How the Bishop Stole Tradition
(by a diocesan priest)
The faithful of the diocese liked tradition a lot,
But the bishop at the chancery… did not!
The bishop hated tradition! To like it was treason!
Now, please don’t ask why, though I might know the reason.
It could be that his collar was too tight,
though he always wore a tabby, so that couldn’t be right.
But perhaps the reason most likely of all,
was that his head and his heart were two sizes too small.
Whatever his reason, his heart or his tab,
he couldn’t but foment his hate for the Trads.
He balked at reports that arrived on his desk,
of traditional priests doing things quite grotesque.
For he knew that the Trads in the diocese fanned
the flames of devotions for practices banned:
“They’re singing in Latin,” he said with a sneer,
“They’re using the Ritual to bless Christmas Beer!”
Then he groaned with his bishop’s ring tapping,
“I must put a stop to these traditional trappings!”
For on Sunday he knew the parishioners would gather
and sing and speak Latin in a false-pious blather.
Then the parishioners, at a rail, would all kneel about
while the chant of communion from the loft would ring out.
Then the lay faithful silently, to the Lord, they would pray.
And they’d pray, and they’d pray, and they’d pray and they’d pray, pray, pray!
They’d pray their novenas, they’d pray to Mary fair,
and at last they would sing “Alma Redemptoris Mater”!
And THEN they would do something that would truly grind his gears:
they would say this last prayer while holding back tears.
Yes, every parishioner, both the old and young,
Would pray to St. Michael for a victory won
against all the bishops who might cancel the Mass
(Which, of course makes the bishop look a bit of an ass).
And they’d pray and they’d pray
and they’d PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY.
And thus his mind grew to a state of dismay.
“Since Benedict 16 I’ve put up with it now
I must make these traditions expire… but how?”
And then the bishop got an idea!
An impious idea.
The bishop
Got a WONDERFUL IMPIOUS IDEA!
“I know just what to do,” the bishop did scoff
As he opened his list of parishes he wrote off.
And he maniacally laughed as he plotted the route
“By tomorrow all these traditions will be all but moot!”
Then he looked for a priest who might drive him around,
but he looked and he looked and none could be found.
So he called Deacon Bob in the middle of the night,
an old clueless geezer who wasn’t so bright.
Then he loaded some tools and a box and some keys
that the chancery kept for emergencies like these,
In the bed of the truck of old Deacon Bob
And started his way to the churches he’d rob.
All the places were locked when the nighttime did fall
The priests slept, save one-off emergency calls.
“This is the first!!” the bishop suddenly quaked
As the half-asleep deacon then slammed on the brakes.
He grabbed all his items and then tried those keys
and after a while the door opened with ease.
He rushed past the doors and heard no alarm
“These foolish priests don’t even have the system armed.”
Then he walked up the nave and past the first row.
“These altar rails,” he sneered, “Are the first things to go!”
So he cut them all up and then went to the back
where he grabbed and snatched up all the old fiddlebacks.
The finery, he grabbed, then the bishop did cluck,
“Deacon Bob, come here; load this stuff in your truck!”
The bishop took candles, and then just to boast,
He loaded the packets of embroidered hosts.
He took all the books that were written in Latin
He stole all the veils and even the patens!
Then finally, for just one act of spite
he hauled out the tree, the poinsettias, and lights.
He fleeced all the things that reeked of tradition.
But that was the bishop, and that was his mission.
Then as he was taking out the last altar rail
the bishop heard a sound so small and so frail.
Then he spun and he saw with little admiration
coming from the chapel of perpetual adoration
a little girl he did see, whose name was Betty G,
a parishioner there who was no more than three!
The one who might stop the bishop’s reign of doom
was a little Catholic girl off to use the restroom.
She gazed at the bishop and said, “Bishop, why?
Why are you trying to take our rail? Why??”
But of course the ol bish, not liking this pry
answered her quick with an episcopal lie.
“The rail,” he explained, “that I’m trying to sneak
has a dent and crack and a very small creak.
So I’ll fix it myself, and I would surmise,
that tomorrow your pastor will be quite surprised!”
So the girl bought the fib and left with a smirk
and the bishop, himself, had to get back to work.
The last thing he did as he left out the door
was pin up new norms so folks could read more.
Then he went down the path, his feet like a fire
And he quickly rode off with the screeching of tires.
The church, for its part was all barren inside
Stripped of all that the bishop, of course, did deride.
And all that his excellency had left the Lord’s House
Was a small crucifix the size of a mouse.
Then he did the same thing to the other church buildings
And he enacted his terror and also while grinning.
Altars were stripped like Holy Thursday rites
and the bishop made off with these things in the night.
It was half-past six when dawned a new day
And the deacon’s old truck was quite a display.
The bed of the truck was full close to breaking,
And the shocks of the vehicle were certainly aching.
The crooks drove on to the chancery with glee
with the chalices, statues, and even the trees.
To behind the building where of course there did stand
the chancery’s nasty, yet large garbage can.
“Forget all those parishes,” the bishop did jive,
“forget all their talk of Canon 1255.”
‘I know just what will happen,” the bishop had said
“They’ll finally realize that tradition is dead,
When they wake up tomorrow and they go to the church
and their rails are removed and there’s nowhere to perch.
Then they’ll gasp for a moment; their heads then will spin
and finally they’ll succumb and sing ‘Gather Us In.’”
“That’s a song that I look forward to hearing!”
And the bishop did listen while holding back jeering.
And he did hear a sound, a familiar tune
as the sun rising up replaced the night’s moon.
But it wasn’t a sound that the bishop would grant.
T’was the familiar sound... of Gregorian chant!
But the sound echoed out and indeed it did ring
of laud and thanksgiving to Jesus our King!
So he stared and he balked and he hissed just a little.
His mind raced ahead, back and forth at this riddle.
Every parishioner, both the old and the young,
were chanting and praying this jubilant song!
He hadn’t stopped tradition. It survived somehow.
In one way or another it seemed stronger now.
The bishop stood there outside by the dump,
looking beaten, defeated, and overall stumped.
He thought and he questioned, “Oh how could it be?
I took out their rails. I took out the tree!
I even got rid of their Latin chant books!
Was there something I missed? What did I overlook?
He thought and he puzzled. He called the VG,
who didn’t answer his phone as he did normally.
Then he thought ’till he couldn’t no more.
Then he considered what he hadn’t before,
“Maybe tradition isn’t just customs of yore;
maybe tradition… dare I say… means a little bit more.”
Then what happened, the faithful do say,
is the Bishop’s hard heart grew three sizes that day.
And not just his heart, but his mind had reformed
and he rushed back to the churches and revoked his bad norms!
And he returned all the patrimony, and did so without fail!
And he, the bishop… knelt at the altar rail.
