The Castigation of the Clergy

[gerardcarey]

The overall image he presented was of being gangly.
He was tall, raw, that indefinable term 'big boned' comes to mind.
His woolly socks just barely showed over the tops of his boots, out of which towered these long, strapping, hairy legs.
He wore a pair of tough green shorts, unfashionably short shorts.
They exposed acres of hairy thigh, which further emphasised the length of his legs.
Over his shorts untidily hung the tail of his shirt. The sleeves were rolled overly high up his arms, his shirt buttons undone more than halfway down his chest.
There sure was a lot of hairy flesh showing.
This was a bloke who knew nothing of the dictates of fashion, or, if he did, held them to be of no consequence.

But somehow the whole picture came together in his stride. It was powerful and beautifully balanced.
It fair ate up the Way.
I presumed it to be fashioned by years of hill walking.
I pulled over and watched as he approached.
A small pack held his possessions. Yet he didn't look like the 'sent the pack ahead' type of guy.
I sometimes like to try and pick the occupation of pilgrims I come across along the way. It's an entertaining way of starting a conversation and it doesn't matter that I'm usually, well always, wrong.

“You mate, I pick to be a hill country farmer. Good day to you”, I called as he approached.
“You got that wrong,” he said as he pulled in alongside, “I'm a priest.”
You can't get much more wrong than that can you?
“From Rangiora,” he added, ”but you wouldn't know where that is."
For some reason, altho I'm a born, bred and buttered Kiwi, even my fellow countrymen mistake me for a 'foreigner'.
“Of course I know where Rangiora is,” I replied indignantly. “It's in the South Island of New Zealand. Just north of Christchurch City. I'm a Kiwi too you know.”
“Good on you”, he said, “so where are you from in New Zealand?”
“Auckland,” I replied.
“Oh right,” he said, “you a JAFA are you?"

To an Aucklander that is intended as an insult.
Coming from New Zealand's largest city, we are regarded with some suspicion and occasionally outright hostility by residents of the more sparsley populated South Island. They feel sometimes to be neglected, to be left out of mainstream life.
The letters of the word JAFA stand for 'Just Another xxxxxxx Aucklander'. That's the f-word I haven't typed in.
You don't expect to be spoken to like that by a priest, do you?

“Well now,” I thought, “calling me a Jafa is he? Good good, he's up for a bit of banter. I'll give him a bit of stick.”

“Indeed I am a Jafa,” I replied, “and proud of it. But you a priest? Can't see it myself. Calling pilgrims rude names. You should be ashamed of yourself. What about your clothing? Where is your black suit and dog collar? You don't see Spanish priests doing the Camino half naked and hairy, looking like hobos. They know to dress appropriately they do. They wear the big dark cloak with screeds of big rosary beads hanging round their neck. They say things like 'God bless you my son' and make that two fingered sign of the cross over me in way of a blessing. Proper priests they are. Not like you cobber.”

“Haven't you ever heard the saying 'Clothes don't maketh the Clergy?” he replied smiling.
"No I haven't," I replied, "and I reckon you just made that up."
"I did," he admitted, "pretty good tho isn't it?"
"Yes it is!" I replied, "very good. But it does pain me to have to admit it."

“And what about you anyway. You a Catholic?” he asked
“Well no," I replied, “raised one, but I'm even past 'lapsed'. I'm an unbeliever.”
“Been following you for a while,” he said. “You walk wobbly funny so you don't look like a hiker, and being an unbeliever you can't be a proper pilgrim, so what are you doing here, being rude to the clergy, cluttering up the Way?”
Oh he's good isn't he?

"I've got two tin hips," I replied, "that's why I'm a bit wobbly, and you of all folks should know not to be rude to the disabled. Not Christian that isn't.
And let me tell you something else,” I continued. “We are actively encouraged to walk the Camino. We help the local communities by dropping a bit of dosh along the Way, and you never know, you blokes reckon it's a holy place this pilgrimage. We lapsed, we might get unlapsed, the pagans and heathens maybe get converted. So don't you go discouraging us or you may get into serious trouble with you know who....him upstairs.” I nodded skywards.
“How's it going for you anyway?” I added.

He smiled. “Pretty good. I'm on sabbatical. I've only got thirty days to get from St Jean to Santiago”, he said, “so I've got to keep moving.”
“Well I'm a slacko, so don't let me hold you up,” I said. “You'd better get going.”
“OK”, he said, “Buen Camino, and I hope you have a happy and safe journey”.
“Thank you,” I replied, “and Buen Camino to you, and may your God keep an eye on you,” I couldn't help adding, “and protect you from all the heathens and pagans you meet along the Way.”
He took the bait of course.
“Like you?” he asked.
“You got it cobber,” I replied.
He smiled, shook my hand, went on his way.

“Bloody hell,” I thought as I watched him stride into the distance, “how lucky are the people of Rangiora to have a bloke like him as a priest."

I never did find out his name. It had been a brief conversation. One of those that doesn't get around to introductions. But long enough for me to figure out that if I ever did get to be unlapsed, he'd do me as a parish priest.
I'd have him any day.

Regards
Gerard

PS
Rangiora is a country town about 30ks north of Christchurch City, in New Zealand's South Island.
Christchurch, with a population of around 350,000, and the surrounding area, had taken nasty direct hits from intense shallow earthquakes about eighteen months previously.
They had destroyed the city, killed 185 people and injured several thousand.
My priest and his clergy mates have had their work cut out.
May their God bless them.

 

[Kanga]

As always Gerard, you are worth reading.

 

[Former member 42123]

The overall image he presented was of being gangly.
He was tall, raw, that indefinable term 'big boned' comes to mind.
His woolly socks just barely showed over the tops of his boots, and out of this footwear towered these long strapping hairy legs.
The knobbly knees, in their awkwardness, did not seem capable of supporting the large frame that rose above.
He wore a pair of tough green shorts, unfashionably short, which exposed acres of thigh, and therefore further emphasised the length of his legs.
And over his shorts untidily hung the tail of his shirt. The sleeves were rolled overly high up his arms, and the chest buttons were undone halfway down his chest.
There sure was a lot of hairy flesh showing.
This was obviously a bloke who knew nothing of the dictates of fashion, or, if he did, held it to be of no consequence.

But somehow the whole picture came together in his stride. It was powerful and beautifully balanced.
It fair ate up the Way.
I presumed it to be fashioned by years of hill walking.
I pulled over and watched as he approached.
A small pack held his possessions. Yet he didn't look like the 'sent the pack ahead' type of guy.
I like to try and pick the occupation of pilgrims I come across along the way. I find it an entertaining way of starting a conversation with them. It doesn't matter that I'm usually, well, nearly always, wrong.
“You mate, I pick to be a hill farmer. Good day to you”, I called as he approached.

“You got that wrong”, he said as he pulled in alongside, “I'm a priest.”
You can't get much more wrong than that can you?
“From Rangiora,” he continued, ”but you wouldn't know where that is would you.”
It was a statement rather than a question.
For some reason, altho I'm a born and bred Kiwi, even my fellow countrymen mistake me for a 'foreigner'.
“Of course I know where Rangiora is,” I replied indignantly. “It's in the South Island of New Zealand. Just north of Christchurch City. I'm a kiwi too you know.”
“Good on you”, he said, “so where are you from in New Zealand?”
“Auckland,” I replied.
New Zealand's biggest city, Auckland is situated towards the top of the North Island.

“Oh right”, he said, “you a JAFA are you?”
To an Aucklander that is intended as an insult.
Coming from New Zealand's largest city by far, we are regarded with some suspicion and occasionally outright hostility by other inhabitants, but especially by residents of the more sparsley populated South Island. They feel sometimes to be neglected, to be left out of mainstream life.
The letters of the word JAFA stand for 'Just Another xxxxxxx Aucklander'. That's the f-word I haven't typed in.

You don't expect to be spoken to like that by a priest, do you?
“Well now,” I thought, “Calling me a Jafa is he? Good good, he's up for a bit of banter, I'll give him a bit of stick.”

“Indeed I am a Jafa,” I replied, “and proud of it. But you a priest? Can't see it myself. Calling pilgrims rude names. You should be ashamed of yourself. What about your clothing? Where is your black suit and dog collar. You don't see Spanish priests doing the Camino half naked and hairy, dressed like hobos. They know to dress appropriately they do. They wear the big dark cloak with screeds of big rosary beads hanging round their neck. They say things like 'God bless you my son' and make that two fingered sign of the cross over me in way of a blessing. Proper priests they are. Not like you cobber.”

“Haven't you ever heard the saying 'Clothes don't maketh the man?”, he replied smiling. “And what about you anyway. You a Catholic?”
“Well no”, I replied, “raised one, but I'm even past 'lapsed'. I'm an unbeliever.”
“Been following you for a while,” he said. “You walk wobbly funny so you don't look like a hiker, and being an unbeliever you can't be a proper pilgrim, so what are you doing here, being rude to the clergy, cluttering up the Way?”
Oh he's good isn't he?

“Well let me tell you something mate,” I replied, “we are actively encouraged to walk the Camino. We help the local communities by dropping a bit of dosh along the Way, and you never know, you guys reckon it's a holy place this pilgrimage. We lapsed, we might get unlapsed, the pagans and heathens maybe get converted. So don't you go discouraging us or you may get into serious trouble with you know who....him upstairs.” I nodded skywards.
“How's it going for you anyway?” I added.

He smiled. “Pretty good. I'm on sabbatical. I've only got thirty days to get from St Jean to Santiago”, he said, “so I've got to keep moving.”
“Well I'm a slacko, so don't let me hold you up,” I said. “You'd better get moving.”
“OK”, he said, “Buen Camino, and I hope you have a happy and safe journey”.
“Thank you”, I replied, “and Buen Camino to you, and may your God keep an eye on you too,” I couldn't help adding, “and protect you from all the heathens and pagans you meet along the Way.”
He took the bait of course.
“Like you?” he asked.
“You got it cobber,” I replied.
He smiled, shook my hand, and went on his way.

“Bloody hell,” I thought as I watched him stride into the distance, “how lucky are the people of Rangiora to have a bloke like him as a priest.” I reckon the clergy should represent the people of the community they minister to.

It had only been a five minute conversation and already I'd figured that if I ever got to be unlapsed, he'd do me as a parish priest. I'd have him anyday.

Regards
Gerard

PS.
I don't know what his name is. It was a short conversation. We never got around to introductions.

PPS
Rangiora is a country town about 30ks north of Christchurch City, in New Zealand's South Island.
Christchurch, with a population of around 350,000, and the surrounding area, had taken nasty direct hits from intense shallow earthquakes about eighteen months previously.
It had destroyed the city, killed 185 people and injured several thousand.
My priest and his clergy mates have no doubt had their work cut out.
May their God bless them.

I love your stories and way with words.If you put them out in book form I'll be at the front of the line to buy.

 

[wayfarer]

Thanks Gerard, another gem.

 

[Mike Savage]

Wonderful experience and even better story. Thanks for sharing!

 

[DurhamParish]

Thanks for the laugh Gerard. I love manly banter like that.

 

[Christian Hiriart]

Great story, thanks for sharing.

 

[Deise]

Touching

 

[Annette london]

The overall image he presented was of being gangly.
He was tall, raw, that indefinable term 'big boned' comes to mind.
His woolly socks just barely showed over the tops of his boots, and out of this footwear towered these long strapping hairy legs.
The knobbly knees, in their awkwardness, did not seem capable of supporting the large frame that rose above.
He wore a pair of tough green shorts, unfashionably short, which exposed acres of thigh, and therefore further emphasised the length of his legs.
And over his shorts untidily hung the tail of his shirt. The sleeves were rolled overly high up his arms, and the chest buttons were undone halfway down his chest.
There sure was a lot of hairy flesh showing.
This was obviously a bloke who knew nothing of the dictates of fashion, or, if he did, held it to be of no consequence.

But somehow the whole picture came together in his stride. It was powerful and beautifully balanced.
It fair ate up the Way.
I presumed it to be fashioned by years of hill walking.
I pulled over and watched as he approached.
A small pack held his possessions. Yet he didn't look like the 'sent the pack ahead' type of guy.
I like to try and pick the occupation of pilgrims I come across along the way. I find it an entertaining way of starting a conversation with them. It doesn't matter that I'm usually, well, nearly always, wrong.
“You mate, I pick to be a hill farmer. Good day to you”, I called as he approached.

“You got that wrong”, he said as he pulled in alongside, “I'm a priest.”
You can't get much more wrong than that can you?
“From Rangiora,” he continued, ”but you wouldn't know where that is would you.”
It was a statement rather than a question.
For some reason, altho I'm a born and bred Kiwi, even my fellow countrymen mistake me for a 'foreigner'.
“Of course I know where Rangiora is,” I replied indignantly. “It's in the South Island of New Zealand. Just north of Christchurch City. I'm a kiwi too you know.”
“Good on you”, he said, “so where are you from in New Zealand?”
“Auckland,” I replied.
New Zealand's biggest city, Auckland is situated towards the top of the North Island.

“Oh right”, he said, “you a JAFA are you?”
To an Aucklander that is intended as an insult.
Coming from New Zealand's largest city by far, we are regarded with some suspicion and occasionally outright hostility by other inhabitants, but especially by residents of the more sparsley populated South Island. They feel sometimes to be neglected, to be left out of mainstream life.
The letters of the word JAFA stand for 'Just Another xxxxxxx Aucklander'. That's the f-word I haven't typed in.

You don't expect to be spoken to like that by a priest, do you?
“Well now,” I thought, “Calling me a Jafa is he? Good good, he's up for a bit of banter, I'll give him a bit of stick.”

“Indeed I am a Jafa,” I replied, “and proud of it. But you a priest? Can't see it myself. Calling pilgrims rude names. You should be ashamed of yourself. What about your clothing? Where is your black suit and dog collar. You don't see Spanish priests doing the Camino half naked and hairy, dressed like hobos. They know to dress appropriately they do. They wear the big dark cloak with screeds of big rosary beads hanging round their neck. They say things like 'God bless you my son' and make that two fingered sign of the cross over me in way of a blessing. Proper priests they are. Not like you cobber.”

“Haven't you ever heard the saying 'Clothes don't maketh the man?”, he replied smiling. “And what about you anyway. You a Catholic?”
“Well no”, I replied, “raised one, but I'm even past 'lapsed'. I'm an unbeliever.”
“Been following you for a while,” he said. “You walk wobbly funny so you don't look like a hiker, and being an unbeliever you can't be a proper pilgrim, so what are you doing here, being rude to the clergy, cluttering up the Way?”
Oh he's good isn't he?

“Well let me tell you something mate,” I replied, “we are actively encouraged to walk the Camino. We help the local communities by dropping a bit of dosh along the Way, and you never know, you guys reckon it's a holy place this pilgrimage. We lapsed, we might get unlapsed, the pagans and heathens maybe get converted. So don't you go discouraging us or you may get into serious trouble with you know who....him upstairs.” I nodded skywards.
“How's it going for you anyway?” I added.

He smiled. “Pretty good. I'm on sabbatical. I've only got thirty days to get from St Jean to Santiago”, he said, “so I've got to keep moving.”
“Well I'm a slacko, so don't let me hold you up,” I said. “You'd better get moving.”
“OK”, he said, “Buen Camino, and I hope you have a happy and safe journey”.
“Thank you”, I replied, “and Buen Camino to you, and may your God keep an eye on you too,” I couldn't help adding, “and protect you from all the heathens and pagans you meet along the Way.”
He took the bait of course.
“Like you?” he asked.
“You got it cobber,” I replied.
He smiled, shook my hand, and went on his way.

“Bloody hell,” I thought as I watched him stride into the distance, “how lucky are the people of Rangiora to have a bloke like him as a priest.” I reckon the clergy should represent the people of the community they minister to.

It had only been a five minute conversation and already I'd figured that if I ever got to be unlapsed, he'd do me as a parish priest. I'd have him anyday.

Regards
Gerard

PS.
I don't know what his name is. It was a short conversation. We never got around to introductions.

PPS
Rangiora is a country town about 30ks north of Christchurch City, in New Zealand's South Island.
Christchurch, with a population of around 350,000, and the surrounding area, had taken nasty direct hits from intense shallow earthquakes about eighteen months previously.
It had destroyed the city, killed 185 people and injured several thousand.
My priest and his clergy mates have no doubt had their work cut out.
May their God bless them.

Wonderful!! Just loved this . You should write a book. Definitely got the gift of the gab!

 

[joeboybollo]

Sounds like my kind of priest

 

[fraluchi]

Learned something more on geography

 

[PEI_Heather]

I hope you and the JAFR (hahaha!) priest meet up again somewhere along the Way, for more banter and maybe a coffee--or beer or wine! Sounds like a beautiful friendship is in the making, Gerard! Thanks for the great story!

 

[Seabird]

Christchurch, with a population of around 350,000, and the surrounding area, had taken nasty direct hits from intense shallow earthquakes about eighteen months previously.
It had destroyed the city, killed 185 people and injured several thousand.

Great story, but sorry to learn about Christchurch. I remember a lovely two-week vacation in New Zealand, especially on the South Island.

 

[KiwiNomad06]

Wonderful post again Gerard. I knew I would be entertained yet again, but this time with the Rangiora/Christchurch connection it had even more special meaning. Glad that priest was able to take a sabbatical to have a break from all the heartache and stress down there.
By the way Gerard's an awfully Irish-Catholic kind of name isn't it? My Uncle was named that. But that hasn't stopped me from being very lapsed either!
Margaret

 

[rappahannock_rev]

Bully story! You should have bought him some Don Simon, and shared it with him! Priests are seldom the cartoon characters that secular culture depicts....

Three years ago I got a break - and spent it walking the Way. This year I got a break - and spent it walking the Way. Three years from now I'll get another break - and (God have mercy!) I hope to spend it walking the way.

And m

 

[rappahannock_rev]

And maybe I can overturn a few stereotypes!

 

[Sue M 23]

Wonderful post again Gerard. I knew I would be entertained yet again, but this time with the Rangiora/Christchurch connection it had even more special meaning. Glad that priest was able to take a sabbatical to have a break from all the heartache and stress down there.
By the way Gerard's an awfully Irish-Catholic kind of name isn't it? My Uncle was named that. But that hasn't stopped me from being very lapsed either!
Margaret

It needs to be noted that the devastating earthquake mentioned occurred 22 February 2011, many buildings have now been demolished and some are under threat of demolition.However the beautiful Blessed Sacrament Basilica may yet be restored,Great that the priest got the chance to do the Camino, Canterbury ,post quake ,can be a hard place to be.

 

[Theatregal]

Wonderful way to start my day ~ a story from Gerard!

 

[gerardcarey]

It needs to be noted that the devastating earthquake mentioned occurred 22 February 2011, many buildings have now been demolished and some are under threat of demolition.However the beautiful Blessed Sacrament Basilica may yet be restored,Great that the priest got the chance to do the Camino, Canterbury ,post quake ,can be a hard place to be.

I stayed a week in Christchurch with a niece and her family on my return from this Camino.
For me, the Basilica was the most sad sight in the city.
And there were a lot of them.
Regards
Gerard

 

[VNwalking]

For me, the Basilica was the most sad sight in the city.

'Like' doesn't fit that somber post, Gerard.
But your story...another good one.