Some humour
When a novitiate monk arrives at the monastery, he is assigned to assist in the hand-copying, in copperplate, the ancient canons and church laws that have guided the church for centuries. A keen intellect, he quickly notices that all the monks are copying from copies, not from the original manuscripts. He points out to the head abbot that if someone made even a small error in the first copy it would never be discerned.
The abbot takes the novitiate’s point and decides to venture down into the dark, candlelit catacombs beneath the monastery. Held in a vault behind lock and key, here the original manuscripts have remained, unopened, since the Middle Ages. Hours go by, and nobody sees the old abbot.
The young monk, becoming concerned, decides to go below and look for the elder monk. After much searching, he finally locates the abbot crying uncontrollably while continually banging his head against the sandstone wall, his forehead a bloodied and bruised mess.
“What’s wrong, Father?” asks the young monk.
“It doesn’t say celibate,” the old abbot replies in a choked voice, “it says celebrate.”
The abbot takes the novitiate’s point and decides to venture down into the dark, candlelit catacombs beneath the monastery. Held in a vault behind lock and key, here the original manuscripts have remained, unopened, since the Middle Ages. Hours go by, and nobody sees the old abbot.
The young monk, becoming concerned, decides to go below and look for the elder monk. After much searching, he finally locates the abbot crying uncontrollably while continually banging his head against the sandstone wall, his forehead a bloodied and bruised mess.
“What’s wrong, Father?” asks the young monk.
“It doesn’t say celibate,” the old abbot replies in a choked voice, “it says celebrate.”
