The Pope ≠ The Papacy

"Colomba was in opposition to the person of the Pope precisely out of loyalty to the institution of the Papacy."
— Bryan Houghton, Mitre and Crook, 1978, p. 35.

But:

"He may be a saint but an impossible Pope, as was Celestine V. He may be a sinner but a good Pope, as was Alexander VI."
— Ibid., p. 159.

"Vous aviez raison."

Soit dit en passant, j'étais en Angleterre au moment de la mort de Charles Grant. Je ne lui avais pas fait signe car je savais qu'il détestait les visites. Il préférait s'asseoir pour méditer dans un nuage de fumée. Mais il apprit que j'étais dans les parages et me fit appeler. J'arrivai à l'heure prévue et bavardai comme d'habitude. Il m'interrompit : « Bryan, je veux que vous sachiez que je suis tout juste capable de dire encore la messe. Je ne la dit pas en latin, mais je la célèbre en silence. Vous aviez raison. » Il m'avait fait venir pour me confier cela. Cher Charles! Il mourut peu après.
— Bryan Houghton, Prêtre rejeté, Dominique Martin Morin, 2005, p. 194.

Dans le silence qui suivra

Si la présent autodestruction de l'Église doit être enrayée, la première chose à faire, c'est de cesser de bavarder à tort et à travers. Dans le silence qui suivra, nous serons à même de réentendre à la messe la voix toujours douce de notre Dieu et, à travers le monde entier, la proclamation des vérités éternelles par son Église.
— Bryan Houghton, Prêtre rejeté, Dominique Martin Morin, 2005, p.134.

God is not in the microphone

Ce quit est vrai, bien sûr, c'est que quiconque veut prier, quel que quoi son tempérament, doit faire preuve d'un minimum d'introversion. Le « souffle de la brise légère » (III Roi 19, 12) passe mal par les microphones.
— Bryan Houghton, Prêtre rejeté, Dominique Martin Morin, 2005, p. 82.

Misérable?

À table, il arrivait assez souvent que les dits du Grand Homme [Edward Staples, his maternal grandfather] émaillent la conversation. Je me souviens bien de l'un d'entre eux – je devais avoir sept ans puisque je ne mangeais plus à la nursery : «J'admire les catholiques : ils tiennent mordicus les position de la religion chrétienne. Je méprise les protestants : ils dénaturent la religion qu'ils prétendent comprendre et soumettre au jugement de leurs misérables consciences. » Soixante-douze ans plus tard, mon souvenir est très précises. Ma seule restriction concerne le mot « misérable » : un autre fut employé.
— Bryan Houghton, Prêtre rejeté, Dominique Martin Morin, 2005, p. 9.

Bishop Daly, Bishop Forester, and the Bishop of Rome

Another cleric commented on [Bishop Daly's] intensed dislike of public criticism:

He's on record among the clergy as being very bitter towards certain groups because they have criticized the bishops. He can't stand them. He harps on this business of their being "negative, negative, negative," which of course means anything that's against the Bishop – it's a re-interpretation of the word! He'll talk freely and comfortably about non-contentious issues. But if, for example, a group criticizes Catholic education, he'll say: "They're so negative. They always find negative things. What about all the good things happening." It really is a pathetic approach. Childish.

…

For many years, Bishop Forester too had neglected his bottom-line obligation as a Catholic Shepherd – to call wandering sheep to obedience through the enforcement of Church discipline. But he finally realized that the wretched fruits of this irresponsibility stood in contradiction to the renewal it promised. When asked by one of his priests why he took so long to draw the line on abuses, he replied:

Who knows? Cowardice? Hypocrisy? Ambition? … Stupidity? Human respect? You can accuse me to your heart's content and I shall not deny you. I do no know; God knows. I can, however, rationalize my delay in drawing the line although, pray God, I shall never have the impudence to justify it … Pray for me.^*

^* Bryan Houghton, Mitre and Crook, 1979, pp. 42–43.

…

In the meantime, as they waited for a sign of remorse from the Bishop of Sandhurst, parishioners contented themselves with an apology already issued on his behalf by the Bishop of Rome. At the beginning of his Apostolic Letter on the Eucharist, Dominicae Cenae, issued on February 24, 1980, John Paul II made this remarkable plea:

I would like to ask forgiveness – in my own name and in the name of all of you, venerable and dear brothers of the Episcopate – for everything which, for whatever reason, through whatever human weakness, impatience, or negligence, and also through the at times partial and one-sided and erroneous applications of the directives of the Second Vatican Council, may have caused scandal and disturbance … And I pray the Lord Jesus that in the future we may avoid … anything which would weaken or disorient in any way the sense of reverence and love that exists in our faithful people.

— R. Michael McGrade, Death of a Catholic Parish: The Benalla Experiment, 1991, pp. 287, 292–293.

"At my Eucharist, you give the Sign of Peace"

"Gleichschautung"

Visiting Benalla on the first weekend of September 1989, I attended a Saturday morning Mass said by Fr. Welladsen in the F.C.J. convent chapel. At the Sign of Peace, there being no-one else in or around my pew I exercised my legitimate option not to partake in the head-nodding and handshaking which, in any event, I find most distracting and unsettling at that point in the Mass. Instead, I chose to kneel and wait for the all important Agnus Dei.

In prayer, eyes closed, I thought I felt something touch my hands but ignored the sensation, until the touching suddenly became tugging. Startled, I opened my eyes to find myself confronted by Fr. Welladsen who, having vacated the sanctuary for a hand-shaking tour of the chapel, had wandered some distance into the pew to wrap his hands around mine, all the while staring fixedly at me and saying, "Peace be with you, peace.…"

Shocked by this disruptive intrusion, I instinctively resisted the manhandling which only served to strengthen Father's resolve and he pulled me more forcefully, still repeating his little chant – "peace, peace." By this stage I was within a few inches of his face and our eyes met. There was nothing at all "peaceful" about his infuriated and fixed countenance which seemed more like that of a man experiencing significant inner turmoil. I said softly: "Father, return to the altar. That is where you belong at this moment of the Mass. Not down here." In retrospect a rather pathetic rejoinder but the only words of wisdom I could muster under the circumstances.

Still squeezing my hands, his mouth tightened and, between clenched teeth, he spat out: "At my Eucharist, you give the Sign of Peace!" He then continued his chapel tour before eventually returning to the altar.

The whole encounter probably lasted only twenty seconds.

— R. Michael McGrade, Death of a Catholic Parish: The Benalla Experiment, 1991, pp. 263–264.