Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, and old project, and a plot

It being the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, I am minded of a project a few years ago during the Amazonian Together Walking when the demon idol was venerated in the Vatican Gardens and the demonic idol bowl was ordered by Francis to be placed on the altar above the bones of St. Peter.

There was an initiative to get priests world-wide to recite – at a fixed time – Leo XIII’s Prayer of Exorcism (the so-called long prayer to St Michael – Chapter 3 of Title XI in the Rituale Romanum.) with the intention of expelling diabolical influence from the Vatican.

I fully believe that this is still necessary.

Priests can recite Chapter 3 privately without special permission.  That is not what it will say in your old Rituale.  The Pontifical Commission “Ecclesia Dei” wrote (my emphases) in 2018 to Bp. Dewayne of Venice, FL, that “this prayer should not be used publicly or privately over persons without express permission of the local Ordinary. Further, public use over places or objects is also prohibited without the permission of the Ordinary.  The prayer may be said privately by priests as part of their personal prayer.”  This draws on the 29 Sept 1985 letter from the CDF concerning exorcisms.

This prayer can be prayed publicly over places, etc., specifically as rite of exorcism, but that would require the permission of the local Ordinary.  This project, on the other hand, was private recitation by priests who happen to have gathered in the same place – and they can be in other places, too – for the sake of praying against demonic influence in the Vatican.

Who can doubt that the Devil is constantly on the attack? Who can doubt that prayer by priests against the Devil’s attack is a good thing?

I’ve posted before that I made recordings of the Latin of Chapter 3, the long Prayer to St. Michael for the use of priests and bishops to work on their pronunciation. HERE

NB: Lay People!  Do NOT use this prayer!  Instead, pray the beautiful Lorica of St. Patrick.  PRAYERCAzT: The Lorica of St. Patrick – text and recording

That said, and in view of the events in the Diocese of Libville recently, here’s a rendering of what that proposal might look like were it to become a regular practice in the Eternal City, to give spiritual support to the Holy Father by praying for the purification of the environs in which he must carry out his heavy mandate.   But such an initiative would not be appreciated by the Enemy.

Nor the Enemy’s clerical agents.

Rome.

Afternoon’s hanging crooked, shadows stretching like jailhouse stripes. The church looms over the small square, poker-faced, not talking. Beyond the Tiber, the Cupola surveys the City like the boss you don’t cross.

The World’s Best Sacristan shows up early. Half an hour on the clock that isn’t his. He cracks the side door to the sacristy.  Scans left, scans right.  A few tourists.  A few locals.  Cobbles. Shop doors. He thumbs his phone, pockets it, ducks inside.

That’s the signal.

In the neighborhood around the church priests leak out of alleys and corners. Cassocks like trench coats. Saturnos pulled low. Rosaries like brass knuckles. Satchels gripped tight. They walk determined, deliberate, eyes cutting the street. Cars. Faces. Maybe tails from the Vicariate. Maybe nothing. Hats tip at the polite. Stone stares at the punks. One by one, they disappear into the church.  The Great Roman takes a watchful place by the door.

Inside, the Sacristan is lighting up. Switches flipped. Candles sparked.  Thurible scorching.

They sense St. Michael’s already here, sword out, staring mean, ready to go.

A priest steps in, gold cope and humeral veil shining like on coming headlights through the fog. Blessed Sacrament exposed. More cassocks roll in, knees bend, pews lined. Some stick to the aisles, statues in black.

Silence.

A bell chimes like a starter pistol.

Rosaries drop on wood. Black books slide out like heaters before a job. The scrap is on.

Latin pours out like bourbon, smooth and golden. Every voice a different edge, accent, but cut clean. This ain’t mumbling. This is battle.

It fades slow. One voice, then another. Some still whisper.

Four priests head for the confessionals.

Violet stoles drip with grace. Heavy priestly hearts go in. Light ones come out. Business handled.

Door keeps swinging. More cassocks, more prayer. A delayed priest leans in, whispers to his brother: “Amice, non est mihi liber. Tuum, ut recitam…?” A smile, a handoff. The Rituale slides across the wood like contraband.

The war machine keeps grinding. Time ticking, prayers smoking like the thurible in the sanctuary.

Then the bell again. Benediction. Chant thick in the vault, Divine Praises rising through the haze.  Tabernacle closes, key tucked, curtains straight.

Genuflections.  Sunlight.

Back on the street, they make their way, alone, pairs, groups. Scattered routes, scattered shadows.

One cleric crosses the nearby bridge over the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto with its great circular water path yawning like an exit wound.  Shops, cars, gates.  His eyes cut the corners.  The Vicariate.  He heeds the advice.  Priests have been burned before.

Then the coffee bar. Doors open ushering the smell of coffee grounds, floor cleaner. He stops dead, Rosary vanishing into a pocket.

His free hand flexes. Knuckles tight. Knuckles loose again. He steps inside.

“Tracer.”

At the counter, the only client tosses off his doppio caffè corretto al vetro. With a lift of his fedora’s brim he rotates from the bar toward the cassocked silhouette framed against the light.

“Monsignore.”

HERE