Fr. Murphy: Good morning children, you asked about Lent? Well, grab your rosaries and I’ll tell you.
Before resting on the 7th day, God levied crippling sanctions on the Pharisees.
Access was cut to their shekels, Manna imports were restricted, wine was prohibited at weddings, and there was darkness throughout the land.
It was God’s response to the Pharisees’ sinful behavior: “All that begatting, money changing, coveting – especially all that coveting -must stop”.
The Mayor of Pharisee did what he could to deal with the sanctions: Converting to prayer based-currency, praying for Manna from heaven, and sending his nephew to convert water to wine at weddings throughout the land.
The sanctions were unprecedented and effective. The Pharisees negotiated a settlement with God, agreeing to The Ten Commandments.
The discussions were heated; there were originally 20 commandments, but betting on the Super Bowl (even God plays the ‘squares game’), re-connecting with old love interests on Facebook, and sloth – most Pharisees owned pet sloths – were removed. Honoring the Sabbath stayed, but remaining awake during the sermon was optional.
Negotiations bogged down over adultery and coveting, but after God restricted Netflix account access to a single user, the Pharisees relented.
And God said “This is good”.
It worked, though an occasional reminder was necessary: Coveters turned into salt pillars, adulterers impeached, catastrophic floods (those may have been climate change), the Pharisees changed their ways.
But they soon began to stray, and God was pissed.
The people tried to repent, implementing New Year Resolutions, Dry January, and nightly flossing mandates.
But they weren’t enough.
In response, God, the Pope, some other Church leaders whose names aren’t as cool as ‘The Pope’, and the New Orleans Tourist Board, discovered Lent.
The back story is quite ecumenical: After a bad break-up, Jesus spent 40 days in therapy, and then decided to become a Priest. It didn’t pay much, so He continued to live at home and do carpentry projects for extra cash.
But introspection and sacrifice made Him a better man, inspiring Lent, which is a time for ‘behavior modification’: give up some bad habits and cut down on one’s coveting.
So, children, what will you give up for Lent?
While I will be giving up cheaper cuts of meat, alcohol – or using only red solo cups, and hearing Confessions – what’s wrong with people?, I suggest you give up toothpaste with fluoride, whatever you enjoy, and anything including the word sin.
Choose your Lenten sacrifices wisely, or you could be ground into ashes like that kid you all thought ‘moved away’.
We learned during the recent ‘Boils Pandemic’ that people need an ‘outward sign’ to demonstrate their moral superiority, so ashes will be smeared on foreheads, allowing the ‘smearee’ a “look at me, I’m taking the Lent Challenge!” moment.
It happens on Ash Wednesday – normally a low-turnout church day, so a revenue driver – scheduled 40 days before Easter, traditionally the same weekend as The Masters.
But God and The Pope love a good time – we even serve wine at Mass – so they gave us Mardi Gras, with parties on Fat Tuesday.
It makes 40 days of sacrifice easier, and all that partying is a reason to clean up one’s act.
Now kids, I brought souvenirs: ‘Catholic Krew’ Holy Cards from the New Orleans tourism board, and if you’ll show me your missalettes, I’ll throw you some beads to add to your rosaries.
So, that’s Lent, what do you think? Yes, Little Johnny…
So, Lent is pretty much how God, and our parents, operates? It feels like a harsh punishment, a ‘Heavenly Time Out’ – like He’s really mad at us – but it’s actually for our own good?
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March is Irish Music Month! We will feature a different Irish Band or musician each Sunday.
This week: The Pogues.
Shane MacGowan was the lead singer and primary creative force for much of their tenure. In a historical irony, Elvis Costello produced their album “Rum, Sodomy and the Lash”, and met and married Cait O’Riordan, who was a band member.
We’ll start with 4 rollicking instrumentals, sure to light up your St. Patrick’s Day Party:
Metropolis Planxty Noel Hill Sketches of Spain WildCats of Kilkenny
Thousands are Sailing
The island, it is silent now, But the ghosts still haunt the waves
And the torch lights up a famished man, Who fortune could not save
Did you work upon the railroad?, Did you rid the streets of crime?
Were your dollars from the White House?, Were they from the Five-and-Dime?
Did the old songs taunt or cheer you? And did they still make you cry?
Did you count the months and years, Or did your teardrops quickly dry?
“Ah, no”, says he, “it was not to be, On a coffin ship I came here
And I never even got so far, That they could change my name”
Thousands are sailing, Across the western ocean
To a land of opportunity, That some of them will never see
Fortune prevailing, Across the western ocean
Their bellies full, Their spirits free
They’ll break the chains of poverty, And they’ll dance
In Manhattan’s desert twilight, In the death of afternoon
We stepped hand in hand on Broadway, Like the first man on the moon
And a blackbird broke the silence, As you whistled it so sweet
And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps, I danced up and down the street
Then we said goodnight to Broadway, Giving it our best regards
Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen, Dear old Times Square’s favourite bard
Then we raised a glass to JFK, And a dozen more besides
When I got back to my empty room, I suppose I must have cried
Thousands are sailing, Again across the ocean
Where the hand of opportunity, Draws tickets in a lottery
Postcards we’re mailing, Of sky light skies and oceans
From rooms the daylight never sees
And lights don’t glow on Christmas trees
And we danced to the music, And we danced
Thousands are sailing, Across the western ocean
Where the hand of opportunity, Draws tickets in a lottery
Where e’er we go, we celebrate, The land that makes us refugees
From fear of priests with empty plates, From guilt and weeping effigies
Still we dance to the music
And we dance
If I should fall from grace with God
If I should fall from grace with God, Where no doctor can relieve me
If I’m buried ‘neath the sod, But the angels won’t receive me
Let me go, boys, Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud, Where the rivers all run dry
This land was always ours, Was the proud land of our fathers
It belongs to us and them, Not to any of the others
Let them go, boys, Let them go, boys
Let them go down in the mud, Where the rivers all run dry
Bury me at sea, Where no murdered ghost can haunt me
If I rock upon the waves, No corpse shall lie upon me
Coming up threes, boys, Coming up threes, boys
Let them go down in the mud, Where the rivers all run dry
If I should fall from grace with God, Where no doctor can relieve me
If I’m buried ‘neath the sod, So the angels won’t receive me
Let me go, boys, Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud, Where the rivers all run dry
Rainy Night In Soho
I’ve been loving you a long time, Down all the years, down all the days
And I’ve cried for all your troubles, Smiled at your funny little ways
We watched our friends grow up together, And we saw them as they fell
Some of them fell into Heaven, Some of them fell into Hell
I took shelter from a shower, And I stepped into your arms
On a rainy night in Soho, The wind was whistling all its charms
I sang you all my sorrows, You told me all your joys
Whatever happened to that old song?, To all those little girls and boys
Sometimes I’d wake up in the morning, The ginger lady by my bed
Covered in a cloak of silence, I’d hear you talking in my head
I’m not singing for the future, I’m not dreaming of the past
I’m not talking of the first times, I never think about the last
Now the song is nearly over, We may never find out what it means
Still there’s a light I hold before me, You’re the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams
Fairytale of New York
It was Christmas Eve babe, In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won’t see another one
And then he sang a song, The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away, And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one, Came in eighteen to one
I’ve got a feeling, This year’s for me and you
So happy Christmas, I love you baby
I can see a better time, When all our dreams come true
They’ve got cars big as bars, They’ve got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you, It’s no place for the old
When you first took my hand, On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me, Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome, You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing, They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging, All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner, Then danced through the night
The boys of the NYPD choir, Were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out, For Christmas day
You’re a bum, You’re a punk
You’re an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot, You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it’s our last
The boys of the NYPD choir, Still singing Galway Bay
And the bells are ringing out, For Christmas day
I could have been someone, Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me, When I first found you
I kept them with me babe, I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone. I’ve built my dreams around you
The boys of the NYPD choir, Still singing Galway Bay
And the bells are ringing out, For Christmas day
the band played waltzing Matilda Unfortunately, anti-war songs are back in vogue
When I was a young man I carried me pack, And I lived the free life of the rover
From the Murray’s green basin to the dusty outback, I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in 1915 my country said: Son,, It’s time to stop rambling, there’s work to be done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war, And the band played Waltzing Matilda
When the ship pulled away from the quay, And amid all the tears, flag waving and cheers
We sailed off for Gallipoli, It well I remember that terrible day
When our blood stained the sand and the water, And how in that hell they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well
He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell
And in five minutes flat, we were all blown to hell, He nearly blew us back home to Australia
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
When we stopped to bury our slain, Well we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then it started all over again, Oh those that were living just tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
While around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head
And when I awoke in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
I never knew there was worse things than dying
Oh no more I’ll go Waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and near
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me
They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind and the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where me legs used to be
And thank Christ there was no one there waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the Band played Waltzing Matilda
When they carried us down the gangway
Oh nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared
Then they turned all their faces away
Now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Renewing their dreams of past glories
I see the old men all tired, stiff and worn
Those weary old heroes of a forgotten war
And the young people ask “What are they marching for?”
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men still answer the call
But year after year, their numbers get fewer
Someday, no one will march there at all
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong
So who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
You should be the baseball commissioner!