The Real Reason

Priests Will Never be Allowed to Marry

Now that the catholic church has elected a new pope, I’ve been wondering whether the church will change it’s stance on certain, shall we say, ambitious doctrines. I’m not questioning that these positions may have made sense say, eight or nine hundred years ago, although if time travel ever gets affordable I’d like to go back and have a little chat with the knucklehead that excommunicated Galileo for discovering that the earth revolved around the sun, and held him under house arrest for the rest of his life. Good thing the church wasn’t around when Christ came of age. I have a feeling they’d have had a field day with him.

As I watched the many aged red robed cardinals assembled in the Vatican, looking more like a reunion of the cast of the 1946 Notre Dame production of ‘Pirates of Penzance’ than the leaders of a vibrant religious organization, I had an epiphany. For all the talk about change that could come to the church, I realized one thing that will never change: priests are never going to be able to marry. Forget that the original reason was that the church was poor at first, and no one likes to be poor forever, so they figured out that if the priests couldn’t have children, then the land that each priest inherited from his father would become the church’s land when the priest died. And land is one commodity that always seems to hold its value (I wasn’t aware that “How to make a Mint in Real Estate and Build Your Own Italian City” had been in print for as long as it has). Like I said, forget that reason. Doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m about to tell you.

Imagine for a second that priests were allowed to marry, and that same convocation of red robed aging thespians were assembled in Rome to pick a new pope, only this time, the wives were along for the convention, not necessarily visible on TV, but you can bet your sweet chalice they were all at the Vatican Hilton, each one secretly scanning the TV images, making mental notes about how terrible all the other cardinals look. Here then is a conversation we might hear on the day of papal election:

Scene:

Rome, inside the hotel room. Morning. Cardinal Howard Flayhive and his lovely wife Sheila getting ready for day ten of the cardinals’ vote on the new pope.

“Sheila…?”

“Yes, Howard?”

“Do I look fat in this red robe?”

“Is the pope catholic?”

“That’s not even remotely funny. You know there’s a very good chance they’re going to elect me today, and then how are you going to feel making disparaging remarks about the holy father, who just might be, you know, me.”

“Heaven help me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You know all the other wives call me ‘Your Eminence.”

“All the other wives haven’t been washing your underwear for 51 years.”

“Still, I feel that I’ve achieved, no, risen, to a position of respect that, that, that…I mean would it kill you to just call me Your Eminence when the guys are around?”

“Oh, here we go. Holy Father gets nose bent out of joint because wife won’t bow down when his buddies are over for poker night. For the love of, of…. I mean if you think that if you get this promotion, and that’s all this is, Mr. Smarty pants, if you get this and become the next pope, we’re going to have to have a little talk.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean!”

“The infallibility thing?”

“Bingo.”

“Well, honey, I mean the church has long held the position that the pope, in this case, you know, possibly me, is designated by the almighty as infallible in all matters. I mean, heh heh, how wrong could 2000 years of history be? And besides, I am right some of the time even without this pope thing, aren’t I? Remember that time we were driving to your sister’s and I was actually going the right way even though the signs said something about the bridge being out?”

“Even monkeys pick the right shell every once in a while, Einstein. You had no idea whatsoever where we were and would you stop and ask directions? Nooooo. ‘I’m sure this is the right way. I kind of remember that abandoned car from the last time we went.’ You know if that cop hadn’t stopped us, and by the way, did you ever confess that little white lie you told him?

“I didn’t really lie.”

“Oh I suppose you feel that telling him you were late for an exorcism was somehow justified because of my sister’s personality?”

“I don’t think it’s just her personality.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t think it’s just her personality. Anyone who cooks food that tastes like that and serves it to her guests has something else going on. Besides, she won’t call me Your Eminence either. And I’ve always hated ‘Howie’.”

“Just be grateful I don’t make you come with me every time I go to her house. And by the way, I know what you do when I’m gone.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know you snuck those cannolis from the freezer. I keep a close count on those things, you know.”

“You count them?”

“You bet your sweet sepulcher. And I weigh the mayonnaise jar, too. I know you’re using too much real mayo on your sandwiches. If you die of a heart attack don’t blame me.”

“Listen, Sheila. I may not be perfect, but if I’m elected today you know I’m going to need your support.”

“How so?”

“Well, you know how you sarcastically say I think I’m right all the time?”

“Yes?”

“Well after today I think you’re going to have to, kind of, you know, mean it.”