A SECOND FRENCH ARCHBISHOP ADMITS ABUSE.

Padraigsays:
Nov 21, 2022 at 1:08 pm
No it’s not Patrick, you know far better than I do, that an honorarium (that will probably not hurt you sensitivities as the grease word, surely you must know, the grease the priest hand, is in common parlance by Irish Roman Catholics, well if you didn’t, you know now. )is a tradition in Ireland and most likely elsewhere, that has continued for generations, after funerals, after baptisms, after marriages, not to talk of the money raked in signing Mass cards, that’s a nice little earner. I’m seething with envy, I didn’t get a tip for doing my job.
I have a sense it’s tied up with trying to paving a smooth path for the deceased, indulgences can always be applied either to oneself or, to the souls of the deceased, now isn’t that convenient. Poor old Luther must be turning in his grave, only joking Patrick, I am trying to tease.
Patrick I know nothing, if it keeps you happy keep calling me Queenie Know All, you are not hurting my feelings, I’m as bold as brass, and I have lot to learn.
Here’s a little poem to console you.
The Ballad Of Father Gilligan
by William Butler Yeats
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day;
For half his flock were in their beds,
Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.
‘I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die’;
And after cried he, ‘God forgive!
My body spake, not I!’
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind;
And God covered the world with shade,
And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow-chirp
When the moths came once more.
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
‘Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died
While I slept on the chair’;
He roused his horse out of its sleep,
And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man’s wife opened the door:
‘Father! you come again!’
‘And is the poor man dead?’ he cried.
‘He died an hour ago.’
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.
‘When you were gone, he turned and died
As merry as a bird.’
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.
‘He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of His great angels down
To help me in my need.
‘He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.’

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