Father Frank (Paperback)

Francis, you see, was breaking the habit of a lifetime. He was paying attention. His father Eamonn, having seen the boy gazing vacantly into space yet again during the Gospel, had nudged him sharply and told him to listen to what the priest was saying. Francis had always used his weekly trip to mass as an opportunity to catch up on his daydreaming would England win the World Cup again in Mexico this year? His collection of Esso World Cup coins was almost complete. Only Brian Labone and Ian Storey-Moore to go. Which member of Pan's People was he most in love with? Cherry, Dee Dee or Babs? This morning, though, he was listening to the liturgy, the absurdity of which he found rather disturbing. 'We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth of all things visible and invisible . . .' 'Lord, I am not worthy to receive thee under my roof but only say the word and my soul will be healed . . .' 'Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world . . .'

Lamb of God? What on earth were these people talking about? What is the Lamb of God anyway? And since when could a lamb take away the sins of the world? A few of the flock, particularly those nearest the front, looked worried - very worried. There was a lot of bead-jiggling and breast-beating going on. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Old Mrs Dunne looked terrified. What dreadful sins had she committed as a girl in Ireland? What could have made her so desperate for forgiveness? She was praying now, eyes closed, beads clutched, with the speed and delivery of an auctioneer: '. . . hallowedbethynamethykingdomcomethywillbedoneonearthasitisinheaven . . .' As Francis joined the queue to receive Holy Communion, the opening bars from a familiar hymn struck up with a mighty resonance from the organ loft at the back: 'Praise my Soul, the King of Heaven' which, according to the hymnbook, had been written by somebody called H. F. Lyte. 'Praise Him, Praise Him' was the chorus and general gist of it. It was the general gist of most hymns, and Francis found the sentiments expressed by H. F. and his ilk rather disquieting. If God is up there now, His beady eye trained on Kilburn, what must He think of the grovelling musical tributes ringing out of Quex Road? Doesn't He find them horribly embarrassing? Having 'Happy Birthday' sung to you was bad enough so how excruciating was this? Surely He's not enjoying this cringing sycophancy. If He is then He's very conceited. If He's conceited, He's not perfect. If He's not perfect, He's not God. Francis felt the familiar hot pang of Catholic guilt for entertaining such thoughts. How could he even consider such evil, blasphemous ideas about Our Lord? But wait a minute – he wasn't thinking anything bad about God. On the contrary. He was assuming that God was a nice man, a modest man, a man who had no desire to be fawned upon in this way. Having pulled off this neat feat of self-exculpation, Francis reboarded this train of thought, which was now calling at all stations to Eternal Damnation. --Ce texte provient d'une édition qui n'est plus publiée ou qui est non diponible.