The Unbearable Shabbiness of Being
29 August, 2022
Dear and gentle reader:
I suppose one could call these the dog days of summer - hot and humid, in a word, unbearable. Couple that to the fact that I am definitely a cat person, and you may get a glimpse of my loathing of this time of year. Wed that discontent to the fact that I find myself surrounded by shabbiness, and you will begin to understand the ennui that confronts me at almost every turn.
Try as I have, I have been stymied at trying to make this little rectory in which I am doomed to dwell into a home. It seems that my not-so-gracious ordinary has once again sent me to pastor barely solvent parishes, which might well close their doors in but a few years. This, after I told him that with my age and health, I am tired of being shifted about. Ah, the tender pastoral solicitude of the hierarchy. Really, there is nothing like it.
Combine that with a hectoring lay trustee who, with a smile, tells me that "we can't get rid of those things, Father, we may need them". Those things being, cheap, unused furniture in the house which could easily be donated to one of several thrift stores and find use in a needy home. It really has stabbed at my last nerve!
Ah, but the fun is nowhere near an end, dear reader! We have yet another brilliant diocesan programme which will stretch out over the next several years. God only knows how much this thing is costing the diocese in employing the pious hucksters who own the consulting firm running this circus. Already the emails come in, slowly but steadily, much like the drips of water-torture. Evidently there's meetings on the horizon as well, not only our annual (and mostly inane priests assembly days), but focus groups on the parochial and vicariate levels. If there is anything I despise, it is meetings. I suppose they're to give the laity and lower clergy the illusion of being listened to, in a perversion of the true synodality called for by Pope Francis. And why all this flummery? It is simply to give a plausible excuse to m'lud the bishop when parishes close. "Well, yes, I am sorry that your parish is closing", he'd say, "but I'm only going by the advice I was given through our programme.". And when those closures are announced, you and I know that the bishop will be nowhere near those places. Rather, it will be the clerical fools like myself, the pastors, who will bear the brunt of the anger. Gee, thank you, m'lud, for such a lovely assignment.
The physical and intellectual shabbiness that surrounds me is really quite discombobulating. Thankfully, I do not suffer from the "Irish curse" of being addicted to drink, because if that were the case, I'd be drunk most days now. Honestly, I don't ask for much from the institutional church. I don't want the big parishes. I don't want a monsignorial title or sash. I just want a decent parish which can support a resident priest without having to scrimp and save.
Sadly, it seems, that many places, large and small, and many people, have just accepted shabbiness as being just fine for the parish and priest - as long as they themselves don't have to live it. Well, allow me, gentle reader, to let you in on an important fact. I did not take a vow of poverty as a secular priest. I am called to simplicity of life, and I think I do a good job at it. I don't wear expensive clothing, nor take expensive vacations, nor have expensive hobbies, nor own and drive an expensive car. I live well within my means, since, when I have to retire, the diocese will not provide me with room and board, and I will have to shift for myself (yes, I know, so much for giving my life to the church). In the meantime, the bishops and monsignori live quite comfortably with little care for the lower clergy such as myself. It indeed gets my Irish up that some laity just assume that a priest should live in shabbiness, while they have quite nice homes, multiple vehicles, and feel quite put out when their fancy vacation can't happen.
All I can say right now, is that there is a justice waiting them, that far outstrips any earthly justice. I just hope they're prepared for an arduous purgatory. Perhaps I'll be there with them, since I'd be taking such delight in their misery. Ah well, I suppose I'll be lucky to squeeze into purgatory. God willing, with my health issues I won't have to linger much longer in this vale of tears and can blithely go into eternity and be freed from the idiocy, miserliness, and mendacity that besieges me afore, astern, and abaft.
There it is, dear reader; the dog-days of my discontent. Now you know at least one of the reasons why I am a curmudgeon.
Do keep cool, and as always, gentle reader, God bless!
Father P.
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