A Krenikian Afterthought

A brief thought demands pixillation, on this Sunday evening:

This afternoon I am granted audience with an adored maternal figure--adherent of the One True Faith--recently widowed, now resident a suburb to our left.  Our zesty dissection of family politics consumes two hours in the blink of an eye--and then I aver having attended Mass yesterday afternoon at the thrice-blogged  Chanhassen pagoda.

I want to take in the feel of the place:  It is bracing, the psychic blast of a previously unentered house of worship, at showtime.  This one feels younger than my home parish, more exurban--less conscious if that's possible.  Big though not completely full.  Parishioners are bid greet each other twice here--once at the start and later after our first knee-beating--which is onerous, emotionally [then it dawns I've now fulfilled two Sundays].

Their pastor having just been frog-marched to Siberia--thanks to Archbishop Nienstedt's loveless literalism--I attend St. Hubert's in part to see whether Fr. Krenik-of-the-labor-camp gets mentioned.  (And there is one elliptical reference to 'recent difficulty', I think, followed by a single distant, muffled chuckle.) 

During my conversation with the frail, elderly person--a St. Hubert's parishioner, she reveals--your blogger asks if she is aware of the recent personnel change.  She is aware, she says, betraying the cosmopolite's unscandalized affect--one's kin can be charming--though she doesn't particularly seem to care, at first.  Then she allows, 'I very much liked Fr. Krenik.'

I briefly explain my 'it seems to me an outrage' position:  Who cares if the priest has a frolic in the park?  (It's the festive season for them, too, I say.)

No significant push-back...and then:  But he couldn't thereafter be trusted around children.