They say that at the Mass, or the Eucharist, please don’t say “Yewkrist,” time and eternity intersect as the sacrificial act of Calvary breaks through into the present moment, uniting us with the redemptive love of Christ. His Sacrifice becomes our sacrifice, however imperfectly, and finding atonement in Him we glimpse, fleetingly for sure, the peace which passes all understanding.
|Just Some Goon With his Hand up a Puppet|
Of course that doesn’t happen at a Clown Mass, I thought to myself bitterly, casting off in search of Behemoth Bluegill. And there’s a whole lot of something that passes all understandng when the liturgical dancers kick off, and some priestess goons around pretending to be something she doesn’t even believe in anyway.
|Nice Little Fryer!|
Then the reverie was broken by a fish plowing into my hook and the fun was on. A nearby kid asked his dad why I was catching fish, “Well, he’s got worms!” It’s true, I did, and after reeling in Leviathan, I gave them a couple and a hook. “Thank you, sir, you’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said the Father; he was keen for his boy to get a fish, and so was I. He did, too, with a little patience.
You know, I think there’s something pretty good about a Father and his son, or sons, out on the water fishing.
As the sun set, I headed for the Compound, tranquil. And that was that.