Graffiti on the security wall, Bethlehem. Israel built a wall.
“And the angel said to them: Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, that shall be to all the people.” -Luke, 2:10
“And now there remain faith, hope, and charity, these three: but the greatest of these is charity.” -1 Corinthians, 13:10
“And the least of these and thus most delicate, in constant need of your attention, is hope.” Deaconette, 12:24
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light.” Garland, 1944
[Today, at the chapel of the Domus S. Stercus]
It recently came to the attention of Pope Francis that young seminarians in Rome are often admitted to studies by old men who like the young men that have a lot in common with their old man outlook, and not much in common with their peers. Benedict XVI appointed a lot of conservative bishops, and three of the four ornery Cardinals. But who am I to judge?
Quaeritur: Can the saturno be worn with a black suit, or only with a cassock?
Dicendum: Indeed it may, Fr Vincent Fitzpatrick, and Deaconette thanks Your Reverend Fatherhood for the absurdity of your delicious question. A saturno is actually proper to a black suit rather than to a cassock. There are some caveats, however, to be observed.
Quaeritur: Would we Latins be out of line in mocking our Eastern Catholic or Orthodox brothers [for their ridiculous headgear]?
Dicendum: Thank you for the question, 4P. Could there be any invented ecclesiastical role in all of Christendom more undignified than actually having to wear one of those silly hats? As unlikely as it seems, there is indeed. Behold the 4M:
The holiday season or sure, call it Advent, makes Deaconette’s life increasingly busy, and she finds herself with less time with which to address the unabating quotidian outrages from the parishioners at St. Upid Traddy Catholic Community. She will thus make this entry short and sweet, like herself.
Carpe diem! Carpe capulus! Carpe eos cessoribus!
Deaconette was troubled by the Pleonasmic Porcelain-Peddling Priest‘s choice to co-opt the now President-elect’s campaign materials for some advocacy of his own. She wasn’t a fan of Mr Trump’s hostile and often deeply sinful behavior as he barnstormed the country in search of racists who vote. (She wasn’t a fan of his opponent, either, on the basis of her stated policies.) She doesn’t think the clergy should be directing the faithful toward any particular office-seeker but instead instructing them in values and principles with which to make their own well-informed moral choices. But it’s a free country, for now anyway, and the 4P can say what he’d like. Just because one can, though, does not mean that one should.
Still, there was something else subliminally incorrect about the mug design that seemed to whisper an objection into Deaconette’s ear without ever checking if she was wearing her hearing aid.
Deaconette does give a rat’s ass, but a whole rat is asking too much.
Deaconette can’t seem to remember where her box of rodent hindquarters is, which is a dang old shame because she intended to donate it to anyone asking about blue vestments.
Less short answer:
Ex Unum Pluribus
Until the time Pope Benedict XVI was born, which is to say the Council of Trent, liturgical colors in the Western church followed local custom. Up to the fourth century, to the extent there even were vestments instead of people gathering in what they called “clothes,” it’s thought that they were usually white, a color associated with Roman citizenship. In Rome throughout most of Catholic history there were three liturgical colors, namely white, red, and black.
In the sad, little dark corner of the breakout room, near the handout and collaterals table and up against the folding partition wall Where a Drifter Traddy Priest Recalcitrantly Sequesters while the rest of us get on with the real work of Christianity, there’s yet more whining and bitterness going on about Pope Francis’ initiatives. It seems the Holy Father commissioned a study on the history of the female diaconate just so the investigators could chat about the great pastry tray (they’re not as good at the Marriott as they used to be back in the good old days) and sharpie their names on stick-on badges before the ice-breaking session. Which, it is imagined, is followed by lunch and a team building exercise, cookie break, meditation in the Papal gardens and daily Mass before the various cliques decide where to get dinner together because that’s not included in the registration fee. There won’t be enough time to discuss deaconesses (or “deacons,” which is so much easier to say) because of the vicious circle of time-wasting a symposium involves. The doomed study of the female diaconate is going nowhere.
Deaconette has seen this silly line of reasoning before.