On my way home tonight, I drove past a field filled with goats and few sheep.
I don’t know how familiar you are with them, but sheep aren’t all that bright. In fact, they’re pretty stupid and they can smell pretty bad especially if you get them wet. They’re also pretty docile, and tend to go along faithfully to wherever the shepherd leads them.
Goats, on the other hand, are clever but destructive. They will chew up and destroy everything in their path without much thought. They’re smarter than is probably good for them, and can get into all kinds of mischief if they’re not protected from themselves.
Know what Texans use to protect flocks from the outside world that wants to devour them?
Read the rest and find out... but allow me to say positive light is shed on jackasses which, as a special sort of jackass, is personally comforting.
Best advice I've seen yet for those whining about the happenings at the Family Synod comes our way via Jennifer Fitz:
If you find yourself stuck on the grumpy loop, rehashing over and again the failings of Cardinal Clueless or Father Frustrating, pray for him as if he were dying.
That’s right. Imagine your nemesis on his deathbed, about to face his eternal reward, and pray as if his very soul were at stake. If you are correct in perceiving just how far he has strayed from his vocation, then his eternal soul truly is in grave danger even now. And if you’ve somewhat over-imagined the peril, the poor man needs all the prayers he can get, what with having to put up with the likes of you.
Jennifer suggests that this prayer practice might come in handy for parish and family life too.
Papa Francesco may not be Big Papi, but he showed a bit of athletic prowess at the end of his weekly general audience as he strolled through St. Peter’s Square Wednesday.
Someone from the crowd tossed him a baseball to sign, but sailed it high above the pope’s head. His instincts kicked in as he jumped slightly — losing his zucchetto (his small white skullcap) in the process — and knocked it down with his right hand. He almost snagged it on the way down, but the ball bounced off his outstretched fingers.
Gay rights groups are aghast–aghast I say!–that these young whippersnappers are degrading the Sacred Institution of Marriage by making it be All About Them and not all about forcing everybody to pretend that a homosexual union is a marriage!
So hilarious when yesterday’s revolutionaries become today’s old fogeys. Why, when *they* were lads (last year) nobody would have *dreamed* of taking the obvious next step from redefining marriage to mean gay unions to redefining marriage to mean any possible permutation of relationship between two or more organisms. Who could possibly have seen *that* coming?
Just another scene from the culture where Consent is the Sole Criterion of the Good.
The gay folks who have a problem with this... are they... intolerant? Close-minded? Hateful? Are they against diversity? Are they heterophobes? Are they out of touch?
Local Catholics gathered yesterday for what has been called the "theological time bomb set to go off with dramatic consequences, sometime in the third millennium of the Theology on Tap": the Scottish rendition of Pope Saint John Paul II's audiences, dubbed "The Theology of the Toddy."
The Prince's Pub was overflowing with young people and free hot toddies for the event, where Fr. Malcolm Westergate preached that the theology of the toddy was based on "pre-given language of self-giving and honeyed spicyness" that was part of the toddies' very creation. "The prelapsarian land of spices, Eden itself, is held in every hot toddy sipped by a human person. The land of the covenant, a land flowing with mild and honey, is prefigured. Technically, the whisky should be milk, but then no one would drink it, and God is merciful, after all," he insisted.
Alas, it was a Catholic gathering and so there was some controversial dissent:
Angus Righthold handed out anti-toddy literature to people coming in for the event. "The very problem here is held in the word 'hot.' We have 'hot toddies,' now. It just sounds a bit risque, and I don't appreciate being forced to consider whether I consume my toddy is too hot, mate. Would ye give your mother a 'hot' toddy? I don't think so. My case is made and my conscience is clear," he said.
Righthold's argument seemed lost on the enthusiastic crowd of young people, who left claiming that the talk helped them see "the spousal meaning of the Toddy" in radically new ways. "The free Toddy gives itself to me, and I give meself to God freely. Or something like that," gushed Aidan Abbott. "All I know is I am feeling very giving right now. Ye are all me brothers and sisters, eh mates?" A roar rose in the background.
I hope those in the know and with the proper amount of influence can talk the powers that be to next year meet up in Tlaquepaque, Mexico for a council on tequila theology.
This weekend I went to confession at a parish near my son's soccer game. I am weird that way, I seek out parishes away from home for my confession obligations.
Anyway, I went to a parish. Nice enough looking Church with the standalone wood confessionals.
I picked a pew a few rows up from the confessional at the back of the Church to prepare and wait my turn.
A lady came into the Church and stood right near me but closer to the confessional, clearly not intuiting that I was waiting my turn.
So she is standing maybe 8 feet from me when her cell phone rings. Of course, she answers it. As loud as can be, she says...
"HI! WHAT? NO NOT YET? WHAT? NO. I WILL LATER."
An older man that had already gone to confession and praying his penance on the other side of the Church turned around and stared in disbelief. For my part, I sat there thinking thoughts that I would need to add to my confession.
"HEY!! I AM AT CHURCH RIGHT NOW. LISTEN, I WILL CALL YOU BACK LATER. OK. TALK TO YOU LATER. BYE-BYE!!"
I got up and stood along the wall next to the lady so that everyone else would know I was waiting. Soon after, a woman exited the confessional and stared in disbelief at the lady for how loud she was.
Cell-phone lady entered the confessional just as another woman lined up behind me. At this point, I am probably twenty-five feet from the confessional when I hear...