Daily Archives: September 17, 2014

Goodbye, Good Cardinals

There is much surprise in the blogosphere about the rumours that want Cardinal Burke on its way to a comfortable, but obvious semi-retirement at the head of the Knights of Malta. I must say I am not in the least.

The Cardinal will, I am sure, enjoy the view from the Aventino (you know that hole from which you can see the dome of St. Peter surrounded by an arch made of plants? Well, that’s them; among other things…). Whilst so doing, he will probably reflect that this was the only way it could end seen that he is not a boot-licker like many others – in red, in purple and in black – around him. It had to end that way, because Burke is – if even in the more moderate V I I version – a thorn in the side of NuChurch. Too obsessed with abortion, too attached to Tradition, too much of a Rosary-counter, Burke was clearly a fish out of the water in a world dominated by ecclesiastical prostitutes.

I can only hope his successor will not be an open subversive; which, by the wind that is blowing, is somewhere between a hope and a dream.

In a way, Burke unavoidable departure might give him more freedom of movement. As a member of Francis’ team of “super ministers”, he might have refrained from stronger criticism; as a man now outside of the big game, he could feel free to express himself more freely and become, one day, the focal point of what they call “loyal opposition” and I call merely sanity, and refusal to prostitute oneself to the new times.

It’s a beautiful piece of real estate, that plot on the Aventino. The view is astonishing, and certainly better than from the near Giardino degli Aranci, a favourite of Romans and tourists alike.

It’s a good place to reflect, in one of the wonderful October mornings Rome never fails to give, about the price of loyalty to Christ.

Cardinal Burke is probably not a saint, and clearly he is not the man to tell all the truth, hard and straight, at the cost of real persecution. Yours truly can, in conscience, not tell you that he is sure he would behave differently and would have the strength to openly invite persecution, loss of privilege, and a poor, lost, dreary, uncomfortable parish somewhere in Alaska, or Alabama. But as Cardinals go, Burke is at the moment among the very best; and is, therefore, put aside in favour of the young generation of willing careerist puttanelle; those who are the first to do TMAHICH’s will today, and will be the first to denounce the climate of leftist intimidation tomorrow.

The good ones will be removed one by one and moved where they have less, or no, influence; as already seen in the case of Cardinal Piacenza and – though I am bitterly disappointed in the man – Bagnasco.

Enjoy the October mornings, Your Grace. You may not be a martyr, but you have deserved them.

M

 

Skinning The Cat At The Synod.

I hear from various sides the reassuring calls of cardinals, bishops, priests and simple bloggers telling us that doctrine cannot change, and therefore we have nothing to fear from the October Synod.

I would not be so sure of that. I think we have much to fear.

True, doctrine can't change, because Truth cannot. Even if Francis himself would declare from the balcony in St Peter that fornication is not a sin, or that two and two is five, truth would not change in the least.

But this is not the way TMAHICH operates. He is not interested in open conflict with the strong. He does not touch the SSPX, much less 2,000 years of official Church pronouncements. What he does is to sabotage Catholicism in the praxis, in the everyday living of the Church; safe in the knowledge that 95% of Western Catholics don't know much of doctrine, but read the newspapers or receive the echo of the headlines.

Francis will not openly defy doctrine. There is more than one way to skin a cat. He will sabotage, mock, undermine, belittle, and vilify it. He will do so by creating a climate, an environment of change openly practiced but not officially proclaimed.

Take the Argentinian concubine to whom the Unholy Father would have said she can go to communion.

Has Francis officially proclaimed concubinage is no obstacle to receiving? Of course not. Has he reaffirmed Catholic teaching? No, he did not do it either. Has he at least denied he said such words to the woman? No, he hasn't. Has he affirmed he did? No, not at all.

Result? The whole world knows, senses, feels Francis is the chap to say such things. They clearly perceive he would like to say such things; and whether his tongue has slipped in a phone call or not, they know he would speak in this way for all the world to see, if he only could.

This is what everyone, bar the retarded and the inveterate Pollyannas, understands. The climate has been created. The lío is going on full steam. Dissenters, concubines, perverts know that Francis is on their side against Church teaching.

The Synod can begin.

At this synod, not much will be necessary to subvert the praxis, and it will most certainly not be necessary to attack the rules to do so. De jure, the rules will be very solemnly affirmed, for the joy of the Pollyannas happily licking their lollipop and writing on various blogs how gracious it was of Francis to give it to them. De facto, just a few carefully chosen words in official documents, saying but also not saying that the priest can, in case, when the circumstances allow, having regard for the particular situation, after weighing all the pros and cons, deal with the situation with mercy, will be enough. Actually, I now suspect that just the mentioning of this by Francis most devilishly and subversively used word, mercy, once will be enough to cause a real revolutionary outburst in the church in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, and elsewhere.

One phrase, carefully worded, and passed to the news outlets as the unofficial “key to the synod”, and “reflecting the mind of this merciful Pope”. This is all that is needed.

The world will exult, the concubines will feel vindicated, the Church will be vilified, perverts of all sorts will say now it's their turn, sacrilege will spread everywhere in the West not as isolated abuse, but as the new “alternative praxis of mercy”.

The Pollyanna will, very happily, lick at their lollipop.

M

 

TMAHICH And The Glorified NGO

The Most Astonishing Hypocrite In Church History is on record with saying that the Church is not a glorified NGO.

Unsurprisingly by such a circus tool, a glorified NGO seems to be exactly the vision he has of the Church: an organisation in which everything – from his homilies and off-the-cuff blatherings to his foreign travels to his verbous documents and interviews – is meant to trumpet the Church as the Force For Social Advancement, whilst the concept of salvation is dismissed as automatic achievement and, therefore, largely irrelevant as is repentance, conversion, & Co.

This NGO mania is so advanced, that the Church administration should now be reorganised to better serve the purpose. One is truly reminded of those Multinationals' restructuring at the core of which, they assure us, is the desire to be nearer the wishes and thinking – and purses – of the customer.

A “congregation for the Laity” should now be created. We already have, to my knowledge, a pontifical council with that name, but this here is clearly a promotion. Actually, I thought the Church Herself, and her organisation of bishops and priests and deacons, exists for the laity, so that the Congregation is a bit as if the British Government created a “ministry for the government”; but such are the times we live in.

This congregation would occupy itself with poverty, peace, justice and all the issues that sound so well in the ear of the world. It will be, so to speak, the spearhead of Pope Robin Hood. It will fill the void until now existing between papal rhetoric and papal administration.

I have no doubt the head of this new dicastery has been already selected by the Pope; and if he will not be one so utterly, as the Italians say, impresentabile as Maradiaga, it will probably be a slightly more presentable version of that unworthy prelate.

This will be a powerful man; at the centre of the attention, and rather well positioned to take Francis' place when he dies or resigns.

Say hello to “Glorified NGO”, then. In a world in which salvation is a given and giving public scandal is worthy of a Papal pat on the back, the only issues that count will be the exclusively worldly ones.

Let me stress it once again: this is The Most Astonishing Hypocrite In Church Hystory. He has, in fact, deserved an acronym just for him: TMAHICH.

M

 

Memorial Nonsense

And it came to pass yours truly was informed – by looking at a poster – of the existence of “memorial gardens”.

I have looked in some search engine what it is, and it soon became clear enough: a memorial garden is a place where people go to remember their loved ones who have left this vale of tears. With some space for them, perhaps a plaque on it, perhaps some ashes. What is, then, the difference with a Cemetery?

I can only imagine one difference: a memorial garden is something absolutely a-religious. In short, something for atheists.

A cemetery, you see, is full of crosses. One is constantly reminded of the great hope of a better life awaiting, one day, those who have departed this world. How annoying must it be to the mind of the atheist, who hates to be reminded that there is a judgment, and one without appeal!

Let him, therefore, do something different, and travel on a Saturday morning – Sunday is, clearly, meant for grocery shopping – in a pleasant garden, where his beloved former partner or parent or relative will be thought of in a soothing, pleasant, utterly relaxing environment. Thus pleasing first, second and last the one who does the thinking.

These atheists are, I am told, exactly those who consider Christians people who believe in fairy tales.

Strange.

A believer can walk in a cemetery, look at the immensity of the sky above him, at the organised beauty of life unfolding under his eyes, and rationally understand the necessity of the existence of God. What he sees above, and what he knows of the above, is what makes sense of the tombs and monuments around him. A cemetery is not the parody of anything else. It is the real thing, and it truly makes sense.

The atheist is, on the other hand, supposed to be a rational man. Still, not only he refuses to see what every perceptive child understands – that such a huge and hugely organised universe must have a Great Chief In Charge – but he lacks the guts to look at the consequences of his conviction against the faith. He needs some balm for the coldness around him: therefore, he builds for himself a senseless parody of a cemetery, deprived of any logic but his own self delusion.

Look, atheist friend. You believe that your parents are gone. Either they were burned in an oven like they do with waste, or they were put under the earth for worms to go to work at them. In both cases, what they have become is, pretty much, fertiliser. And yes, that's that, folks.

What sense does it make, then, to have a “memorial garden?”. Wouldn't any old nice park do the same? And what use is this revelling on the atrocious reality of the atheist? Fertiliser them, and fertiliser him, at the end of a life that makes no sense at all and is the very epitome of mad, or rather blind, casual injustice. Feelings of filial or parental love which, as the atheist must recognise, are but evolutionary mechanisms the human species, as every other halfway complex animal, evolved to protect itself from an hostile environment. Feeling of sadness for their departure which, as the atheist must recognise, are also but the way The Great Mad Life Machine, which actually – he must recognise it – doesn't even exist, forces him to love others and spend money on them; money which could, otherwise, be spent on gambling, drinking and whoring without the shadow of even an uncomfortable moment.

“This is my business”, says the atheist. “If I enjoy walking around in a memorial garden, what's it to you?”

It is a lot to me, dear peripatetic atheist. It shows that you, who claim the command of logical thinking, are but an emotional child, lost in a big world you cannot even begin to understand, and terrified of it; a world you cannot bear without surrounding yourself with exactly the soothing feelings and pleasant lies of which you say Christians and other believers are the willing, gullible victims. You are looking for pleasant feelings, because you are afraid of the unpleasant truth: that you will die and end up in an oven, or as worm food, and nothing of what you have said or done, alone or in company, for or against Christianity, good or bad, useful or useless, has, or ever could have, any meaning at all. Any meaning, I mean, that does not come from the fantasies of a child, fancying he loves a world which will devour him without a shred of an emotion.

Your mother is ashes now. So is everyone you knew before you discovered you wanted to be the Great Decider yourself, answerable to none but you. And all this does not make any sense, there is no glory or beauty in any of it. Your mother loved and nurtured you out of the pure instinct of making litter until she died, like every other animal. Your love for her is due to the same mechanisms. No one is ever good or right, or even heroic and selfless. Nature has made it all. All your hopes and aspirations, your passions and loves, your oh so humanitarian desires show only one thing: you are duped; you are the slave of your own DNA, used by it for the sake of its own perpetuation as you get discarded and thrown in the compost. This is all you will ever be good for.

Therefore, my dear atheist, abandon this emotional and childish nonsense of the “memorial garden”. It is, in your perspective, as senseless as everything else. Reflect, rather, on your own utter nothingness: an absurd joke of coincidence living among other jokes of coincidence, and living a short existence towards the pure nothing as they search some small comfort, and try to reproduce for reasons they actually can't fathom (which is why they, in fact, contracept massively).

It is better for you to recognise the brutal reality that dominates your thinking: you are the slave of your DNA until the day you die.

At which point, you will be only useful as fertiliser.

M

 

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