulpit.

“Suppose the homily is underway. Father is preaching on”—he glanced at the camera—“the Prodigal Son. A very serious passage. A deeply moving text. And then…”

He cued Brother Matthew, who dimmed the lights except for a single spotlight.

A cell phone noise echoed—fake, but convincing.

DUN-DUN-DUNNNN.

Father Spencer jerked his head toward the imaginary back pew at an exaggerated snail’s pace.

“What… is that…?” he whispered dramatically.

He shielded his eyes as if staring into the far distance.

“A parishioner. A son of the Church. And lo… behold…”

He squinted.

“What is that glowing rectangle? Is it… a phone? Ah. Yes. A phone.”

The chat burst with laughing emojis and “FATHER PLEASE.”

He leaned forward.

“And on this phone, my children, what do we see? Pinterest? No. A recipe for pulled chicken? No. A digital breviary? Of course not. It is FOOTBALL!”

He clasped his hands to his chest in mock horror.

“And not just football. Broncos vs. Chargers.”

Brother Matthew hit a tiny soundboard button. A stadium cheer played.

Father Spencer dropped his jaw.

“Heresy.”

Then, with dramatic flair, he slammed a hand on the cardboard pulpit. It wobbled. He steadied it quickly.

“And our parish priest”—he raised both arms—“does he, as canon law and common sense dictate, gently correct? Does he address the distraction with paternal firmness?”

He paused.

“NO.”

He spun toward the camera and cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone.

“WHAT’S THE SCORE, SON?!?”

The comment section exploded so quickly the livestream struggled to keep up.

THE WAY I JUST SPIT OUT MY COFFEE—

THE PULPIT WOBBLE LMFAOOOO

MY PRIEST WOULD DO THIS I’M SCARED

BROTHER MATTHEW’S SOUND EFFECTS ARE KILLING ME

Father Spencer then raised both fists and let out the most unenthusiastic, dad-at-a-barbecue cheer ever performed by a friar.

“Woo.”

He thrust one fist upward.

“Touchdown.”

Silence.

He lowered his fists and nodded gravely.

“And thus concludes the reenactment.”

BACK TO THE DESK

Father Spencer returned to his seat, smoothing the sleeves of his habit.

“All right,” he said, tone shifting gently from comedic to pastoral. “Let’s talk about what’s really going on here.”

Because that was the heart of Ask a Friar: humor first, clarity second, compassion always.

He picked up the letter again.

“My dear writer, I hear your concern. Truly. Reverence at Mass is important. Sacred. Necessary. And yes—your priest cheering for the Broncos during the liturgy was… less than ideal.”

Brother Matthew coughed off-camera.

Father Spencer held up a hand.

“Much less than ideal.”

The chat filled with “LOLOL” and “CALL HIM OUT.”

“But,” he continued, eyes gentle, “priests are human beings. Human beings under stress. Human beings who make mistakes. Sometimes silly ones, sometimes serious ones. And sometimes…”—he tapped the foam football—“they get caught up in things they care about.”

He leaned closer.

“So the question becomes: how do we handle it? How do you handle it?”

He lifted one finger.

“First: humility.”

Another.

“Second: charity.”

A third.

“Third: an honest conversation.”

He folded his hands.

“No angry emails. No gossip trains. No forming factions in the parish parking lot whispering about ‘Father Football’—don’t pretend you weren’t thinking it.”

The chat immediately flooded:

FATHER FOOTBALL???

STOP GIVING US IDEAS SPENCER

This is now canon.

Father Spencer tried not to smile.

He failed.

THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

“Now,” he said, settling into the comfortable rhythm of storytelling, “let me tell you something that might put this incident in perspective.”

He sipped his tea, then began.

“Three years ago, long before this channel existed, I visited a small mountain parish for a week-long retreat. The priest there was beloved. Kind, gentle, always ready with a joke—but also reverent, devout, and deeply pastoral.

“One Sunday, during the homily, a man in the front pew sneezed.”

He held up his hands.

“A normal sneeze.”

Beat.

“Except it was not normal.”

He gestured widely.

“It was apocalyptic.”

He mimicked an explosive sneeze—an over-the-top thunderclap followed by a gasp.

“Everyone jumped. Babies cried. I nearly lost a contact lens.”

The chat howled.

“When the echo died down, that priest—this holy, disciplined man—looked right at the poor fellow and said, without hesitation:

‘Bless you, my son. And bless whoever must clean the pew.’”

The viewers spammed laughing emojis again.

“And you know what? The congregation laughed. And then Mass continued. Smoothly. Beautifully. Because the joy didn’t overpower the worship. It served it. As a reminder that we are real people, gathered around a real altar, worshipping a real God who understands human ridiculousness.”

He leaned in.

“So. Does cheering during Mass cross a line? Yes. Of course. But is it a sign of corruption? Of spiritual doom? Of liturgical collapse? No. Most likely, it’s a sign that your priest had a momentary lapse of judgment combined with a passionate love for questionable football teams.”

BRONCOS SLANDER??

as a Chargers fan I approve this message

Father Spencer going feral today

He finally addressed the heart of the matter.

“You can—kindly, respectfully—speak to him. ‘Father, I know your intention wasn’t harm, but the outburst during Mass was distracting and discouraged some parishioners. Could we avoid things like that in the future?’”

He nodded.

“A good priest will listen. A great priest will apologize. And a human priest will appreciate being approached with love, not disdain.”

PART II — UNEXPECTED CORRESPONDENCE & THE BRONCOS CONTROVERSY DEEPENS

Father Spencer Vale set the letter aside and took a sip of his tea, clearly ready to transition to the closing prayer—or at least a witty benediction—when Brother Matthew waved frantically behind the camera.

Spencer squinted. “What’s wrong? Did we forget to turn on the secondary mic again?”

Brother Matthew shook his head more vigorously, then held up his tablet, its screen facing the friar.

A new email notification glowed.

It read:

URGENT: PLEASE READ ON-AIR — ABOUT THE BRONCOS INCIDENT

The chat collectively gasped.

NO WAY

NOT LIVE TEA

MATTHEW SHOW US THE TABLET

Is it the priest? IS IT THE PRIEST?!?

Father Spencer rubbed his temples. “Matthew… are you sure we should—”

Brother Matthew nodded vigorously and made a circle with his hands, the signal for do it do it do it.

Spencer sighed in the weary, saintly way of a friar who had accepted his vocation—and the chaos that came with it.

“Very well. But if this email contains profanity,” he said, pointing sternly at the camera, “Brother Matthew is doing penance.”

The chat blew up with “BROTHER MATTHEW START PRAYING.”

Father Spencer tapped the email open and cleared his throat.

“Dear Father Spencer Vale,” he read, “I saw today’s livestream notification and felt compelled—nay, morally obligated—to write in before you publish your episode.”

The tone was overly dramatic, theatrical, and… oddly familiar.

“Oh dear,” Spencer muttered.

He kept reading.

“I am the man in the back pew who was watching the Broncos-Chargers game.”

The chat erupted so violently that the stream’s comments lagged by a full two seconds.

NOOOOOOOOOOO WAY

THE LEGEND HIMSELF

THE BACK PEW BANDIT HAS LOGGED ON

FATHER ABORT THE MISSION

Spencer continued, half-dreading, half-thrilled.

“My name is Trent. I want to clear the record. First: I was not being irreverent. I simply made a vow to my brother that I would keep him updated on the game while he was at work and unable to watch it.”

Spencer paused. “A noble cause. Misguided, but noble.”

He kept reading.

“Second: My volume was all the way down. I even wore headphones! It was my priest—God bless him—who shouted ‘What’s the score, son?!?’ loud enough to rattle the stained-glass windows.”

Spencer snorted.

“Third: In Father’s defense, he is from Colorado and has suffered ENOUGH this season.”

The chat groaned.

TRUER WORDS NEVER SPOKEN

HE’S NOT WRONG

as a Broncos fan, I feel this deep in my soul

“Fourth: I did NOT cheer when the Broncos scored. I simply fist-pumped with quiet dignity. It was FATHER who hooted and hollered like a man who just discovered salvation.”

Spencer buried his face in both hands.

“Lord have mercy…”

He kept reading.

“Lastly—please tell my fellow parishioner that I am sorry for being a distraction. But also that I will defend my priest, who is a good man, to my dying breath. If cheering during Mass is a crime, then call the liturgical police, because we are guilty, Your Honor.”

Spencer froze.

The chat went feral.

THE LITURGICAL POLICE 💀💀💀

ARRESTED FOR FIRST-DEGREE BRONCO-ING

SEND HELP I CAN’T BREATHE

Father Spencer thrust the email toward the camera for dramatic effect.

“Behold, my children,” he proclaimed, “the sacred text.”

THE FRIAR'S FACEPALM OF THE CENTURY

“Matthew,” he said slowly, deliberately, “why did you make me read that live?”

Brother Matthew shrugged with the same innocent expression a cat wears after knocking over a vase.

The friar inhaled. Held it. Exhaled.

“Very well,” he said. “We continue.”

He placed the email beside the earlier complaint letter and folded his hands.

“Well, now we have two sides of the story. This is why I tell people,” he said, raising a finger, “never to assume an incident is as simple as it seems.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a prop clipboard labeled FRIAR INVESTIGATION UNIT.

The chat delighted in it.

THE FIU RETURNS

OH HE’S ON THE CASE

SPENCER WE NEED BADGE MERCH

“Now then,” Spencer said, flipping the clipboard. “What is our next step? Do we simply take sides? No. Do we condemn the priest outright? No. Do we ignore the entire thing? Also no.”

He leaned in like a detective revealing a clue.

“We must—listen carefully—gather more information.”

He set the clipboard down with a thud.

The comment section begged:

FATHER, VISIT THE PARISH. PLEASE.

WE NEED A FIELD REPORT.

BRING THE FOOTBALL PROP WITH YOU.

Spencer rubbed his chin. “A field visit? Hmm. It has been a while since the friary sent me on assignment…”

Brother Matthew perked up.

“Matthew, did you just nod?” Spencer asked.

Matthew nodded again—harder.

“You want to drive there, don’t you?”

A third nod.

The chat chanted:

DO IT DO IT DO IT

ON-SITE BRONCOS INVESTIGATION

ASK A FRIAR: SPECIAL REPORT

Spencer held up his hands in surrender.

“All right. Fine. We’ll go. We’ll visit St. Adelaide’s Parish. We’ll meet both the priest and our dear Trent. We’ll get to the bottom of this holy football fiasco.”

He pointed at the camera.

“But only because the Church deserves truth.”

Then, after a beat:

“…and because Matthew already has the keys.”

THE ROAD TRIP OF REVELATION

Cut to: a shot of the friary’s faithful old van sputtering to life.

Father Spencer sat in the passenger seat, clicking his seatbelt, while Brother Matthew adjusted the GPS like a man preparing for pilgrimage.

“Remember,” Spencer said to the camera mounted on the dashboard, “this is pastoral investigation, not a witch hunt.”

The chat went wild.

SURE FATHER

TOTALLY NOT A WITCH HUNT

JUST A LITTLE LITURGICAL CSI ACTION

They drove through small-town suburbs, passing diners, old brick storefronts, and a billboard advertising discounted dentures.

Then, at last, the white steeple of St. Adelaide’s Parish appeared in the distance.

Spencer clasped his hands reverently.

“Lord, grant me patience,” he murmured.

Brother Matthew whispered, “Grant me good lighting.”

The van pulled in.

The livestream chat waited in breathless anticipation.

THE BRONCOS PRIEST APPEARS

Out of the rectory walked a man in his mid-forties, wearing a collar, a bright smile, and—unfortunately—a Denver Broncos jacket so orange it could be spotted from orbit.

The chat instantly exploded:

THAT’S HIM

FATHER TOUCHDOWN

HE’S REAL

THE JACKET IS CANON

Spencer exited the van, approached with dignity, and bowed his head.

“Father Spencer Vale, Order of Friars Minor. Thank you for meeting with us.”

The priest extended his hand.

“Father Aaron McKenna. Welcome to our little corner of the kingdom.”

His eyes twinkled mischievously.

“You here about the Broncos thing?”

Spencer sighed. “…Yes.”

Father Aaron burst into laughter so hearty, so unabashed, that it echoed across the empty parking lot.

“Oh, son,” he said, clapping Spencer’s shoulder. “You’re going to need to hear the whole story.”

The chat chanted:

YES WE ARE

DROP THE LORE

UNLEASH THE FOOTBALL GOSPEL

Spencer closed his eyes.

“Lord,” he whispered, “give me strength. Preferably not Broncos strength.”