Author Archives: Mundabor

The Turning Of The Tide

Originally posted on Mundabor's Blog:

at-the-waters-edge-3-a-turning-of-the-tide

I remember very well my sadness at the rapid disappearance – and most people said: inevitable extinction – of the traditional mechanical wristwatch in favour of the new quartz one. It seemed to me an entire world was dying, and an entire planet was embracing a soulless technology and killing the beauty, the magic and, yes, the poetry of craftsmanship. Small firms – then – like Blancpain and Chronoswiss decided this was too stupid, and the surrender to the power of quartz by no means unavoidable. They started producing watches for people who love beauty, and do not live by the second. This was the turning of the tide. A few years later, the mechanical wristwatch was already established as the timepiece at the wrist of the discerning – if, back then, pretty solvent – man of taste. Today, mass production of perfectly affordable, excellent mechanical wristwatches is all but…

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The Way To More Vocations

Slapped people in the face; threw sandals across the classroom; could get angry with the best; never cared for popularity. But every good soul loved him.

There are interesting reflections around concerning what to do to have more vocations. Certainly, we must pray. Certainly, we can support the idea of vocations among the young in our environment. But if you ask me, the best way to more vocations is to have better priests.

I still remember very well my formative years, and looking back it is clear to me the office of priest was not considered by anyone as in the least desirable, not even by mistake. The reason for this is that most of the priests we had around us – and in the Italy of those times you had many priests around you, both in your place of residence and at school – had a common and distinctive trait: they looked, sounded, and even smelled, ashamed to be priests.

There was a kind of hierarchy of un-priestliness. There were those who were silently but obviously embarrassed, those who were more ostentatiously “modern” and those who were outright dissenters – the priest who whispered at school that the devil does not exist, in an heroic effort of blasphemy meant to let us understand how very courageous he was, I will never forget -. But all of them seemed to have the same slogan, a kind of “unglorious” one: the least Catholic, the better.

If the priest is ashamed himself of being a priest, who will want to become like him? If the priest is the very epitome of the uncool, pathetic loser, who will want to follow in his steps? And this is, in fact, what they pretty much all were: pathetic losers, ashamed to be priests; lives to be pitied, and an example not to be followed. The priest of those times was a cautionary tale.

This phenomenon created another one: the attempt to gain credibility not by being a true priest, but – in a suicidal, and not very manly move – by being something else: the “modern priest”, the “good friend”, the “nice chap”, the “favourite uncle”. The automatic self-divesting of any form of authority made of them, for all the world to see, unquestioned beta males deprived of true manliness, because manliness is always linked with assertiveness, self-assuredness, and a quiet but still very public show of testosterone.

Every man, but particularly adolescents, smell authority and manliness like the hound smells the fox. Not everyone has the natural assertiveness to be a natural leader, to be one to whom others look up to; but absolutely no one has the desire to be, for all the world to see, the last wolf in the pack. Such a one is not very manly at all, and could actually have problems of graver nature. Which is, I think, the origin and motive of many “vocations” in those years.

And so we have, I think, a faithful picture of perhaps 80% of the Western priesthood up to this day: no manliness, no authority, no “coolness” around them. Boys look at them, and pity them. As they well should, and as I do myself. They are embarrassed to be priests, and try to be as little of a priest as they can. As a consequence, they are embarrassing to be around.

Away goes sin; hell follows soon thereafter; “joy” is everywhere. Some time ago, I listened to a homily of a Cardinal. He sounded like a girl making a motivational talk for old aunts in a holiday resort. By all the authority given by the office, the red robe, and the choreography, he still smelled of girly loser. Who would want to be such a tool? Mind, this here was a Cardinal, helped by the trappings of the office. The girly parish priest truly has no chance with the boys.

A priest must be assertive, manly, unashamedly Catholic, outspoken, and with no hint of sissidom in him. He must be a shepherd, not a dry nurse. The shepherd has a rod, and he uses it. The shepherd leads his flock towards green pastures, he does not ask the sheep “where they want to go today”. The priest must be a natural leader, because a priest has to be a leader if he is to be successful. The priest has to be uncomfortable, harsh when needed, and quietly manly when he is gentle.

These are the priests who produce priests. These are the men who will cause boys to say “I want to become one like him”. These are men whose very demeanour will say to those around them that they are willing to die for their cause; which is as manly as it gets, and will be smelled by the boys around them like the above mentioned hounds smell the above mentioned fox. Not many will follow in his steps. But the admiration will – with God's grace – cause some of them to fo it. You must impress dozen to get one vocation to blossom, because this vocation will be nurtured from the respect or outright admiration surrounding the priest.

Boys will be boys, and their vocation must go with their nature, not against them. They must feel encouraged to use their own faith to channel the natural assertiveness, even aggressiveness, of the male of the species towards the higher goal of saving souls, of being shepherds of souls. This is one of the 1,374 reasons why women are not fit to be priest. Women are nurturers, not shepherds. God save us from a manly woman. There are two sexes for a reason, and this is the same reason why only those of one sex can be priests.

If you ask me, it's as simple as that. In the Seventies the priests were at their most stupid (the “worker priest”, the “social priest”; the Jorge Bergoglio types) and the vocations were at their lowest. As the worst excesses went away, the vocations slowly increased. Strong religious orders continue to create strong vocations to this day – so much so, that the Jorge Bergoglio types must crush them to deflect from their own bitchy incompetence – and the situation slowly, but gradually, improves. In the meantime, the Jorge Bergoglio types cause their seminaries to close. May their ruins be visible from afar, and be a monument to human stupidity.

But we need more of these good priests. The Brompton Oratory is always packed. You listen to them, and you know how a true vocation sounds, and how a real man speaks.

The boys listen, and learn.

Vocations are aplenty. No closures to be feared there.

Mundabor

 

Earth Day, The Proper Way

Murder! Rape! Help! Help!!!...

Hope you have been good on Earth Day and have cut a tree in front of a tree-hugger, just to show the followers of the new religion that no, trees have no human rights; babies in the womb have.

You haven't, you say?

Neither have I.

Too much sweat for a quiet writing nature like myself.

But it would have been worth a video, for sure.

Mundabor

 

“Il Mio Papa”, The Fanzine For The Discerning Pollyanna.

Originally posted on Mundabor's Blog:

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“Il Mio Papa” (“My Pope”) has hit the newsstands on the 5th of March. The second number is already available by your favourite newsagent, and this being a creature of Mondadori, the biggest publisher in Italy (yes, Berlusconi-owned if you need to know) you can be sure they will wait a while before pulling the plug, even if the venture were not to work as hoped.

It will be great fun. I am sure at the “Eye of the Tiber” they are preparing themselves already.

I am eagerly waiting for the internet presence to go live, but the already announced http://www.miopapa.it is not live yet.

From what I have known by googling around on Italian websites, the magazine has the following features:

1. Lots of photos. Big ones. They have to fill 68 pages every week, you know. Ok, half will probably be advs for condoms and the like…

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Francis Über Alles

The young man isn't sold. We neither.

And it came to pass Francis did it again, regaling us with another full-blown liturgical abuse for all the world to see.

This year is, though, even worse than last year. Because if last year one could have said – making a big effort in optimism – that Francis did not have the time to change the liturgical rules, this year we know that he really doesn't give a straw for rules, at all.

The message here is twice subversive because the deliberation and subversive attitude are twice as evident. One year of time to avoid a new liturgical abuse, and the same outcome as last year.

What is Francis saying with his attitude? He is saying that rules don't count; they don't really much count for anyone (¡vaya lío!), but they particularly don't count for him, because he smells of the sheep and is therefore above such minutiae as adhering to rules meant to protect the sacredness and reverence of the liturgy.

Nothing, for Francis, is made for Christ. His gaze is intently fixed here below; as a consequence, whatever pushes his secular agenda – like the new gospel of inclusiveness and new non-evangelisation – must perforce take precedence over any rule concerning something so ultimately irrelevant as Heaven; where everyone is forgiven, and everyone is going to go anyway in the end.

But Francis' main message is probably not the invitation to disobedience, but rather the renewed stressing of his own Very Specially Humble status. It is obvious by now that in his world there is no space for basic humility, or obedience. He arrogantly proclaims himself above the law, and above the law in a way that goes beyond the mere exercise of power – he could have done so by changing the liturgical rules concerning the viri probati – and clearly becomes the banner of his own alleged uniqueness as the Truly Wonderful New Type Of Humble Pontiff. This is not a Pope saying to us he will use his papal prerogatives. This is a Pope saying to us he is so special, so different and so much better than his predecessors, that he does not even need to care about exercising them.

Ipse fecit. Therefore, it must be fine.

This attitude is not only arrogant, but also convenient. If Francis had changed the liturgical rules concerning the washing of the feet such a choir of protests would have ensued, that he would have been shamed by the community of sound theologians and canonists the world over. His obvious betrayal of the real meaning of the ceremony would have been denied not only in the behaviour, but in the very law. He clearly did not want it, at least for now. He prefers the easy worldwide publicity, but without having to officially take a stance, and defend it against the opinion of his predecessors.

Finally, I allow myself to add a last observation: this man is, fundamentally, what in Italy we call cafone: a boor. Boors do not waste much time thinking of rules. They are wired differently, or better said they lack that kind of wiring that causes one to appreciate the proper way of doing things. Francis shows all the symptoms of the type. Remember the empty chair at the Beethoven concert? That was Francis at his most authentic. Francis does not care for rules of proper behaviour – liturgical, or otherwise – because he is, literally, below caring.

Francis cares for his own image first, second and third, and only after that for his own particular way of social revanchism with the excuse of Christ. He is above the rules, above any of his predecessors, above Doctrine, and very often above basic decency. He calls himself “bishop”, but shows an arrogance unknown to his predecessors of the recent centuries. He is the metre of everything, hovers about every rule – even his own – and does not care a straw about the scandal he gives.

Francis über alles. As seen, for the second time, on Maundy Thursday.

Mundabor

 

Chicken Transfiguration At Charing Cross Station: An Edible Quasi-Mystical Experience.

Mundabor's Mystical Chicken Experience.

Mundabor’s Mystical Chicken Experience.

 

 

In Italy we say: si dice il peccato, ma non il peccatore (“one says the sin, but not the sinner”).

In this case, the sin is, in essentials,  not one of lack of orthodoxy, or betrayal of Catholicism – something the blogger in question has often done, and will do more in future; and which would prompt me to be rather open about it – but of mere, or you might say human, vanity.

Therefore, I allow myself to, ahem, rework a recently appeared blog post of this particular blogger without shaming the person as such.

Those who were to find the original post are kindly asked to do the same. 

For the moment, allow this to be my “Happy Easter” to you.

And please, in your charity, consider saying a prayer for the blogger, even if you don’t know who he or she is. 

M

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Chicken Transfiguration At Charing Cross Station: An Edible Quasi-Mystical Experience.

 

I had an epiphany some days ago. I need to tell you this so that you may understand what an awfully fine chap I am. I know too many of you think I am just an obese glutton shamelessly riding his family name, but this is not the case. I assure you: I truly am as good as I think I am. 

And so it happened this way. I wanted to meet some new Catholic friends, but when they showed up it turned out they were Hindus and Muslims. I should have understood it on the spot, but I admit I took a while to understand why some sported those turbans, and those long beards. One never ceases to learn.

I never talk about Catholic issues when I am with non-Catholics, because I love inclusiveness as much as I love piling on the pasta; so I had to re-adjust my little conversation with them. No Catholicism, please. God-is-luv fluff. You know the stuff.

Yes, I was good. You know I always am, because I always hint at it. Anyway. Where was I? Yes. I was good, I was saying (where was I?… oh… erm… well) but I left the company feeling somewhat dissatisfied. Being so good, I always want to do better, you know. That’s how you create excellence. 

I was, then, wondering: was I banal enough? Were my platitudes sufficiently inclusive? Did I avoid Catholic issues with enough zeal, or did perhaps something slip in my words that hurt my audience, and let them feel not welcome?

I was reflecting about all this with half my brains, whilst the other half was doing what it always does: think about food.

Therefore I steered, as if remote-controlled, the next eatery. There, with a pint of Guinness in my hand (I never tell my readers about the twelve donuts; it does not read well, you see; but then again it’s unhealthy to drink alcohol without some little tapas…) , I just stopped and looked at people. 

I love looking at people, you must know. I think: what will that chap over there eat for dinner tonight? And the woman coming out of Platform Seven, isn’t she even fatter than I am? What about that boy: will he prefer ketchup or mayonnaise with his fries? And speaking of mayo: what will I eat for dinner? Since my last nightmare, which included celery and carrots, I must eat at least a pound of beef every day, you know. Carrots are not good with a pint of Guinness, anyway. Most crucially: will another half dozen donuts help bridging the time?

Now, my affectionate readers know that besides being the most obscenely blind of Pollyannas, and sabotaging Catholic teaching whenever it lets me looks inclusive, good and charitable, I am always mindful of letting my readers know, in subtle and oblique ways, about my own astonishing goodness. This is because everyone knows I am a first-class glutton, so I must balance that out; and as I have noticed that people never tell me of me how saintly or at least very special I am, I will have to do it myself. 

And so I had an epiphany. Whilst I was there, holding the pint in my hand I told you about  – and diving into the donuts I did not tell you about – something happened. Cynical bastards like that blogger chap with the Pius XII photo would think it was an excess of sugar in my blood, or a moment of confusion caused by the blood going away from my brain and flooding where it was, at that moment, most urgently needed: my stomach. But hey, whatever the cause, the fact is that for one moment the world stopped.

Now, please follow me closely here. I am not as stupid as to tell you I had a mystical experience, or such like. Everyone knows people don’t have mystical experiences and write about them in blogs. I know my readership isn’t made of eagles (we do extreme Pollyann-ing in my blog; so yes, quite), but they aren’t sooo dumb, either. I don’t like eagles, by the way. I prefer hens. Or chicken. KFC ones, for example. 

Sorry, it’s that when I talk of food… where was I again? 

Oh. Yes. I mean: no.

No. I had something. Something, you see, profound (because I am profound; and I’ll let you acknowledge it, if I have to bang on it until I have digested a whale), and very very special; but something that I – as in every mystical mini-experience worthy of the name; though I can’t call it that way, see… – cannot really define.

But I will try. For you. And because I am so good.

It was as if the world had stopped, and Colonel Sanders had been looking at me.

He was there. Huge. Smiling at me like it’s going out of fashion. Full of reassuringly white hair.

He was not in flesh and blood, though. He was printed on the side of a gigantic bucket full of delightful, “finger lickin’ good” chicken pieces.  Two huge chicken (or hens) were standing besides him.

It was like Chicken Transfiguration, or Nugget Nirvana. I’ll never forget that.

He was saying to me: ” “O000h, Mundaaabor! How oooften I have wanted to gather your readers together, and tell them of the deliiiiicious taste of my chicken wings! But you wouldn’t let meeeee!”

It was the shortest of moments. A flash in the pan, as I say. A mere glimpse. Less, I think, than I need to gobble down a creme-filled donut. And believe me, I am good at that.

It was beautiful. Profound. It was so beautifully cooked, tender, succulent; the breadcrumbs just crispy enough, but not too much. A potentially life-changing experience.

Stop here please, and admire me. What is this all about, if not me? 

———————————————————————————————————————-

Since then, nothing has been all right.

I cannot go on as I used to. That face, that particularly delicious, huge bucket, and the two Giant Hens simply persecute me.

It was, as I have already said, redolent of the Transfiguration, though it was even more vividly redolent of fried chicken. But in my case it was rather different. It was as if the Two Great Hens In The Sky had appeared and had said to me “We are the archetype of all KFC mega buckets. Come to us, oh you who hunger, and we will give you the barbecue sauce, too”.

All it’s different now. So please notice, I am halfway talking this down, but you must know by now this is life-changing.

Serious stuff. Spiritual. Profound.

I am, as I have already told you, so very sensitive. Therefore, I do not know what this experience will make of me.Will I leave chocolate donuts and give my full allegiance to cinnamon? Is cream orthodox enough? Should I become a donuts traditionalist?

Already I feel that I cannot blog about political issues anymore; not because it’s becoming uncomfortable to say things even remotely contrary to what the angry mob of liberals and sodomites thinks, and I need to retreat into the ethereal and extremely controversy-free regions of pure do-goodism and pious reflections about myself. 

No. Not because of that.

No. I mean, really! Oh come on, how often do I have to tell you?

No! No! No!

It’s because I had this “Big Hens” Chicken Transfiguration vision, you know!

Now, nothing will be the same. Perhaps. I mean. You are getting how sensitive I am, right? OK then…

What will become of this blog?

I do not know.

But when I have eaten too much I do strange things, so you never know.

Please pray for me.

And pass the mayo.

Mundabor

 

 

 

Resurrexit, Sicut Dixit

Andrea Mantegna, "Resurrection"

Andrea Mantegna, “Resurrection”

The Loser Effect: South America Keeps Losing Catholics

idc-lisa-loser-pastel-Favim.com-1214371

 

 

The satanical and sodomitical Puffington Post has an article about the percentage of Catholics over all of Latin America having sunk to 67%; which is, we are told, the worst result ever. 

I will not link to the article for various reason (no revenue for the PuffPo, and partially indecent and certainly stupid side images), but this appears to be the fact. 

Being perverts and their friends, the PuffPo people think the flock… flocks to the Evangelicals because of the pedophile priest scandal (if you are a pervert or his friend, it is absolutely taboo to mention the Church without the scandal) and because of the “solemn” Catholic masses as opposed to the “emotional, vibrant sermons” of the Evangelicals. If they had respectively said “vapid, childish, and stupid” and “with a recognisable Christian content” they would have gone nearer to reality; but this is the PuffPo, and reality isn’t much high in their list of priorities.  They also imply that religion is something for the uneducated poor, as they point out that in Chile and Uruguay – the wealthiest Countries of the region – atheism apparently advances, or so they say, without mentioning data.

Still: the number is there. The Francis effect is… causing losses for Catholicism. Losses in a traditionally extremely catholic continent, and losses even after the hugely expensive and media-hyped exercise of last year’s World Youth Day.

Francis stinks of secularism from the black shoes up. He is a betrayal and a parody of what a Pope is supposed to be. More and more people throw away the baby together with the – admittedly: very dirty – bathwater and start going to Protestant services. I can well imagine many of them have no easy access to even a half decent mass, and have not heard a decent homily from a Catholic pulpit for a long time. No, wait: pulpit? Not many of those are used anymore, either. 

And so the Church continues to shrink, and souls are put at risk of damnation, whilst Francis and his friends – some of them heterosexual; some of them Catholic; some of them actually not Marxist – keep having the time of their life.

Even the magazine cover effect is wearing down. When you drug the simple with such massive doses of stupidity and populism, the doses must become bigger and bigger, as the pressure to behave halfway as a Pope grows bigger too. 

It will be interesting to know how Francis tackles this problem. He has already stretched the tolerance of Catholics beyond breaking point, and beyond every sense of shame. I can’t think he will start dancing the Tango in St Peter Square. 

Perhaps he should just resign whilst he is ahead in the estimation of the simple, and provide a golden retirement for himself. 

The cry of “santo subito dopo morto” would be deafening.

 

Mundabor   

Meet The “Moderator”

The “Gang of Eight” is going to meet again after the disgraceful canonisations of John XXIII and John Paul II.

They want to (trendy word alarm!) “streamline” the Vatican machinery, in order to better manage the continuous decline of Christianity all over the West and to be faster in issuing press releases whenever a Church is desecrated by graffiti, or naked nymphomaniacs.

In order to do so, they want to… create a new layer of administration, in the form of a “coordinator” or “moderator” (no, let's say it in Latin: moderator curiae), whose job will clearly be to add a layer of busybodying into the machinery; thus, ahem, “streamlining” it.

I have already made the comparison between the Vatican machinery and General Motors in the Fifties: a rather monstrous administrative apparatus which felt no desire to “streamline” because it just did not need to. The Vatican is no different. The expenses caused by the couple of thousand priests and prelates there are but a very small exercise compared to the immense apparatus of the Church, an organisation employing around a million only of priests and religious people of both sexes, to which the vast number millions employed by affiliated organisations like Catholic charities worldwide must be added.

If we look at reality in a cynical way, we will see that there is no need for painful cuts, merely a wish that things be cheaper and better organised. Against this, we have the fallen nature of humans, the vanity, at times even the good intentions; creating one day o new office, one day a moderator, one day a new congregation (this might be about to happen, too…).

The necessity to reduce expenses is – rhetoric aside – just not there. The Church is brutally rich and she might not have been so well off – relatively speaking – since the Renaissance. She will not be put out of any “market” if she isn't very lean. To her, efficiency is a thing that looks good in theory, and very difficult in everyday life.

Look at how effortlessly even a circus article like Cardinal Dolan can gather the huge amount necessary to restore St Patrick Cathedral – or an utter disgrace like Mahony could gather more than needed for the edification of the “Taj Mahony” – and realise that the Church has at her disposal virtually unlimited means, that she must only tap when needed in order to satisfy her every material need. By all the rhetoric of poverty, Francis knows it perfectly well.

No, there is no need to streamline anything. The human vanity, though, is still there, and her needs are strong. Francis is, by all his talk, giving the example by promoting people belonging to his circle of friends, thus showing once again that vicinity to the power is better than competence or honesty – or basic decency – every day of the week.

Be one of Francis' buddies and he will put you at the head of a bank even if you are a scandalous sodomite. Be an orthodox religious order and he will crush you no matter how successful you are.

It doesn't look like a recipe for administrative efficiency and honesty to me.

Rather, say hello to the “moderator”.

M

 

“The Passion Of The Christ”

Mundabor:

Holy Friday Reblog

Originally posted on Mundabor's Blog:

passion-of-the-christ-nail

Holy Friday Reblog:

The Passion Of The Christ

Mundabor

View original

“Gay” “President” To “Marry” “Gay” “Bishop”?



The First Fag President of the once glorious United States has invited the first so-called “gay” so-called “bishop” of a so-called “church” to give the final so-called blessing at some speech or other some days ago. With the usual class, the “bishop queen” twitted “OMG!”, thinking he is a screaming, stupid, self-centred adolescent girl. Which he is not. Adolescent, I mean. Anagraphically, at least.

On reading this, I reflected on the perversion of modern times, when Christianity has become such a faint remembrance, and perversion so mainstream, that even a POTUS can get away with what Barry just did without being flayed to death.

Today, on Good Friday, we can reflect on how many, in a position of power, crucify Christvevery day not (only) with their private sins, but by openly attacking Christian morality at every level: social, legal, and religious.

And then I thought: what if Barry would, faithful to his “inclusive” creed, suddenly discover a same-sex attraction for the girlish “OMG” “bishop”? Look, Obama is enough of a spineless wimp, to the point that he has even openly admitted he doesn't smoke out of sheer fear of his wife. And then there's Michelle O.: a woman with jaws good for a Spielberg movie, and whose entire demeanour and attitude to life says she would so much have wanted to be born with a willie, but she had to find an emasculated puppet in order to become the President Of The United States By Proxy. Oh, the injustice of modern times…

What if, then, Barry were to embrace his already rather developed inner faggot, and discover a sudden same-sex attraction for the ageing wannabe bishop “OMG!” Robinson? Let's look at it.

The so-called bishop's “lover” would have to recognise that the “Spirit” has led the so-called bishop to this new “experience”. He would have to be “supportive”, of course. That's the first obstacle gone.

Michelle “Jaws” Obama would have to recognise, at least in public, that even her husband – whom she certainly considers a third-class loser, first-class nuisance and utter idiot – has a “right” to his “happiness”, and it would be too late now to start defending traditional roles. The daughters are also, in fact, old enough to be “punished with a baby”, so they should not be shocked too much at something so “normal” like their father undergoing a “new phase”. That's obstacle two (and, as far as they count anything, mini-obstacles three and four) gone.

And then there is the most important obstacle: the voters. But you see, the beauty of being a POTUS at the second mandate is that you don't have to stand for an election ever again. If your name is Barry O. you can just sit and relax, polishing your image for the well-paid speeches to come. Playing more golf, if possible. Things like that. Voters are not your concern anymore. Your wife is, of course. But only if she is near enough to strike.

The voters would be, obviously, severely tested. One thinks of the Black vote, to a good extent not consisting of atheist trannies. But hey, if they plaud the POTUS when he invites the faggot bishop to bless people, why should they criticise him when the President himself practices what he preaches?

And so we are nearing the happy end: in this XXI century of ours the President of the United States could leave his wife and family and run away with an homosexual so-called cleric and the majority of the Country would have no other choice, if they have a shred of coherence left, than to look and applaud.

Then Michelle would be free to go on and have – if technology allows – her own little operation herself.

Happiness all around.

M

 

Old Bullies

Needed.

 

 

Via Father Z (EDIT: actually, here) I read of a young priest “lectured” by a permanent deacon for wearing a cassock.

I have written already why the cassock should be the obligatory garment of a priest wherever the occasion does not make it practical for him to wear his trousered clerical garments. This blog post is not about that.

This blog post is about the fact that an old Sixty-Eighter dares to lecture a priest about what is supposed to be, as far as I know, the standard habit anyway; and, just a tad less gravely, that the young priest is at the end so intimidated he feels the need to cry on Father Z’s robust shoulder and seek from him some suggestion about what he is to do, even coming to the point of saying that he does not know how to explain to his deacon and his flock what is what.

Heavens. These old people, they have no respect for anything these days…

My first suggestion to the young priest is to grow some balls, wear his cassock with pride not only in, but also outside of the confessional, and tell the deacon to kindly shut up if he does not have anything sound to say.

My second suggestion to the priest is to explore the possibilities of the deacon being transferred, removed, or otherwise sent to play the tambourine elsewhere. Then, if the lay of the land is a favourable one, he should make very clear to the deacon, in a matter-of-fact way, what his options are and that by continued resistance to sound Catholicism – one who talks in this way with his own priest certainly does a lot of damage all the time – they will be used without any problem.

My suggestion to the old bullying deacon is to pray, if he still knows how, and to change. But old dogs and tricks comes to mind, so this may well be a difficult one.

The cassock makes sense only if inside it there is a man ready for conflicts, because the cassock is just the garment that will, sooner or later, cause them to happen. A weak cassock-wearing priest does no service to himself or to the cassock. A priest should first become fit for the cassock, and then wear it because it is the garment fitting him.

Make no mistake: people will notice.

Mundabor

 

The Priest We Deserved

The main ingredient of nuChurch.



After the Dancing Dominicans and the Nutty Nun, we now have the Performing Priest. I mean by that the disgraceful chap who had the brilliant idea of singing, probably from the sanctuary no less, some stupid song just after the end of a nuptial mass.

One does not know what is most horrible: a priest without any respect for his habit, a priest without any respect for a sacred building, a priest without any respect for the sacredness of a Marriage – a Sacrament, let us remember: not a show of emotionalism – or a priest without any respect for the Tabernacle – which hey, these days is behind him all the time; so it tends to be somewhat forgotten… -.

One thing this priest saw: an audience.

One thing this priest loved: himself.

And I really, really dare to hope that the alleged surprise was discussed in advance in enough detail to avoid dismay and tears; because to ruin a sacred ceremony in this way without any kind of permission from the spouses would have deserved the to be slapped in the face by the bridegroom; on the spot, and without apology.

But then again, we deserve these parodies of priests. If we praise the Mad Nun from Sicily, why should we not praise every nutcase who thinks he needs an audience for his performance? Why would the next priest not “donate” a rock guitar piece, or a party card trick, or a virtuosism with a football (soccer) ball, or whatever else allows him to show his boundless love for himself?

We praise these nutcases. We find them fun. The most deluded even think someone may be converted from seeing a minus habens make an ass of himself. It's like saying “if we make of Christianity a circus, those who like circus might be converted”. Well, let's make of it a brothel, then. Lots of conversions, methinks.

We are preparing for ourselves a future for third-rate jokers. When the Joker-In-Chief wears a Red Nose to the further edification of his own humble monument, what prevents a nun or a priest to make asses of themselves in whatever way they please?

The fish stinks from the head down. The head of this particular fish stinks to the sky. It's no surprise the stink arrives to the most obscure parishes.

You start with the guitars at mass, you end up with the jokers in the sanctuary, the Pinocchio Masses, the Tango Masses, the Western Masses, the performing nuns, and the rest. It has to be so. It is In the nature of a thinking without love for the sacred, and without any sense of sacredness.

The Novus Ordo must die. Gradually, but it must die. And when it dies, articles like the singing priest must not be allowed to get near a Tridentine Mass; lest they think the reverent silence will let their voice be better appreciated.

Mundabor

 

 

Demolition In Instalments: Maundy Thursday

Mundabor:

The “please, God, help us today!” Reblog

Originally posted on Mundabor's Blog:

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Fagfox: Campaign Against Firefox Is Getting Traction

The unspeakable Gaystapo scandal at Firefox is only some weeks old, but the reaction is getting traction out there in the cyberspace. 

The story might be, for the moment, out of the big headlines, but there are always people who care for more than the headlines of the day.

They write, they blog, they make their voices heard. In time, they manage to have the shame stay attached to the target company. In time, it can really hurt.

The images you see below have been found in a matter of a couple of minutes after googling “boycott Firefox”. The reaction is clearly growing fast; not in the headlines of the mainstream media, but in the world of the common people.

Please pick one or more of your images and mail it to your friends; blog them if you run a blog; post them in discussion fora; make them go around. Let them become a more and more diffused presence on the net. In time, this will really hurt. 

This is a fast and effective way to let the word spread.

Boycott Fagfox.

Mundabor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nozilla

 

 

boycott firefox

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