Transylvanians fear Pope's visit

In Transylvania, honest peasants are decking their homes with garlic and crucifixes, and refusing to go out after dark, as Pope Francis arrives on the latest of his world trips.

No, it is not the Holy Father, "He who can never tell lies," that they fear; rather it is the entourage of journalists, theologians, priests, vampires, and werewolves, who accompany him wherever he goes.

Fr Antonio Spadaro.

Said Bram Stoca, a humble peasant from Bran, "Probably there is no truth in the rumours that Austen Ivereigh sleeps in a coffin, that Robert Mickens can turn into a bat, or that Fr Rosica can only be killed with a stake through his heart, but I am taking no chances."

The local Lord of the Manor, Count Dracula, is equally perturbed by the prospect of the invading hordes, not least as they are likely to take "customers" away from his own private Banca de Sange.

"Any chance of a job with the Tablet?"

Some say that the Transylvanians' worries are unfounded, but for hundred of years peasants have told their children in hushed tones of the legend of the National Catholic Reporter, of Michael Sean Winters, of Fr Thomas Reese SJ, and even of Count Massimo Faggioli himself, of whom it is said in 1 Maccabees 5:4 (and no we are NOT making this bit up):

And he remembered the malice of the children of Bean: who were a snare and a stumblingblock to the people, by lying in wait for them in the way.

Fighting an NCR journalist with the only thing he fears.

Pope Francis refuses to meet the Mayor of Whitby

Councillor Heather Coughlan, Mayor of Whitby, has reacted angrily to reports that Pope Francis will be meeting with Patriarch Kirill of Moscow, but has, as yet "no plans to visit Whitby".

Nicene Nice one, Kyrill.

"What is it with Francis?" asked the mayor angrily. "He's happy to talk to Lutherans, Anglicans, Orthodox - even Catholics sometimes. But he refuses to consult Whitby town council when it comes to discussing an alternative date for Easter."

In fact, Pope Francis's negotiating position with Patriarch Kirill is more wide-ranging than this, being based on three demands (the fourth was considered to be "a step too far"):

1. Use the Gregorian Calendar.
2. Drop that stupid alphabet.
3. Stick "Filioque" in the Creed.
4. Get involved in gay masses, clown masses, and liturgical dancing.

Many of Whitby's most famous inhabitants, such as, er, Captain Cook and Dracula, are known to have favoured the current method for deciding the date of Easter; this was agreed at the Synod in A.D. 664 and has survived the changes brought on by the Reformation, Vatican II, etc.

A tense moment at the Synod of Whitby.

If a new date for Easter is agreed now, then it is likely that Yorkshire will go it alone, sticking to the present means of calculating it. After all, what's one more schism between friends? It is thought that both John Sentamu (Anglican Archbishop of York) - who signs himself John Ebagum, using the Roman word for York - and Marcus Stock (Catholic Bishop of Leeds) are strongly supportive of the plan for a Yorkshire Easter.

As far as the Catholic Bishops Conference of England and Wales is concerned, they would like to move Good Friday to a Sunday (cf. Epiphany and Ascension), but have not yet worked out how this would fit in with all the other plans under discussion. For Prime Minister David Cameron the important thing is that Easter Sunday should become an even more important shopping opportunity, the exact date being unimportant.

"Are you sure this is an Easter egg?"

George Orwell's "2014"

It was a cold November 2nd, and in England the Catholic Church was celebrating All Saints Day. For by orders of Comrade Nichols of the Ministry of Truth, all holy days had been moved from their correct dates, as part of a general break with that evil thing known as "tradition".

Winston Smith looked outside, and saw a poster bearing the portrait of an old man in white robes. BIG FATHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Big Father, the man who had seized power eighteen months ago, driving into exile President Benedict the good. Big Father, who kept an iron grip on the Church.

BIG FATHER IS WATCHING YOU.

On another poster were written the slogans produced by Big Father's right-hand man, Comrade Kasper.

SIN IS VIRTUE
JUDGEMENT IS IGNORANCE
CHANGE IS STABILITY
IMMACULATENESS IS FILTH

Winston Smith checked his watch and turned back to his television set, which could never be switched off. It was now broadcasting endless programmes of puppet masses and tango dancing from St Peter's, Rome. The Mass had reached the point where the comrade deacon was instructed to announce the Two Minutes Hate.

Comrade Burke, Enemy of the People.

As usual, the face of Raymond Burke, the Enemy of the People, flashed on to the screen. Comrade Burke had once been one of Big Father's most loyal supporters, but had now disappeared from public life. Some said that he was already dead, smothered in his own cappa maxima, while others claimed that he had merely been exiled to the barren wastes of Malta. On the screen, Smith saw crowds of Catholics screaming words of hatred for Burke, the enemy of the people. "AIRPORT BISHOP!" they yelled. "SELF-ABSORBED PROMETHEAN NEO-PELAGIAN!" "BAT-LIKE CHRISTIAN!"

A bat-like Christian in traditional Cappa Maxima.

The two-minute hate being over, the Mass continued on its way, with the usual liturgically-approved procession of clowns towards the altar. Winston turned his head away from the screen, and opened his copy of the State Newspaper, the Tablet. "Arrange the following virtues of Big Father in order of importance, then complete the following sentence in not more than ten words. I love Big Father because... First prize: a two-week holiday on Tina Beattie's luxury houseboat, the Tinatanic." Theological debate was not what it used to be.

The Tinatanic.

There was a hammering on the door. Was it a gang of ACTA thugs, demanding "dialogue"? Or had the thought police discovered that Winston possessed a copy of the suppressed Catholic Herald? Should he have been expecting the Spanish Inquisition...?

How do saved persons vote?

In the UK, we are in the grip of election fever, and many of my readers are struggling to decide which party or parties to vote for. When you see the policies now considered acceptable by almost all parties: abortion, euthanasia, assisted suicide, same-sex marriage, sending children up chimneys, recapturing Calais, exporting all British ducks to Mars, taxing custard, making it compulsory to recycle all used socks, independence for Scunthorpe, free orange juice for Damian Thompson, locking up all bald people, exiling Stephen Fry to Fiji, ... you realise that nobody has any policies that a saved person could support. Except perhaps the one about Stephen Fry.

This is how a saint votes. Note the expression of distaste.

The main question at present seems to be "Do I listen to Bishop Kenney, who says that UKIP is unsaved, or do I listen to Bishop Egan, who reckons that practically every politician is unsaved?" At a more basic level, is the European Union the New Jerusalem prophesied in the Book of Revelation, or is it the new Babylon, to be consumed by fire? I don't know: perhaps it's somewhere in between the two.

"Roger Helmer says he can beat up the two of us single-handed."

We come now to the question of Romanians: are they saved? For some reason, these have been singled out by some as the worst Europeans to have as your neighbours. Here, however, I have some personal experience.

Our new next-door neighbour.

Recently, a Romanian nobleman, the Earl of Dracula, moved in next door to us. He's basically a very quiet person, and apparently works nights. Indeed, I never see him in the day time, although occasionally he drops round in the evening and asks to borrow a cup of blood

Apparently, our neighbour supports the Romanian Independence Party.

Basically, he's a model neighbour and I don't see what all the fuss is about. I've got other problems: my Brother Bosco, who has a habit of saying "Bite Me!" whenever he loses an argument (which is most of the time), seems to have gone missing. I do hope he hasn't been annoying the Earl of Dracula.

Finally, to answer the question raised in this post: go to the polling-booth, write "unsaved" against the name of every candidate standing, and write "only I is saved" at the bottom of the ballot-paper.

No other course of action is possible. Indeed, if you look carefully at the photo of Padre Pio, you can see that he did precisely that.

Are you a bat-like Christian?

Time for a little spiritual nourishment.

Pope Francis has said that there are many "funeral" Christians who are afraid of the joy of the Resurrection; instead, they are "Christian bats" who prefer the shadows to the light of the presence of the Lord.

I admit it, I am somewhat bat-like.

The thought will no doubt have struck many of our readers: am I a bat? Here are a few tell-tale signs:

1. Do you emit high-pitched squeaks (and we don't just mean the 
"music" of Paul Inwood)?
2. Do you sleep hanging upside-down in a shed (or a cave)?
3. Do you like eating insects?

If you can answer NO to all these questions, you are probably not a bat. You may still be a self-absorbed Promethean neo-pelagian, but at least you don't scare passers-by after dark.

Holy Pepinsters, Batman! We're late for Mass!

Pope Francis has also given us an Argentine proverb: When you get burnt by boiling milk, later when you see a cow you start crying. Fortunately, this is not an ex cathedra statement (although it may have more authority than a telephone call to a confused old bat lady). However, just in case it applies in your case, we apologise for making you cry with the following picture. Think of it as necessary therapy.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. >

Bad Hymns 15

The judges of the Eccles Bad Hymn Award are very pleased to welcome Fr John Glynn, who is going to tell us about his hymn I watch the sunrise.

I watch the sunrise.

E: Good to have you here, John. I see from your website that your hymn has been used in a variety of contexts: radio, TV, films,... why, some people even sing it at weddings and funerals.

JG: Yes, it also makes a great accompaniment to Tom and Jerry cartoons, especially the bit where Jerry is hitting Tom over the head with a hammer: he sings the moving words, I watch the hammer, hitting your head.

E: Well, that's enough free advertising. Let's talk about the hymn itself. There's a lot in it about what you do all day long, but not much about God, really.

JG: I've got a lot of time on my hands these days, Eccles, and I do spend most of the day staring out of the window.

E: So I see. Now, in verse 1 you've got up bright and early to see the sunrise, and you're rambling on about the shadows the sun casts.

JG: Yes, many worshippers don't realise that the sun casts shadows, so I thought I'd point this out.

Evidence that the sun does indeed cast shadows.

E: But of course God is close as well. That's the main message of the hymn - in fact the only one - apart from a detailed description of what you do all day long. I watch the sunrise/sunlight/sunset/moonlight.

JG: Here's a verse we didn't use, Eccles. It was again about watching things, but it has a tragic theme to it.

I watch the toaster warming the bread,
Grilling my toast for tea,  
But, as it pops up into my face,
I feel that pain is near me.

E: It would be good for funerals, maybe, John. Moments of sadness, and all that. Not so good for weddings, maybe,

JG: No, also it does get away slightly from the main theme of the song, which is astronomical observations.

I watch the planets, when the sky's clear, bumbling along their ways.

E: I was going to ask about that, actually. What do you do when it's cloudy, and you can't see the sun?

JG: Go down to the pub, usually. I didn't write a verse about that.

John Glynn's favourite pub.

E: I still have this problem that I confuse your song with another better-known one:

I see skies of blue,
And clouds of white.
The bright blessed day,
The dark sacred night.
And I think to myself,
What a wonderful world. 

Oh yeah.

What John Glynn was trying to say.

JG: Yes, that does seem to have as much religious content as my own song. It's even got the words "blessed" and "sacred" in it, so we know it's a genuine hymn. And the "Oh yeah" at the end is classic Paul Inwood, if I'm not mistaken.

E: Jealous?

JG: Just a bit. Still, my hymn is in all the hymn books, and that's what counts. Also, the producers of a forthcoming Dracula musical have been thinking of getting the Count to sing a new verse:

Can't see the sunlight, I'm underground,
Lying inside my tomb,
And, as I rest from chasing the girls, 
I feel the earth is near me.

E: You could use that verse at funerals too, couldn't you? John Glynn, thank you for talking to us.

---

Previous entries for the Eccles Bad Hynm Award:

Lord of the Dance.    Shine, Jesus, shine.    Enemy of apathy.    Walk in the Light.
Kum Ba Yah.    Follow me.    God's Spirit is in my heart.    Imagine.    Alleluia Ch-ch.
It ain't necessarily so.    I, the Lord of sea and sky.    Colours of day.    The red flag.
Go, the Mass is ended.

Bosco finds St Peter

Well dat was a disasster, wasnt it, Bosco, my dere bruvver. We lunched a raid on de herretics at de Calvados Chappel, dem wot scribled "Bosco, you aint saved" on de wall of the dining room. For Jessus had spoke to us and said "Beet em up good and propper, you servvants of de Lord".

De plan was to brake into de Calvados Chapule and stick supergleu on de foot of de iddle of St Peter dat dey got (dey calls him St Dracula, but we knows it is reely St Peter), so dat de first person to kiss de foot (probabbly Pastor Nosferatu) would be stuck to it. Den we could shout "You aint saved, is you, you loser?"

Here is de statue of St Peter.

Well we went to de Calvados service, which I has to say is very similar to what Bosco and me does in de Calumny Chappel. Dey had a momment of sillent prayer when Pastor Nosferatu said "Shut up my brethren" and de congreggation said "We shuts up for de Lord". Bosco aint very good at being sillent and I heard him prayin "Oh God, Eccles is such a pane, make him stop writtin dat ghastlly blogg before he gets us both arested. PS Dont forget I am one of de saved ones, so dis is a proirity prayer."

Den Pastor Nosferatu stood up and said, "We got visitors tonihgt, and we invites em to be de first to kiss de stateu of St Dracula". Bosco wasnt paying attention and frew force of habbit he rushed up and kissed de foot of St Peter/Dracula. De big toe broke off and got stuck to his nose wiv supergleu, makin it twice as big as ussual. De Calvados Chapule folk cried out "Dat's a sign of special blessin from de Lord. Is it not written in de Song of Solomon 'Thy nose is as de tower of Lebbanon which looketh toward Dammascus'?" (Yes, I fink it is, but dats a song dat we don't sing very often in de Calumny Chappel.)

Anyway, we is now makin our peace wiv de Calvados Chapule, dey aint saved as much as we is, but dey aint bad chaps reely, not like dem Cathlics, who is de reel ennemy. Dey promissed not to write "Bosco, you aint saved" on any more walls, as a man wiv a big hooter is surely marked out for Salivation.

Here is Bosco wiv his new nose, but he aint very happy wiv it, he says it tickles.