Tag: cow

The cow that stole the monk

ExLC’s reposting of The Monk, the Cow and the Apology has garnered quite the reader reaction. An anonymous reader weighs in this morning with the following:

Consider the following possible interpretation of Monk’s version of the story: the monk who pushed the cow off the cliff is the Pope who will more than likely shut down the LC/RC (the cow). The fruit from the RC/LC members efforts to build up the Church while clinging to LC/RC are like the lot of the poor family that clung to the cow(LC/RC) for their lifeline. When our Holy Father “pushes their cow over the cliff” they will be forced to cling to Christ and he will then be able to use their efforts in a purer and more fruitful way. From Monk’s version: ” “You know Father, we used to have a cow. She kept us alive. We didn’t own anything else. One day she fell down the cliff and died. To survive, we had to start doing other things, develop skills we did not even know we had. We were forced to come up with new ways of doing things. It was the best thing that ever happened to us! We are now much better off than before.” I have experienced this in my own life. It is so much brighter outside of the movement. God has great plans for you, LC/RC members, that will be realized once you let go of the “cow” and let Christ, not the LC priests, be your hope!! I look forward to your release!!!

That’s not a bad way of looking at it. However, it requires a little tweaking of the original story, to explain why it became morally acceptable to take the cow and push it off the cliff. Otherwise we’re back to the utilitarian error of “the ends justify the means.” One of the first principles of Catholic moral theology is the following: “One cannot do evil so that good may come about.”
So let’s try this again, but from the other perspective:
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The cow that stole the monk
A long time ago, an Abbott set out on his travels accompanied by his assistant, a Brother, and a cow. Night was falling when the Abbott told the Brother to go on ahead to find lodging. The Brother found a humble trailer, in the middle of nowhere, which he ignored. The family was obviously poor since they lived in a trailer. And from the statue of St. Peter Claver standing beside the doorsteps, the Brother discerned that the family was probably of darker complexion.
This was hardly suitable lodging for the Abbott, who suffered from a rare allergy to eumelanin – the pigmentation that causes darker skin tones in humans. In fact, the Pope had secretly dispensed the Abbott from ministering to Catholics with dark complexions. Now the Brother had never actually spoken to the Pope or read the letter of dispensation (after all, it was so secret it could only be passed on through the confessional!), the Abbott had assured the Brother that this was the case. Of course, an exception was made for Catholics of African ancestry who possessed a lot of gold (since the metal’s bright glistening reflected sufficient light from other sources to neutralize the darkness of their skin tone) or those who wore special red hats given to them personally by the Pope.
However, the Brother noticed a heard of cows nearby, which meant the family were probably migrant farm hands working a nearby dairy farm. So the Brother continued up the road until he notices a large, stately, country manor.
The mother, father and children were dressed in the latest styles usually found only among the big city bourgeoisie. It was pure fashion! And the Abbott, having received a vision of clerical fashions in the 1950’s, required his Brothers to conform to his vision, despite the fact the 1950’s were still several centuries away. Some would call this the Abbott’s charism.
So the Brother asked if he and the Abbott could spend the night in their dwelling. “You are most welcome to spend the night,” said the father of the family. They prepared a feast of expensive hams, fine cigars, and brought in some Mariachi minstrels for entertainment. The Abbott’s cow was put out in the pasture with the other cows.
The next morning, the Brother and the Abbott said their good-byes and set out to continue their journey. They had an important meeting in Rome and far was their journey. They were even a little behind schedule as it would be several centuries before the invention of airplanes.
“Could we borrow a horse and carriage from you?” said the Abbott.
“Sure,” said the Mother. She trusted the Abbott and Brother were holy men of God who would remember her in prayer once they got to Rome, despite the Abbott having been too tired to preside over grace during the visit.
“That’s very charitable of you,” said the Abbott. “But what about our cow? She could hardly keep up with this horse and carriage. And I have important business with the Pope.”
“We could keep her here with the other cows,” said the Mother. “I’m sure my husband doesn’t mind.”
“That’s been your vocation since before eternity,” said the Abbott. “I knew you would not say no to God. So understand that my cow requires extra care. She has been personally blessed by the Pope. So she is a sacred cow, who due to delicate health has required golden treatment since a young calf. You must massage her three times a day, feed her only the best grains and at specific times, and milk her gently in the morning and in the evening. She requires her stall cleaned daily, and fresh straw to sleep on. Here’s the checklist. Plus, because it would be sinful to waste her milk, you must promise me you will feed only her milk to your family. This may sound like a lot, but I know you won’t say no to God.”
The woman promised and the Abbott headed off in the coach with the Brother. Years later, a Bishop ordained the Brother a priest. So he too became a Monk. One day he found himself on the same road where he found lodging so many years ago. Remembering the comfortable digs and the special treatment, he decided to visit the family. He rounded the curve in the road and to his surprise, he saw the mansion reduced to rubble, surrounded by gardens that had been taken over by weeds. In the middle of the field, flies buzzed around the rotting carcasses of an entire herd of cows.
The Monk knocked on the door. A poorly-dressed man answered. The Monk asked, “What ever became of the family who used to live here? Did they sell the property to you?”
The man looked surprised and said he and his family had always lived on the property. The Monk told him how he had stayed in a nice mansion on the same spot, with his master the old Abbott. “What happened to the family that lived here?” he asked.
The man pointed a pike at the Monk’s throat. “You know Father, we used to have a herd of cows. They kept us alive. Quite comfortably, I might add. But then my wife invited your cow into our field, as an act of charity toward you and the Church. Your cow required a lot of care – my wife started spending all her time in the barn, to the neglect of our children, me and the household. The effort burned her out. I tried to reason with her, but you had her convinced the cow was sacred and that God would punish her if she did not put your sacred cow before everything else.”
“Moreover, our kids – who had always been of strong constitution – fell ill most of the time, and could no longer help out around the farm. Either they were helping Mom keep up with your checklist, or they were suffering from the effects of their sickness. At first I thought the sickness was due to them and their Mother spending too much time in the barn, stressing out over your cow. I called the doctor. He informed me that my wife and children had Mad Cow disease, which we traced back to your cow. But by then it had spread to my herd. Our family is ruined is because of the charity you extracted from us!”
“How dare you say such uncharitable things,” said the Monk. “That cow was blessed by the Pope!”
“Well this morning my farm hand Cyrene Porres came over to the farm, roped your cow, and at my instructions pushed it over the cliff,” said the father. “Although it is too late for my family and herd, your golden cow will not be infecting any more families or herds.”
And with that the Monk rushed over the cliff attempting to save his sacred cow.

The monk, the cow and the apology

Over the past couple weeks I’ve been debating back and forth, in the comboxes of several blogs, with former LC priest Jack Keogh. He’s an Irishman who runs The Monk Who Stole the Cow blog. The name of his blog refers to a folk tale which is posted in the right margin of his blog.
Mr. Keogh is calling upon LC critics to show more charity toward those who remain in LC. Here’s my take on the situation:

A monk and his abbot were passing through a poor farming village atop the cliffs of Ireland when they came across a humble cottage owned by an impoverished Catholic family with three children. Nevertheless, the family took the monk and abbot in for the night. The family shared with the religious what meager milk and cheese the family had, produced from a single cow. This was the only farm animal the family could afford, and they relied upon the cow for their subsistence. Nevertheless, despite their poverty, the family was happy, knowing God was with them and provided for their daily needs.
The following day, as the “good” religious left the village, the abbot ordered the monk to return to the cottage and push the cow off the cliff. The abbot was widely reputed for his “holiness” and claimed “never to have said no to the Holy Spirit.” Therefore the monk obeyed as an ever-obedient co-founder. After all, being pushed off the cliff was the cow’s vocation “from all of eternity.”
About five years’ later, at a village two counties over, villagers discovered that the abbot had a certain unnatural affection for cows. What the penitential books at the time referred to as “unspeakable” sins involving farm animals. Given that this was medieval times – not the modern era where folks are somewhat more civilized – the villagers responded by pushing the abbot over the cliff. But that’s a story for another time…
The monk narrowly escaped the peasant uprising. He made his way back to the initial village under the cover of darkness. Seeing the cottage where he had stayed five years ago, and given the cold wet snow outside, he knocked on the door to request shelter and food for the night. He could not help but notice, as he waited for someone to answer the door, that the cottage was even more beaten up and weather-worn than he remembered it five years ago.
An older man answered in threadbare clothing. He had lost some weight, most of his hair, and his skin was wrinkled with worry. Yet the biggest change was in his eyes: Gone was the spark that had made the family happy, despite the poverty in which they found themselves.
“What do you want?” the old man grumbled.
“I’m a poor monk seeking food and shelter for the night,” the monk said. “You hosted my abbot and me several years ago.”
“Oh, you,” said the poor man.
“Look, I have nothing to give. It seems that everywhere you went cows kept falling off cliffs,” the peasant continued. “After our cow fell off the cliff, the baby died for lack of milk. This broke my wife’s heart, and she died about a year later. She died angry at God for having taken away our baby after showing you and your abbot some Catholic hospitality.”
“That’s blasphemy!” the monk said. “Your wife should have been more charitable with God, not to mention forgiving of our abbot. Then God would have blessed her with the serenity not to give in to the sin of bitterness.”
“Well she might have endured this crisis,” said the farmer, “but for the fate of our middle son. See, he was over in the next village begging for moldy and half-rotten potatoes – of which we ate a steady diet after our cow died – when he witnessed you pushing another cow over the cliff. You did so at the urging of your abbot. Horrified, my son ran to the bishop’s house only to catch your abbot offering the bishop a gift of freshly butchered steak.”
“My son reported what he had seen to the bishop. But your abbot denied everything and both you and your abbot claimed my son was lying out of jealousy for your meal of steak and fresh milk. It was his word against yours. That of an impoverished young boy against two men of the cloth. So the bishop believed you. He reported everything to the Prince, who also believed you and the bishop. The Prince then ordered my son’s cheeks branded with a red hot poker ending in the letter ‘L’ – a sign to all who come across him that he was a liar. Additionally, my family was ordered to turn over our remaining possessions – minus this cottage – to you and the abbot, as restitution for having accused you of pushing cows over cliffs. We never ReGAINED these possessions.”
“Well let’s not talk about past misunderstandings,” said the monk. “Let’s talk about happier things. How is your oldest daughter doing? The Abbot sensed God had called her from all of eternity to a vocation as Consecrated Wench. She would not say no to God, would she?”
“I don’t know,” said the farmer. “After speaking with other consecrated wenches who had left the village, she decided that a more merciful fate awaited her as a galley slave to Moorish pirates. Unlike your abbot, their lust is satisfied in the afterlife by 72 virgins. That’s more than twenty but less than a hundred – in case you can’t count. Anyway, it’s just me left in this hut now.”
“Well let me in and I will keep you company,” said the monk. “It is your duty as a Christian to forgive.”
“Let’s make a deal,” said the farmer. “I’ll forgive you, and offer you room and board for the evening, if you apologize for pushing my cow over the cliff and the pain it caused my family.”
“That’s not fair!” said the monk. “I was only following orders.”
“Those orders brought much evil on my family,” said the farmer. “So you can freeze outside in the snow until you apologize.”
“Okay,” said the monk, whose was feeling the chill of the wind against his soaked habit. “I apologize for the abbott’s ‘unfortunate orders,’ which I cannot explain, and the pain they’re now causing me as I try to find room and board for the night.”
“Well what about the living hell you caused my family?” said the peasant.
“How dare you act this uncharitably!” said the monk. “I know other peasants whose cows were pushed over cliffs and they don’t describe their experience as ‘living hell’.”
“Oh look, here comes a follower of St. Ignatius. I wonder if he needs room and board?” said the peasant. “After all, it’s cold and wet outside.”
“Okay, you’re twisting my arm. Although I am grateful for all the good my abbot passed on to me and others who received his charism, I… uh… apologize … for whatever pain his unfortunate orders, which I find difficult to reconcile with the good I saw while following him from village to village, caused you and your family.”
“A little better,” said the peasant. “But what about the pain YOU caused our family by following his orders. What about the pain your lies caused my son in having him branded a liar when he reported the truth about you, your abbot and cows were falling over cliffs?”
“How dare you judge me!” said the monk. “Only God can judge. Where’s your faith in the Church?”
“Behind you,” said the peasant, pointing to the Jesuit walking up the alley to investigate the situation. “Fr. Ignatius, can I offer you room and board for the evening? It’s a cold night out, I need good spiritual direction to overcome the spiritual pain that has cursed our family for the last five years, and this monk was just leaving.”