Sister Maria Trowser

By John R. Mabry | Senior Year | 1980

Sister Maria Trowser was a sister no longer. She was a Father. No sexually, of course, but his Holiness, Pope Richard, granted her the title, after much thought. I suppose the world believes it was me who gave it to her. That's all right, though. People have put words in my mouth since I made them. It's not that I'm prejudiced or anything. I just didn't make women for the priesthood. I made them to be the wives of priests. They eliminated that, too. Pope Rikky decided that since the priests of the order of Francis of Assisi (maybe I ought to bring him back as pope!) were the only ones still celibate, then there was no actual sexual difference between a celibate male or a celibate female.

Either, then, are able to acquire the priesthood.

Camel-crap.

If I had wanted women to be spiritual leaders I would have had Mosette part the Red Sea with a purse! But, what's done is done. Dickey's such a fool.

The eyes of the Catholic world were on Father Maria's Pastorate. She was their "trial-run." Oh, fun. I've got ten to one odds on it failing and I've got no takers.

The new father was welcomed warmly by her congregation. Most were feminists. Or gay. Yecch. That's another one of Dickie's neato tricks. Catholic Doctrine says "Whatever the Pope binds or looses on Earth, will be bound and loosed in heaven."

Cherub-clumps.

I've been sick enough with homosexual priests in the past. But now it's "legal."

I think I'll wait till judgment to throw up.

Father Maria's first sermon was a dilly. It would have made Nimrod proud. I hope so: someone has to appreciate it. The congregation gave her a standing ovation. That's a new one on me. My people've never been so excited over sin. I certainly don't get no thrills from it.

The first six months passed with little incident. The church lost its flare quickly, and became the same old rapping room it always was. After eight months the strain began to show. Dickey was getting worried that his pet project would fail, and I started to feel sorry for the poor girl. - I'm such a softy.

The year rolled slowly around, twelve months,and the winter crops in Virginia were ripening. By mid-December I was tired of watching Father Maria. I was tired of the world's interest.

And I was sick, of Pope-sie Dick.

(Good-Me! That rhymes!)

Father Maria had heard the reports. She knew what was happening. I had had it on the Books for centuries, but they had only discovered it last month. She stood in the tall tower of the pre-fab sanctuary. The Plexiglas windows protected her from the onslaught. Before her eyes, the cloud arrived, and lowered. The ripened fields, their goal. Their insatiable hunger, their motivation.
The people rushed to the fields, beating the attackers. Her people. My locusts. It was no competition. The carnage darkened her mind under frazzled hair. The blood maddened her fury behind wild eyes.

It's not that I'm prejudiced, or that I'm chauvinist. I don't really have anything personal against Dickie. I'm just God. I am just. And I am always right.

"Vengeance is mine" huh?

The locusts turned towards Father Maria in her tower; crossing themselves. And Father Maria said Mass.
Amen.