Or as I sometimes quip to my dear deacon husband when he is looking glum on the altar:
“Lighten up deacon hon. You were baptized in living water NOT vinegar.”
There is a time for fasting and a time for feasting.
When my son was a toddler, he went through an angry stage. He would step out into the yard, where friendly butterflies kissed the sweet faces of daisies dancing in the golden sunshine. And he would growl, “It is NOT a bootiful day.”
Another time, he was having a temper tantrum in the car. We tried to distract him: “Look at the pretty trees! Oh, look at the cows! Look at the water!” and he would answer us, “I don’t yike the cows. I don’t yike the water. It’s stupid water. There’s no such FING as water!”
He’s much happier now. But I think of that stage from time to time when I run across a certain type of Catholic. There are frankly heretical movements, like these fellows, who apparently translate “Gospel” as “Bad News.” Here we are in a post-Incarnational world, the gates of heaven are flung open, our Savior is here—and they’re basically growling, “There’s no such FING as grace. And it is NOT a bootiful world.”
You don’t have to be a tinfoil-hatted schismatic to talk this way. There was, for instance, the commenter who responded to my “buy your priest a beer” post. Signing himself “Fr. John,” he growled, Continue reading here.
Oh and do buy your priest a beer, wine, or his favorite tipple.