My Time Travels: A Benedictine Monk

    I will attempt, with a biased point of view, to relate this tale as my limited intellect and experience may permit. Why is it biased? Because we all hold some bias or another, whether we admit to it or not. I knew of a fine fellow once who was so open-minded that it was often said to him, "You, sir, are biased against biased people." The poor gent was placed in an asylum because he went mad trying to escape the conundrum.
    But that holds little relevance to the anecdote I am setting forth, so I must begin with location, because location is not only a vital piece of information, it is the simplest beginning (which I am certain is the reason Chapter 1 of any story begins with a broad and mundane description for which it is hard to care). So! Location: the hills of West Germany, unpolluted by...well pollution, as that is what pollutes. But of more import is timing.
    The year is 1495. In this year the great reformer Martin Luther had only just turned the ripe old age of twelve, Charles VIII was busy conquering Naples, Robert Barnes (that great Christian martyr) had not yet died because he was too busy being born, and Jon Cor on this date was the first to record anything about Scotch whiskey (being a friar, though, he had naturally never tasted the vile stuff *cough, cough*).
    Friarship brings us to our topic today: Roman Catholicism. Yes, this is a time in which Chesterton's Mr. Symes would have been absolutely correct with his cry of "Oh, we are all catholics now!" as Protestantism had yet to be anything other than a disagreeable word that denoted people who were disagreeable.
    An expedient traversing of history will show that Protestantism proper is merely a part and a piece of Catholicism (albeit a violent and rebellious part and piece). Every blessing God bestowed on the early Catholic church belongs to us and ours, and every atrocity committed by the same belongs as well in our hands.
    Being quite aware of both geographic and fourth dimensional location, I disembarked from my time machine to wander the quaint country roads and attempt to avoid any contact with bandits or barbarians as I had been informed that they did unnecessary harm to one's health. It was as I was traveling that I met with a certain monk of Benedictine caliber.
    "Random generic greeting," said I, quite cheerfully, I would suppose. He replied in like manner and soon we were cheerfully being cheerful with one another. The reason was clear: he was off to bury an infidel, and that would make any monk worth his weight in food giddy.
    "We are to cut off his head," said the monk. "So that when Christ returns for His sheep, he will not be able to rise from his grave."
    My rejoinder was brilliant. "Oh?"
    "Absolutely! How may a body rise and live without a head?" This seemed to make great quantums of sense; in fact, as much sense as it is to use the word "quantums" in this sentence.
    "Perhaps," said I, being in a jocular mood. "If I may suggest that there be some greater reason that he not ascend?"
    "Such as?"
    "Such as the fact that the poor fellow was not a Christian?"
    "Well!" cried the monk with umbrage, as only monks and royalty are entitled to random umbrage. "We cut off his head to be certain!"
    "Ah," said I, another brilliant defense. But a question was nagging at my mind. "How does church tradition say that Saint Paul the Apostle was martyred?"
    "Why he was beheaded, fellow!" said the monk as though I was unlearned. Then a light lit in his poorly lit eyes. "Oh."
    Seeing my mission fulfilled, I continued on my journey.
    I heard tell, several days later, that a certain Benedictine monk (with whom I am certain I had no interaction) was excommunicated from the Church because he burst into the Vatican with the loud proclamation, "We were wrong! St. Paul is not going to heaven!"