Swarming the Pub(l)ic Square:

A continuing survey of the farce; or, where the folks are given the last word; or, a pointed laugh

by Gassalasca Jape S. J.

“The people swarmed on the public square
And pointed laughingly at me,
And I was filled with shame and fear.”

— Alexander Pushkin, Boris Godunov

An Exceptionally Authentic Narrative of Many Remarkable and Interesting Particulars

Contents

• Bonfire of the Extremities
• A Billy Graham Center Gunpowder Plot?
• Allen Guelzo’s Anti-Anti-Americanism
• NAE Political Statement “Basement Draft”
• Charles in Charge of the English Orthodox Church

Bonfire of the Extremities: How Fr. Jape contracted a venereal disease of the soul, made pilgrimage to Crim Tartary, and was healed

“All works are good which are done within the law of God, in faith, and with thanksgiving to God; and understand that thou in doing them pleasest God, whatsoever thou doest within the law of God, as when thou makest water.”

— William Tyndale, The Parable of the Wicked Mammon

t has been a time of trial since my last essay in these pages, and I have been called to account by many, both high and low. Two months past, the Almighty determined to visit me with a reminder of his inscrutable and mysterious ways. For I dreamed that I was back Crim Tartary attending class as a young Seminarian only to discover that my rather oversized codpiece had been left off my garb to my great humiliation. And to add both insult and injury, my fellow classmates were flinging hot balls of wax from the vestry candles towards my exposed sub-regions.

Father Jape’s Codpiece

I awoke clutching myself in agony realizing that though the wax was as inchoate as the doctrines of Mother Church, the searing pain in my member was quite real. I was at first struck with the certainty that I was suffering from the clap, the result of some depredarious sin of the flesh—may God assoil me—and I resolved at once to seek out a sentence of penance and absolution, until it was recalled to me that I am celibate, a Prince of the Church dedicated to spiritual rather than earthly pleasures. Yet somehow it was my misfortune to learn the truth of William Tyndale’s argument that the proper operation of one’s waterworks is a good work. “Trust me,” says master Tyndale, “if either wind or water stopped, thou shouldest feel what a precious thing it were to do either of both and what thanks ought to be given God therefore.”

Father Jape’s codpiece worn during the Sack of Rome.

Seeing her husband wearing his armor / But not his codpiece, and ready for war, / She said, ‘My love, it might be harmed: / Protect it: I love it the best by far!’ –the last lament of the Knight’s wife, Gargantua and Pantagruel

Though medical men deemed it only an infection of the flesh, my physician could not heal me, and it occurred to me then that this fire burning in my urethra must surely be diagnosed as a kind of spiritual clap; the righteous revenge of a jealous God for my philosophical whoring. And the certainty of this judgment came upon me then with such force that I resolved perforce to return immediately to the Cathedral of the Day Before Yesterday on pilgrimage to seek once again the true path.

On my arrival I was, I admit, in a state of mind not given over to clear thinking, wretched and wracked as I was with the pain of the spirit-clap. In one of my fits of delirium, I went so far as to inquire of the Theologian of Yesterday, Father Hippothadeus, “Father, in your vast learning, have you seen any evidence that a man’s soul might have a penis?”

“Good God, no, man!” answered Hippothadeus.

“But if such a soul-penis did exist,” I persisted, “might it be wise to undergo a castration of some kind, an excision? Anything to cool the unholy urging and concomitant fire of hell!”

“Certainly not! You have lost your mind Jape, I suggest you devote yourself to fasting and prayer.”

“Will I be healed?” I cried.

“If God wills it.” Hippothadeus brushed past me muttering Latin oaths against the insane under his breath and I was left in great distress.

“Damnable theologians!” I shouted after him, my voice cracking, “O I am beset by these possible maybes and maybe-nots that add up to an inviolable confidence. The quagmire of your arts are such that the peace of God is usurped by man’s hypotheticals! All contradictions are subsumed within the certainty of God’s will which serves only to hide your ignorance! If God willed that I should fly, I should grow wings I suppose! These circumlocutions of false certainty greatly vex the common man!”

All Pages | 1 |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  6  |  7