Some Lutherans in Germany did this to get people into Church. HERE
What pops into my mind is… “but for Wales?”
Yes, friends. In the Illustrated Dictionary of Stupid, these photos will be by the entry for “crass”.
People dressed as characters from the movie Star Wars attend a service at the church Zionskirche in Berlin, Germany, December 20, 2015. REUTERS/Hannibal Hanschke
Don’t get me wrong. When I named Archbishop of St. Paul and Minneapolis, my entrance into the Cathedral will be in a black cope to the strains of the Imperial March.
But… this?
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I find their lack of faith…disturbing.
[ROFL!]
This is not the faith you’re looking for.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this
There has been a great disturbance in the Force. As if a million voices cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. By their bishop.
I am altering the liturgy. Pray I do not alter it any further.
[For all of the above.]
Arraaghrrrah!
He made a fair change within the Missal, screaming about it won’t help you.
Let him have it. It’s not wise to upset a liberal.
But sir, nobody worries about upsetting a traditional Catholic.
That’s ’cause traditional Catholics don’t pull people’s arms out of their sockets when they lose. Liberals are known to do that.
I see your point, sir. I suggest a new strategy Archdeacon, let the liberal win.
Sconnius,
ROFL!
Sorry Father, last one, then I have to get back to work.
“The Bishop has been expecting you.
I know…Father
So, you have accepted the truth?
I have accepted that you were once a priest named Father Smith, my pastor.
That name no longer has any meaning for me.”
“Attention, the Modernists have taken over this city. I advise everyone to leave before more Jesuits arrive.”
Father, have you seen the Facebook group “Ecclesia Dei Strikes Back”? https://www.facebook.com/EcclesiaDeiRorsusPercutit/?fref=ts
Favorite saying of a a traddie priest friend: “When I am elected bishop, the ‘motto’ on my seal shall be ‘Afferte mihi gladium.’ “
A not too inappropriate anticipatory celebration of the upcoming 500th anniversary of Father Martin Luther’s little temper tantrum if you ask me.
“When I’m named Archbishop of St. Paul and Minneapolis, my entrance into the Cathedral will be in a black cape to the strains of the Imperial March.”
Oh, what a blessed day that would be! We’d love to have you over here in MSP! (Well, at least I would. Fr. Tegeder less so.)
And, continuing Sconnius’s lovely theme: “I don’t like liturgical abuse. It’s so coarse, and rough, and irritating, and it gets everywhere.”
I volunteer to convert the young lady in the white dress.\
[That’s ecumenism for ya!]
As Archbishop Z entered the cathedral a wave of trepidation swept through some of the parishioners. One elderly parishioner clutched her favorite tambourine to her chest, whispering to herself: “no, no, no.” One priest had some difficulty maintaining his composure, his eyes darting nervously about. Another parishioner, disappointed by the absence of guitar- and kazoo-players, wondered at the new sounds emanating from the back of the cathedral. He knew he’d never be allowed to wear again his liturgical-flair sash festooned with buttons saying “Jesus is other people!” and “My Parish Council Rules!”
Then, as the Traditional Latin Mass unfolded, numerous “I have seen the Light!” moments occurred, not as dramatic as that of the Blues Brothers, but a good start nonetheless.
The elderly woman recalled the liturgical music of her childhood, before Vassar, Cosmo magazine, and the ululations of Nancy Pelosi distorted her inner ear. In Mass at the age of six she asked her father: “where is that music coming from?” He bent down and replied “from the angels,” and her eyes widened in delight.
The nervous priest paused at one point during the Mass, a Latin phrase remembered, Psalm 43? Introibo ad altare Dei, Ad Deum qui laetificat iuventutem meam. I will go to the altar of God, to God the joy of my youth. Later that day, while enjoying a mug of Mystic Monk coffee, a gift from a brother priest, he contemplated what he would do next. Perhaps he would discard the vestments hand-made from NYTimes editorials and WomynChurch bulletins. Maybe he would begin reading the neglected gifts of Fr. Neuhaus books and Michael D. O’Brien novels. Then he knew. He went to his computer and subscribed to the Catholic Register, and cancelled his subscription to the Catholic Reporter. The stack of back copies of the Reporter he would donate to a parishioner who frequented the fish market when the fish at the lake weren’t biting.
As the afternoon faded, a parishioner idly cleaned his fishing gear in his garage, his liturgical-flair sash near him on the workbench. He glanced at it now and then, buttons with slogans on his workbench. In his mind, the braying of secular mantras receded. Then he set down the fishing pole and picked up a marker. On the button that read “Jesus is other people” he drew a large comma between the words “other” and “people.” Satisfied, he picked up a wrench and walked to the backyard.
Near the lawnmower his golden retriever Ambrose splayed in sleep on the lawn, paws slowly clawing the air as he dreamed of large rabbits. The sun would set within the hour, and the parishioner thought the lawnmower could wait another day. He whistled. Ambrose stirred, stretched, and joined him.
In the distance an angry dog barked several times, then fell silent, or was silenced. The parishioner stood there for a while, looking at the sky, sensing Ambrose alert at his side, inhaling deeply of cool air, contemplating God’s creation. On the horizon low, grey, clouds slouched across the sky.
The parishioner turned and headed back toward the house, pondering the evening. An old friend occasionally emailed him articles, he had two from Crisis magazine in his inbox. One by a Rachel Lu, something about reverent liturgy. Another by some guy named Blanski, defending domestic coziness during the Scandinavian winter or some such thing.
Maybe tonight he’ll say No to the children’s pleas for the TV and read to them from The Hobbit. It’s been awhile. Then print out the two articles and read them with his wife together on the couch.
As he walked toward the door he felt a pang of regret for failed ideologies, and embarrassment over his utopian fantasies. He also felt a touch of anxiety about the future, and sensed his ability to control matters was, at times, an illusion. But he did know he was heading home.
[This entry is producing some really interesting comments!]
They’re trying to awaken priestly vocations: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10208385182490921&set=a.4520408612062.180989.1346202235&type=3&permPage=1