'Twas the Night Before Christmas

A bit late, but I still wanted to publish this:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and in St. Martha’s House

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The Cardinals crammed for wooden seats in Paul VI Hall,

In front a humble throne the color of a funerary pall;

The press were smug and held their stead;

While heterodox headlines danced in their heads;

The Ultramontanes rejoiced that the Traddies had snapped,

And then settled their brains for pontificate-long nap,

When out atrium there arose such a clatter,

The Curia rose to curtsy attention’s center.

He wore a white cassock with a coat of arms,

And black trousers which contained his Peronist card.

Of the Renaissance frescoes above his head,

He made known that we should share his dread.

Then he took to his humble throne,

And the Argentine bishop peered down his Italian nose,

If the press knew he was hardly New World,

They would have cried tears to fill a Salvation Army bowl.

More rapid than eagles his acolytes they came,

And he howled of new mercies, and called them by name:

"Now, Marx! now, Kasper! now Schonborn and Cupich!

On, with Rahner! on, with Martini!—not the stiff drink!

To the top of the edge of the Leonine wall!

Let us announce our newly merciful and humble Church to all!"

“He shut down the Franciscans and will crush Peter’s priests, too,”

“But,” says another, “his meeting with Bernard Fellay went through.”

“He gets blessings from protestants,” bewails the traditionalist,

“You don’t get it,” says the Zed “He’s just another Benedict.”

The penitent recalls 247 and 254 in the encyclical he read,

The priest replies, “Have your evening prayers been said?”

As the faithful keep their parishes in peace,

The Argentine perturbs them with news of unease.

“We should ignore him and not let ourselves be irked

Or delude ourselves in hopes of the rebellion of Raymond Burke.”

“He is the Pontiff,” retorts the wife, “He is guaranteed by the Godhead,

St Robert promises that if he changes doctrine the Lord with strike him dead.”

With some concerns how could the holidays be merry?

Would we lose the Ratzinger reform and be at the mercy of Fr. Larry?

Poor Guido Marini, he is broke without baroque,

Bereft of fiddlebacks and mitres high as telescopes;

Even midnight Mass could not be borne on the silver screen,

And a picnic table now stands in the Chapel Sistine;

Obsessed with the Pontiff, the neo-cons hound,

And through their households the Mercy, not the Pater, resounds.

The Martinian cardinals lamented their success knowing their ideas were sterile,

No one believed them, while the Traddies reproduce by the bushel;

“You’re too organized, too structured, and spiritually cold,

You must toss up the papers and be impoverished and bold.”

Dolan of the Big Apple chuckled elate:

“When before was the Curia accused of working too late?”

The scarlet men rose irate when the Argentine took his leave,

And they all breathed a sigh of relief;

He vested for Mass and turned to the sacristy door,

Then turned again to the Basilica, perhaps to say no more.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he walked out of sight—

“Someday you’ll hear the Spirit, and know I’m right!”