“Macbeth, thou shalt be king."
The worst punishment that could have been thought of for a person like Bergoglio was the full attainment of his ambitions. Step by step, betrayal by betrayal, rung by rung, he climbed the ladder of ecclesiastical Power, investing in it all his faculties and personality. No sooner arrived at one rank, his unbridled ambition conceived the move to the next, crushing all under its enormous weight, wrecking justice and right and sacrificing all that Earth and Heaven offered to swell the soul and body with true happiness. His spirit was urged on by the fateful voices of the wind that whispered power to his ear, and told him, pointing their bony fingers: “Hail, Jorge, Provincial of the Jesuits; Hail, Jorge, Archbishop of Buenos Aires; Hail, Francis, Pope of Rome!”
Francis is the living example of a whole generation of priests who have sucked dry the breasts of the post-conciliar Church.
An eminently practical person, without glimmerings of insight or imagination, without hobbies or tastes, his intelligence yet moved nimbly over the fields of politics and manipulation of men. In that terrain, unhappily for him and for us, he was unrivalled and his genius could unfold all its wings for ever higher conquests: from Provincial to bishop, from bishop to Primate, from Archbishop of Buenos Aires to, finally, Pope in Rome after the fall of his hated competitor.
Those who underestimate Jorge Mario Bergoglio ought to reflect on the enormity of this adventure, which many have begun and few have finished. Nor should we forget that, if he has risen so high, it is because he is the living example of a whole generation of priests who have sucked dry the breasts of the post-conciliar Church. An archetype of the dominant model of the clergy, how would they not exalt him, seeing themselves, each one, on the throne after him?
He is the king, but he does not reign over himself, because he has no inner light to guide him through the labyrinth of life.
During that long journey marked out for him by his desires, he progressively deformed his soul, amputating essential aspects of the personality: Pure action and mere potency. We do not know what there is at the centre of his person to impel him to commit that horrible act.
The first thing to fall, unlamented, was the contemplation of Truth and Beauty, judged as superfluous and without value. Next it was the turn of Justice and the other virtues, viewed as obstacles in his career. After that came the snuffing out of Charity, the darkening of Faith and the corruption of Hope. What was left to him at last was the real little idol of his soul, pure Power.
When he arrived at the Throne of St Peter and his coronation, the summit of his desires, his transformation was complete, and nearly all his humanity, generosity and curiosity had been drained by his self-interested thoughts, deeds and decisions. He is the king, but he does not reign over himself, because he has no inner light to guide him through the labyrinth of life; nor do generous Truth, Good and Beauty walk with him: he is entirely soulless, heartless, a void in which the eternal cold of lovelessness grows forever, and his desert, icy soul has been left in blackness, like a night sky without stars and moon.
You murdered the Beauty of your soul, and now your acts are so crude and mean that they lack even the infernal grandeur of Evil.
The night before Bosworth
The long dark night of your pontificate looms over you, and in the twilight hour appear the lengthened shadows of your victims. I mean the victims of your soul, psyche and intelligence. Now Power is yours and you can climb no higher, nor pass any further. But you have been late to discover, Bergoglio, that power is a term that by necessity has an object! It is yours now, but you do not know how to use it, and do not know even what it is for.
You are Hannibal, who conquered but do not know how to use your victory. A King Midas of Power, whose touch used to turn everything into a means of your ambition, now your ambition is left without a goal, an end without an end.
You destroyed Truth within your intelligence, and now your words are gone with the wind; you murdered the Beauty of your soul, and now your acts are so crude and mean that they lack even the infernal grandeur of Evil.
Dust, noise, and nothingness will be your legacy.
You murdered Good, and with that it becomes impossible to reach the stars and illuminate yourself and others with their light. Your lack of generosity, of selfless love for persons and things, is now claiming payment from you, and with compound interest. You did nothing for free, you will be given nothing for free, you reap what you sowed.
Without tastes, interests or friends, your soul is not fired by art, music, beautiful verses or well-told tales. What makes the happiness of men is closed to you, and what makes the happiness of the saints: the contemplation of God. Gaunt, hungry, purposeless, useless, you move like a top, turning round on yourself, harming yourself and harming others, the sad destiny of one whose life has no destiny or aspiration.
Like Gollum and in his image and likeness, you cling to the Ring of the Fisherman, crying like one possessed, through Santa Marta and its halls: My treasure! My treasure! You fear that it will be snatched from you, but at the same time it destroys you from within. Not for a moment do you think of sacrificing it for something great, generous, high, be it wrong or right, bringing you praise or derision. In egoism and solipsism, you will die with it on the Mountain of History and will fade from history without trace, without anyone to remember you for anything great or good. Dust, noise, and nothingness will be your legacy.
Traditionis Custodes shows your hatred for what is great and beautiful; the hosts of martyrs, saints, doctors and popes insulted and vexed by you as you raise up heresy and idolatry.
Despair and die
The most wretched of men despairs, as power slips from his hands; like a madman he makes gestures without meaning, commands contradictions, speaks follies. Desperately you turn back to the tools that served you in your climb: theology of the people, Peronism, a gutted cult of Progress, because you never believed that they were anything more than instruments of power. You bow down before the idols of the day so as to give a content to your papacy, to give a content to your life.
Since the talent for construction is denied to you, you resort perforce to destruction. You are a papal Richard III, and what served you to scale the heights now hurls you down to the abyss. In this long night before the end, your memories appear to you, to cry out your crimes against you; they show you your true image and figure in the mirror of your deeds: Becciu displays your injustice; Benedict your lack of wisdom; Pell your hypocrisy, as you allowed the mafia to soil the Petrine See with its dirty deals; Viganò your despotism and your willing self-abasement to the slaves of the Prince of this world; the four cardinals of the Dubia show you your frivolity with the Treasure of Faith; the victims of Cor Orans and the Franciscans of the Immaculate show your hatred for the last end of man, the vision of God; Traditionis Custodes shows your hatred for what is great and beautiful; the hosts of martyrs, saints, doctors and popes insulted and vexed by you as you raise up heresy and idolatry; and last of all will rise up the memory of the one who was defamed, persecuted, punished, driven out of his house with his aged mother, and who died of grief for the injustice committed by you and your minions; Bishop Livières, with whom you began with ill omen your baneful rule, showing your true face. Even the ancient pagans will accuse you, because they gave sentence after hearing the pleas and after the accused had been granted the right to defend himself (Acts, 25, 16), and you did not, you who are the successor of a saint condemned without guilt, and the representative of the Innocent One unjustly crucified.
There remains therefore hope for Francis: not that he will straighten the paths of his pontificate but that he will attain that mercy that found a home in the heart of the thief St. Dismas.
God is not left with nothing, the High Justice of Him who rules his peoples with a rod of iron now drives you to the Fates with the whips of desperation and visits his punishments on the Church that has followed you in your misdeeds without rising in defence of Justice, of Law, of Faith and Charity, of Truth and Wisdom. The Eternal One is not mocked by any man, however high he thinks himself. And yet, He will not forget your ardent defence of the Most Holy Virgin on one occasion and your filial visits to the Immaculate and to the Salus Populi Romani.
Pray for the living and the dead
There remains therefore hope for Francis: not that he will straighten the paths of his pontificate but that he will attain that mercy that found a home in the heart of the thief St Dismas and of the sinner St Andrew Wouters. Let us set aside the rancour, the disgust and the hatred we may have for him for his evil acts; we must begin to have mercy, pity and sorrow for him, because at bottom he is a wretch, who, for his own misfortune and to punish the enormous sins of the sinful members of the Church, has won what he most desired.
Numberless cancers which lurked unseen while they killed the supernatural life in silence have come to light in all their festering nature with Bergoglio and his entourage.
Let us try to repair through contemplation, prayer and charity all the harm and injury committed by this ill-starred pope. A bitter medicine which, nevertheless, is showing us all, high and low, the true evil that is corroding the Church and rotting its marrow. Numberless cancers which lurked unseen while they killed the supernatural life in silence have come to light in all their festering nature with Bergoglio and his entourage. Give thanks to God that what was hidden has been revealed, and that we can confront it if we possess sufficient holiness, courage and strength.
The hour is soon coming when neither charges nor praises nor reproaches will count for anything, when the sceptre will fall from the hand and the crown from the brow; power will fade like smoke in the air and fear will melt like snow. He who thought he could determine the future will no longer even be able to rule the present. Forgotten by those who served him in life, the warmth of their esteem will ebb with the warmth of his body as they turn to the new warmth of the rising sun. His ring will be crushed, and his successor's ring will be fashioned from it. At bottom, all of his life and end speaks to us of ourselves and of the dangers of centring our lives in ourselves: Acta est fabula et de te narratur!
Then, as we pray for his eternal salvation and offer penance that he may gain the pardon that we all need, we shall be able to say: Farewell, Francis of Rome, Pope of sad destinies!
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(Submitted by the author. Spanish original published Dec. 27, 2021: http://caminante-wanderer.blogspot.com/2021/12/francisco-el-papa-de-los-tristes.html)