A Day In The Age Of Mercy.

It is a fine morning in the Eternal City, and the Bishop of Rome has just finished his very merciful rest. Soon the air will be filled with the fragrance of Spring; but alas, we are not there yet.

The Bishop of Rome dresses himself, and then meets the homosexual priest that runs the establishment where he occupies an entire floor. Some words occur between the two. One has a strong South American accent, the other a somewhat high pitch. A homosexual, this one. Several scandals already. Francis is not at all disturbed. He likes the company of perverts.

Francis says his morning prayers, obviously without counting Hail Marys, because he doesn’t like it at all. He uses a small crucifix that has been with him many years now. He has stolen it from the cold hands of a dead priest. He holds the crucifix in his hands every day, and the thought does not disturb him at all. What a smart move that was.

Today, Francis has a guest. An Argentinian Rabbi. The man is often a guest these days. They chat a lot. The man refuses Christ every day, and seems intentioned to die in his refusal. Is Pope Francis fazed by this? Not in the least. He pays attention that the man eats kosher, a subject matter in which he is rather fit. He leaves the discussions about the “details” to the theologians. Hey, the man believes “in God”! OK, this does not include the Son or the Holy Ghost, and can therefore, strictly speaking, not even include the Father. But who cares? These are “details” about which theologians quarrel, not him.

He moves along and starts to walk toward the Papal Apartments, where he has his office and a second (unoccupied; because of his humility, see…) apartment. He throws a glance out of a magnificent window, at a distant building where some of the calligraphers worked. There were many of them, sending beautifully written papal blessings to newlywed couples, and the like. A nice business, too, and a very pious one. What a joy for a newlywed bride to see on the wall, beautifully framed, the papal blessing for what will now be the care and vocation – and the tears, and the sorrow perhaps – of her entire life. But Francis didn’t like it. “Have I got rid all those people?” He thinks. “I sure remember they were supposed to be unemployed come January? Better ask the secretary, I think”. Yes, Holy Father. Think. Where can a calligrapher find another job as a calligrapher in a place like Rome? Hundreds, all or pretty much all of them, you wanted to make redundant. In a city where this means a tragedy for the entire family. Did you do that in the end? Was that so evil a profession? Sorry, I am talking at the clouds. Yes, Francis did want to make all of them redundant. he was not at all disturbed.

Francis arrives at the office, and meets a Cardinal very near to him. This Cardinal is accused – publicly, for all the world to see – of having stolen almost 200 copies of a book he did not want as many bishops to receive. A heist, and a criminal energy, for which in Italy he would realistically expect a conviction, and very possibly home jail time straight away. Francis knows of the accusation, because it’s everywhere in Catholic circles. The Thieving Cardinal, people say. Francis smiles at the thought of the Cardinal making so many copies of that horribly sanctimonious book disappear. Ah, the derring-do! The chutzpah! He likes that! “Hmmmm, I will ask him if he has ordered the heist. If he says no, that’s it. If he says yes and seeks the Lord and has good will, who am I to judge?”

He is now about to open his diary (in Italian: agenda) and is reminded that he has said marriage for priests is, actually, there. “I’ll have to discuss this soon”, he thinks. “If a would-be priest wants pussy, who am I to judge?”

He sees the programme for the next days, and is angered that there is nothing very fit for the media all week. “I will have to do something”, he thinks. “Let us see whom I can receive. Hhmmmm… Hmmm… Pro-homo priest? No, done that. Concubines with fruit of sin who want to be married? Hhmmm, no, used that already, too. Phone call with adulterer who wants communion? Ouch, that too! Then an interview with Scalfari perhaps? We could make another book of it! Salvation for atheists, conscience as substitute for Christianity! I like that! Or, I could meet a Trannie? No, wait…Ah, I got it! Anti-fracking, proto-comunistas activists! Oh no! Got that too!!

Then comes the meeting with Father Rosica. The man has threatened to sue a poor Catholic blogger and family father. The blogosphere is aflame. But hey, why would this bother him… “

¿Como estas, Tom?” No, better not touch the issue. People will forget. All this mess for a Canadian chap. A churchgoer. Blah! Whatever. Who cares.

The meeting with Rosica ends, and Francis remains alone. He throws a glance at St Peter’s Square, below. The masses have long disappeared. Fewer and fewer people want to see him. He has tried everything, even the showers for the homeless. But nothing. He can’t keep embracing wheelchairs anymore; even at Patheos they have had enough.

Oh, come on. Something will be found. It’s just a momentary dip. Perverts love him. Communists love him. Abortionists love him. Environmentalists love him. Why should he be bothered with these sanctimonious people smelling of holy water? Cazzo!

Oops! He did it again! He must pay attention. Once already it slipped, and he got the benefit of the doubt. A second time would be a mess. These damn hypocrites, always out to find fault! Ca… aargh!

So thinks our man, Francis, the Humble Bishop, and goes back to his splendid desk.

We leave him there, in a fine Roman morning.

A day in the age of Mercy.

M