If You Are Sad You Have Strayed From Jesus, Says Pope.
One of the most shallow aspects of an already extremely shallow Pope is his insistence on joy at all costs.
It goes so far, that we are now informed that sadness would, and I kid you not, indicate we are “far from Christ” (commentary) and have “strayed from Jesus” (his very words).
One wonders what Francis would have told to the Blessed Virgin, whose sorrows were certainly very real and always with her; though I wonder whether she ever was, ahem, far from Christ. Try growing a Child, Divine as He is, and to know that that very gentle toddler playing with the sand will one day be atrociously vilified, tortured and executed in the most brutal of ways, and tell me how joyful you are. This is, of course, only an example, though I am sure an example with which every mother will be able to relate.
With his slowly unbearable rhetoric of joy, Francis does not only downplay the suffering of the Blessed Virgin; he downplays the suffering of countless people (mothers and fathers most especially) whose life is a vale of tears, and who will, in most cases, not find much consolation in the “kindergarten animator” rhetoric of the Pope.
Where I come from – and we Italians are, God knows, a bunch of rather optimistic, sunny, cheerful people – it was common knowledge that sadness must be respected in others, not vilified in such a way. There is a time to be sad and a time to dance, stays in the Ecclesiastes. What kind of strange novelties is Francis spreading?
Francis must have had a very sheltered existence, with a safe occupation since his late Twenties, in order to have forgotten the daily cares of the people around him, and in particular the constant preoccupation of a father and a mother for the material and spiritual well-being of their loved ones.
Here, a father has lost his job; there, a son cannot find one; elsewhere, people who have promised to each other long for the minimum of security allowing them to marry, and pray God for better times. In many places, mothers and wives tremble to their last breath for the spiritual welfare and the eternal destiny of their dissolute or unbelieving sons and husbands; In many places, people have to leave their parents and friends and move to another country in pursue of a better existence in a fairer world, where opportunities will be provided by their own ability rather than from party affiliation, or from a network of influential relatives. Ask the mother so deprived of her son if she is sad, or her son; or ask me, because I am that son. I who still have so many reasons to be cheerful, that others don't have. I who am healthy, smart, and graced with a good job and good friends.
Has the Peruvian peasant, has the Brazilian cleaning lady no right to be sad? What does Francis think life is? When was last time he was afraid for the welfare (spiritual, or otherwise) of his dear ones? Has he never thought he was being tested beyond his own strength, and asked God in tears to give him the strength he fears he does not have? Has he never thrown himself at the feet of the Blessed Virgin, and cried his very heart out to her? How shallow for him to underplay, to even vilify and insult the weakness of those who suffer, and cry, and see no way out.
“Strayed from Jesus”. Who made this man Pope?
I was always told by the smart people in my life that this life is a place of fleeting joys, and perpetually unfulfilled hopes. A vale of tears, not an amusement park. Certainly, I do draw a great consolation from knowing that one day this disappointing circus will have an end, and I will – if God wills – reach the land where there is no sadness and no fear, no broken dreams and no shattered hopes, and happiness beyond dreams in God's presence. But to see sadness around us and not to be moved to compassion, rather than accusations, we must be very cynical people; people who have forgotten what real sorrow is, and do not have much goodness in their hearts.
I have also read – and found very well said – that sorrow and trouble help us to detach ourselves from the illusions of this world, and to long for an infinitely better existence. I can't imagine one good Christian who wasn't made a better man through his sadness, through his suffering, through his tears. Blessed tears, say I, and blessed sadness!
Compare, if you please, with Francis' mediocre, party-like motivational attempts. Of course, one understands he wants, in that shallow way of his, to “help”; but it happens very often with this man that he cannot help without being insulting, or without forgetting traditional Catholic piety, or both. And this happens because he has no Catholicism in his head, and no manners in his ways.
He says to you you have a “flight assistant smile” if your smile is not quite after his liking, and what flight assistants have done to him will remain forever unknown; to encourage people not to gossip he compares gossip to homicide, thus indicting of homicide-like behaviour pretty much all of the female population to varying degrees; if you count rosaries for him, he will vilify you; if you have “doctrinal certainties” he considers “excessive” (what a stupid, oxymoronic thing to say!) he will put you among the Pharisees; heck, even if you are sad he will tell you you have “strayed from Christ”…
However could the people in Buenos Aires cope with such poppicock for so long? Is it a surprise many of them (wrongly, indeed!) are then tempted to look elsewhere, where Christianity isn't considered a joyful flavour of Judaism?
This man is a nightmare. It's like having Steve Martin as Pope, without the fun.
I must, and will, be sad every day thinking of what has become of the Papacy, and at what Bergoglio – and probably a couple at least of his successors – will do to the Church. I am even sadder at clearly seeing that this scourge is God's punishment for our unbelief, our rebellion to simple rules, our demand that the prosperous world born of WWII have its cake and eat it, enjoying material prosperity and guilt-free licence with priestly approval.
All of it (the prosperity, the licence, and the priestly approval) punctually happened. Until the Modernist chicken came home to roost.