Franciscan jester here

With all of the solemnity ahead this coming week, I need to lapse into the mood of the Franciscan jester. Naturally, this means a few reminiscences of priests whom I have known - and who all have departed this life. I have images of them, dressed in their rumpled and patched Franciscan robes, perhaps having a few laughs perched on a cloud together. (Tom - the little Becket of my previous post - I picture - to become poetic for a moment - perched on a cloud in sheer contentment, rumpled wings poking out from over-sized raiment - looking to unfortunates down below, and calling, 'the back of both o' me hands to you, now!')

I well remember dear Fr Hilary - who, unlike my usual assortment of priest friends, was a Benedictine. Hilary frequently re-wrote devotions for use by his little congregation. Since both he and they were native Italian speakers, Hilary often asked me to read his translations before they were circulated - his English was good, but he did not always catch nuance. I well remember his adaptation of the Stations of the Cross, which was one of few I did not 'proof' first. I still shudder, remembering him solemnly announcing one Station as "Christ bows his bloody head and dies."

Though the following memory is not suited to this season, it does fit in with my musing over Franciscan images of the Incarnation. Father Michael was unusually short and slight, but highly expansive, and his gestures tended to be fit for a man the size of Goliath of Gath. Michael also was Italian, and had learnt his English from a woman who had a very high, light voice. Consequently, he spoke English (though not his native tongue) in an extremely squeaky voice. The combination of massive gestures and chirping tones gave a general effect of a jumping-jack in an uncharacteristic brown costume.

Michael's warmth and sincerity were enormous as he reminded his congregation, during an Advent sermon, that this was a time when "we have to thank God for the c-u-u-u-te little baby Jesus!" Raising his arms over his head like the risen Messiah, Michael expounded, "The great God!!!" (Hands now at breast height, illustrating the size of an ample newborn.) "He became-a so small!" Michael's sermon continued for a time, with repeated references to the 'great God who became-a so small,' and, though I was biting my lip not to laugh aloud, many of the congregation were moved nearly to tears. (Franciscan theology can be odd at times - but their sermons do stimulate a sense of the vivid.)

I was congratulating myself for not having lapsed into a laughing fit - which would have been most uncomfortable for a highly visible director of music. And all went well until Michael's little voice piped, "Behold-a the lamb of God!"

I may have retained what little was left of my composure had the friar next to me not whispered, "He became-a so small!"