What the child hears at the fireside is soon known at the parish church.
Related quotes
I wouldn't say the world is my parish, but my readers are my parish. And especially the readers that write to me. They're my parish. And it's a responsibility that I enjoy.
quote by Andrew Greeley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sex & The Church
Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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‘holy Family Church House-warming, Perundurai, T.n.’
Excerpt from Dr John Celes’ Welcome Speech
(to be held on 05-02-2010)
The Shepherd comes to meet his flock,
And bless the church that’s newly built,
Wherein an older church had stood on rock –
A sacred ground of prayer for Catholics!
Let’s welcome him; let’s welcome him, ye sheep!
He brings with him his staff that protects us;
This is the time our hearts with joy must weep;
The anointing will give us greater bliss.
Let’s thank the Lord for giving us this house
Of prayer to worship the ‘King of kings’;
Let everyone take Jesus Christ as spouse,
And tread the road to heaven as earthlings.
The Church though small looks splendidly laid out;
It has been christened ‘Holy Family Church’;
Our parish is a small one without doubt,
Nevertheless, peeps in internet-search!
The flock is one led by our parish priest,
Father Claudius, a dynamic, young man!
Who works hard without mistakes in the least;
‘May God give him good health and long life-span! ’
Our heart-felt thanks to Bishop and all souls
Who gave the land for building the new Church;
Our hearty thanks to all who played new roles,
And doled the sums that can now help to preach.
God made it possible to build His house!
Let’s worship Him with masses, hymns and pray;
Let’s reach the world at the click of a mouse!
And preach the Word of God by night and day.
We thank You God for giving us this place,
And worship Jesus Christ, as a family;
Let sweat of foreheads reinforce this base,
And help to rear this provident LILY!
Dedicated to: The Most. Rev. Dr. Thomas Aquinas M.A., DCL.,
Bishop of Coimbatore diocese
Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius, the Parish priest and
All parishners of ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai, T.N., ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-11-2010
poem by John Celes
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At a Mother's Feet
At a mother’s feet is where a child sits.
At a mother’s feet is where a child listens.
At a mother’s feet is where a child hears.
At a mother’s feet is where a child learns.
He ain’t going be no damn good he is just like his daddy.
A child sitting at his mother feet listens and hears those words.
And that child learns that he is unloved at his mother’s feet.
Modern Day Agnostic
he hears the church bell
ring
early this morning
he hears the footsteps
passing
by his door
going
on a worship
towards
the holy door
he keeps himself
mum
unmoved by any
invitation
he is thinking
will the door still open for him?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Old Woman That I Know....
the old woman
goes to church everyday
reads her novena, spends more time in church
than in the house
she is close to the parish priest
gives sums of money to the
religious activities
noted for charity and
enjoys many indulgences
from the Pope
always she is dressed in the proper
whiteness
her head covered by
the required embroidery
her movement restrained
her poise reserved
holy and
silent
what they do not know
(and this is her secret that i have discovered)
is that
just this morning she slapped her maid
because her coffee was served
and no longer that hot
to satisfy her
cold longings
exactly the opposite of what she is
in society
this old woman takes away the faith of
the maid
from the same God that she adores
in her Sunday church.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yes, I was a parish priest for five years. I was a curate in a large working class parish in Bristol and the Vicar of a village in Kent.
quote by John Polkinghorne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The child saith nothing but what he heard at the fireside.
Some Have Steeples. Some Don't
What do I think of church?
'Yes! '
Church?
Like in 'church' church?
'Yes! '
Well...
Some have steeples.
Some don't.
Some have people.
Some wont.
Some are religiously political.
And some are politically religious.
My vehicle is my church.
And that's all I care about.
'Oh?
So your 'car' is your church? '
Oh.
No no!
My 'body' is my church.
It is my sanctuary.
Now...
Keep in mind,
I am not devoted to keep it as pure,
As it should be.
But I do the best I can,
Not to be led away by temptation.
But everyday I pray to be forgiven,
Of those 'sins' I know I should not enjoy!
However...
You can find me anytime,
Self righteously defending...
My point of view.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Street Theory
Come on out child
We gonna ring doorbells and run
Come on out child, child
We gonna ring doorbells and run
We gonna shake up the neighbourhood
Lord, were bound to have some fun
We can take a plane to paris
Lord, we can fly to rome
We can take a plane to paris
Lord, we can fly to rome
I get a lump in my throat every time I go back home
Im gonna go to church on sunday
Just like my mama did
Im gonna go to church on sunday
Just like my mama did
We gonna put everything up front
cause theres nothing that we wanna keep in
We gonna put everything up front
cause theres nothing that we wanna keep in
Im gonna go to church on sunday
Just like my mama did
Im gonna go to church on sunday
Just like my mama did
We gonna put everything up front
cause theres nothing that we wanna keep in
We gonna put everything up front
cause theres nothing that we wanna keep in
Come on out child
We gonna ring doorbells and run
Come on out child, child
We gonna ring doorbells and run
We gonna shake up the neighbourhood
Lord, were bound to have some fun
We gonna shake up the neighbourhood
Lord, were bound to have some fun
Come on out child
Come on out child, child
Come on out, come on out, come on out child
Come on out child
Come on out child, child
Come on out child, child
Come on out child
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Golden Mile-Stone. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
Leafless are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,
Smoky columns
Tower aloft into the air of amber.
At the window winks the flickering fire-light;
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,
Social watch-fires
Answering one another through the darkness.
On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree
For its freedom
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.
By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,
Asking sadly
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair, with stately stairways,
Asking blindly
Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside tragedies are acted
In whose scenes appear two actors only,
Wife and husband,
And above them God the sole spectator.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces,
Waiting, watching
For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone;
Is the central point, from which he measures
Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind,
As he heard them
When he sat with those who were, but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,
Nor the march of the encroaching city,
Drives an exile
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
We may build more splendid habitations,
Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures,
But we cannot
Buy with gold the old associations!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Precious Moments of Mothering
Here inside this church
We sat on the same pew.
While others focused
their eyes at the front aisle
and towards the pulpit,
here beside me, I found
this woman cuddling
her own baby.
She held her child
close to her bosom,
hugged her
with all her warmth,
whispered words
to her ears
and drowned her child
with her loving smiles.
The child giggled,
closed her eyes and slept,
secured and contented
in her mother's robust arms
cuddled and assured
of a peaceful world.
Here beside this woman
I remembered my three girls
who now have moved out
to manage their own life.
Here on a Sunday in this church
I journeyed to the past days.
This woman's hugging
her own child
This mother's enfolding
her child by her two
strong arms
This mother's peace
while holding her child
touched deeply my heart.
Silently tears ran through
my cheeks as silent whispers
of such a great wave of emotions
of missing my own children
while recalling the precious moments
of mothering a child.
____________________
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Father Ed
The day of his ordination his widowed mum's happiest day
To Sainthood she said my son is on his way
She raised him on her own when his dad of a heart attack died
Of her only offspring she took so much pride
At sixty eight he died in his sleep with his mum he now lay
At his funeral this morning his Parishioners for his soul did pray
He had been their Parish Priest for more than twenty years
And they did farewell him in sadness and tears
Of their Parish Priests the greatest of all
His sunday sermons on morals and chastity they will long recall
But the saddest one at the funeral was his housekeeper Kate
With head bowed as she sobbed she whispered I have lost my soul-mate
To me he was far more than Parish Priest Father Ed
He was my secret lover and he was damn good in bed.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Oh to be in England...
[The names and some of the details of this report have been changed to protect the identities of the persons involved - Ed.]
Yes I'm afraid so.
Mr Smith and Mrs Jones from down the road.
Five years now.
It's Mr Jones I feel sorry for.
Though from what I hear...
But it's Mrs Smith who really miffs me.
We're supposed to be friends, I thought.
Not a word, not a hint, these five years.
I really feel - betrayed.
Of course the men and the women here have a different take on this.
Well you'd expect it, considering.
(My Jack laughed like a drain when he read the details.
Went out early to buy the News of the Screws he calls it.)
I think the bastard's envious.
Not a word, not a hint.
Even the vicar's wife didn't know.
At least Catholics have confession.
Though of course their parish priests don't have wives...
I'm a historian. Was. The village well,
the parish pump, market day, after church, coffee mornings...
'Social cohesion in rural communities'.
I B.A.- ed on it.
Say what you like,
gossip keeps a community together.
Five years.
No, I'm not going round to see her.
I feel - betrayed...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Child Heart
My body is an adult.
But my heart is a child.
I give cause it's loving.
And it makes my heart smile.
Some say I'm too sensitive.
When they make my heart cry.
Their words can be cutting.
Or thoughts they imply.
Young at heart so they say.
Love so tender and pure.
Your unloving intentions.
My child heart insecure.
It took most of my life.
To know what was true.
To pursue what you love,
Love what you pursue.
Lesson from an angel.
It is my belief.
Let me steal back your heart.
But not like a thief.
My time machine heart.
Once hard like a rock,
Now soft like a kitten.
Reversing the clock.
My love it has changed.
Your heart I will cherish.
With it far away.
My child heart will parish.
Love, it is simple.
It's so black and white.
Yet we make it so gray.
Like clouds hide sunlight.
Now I love like a child.
Cause I have a child heart.
Let it bring us together.
Let us have a new start.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Love Making Inside The Comfort Room
we pretend
that this is the
church
that this is
the favorite
confessional
box of the
priest and
his favorite
concubine
we pretend
i am the parish
priest and you
are the wife
of the mayor
and now you
kneel before
me without
a lace
without
clothes
i preach
you
the
naked
truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Born But a Little Child
He who spoke the world into creation
He was born but a little child
With love so meek and mild
His birth brought the world a new elation
Was born to die to save all the nations
He was born but a little child
With a precious glowing smile
Was to become the church’s foundation
He was born but a little child
To reclaim the fallen world for His own
He was born but a little child
He came that true love, through Him, could be known
He was born but a little child
To take on our sins, and for them atone
((May 31st,2003))
poem by Danny Speicher
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Psalm 135 part 1
v.1-4,14,19-21
L. M.
The church is God's house and care.
Praise ye the Lord, exalt his name,
While in his holy courts ye wait,
Ye saints, that to his house belong,
Or stand attending at his gate.
Praise ye the Lord, the Lord is good;
To praise his name is sweet employ:
Isr'el he chose of old, and still
His church is his peculiar joy.
The Lord himself will judge his saints;
He treats his servants as his friends;
And when he hears their sore complaints,
Repents the sorrows that he sends.
Through every age the Lord declares
His name, and breaks th' oppressor's rod
He gives his suff'ring servants rest,
And will be known th' Almighty God.
Bless ye the Lord, who taste his love,
People and priest, exalt his name:
Amongst his saints he ever dwells;
His church is his Jerusalem.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Joy of My Youth
The morning is cold,
the moon slung low
lighting the snow
iridescently blue
In the dark, glowing church
red votives flame
throwing bright prayers
to the ceiling
Introibo ad altare Dei,
The old priest intones
“I will go
to the alter of God”
and I quickly recite
Ad Deum qui laetificat
juventutem meam
“To God,
the joy of my youth.”
The church is empty,
but still we go on,
chanting the ancient love-songs
to the One who lives
in the flickering flame
to the One who rises
in ascending incense
and hears our words
and becomes them.
poem by Steven Federle
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