Daily Archives: April 17, 2014
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.
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.