Sisters,
we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of one of our own: Our beloved
Hildegarde. I remember when Hildegarde was just a little witch. Like the rest
of us, she had big dreams of making her mark on the world. She wanted to be the
most famous witch of all time. And, in a way, she succeeded. Even so soon after
her passing, her story is already being told all over the country. And it seems
likely that, in a very short time, it will extend even beyond that. After all,
it is an unusual story:
Imagine two small children, lost in the woods. Their
frankly pathetic idea of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to guide them home
having failed, they were entirely at the mercy of the forest. Then, lo and
behold, they come upon a house made entirely of gingerbread, candy and sweets.
They begin eating with reckless abandon, never giving a thought to the resident
of the house, our dear, departed Hildegarde. She emerges from the house,
appears to the children as a kindly old woman, invites them inside for more
treats. Then she springs on them. Locking up the boy and forcing the girl to
feed her brother until he’s fat enough to eat. Her plan backfires, however,
when the little girl tricks her and pushes her into her own oven where she
burns to death.
And now, on the very site where her gingerbread house once
stood, we are gathered to mourn her, to commend what’s left of her to the
earth, and to ask why? Why did she die? Why is the world so cruel? And why, oh
why, was Hildegarde so stupid?
I mean, really, what was she thinking? First of
all, who builds a house out of gingerbread? If the kids hadn’t shown up when
they did, the whole thing would have spoiled. Parts of it probably already were
spoiling. The walls were full of milk and eggs. For all we know, she would have
died soon anyway living in such an unhealthy environment.
Some of you may have
heard that she broke her glasses shortly after abducting the children. So, not
being able to see, she had the little boy hold out his finger so she could feel
it to tell when he was fat enough to cook. You know how he tricked her? He used
a chicken bone. Again, I have to ask, how could she be so stupid? She didn’t
think it was odd that the boy never gained weight? That he was, in fact, losing
weight? And that he had no skin?
And, now, we come to the little girl. She
pretended not to know if the oven was hot enough. Hildegarde, inexplicably
believing her, stuck her own head in the oven. Thereby positioning herself
perfectly for a small girl to push her in and burn her alive.
Yes, I know, this
is her funeral and we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but come on!
We’re all thinking it. Would any of us have been that stupid? Have made it so
easy for the good guys to win? Done everything but paint a bullseye on our own
foreheads? If you can be outwitted by two little kids who think a trail of
breadcrumbs in a forest won’t get eaten the minute you turn your back, then you
deserve to be burned to a crisp until your friends have nothing but a few
charred bones to bury.
All right! All right! I’m leaving.
I’m not wrong,
though.
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