Fifty (50) Years in the Church of Rome The Conversion of a Priest [Abridged] [Paperback]
Charles Chiniquy (Author)

Book Description
Publication Date: June 1, 1985

Would he obey his church or his Bible?

Here is the heart-wrenching struggle of a man torn between his religion and Christ, between men's traditions and God's Word. As a child, Charles Chiniquy memorized Scriptures at his mother's knee. Longing to serve God, he became a Roman Catholic priest. He wanted to trust his "church", but was tormented as he watched it repeatedly violate the Word of God that it claimed to obey. Finally, Chiniquy was ordered to give up his precious Bible and pledge blind obedience to the "church." After a dark night of struggle, he emerged gloriously saved through faith in Christ.

Learn how he led almost his entire Catholic congregation to trust in Christ alone. See how his desire to please his Saviour caused conflicts with his Catholic superiors. Learn how he was framed by the Jesuits, and how a young lawyer named Abraham Lincoln saved his reputation. Chiniquy proves that it was the Jesuits who later killed Lincoln, and explains why. All Christians need to learn these important insights into the Catholic religion, written by one who lived within her walls for many years.


http://www.amazon.com/Fifty-Years-Church-Conversion-Priest/dp/0937958212

First Daily Excerpt.

"Besides corrupting the most sacred truths of the Gospel through this catechism, she secures for the pope and his representatives that adoration which is the secret of Rome’s power. It is during this religious instruction that Jesus is removed from the hearts for which He paid so great a price, and Mary is put in His place. This great iniquity is so skillfully executed that it is almost impossible for a poor child to escape.

This is how Mary took the place of my precious Saviour during my own childhood. The priest who instructed us was the Rev. Mr. Morin. He was exceedingly kind and we respected and loved him sincerely. One day he said to me, “Stand up, my child, and answer the many important questions which I have to ask you.” I stood up. “My child,” he said, “when you were guilty of wrong doing at home, who punished you most severely, your father or your mother?” After a few moments of hesitation I answered, “My father.” “Correct, my child,” said the priest. “As a matter of fact, the father is almost always more impatient and ready to punish than the mother.” “Now, my child, tell us which parent punished you more severely?” “My father,” I said again, without hesitation. “Still true, my child. The superior goodness of a kind mother is perceived even in correction where her blows are lighter. Further, when you deserved to be chastised, did not someone often come between you and your father’s rod, taking it away from him and pacifying him?” “Yes,” I said. “More than once my mother did that and saved me from severe punishment.” “Now my children, have not your good mothers often saved you from your father’s corrections even when you deserved it?” “Yes, sir,” we all answered.

“One question more. When your father was coming to whip you, did you not throw yourself into the arms of someone to escape?” “Yes, sir. More than once, I threw myself into my mother’s arms. She pleaded so well for me that I often escaped punishment.” Turning to the children, he continued, “You have a Father and a Mother in heaven. Your Father is Jesus, and your Mother is Mary. Never forget that a mother’s heart is always more tender and merciful.” “Often your sins make your Father angry against you.

Your Father takes His rod to punish you. He threatens to crush you with His roaring thunder; He opens the gates of hell to cast you in. You would have been damned long ago had not your heavenly Mother disarmed your angry and irritated Father. When Jesus would punish you, the good Virgin Mary places herself between Him and you. She obtains your pardon.” “Thus, my children, when your conscience says you are guilty, and Jesus is angry, hasten to Mary! Throw yourselves into the arms of that good mother; have recourse to her sovereign power over Jesus, and be assured that you will be saved through her!” Thus in the Church of Rome, not Jesus, but Mary, represents the infinite love and mercy of God for the sinner. His hope is directed to Mary for his escape from deserved chastisement!

It is not Jesus, but Mary, who saves the sinner! The Church of Rome constantly invites sinners to turn their thoughts, their hopes, their affections, not to Jesus, but to Mary! By that impious doctrine Rome deceives the intellects, seduces the hearts, and destroys the souls of the young forever. Under the pretext of honoring the Virgin Mary, she insults her by outrageously misrepresenting her adorable Son. Old pagan idolatry is brought back under a new name."

Chiniquy, Charles (2012-02-07). 50 Years In The Church of Rome (Abridged) (Kindle Locations 556-559). Chick Publications, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

Chapter 1 ( Excerpts )

"..... My mother became my first teacher. Before leaving the seminary, my father had received from one of the Superiors, as a token of his esteem, a beautiful French and Latin Bible. That Bible was the first book, after the A B C, in which I was taught to read. My mother selected interesting chapters which I read every day till I knew many of them by heart.

How many delicious hours I have spent by my mother’s side reading to her from the sublime pages of the divine book. Sometimes she interrupted me to see if I understood what I read. When my answers made her sure that I understood it, she used to kiss me and press me on her bosom as an expression of her joy. We were some distance from the Church and on rainy days the roads were very bad. On the Sabbath days the neighboring farmers were accustomed to gather at our house in the evening.

Then my parents used to put me up on a large table in the midst of the assembly, and I delivered to those good people the most beautiful parts of the Old and New Testaments. When I tired, my mother, who had a fine voice, sang some of the beautiful French hymns with which her memory was filled. When the weather allowed us to go to church, the farmers would take me into their buggies at the door of the temple, and request of me some chapter of the Gospel. With perfect attention they listened to the voice of the child, whom the Good Master had chosen to give them the bread which comes from heaven. More than once, I remember, when the bell called us to the church, they regretted that they could not hear more.

One beautiful day in 1818 my father was writing in his office, my mother was working with her needle, and I was at the door playing. Suddenly I saw a priest coming near the gate and felt a chill of uneasiness. It was his first visit to our home. The priest was of short stature with an unpleasant appearance. His shoulders were large and he was very corpulent. His hair was long and uncombed, and his double chin seemed to groan under the weight of his flabby cheeks. I hastily ran and whispered to my parents, “Mr. Curate is coming.” The sound was hardly out of my lips when the Rev. Courtois was at the door. My father shook hands with him in welcome.

The priest was born in France, where he had a narrow escape, having been condemned to death under the bloody administration of Robespierre. He had taken refuge with many other French priests in England, then came to Quebec. Here the bishop had given him charge of the parish at Murray Bay. His conversation was animated and interesting for the first quarter of an hour. It was a real pleasure to hear him. But all of a sudden, his countenance changed as if a dark cloud had come over his mind, and he stopped talking. My parents had been respectfully reserved as they listened. The silence which followed was exceedingly unpleasant for all the parties, like the heavy hour before a storm.

At length the priest, addressing my father, said, “Mr. Chiniquy, is it true that you and your child read the Bible?” “Yes, sir,” was the quick reply, “my little boy and I read the Bible, and what is still better, he has learned by heart a great number of its most interesting chapters. If you will allow it, Mr. Curate, he will give you some of them.” “I did not come for that purpose,” abruptly replied the priest. “But do you not know that you are forbidden by the Council of Trent to read the Bible in French?” “It makes very little difference to me whether I read the Bible in French, Greek, or Latin,” answered my father, “for I understand these languages equally well.” “But are you ignorant of the fact that you cannot allow your child to read the Bible?” replied the priest. “My wife directs her own child in the reading of the Bible, and I cannot see that we commit any sin.” “Mr. Chiniquy,” rejoined the priest, “you have gone through a whole course of theology. You know the duties of a curate. You know it is my painful duty to come here, get the Bible from you and burn it.”

My grandfather was a fearless Spanish sailor (our original name was Etchiniquia), and there was too much Spanish blood and pride in my father to hear such a sentence with patience in his own house. Quick as lightening he was on his feet. I pressed myself, trembling, near my mother, who trembled also. At first I feared lest some unfortunate and violent scene should occur, for my father’s anger in that moment was really terrible. But I feared more lest the priest should lay his hands on my dear Bible, which was just before him on the table. It was mine, given me the last year as a Christmas gift.

Fortunately my father had subdued himself but was pacing the room with his lips pale and trembling, and he was muttering between his teeth. The priest was closely watching my father, his hands convulsively pressing his heavy cane, and his face evidencing a too well-grounded terror. It was clear that the ambassador of Rome did not find himself infallibly sure of his position. Since his last words he had remained as silent as a tomb. At last my father suddenly stopped before the priest. “Sir, is that all you have to say here?” “Yes, sir,” said the trembling priest. “Well, sir,” added my father, “you know the door by which you entered my house; please take the same door and go away quickly.” The priest went out immediately. I felt inexpressible joy that my Bible was safe. I ran to my father’s neck, kissed and thanked him for his victory.

And to pay him, in my childish way, I jumped upon the large table and recited, in my best style, the fight between David and Goliath. Of course, in my mind, my father was David and the priest of Rome was the giant whom the little stone from the brook had stricken down. Thou knowest, O God, that to that Bible, read on my mother’s knees, I owe, by Thy infinite mercy, the knowledge of the truth today; that the Bible had sent, to my young heart and intelligence, rays of light which all the sophisms and dark errors of Rome could never completely extinguish."

Chiniquy, Charles (2012-02-07). 50 Years In The Church of Rome (Abridged) (Kindle Locations 166-171). Chick Publications, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

CHAPTER XXII

In the beginning of September, 1834, the Bishop Synaie gave me the enviable position of one of the vicars of St. Roch, Quebec, where the Rev. Mr. Tetu had been curate for about a year. He was one of the seventeen children of Mr. Francis Tetu, one of the most respectable and wealthy farmers of St. Thomas. So amiable was my new curate, that I never saw him in bad humor a single time during the four years I was there. Although I sometimes unintentionally sorely tried his patience, I never heard an unkind word proceed from his lips. In one of the pleasant hours which we used to pass after dinner, one of the vicars, Mr. Louis Parent, said to the Rev. Mr. Tetu, “I have handed this morning more than one hundred dollars to the bishop, as the price of the masses which my pious penitents have requested me to celebrate, the greatest part of them for souls in purgatory. Every week I have to do the same thing, just as you, and every one of the hundreds of priests in Canada have to do.

Now I would like to know how the bishops can dispose of all these masses, and what they do with the large sums of money which go into their hands from every part of the country.” The good curate answered in a joking manner, as usual: “If they are all celebrated, purgatory must be emptied twice a day. For I have calculated that the sums given for those masses in Canada cannot be less than 4,000 dollars every day.

There are three times as many Catholics in the United States as here, so there is no exaggeration in saying that 16,000 dollars at least are given every day in these two countries to throw cold water on the burning flames of that fiery prison. Now multiplied by the 365 days of the year, make the handsome sum of 5,840,000 dollars every year. But, as we all know more than twice as much is paid for high masses than for the low, it is evident that more than 10,000,000 dollars are expended to help the souls of the purgatory end their tortures every twelve months, in North America alone.

“There is not a sufficient number of priests in the world to say all the masses which are paid for by the people. I do not know any more than you do what the bishops do with those millions of dollars. But, if you want to know my mind on that delicate subject, I will tell you that the least we think and speak of it the better it is for us. I reject those thoughts as much as possible, and I advise you to do the same thing.” The other vicars seemed inclined, with Mr. Parent, to accept that conclusion; but, as I had not said a single word, they requested me to give them my views which I did: “There are many things in our holy church which look like dark spots; but I hope that this is due only to our ignorance. So long as we do not know what the bishops do with those numberless masses paid into their hands, I prefer to believe that they act as honest men.” I had hardly said these few words, when I was called to visit a sick parishioner, and the conversation was ended. Eight days later, I was alone in my room, reading the “L’Ami de la Religion et du Roi,” a paper which I received from Paris, edited by Picot. My curiosity was not a little excited, when I read, at the head of a page, in large letters: “Admirable Piety of the French Canadian People.”

The reading of that page made me shed tears of shame, and shook my faith to its foundation. I ran to the curate and the vicars and said to them: “A few days ago we tried, but in vain, to find what becomes of the large sums of money paid by our people to the bishops, to say masses. Here is the answer.” We then read together the article, the substance of which was that the venerable bishops of Quebec had sent not less than one hundred thousand francs, at different times, to the priests of Paris, that they might say four hundred thousand masses at five cents each! Here we had the sad evidence that our bishops had taken for themselves four hundred thousand francs from our poor people, under the pretext of saving the souls from purgatory! That article fell upon us as a thunderbolt. Our tongues were paralyzed by shame. At last, Baillargeon, addressing the curate, said: “Is it possible that our bishops are swindlers and we their tools to defraud our people? What would that people say if they knew that not only we do not say the masses for which they constantly fill our hands with their hard-earned money, but that we send those masses to be said in Paris for five cents! What will our good people think of us all when they know that our bishop pockets twenty cents out of each mass they ask us to celebrate according to their wishes?”

The curate answered: “It is very lucky that the people do not know, for they would surely throw us all into the river. Let us keep that shameful trade as secret as possible. For what is the crime of simony if this be not an instance of it?” I replied: “How can you hope to keep that traffic of the body and blood of Christ a secret, when not less than 40,000 copies of this paper are circulated in France, and more than 100 copies come to the United States and Canada? The danger is greater than you suspect; Is it not because of such public and undeniable crimes and vile tricks of the clergy of France, that the French people in general, half a century ago, condemned all the bishops and priests of France to death? “But that sharp operation of our bishops takes a still darker color, when we consider that those ‘five-cent masses’ which are said in Paris are not worth a cent. For who among us is ignorant of the fact that the greatest part of the priests of Paris are infidels, and that many of them live publicly with concubines?

Would our people put their money in our hands if we were honest enough to tell them that their masses would be said for five cents in Paris by such priests? Do we not deceive them when we accept their money, under the well understood condition that we shall offer the holy sacrifice according to their wishes? But, if you allow me to speak a little more, I have another strange fact to consider with you.” “Yes! speak, speak!” answered all four priests. I then resumed: “Do you remember how you were enticed into the ‘Three Masses Society?’ Who among us had the idea that the greatest part of the year would be spent in saying masses for the priests, and thus become impossible to satisfy the pious demands of the people who support us? We already belonged to the societies of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of St. Michael, which raised to five the number of masses we had to celebrate for the dead priests. Dazzled by the idea that we would have two thousand masses said for us at our death, we and shall diminish the number of five cent masses said by the priests in Paris at the request of our bishop.

If you take my advice, we will immediately name the Rev. Mr. Tetu president of the new society, Mr. Parent will be its treasurer, and I consent to act as your secretary. When our society is organized, we will send our resignations to the president of the other society. We shall immediately address a circular to all the priests, to give them the reason for the change, and respectfully ask them to unite with us in this new society, in order to diminish the number of masses which are celebrated by the five cent priests of Paris.” Within two hours the new society was fully organized, the reasons of its formation written in a book, and our names were sent to the bishop, with a respectful letter informing him that we were no more members of the ‘Three Masses Society.’


That letter was signed, C. Chiniquy, Secretary. Three hours later, I received the following note from the bishop’s palace: “My Lord Bishop of Quebec wants to see you immediately upon important affairs. Do not fail to come without delay. Truly yours, CHARLES F. CAZEAULT, Secy.” I showed the missive to the curate and the vicars, and told them: “A big storm is raging on the mountain; this is the first peal of thunder – the atmosphere looks dark and heavy. Pray for me that I may speak and act as an honest and fearless priest.” In the first parlor of the bishop I met my personal friend, Secretary Cazeault. He said to me: “My dear Chiniquy, you are sailing on a rough sea – you must be a lucky mariner if you escape the wreck. The bishop is very angry at you; but be not discouraged, for the right is on your side.” He then kindly opened the door of the bishop’s parlor, and said: “My lord, Mr. Chiniquy is here, waiting for your orders.” “Let him come, sir,” answered the bishop.

I entered and threw myself at his feet. But, stepping backward, he told me in a most excited manner: “I have no benediction for you till you give me a satisfactory explanation of your strange conduct.” I arose to my feet and said: “My lord, what do you want from me?” “I want you, sir, to explain to me the meaning of this letter signed by you as secretary of a new-born society called, ‘One Mass Society.’” I answered him: “My lord, the letter is in good French. Your lordship must have understood it well. I cannot see how any explanation on my part could make it clearer.”

Chiniquy, Charles (2012-02-07). 50 Years In The Church of Rome (Abridged) (Kindle Locations 1714-1722). Chick Publications, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

“I want to know your object in leaving the old and respectable ‘Three Masses Society’? Is it not composed of your bishops and of all the priests of Canada? Did you not find yourself in sufficiently good company? Do you object to the prayers said for the souls of purgatory?” I replied: “My lord, I will answer by revealing to your lordship a fact which has not sufficiently attracted your attention. The great number of masses which we say for the souls of the dead priests makes it impossible for us to say the masses for which the people pay into our hands; we are forced to transfer this money into your hands; and then instead of having these holy sacrifices offered by the good priests of Canada, your lordship has recourse to the priests of France, where you get them said for five cents. We see two great evils in this: First, our masses are said by priests in whom we have not the least confidence; for between you and me, the masses said by the priests of France, particularly of Paris, are not worth one cent.

The second evil is still greater, one of the greatest crimes which our holy church has always condemned, the crime of simony.” “Do you mean to say,” indignantly replied the bishop, “that I am guilty of the crime of simony?” “Yes! my lord; it is just what I mean to say. I do not see how your lordship does not understand that the trade in masses by which you gain 400,000 francs on a spiritual merchandise, which you get for 100,000, is not simony.” “You insult me! You are the most impudent man I ever saw. If you do not retract what you have said, I will suspend and excommunicate you!” “My suspension and my excommunication will not make the position of your lordship much better. For the people will know that you have excommunicated me because I protested against your trade in masses.

They will know that you pocket twenty cents on every mass, and that you get them said for five cents in Paris by priests, the greater part of whom live with concubines, and you will see that they will in one voice bless me for my protest and condemn you for your simoniacal trade.” I uttered these words with such perfect calmness that the bishop saw that I had not the least fear of his thunders. “It is evident to me,” said he, “that you aim to be a reformer, a Luther, in Canada. But you will never be anything else than a monkey!” I saw that my bishop was beside himself, and that my perfect calmness added to his irritation. I answered him: “If Luther had never done anything worse than I do today, he ought to be blessed by God and man.

I respectfully request your lordship to be calm. The subject on which I speak to you is more serious than you think. You are digging under your own feet, and under the feet of your priests the same abyss in which the Church of France nearly perished, not half a century ago. I am your best friend when I fearlessly tell you this truth before it is too late. God knows, it is because I love and respect you, as my own father, that I profoundly deplore the terrible consequences that will follow. Woe to your lordship! Woe to me, woe to our holy church, the day that our people know that in our holy religion the blood of Christ is turned into merchandise to fill the treasury of the bishops and popes!” It was evident that these last words, said with the most perfect self-possession, had not all been lost. The bishop had become calmer.

He answered me: “I could punish you for this freedom with which you have dared to speak to your bishop, but I prefer to warn you to be more respectful and obedient in the future. You have requested me to take away your name from the ‘Three Mass Society’ – you and the four simpletons who have committed the same act of folly, are the only losers in the matter. Instead of two thousand masses said for the deliverance of your souls from the flames of purgatory, you will have only twelve hundred. But, be sure of it, there is too much wisdom and true piety in my clergy to follow your example. You will be left alone, and, I fear, covered with ridicule. For they will call you the ‘little reformer.’” I answered the bishop: “I am young, it is true, but the truths I have said to your lordship are as old as the Gospel.

I have such confidence in the infinite merits of the holy sacrifice of the mass that I sincerely believe that twelve hundred masses said by good priests are enough to cleanse my soul and extinguish the flames of purgatory. But, besides, I prefer twelve hundred masses said by one hundred sincere Canadian priests, to a million said by the five cent priests of Paris.” These last words, spoken half serious, half jest, brought a change on the face of my bishop. I thought it was a good moment to get my benediction and take leave of him. I took my hat, knelt at his feet, obtained his blessing, and left.

Chiniquy, Charles (2012-02-07). 50 Years In The Church of Rome (Abridged) (Kindle Locations 1751-1755). Chick Publications, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

Not long after that painful conversation about the Holy Fathers, it was the will of God that a new arrow should be thrust into my Roman Catholic conscience. I had been invited to give a course of three sermons at Varennes. I was coming from the church with the curate, when we were met by a poor man, covered with rags. His pale, trembling lips indicated that he was reduced to the last degree of human misery. Taking off his hat through respect for us, he said to Rev. Primeau, with a trembling voice: “You know, sir, that my poor wife was buried ten days ago.

I was too poor to have a funeral service sung the day she was buried. I fear she is in purgatory, for almost every night I see her in my dreams wrapped in burning flames. She cries to me for help and asks me to have a high mass sung for the rest of her soul. I come to ask you to be so kind as to sing that high mass for her.” The curate answered: “Of course, your wife is in the flames of purgatory and suffers there the most unspeakable tortures, which can be relieved only by the offering of the holy sacrifice of mass.

Give me five dollars and I will sing that mass tomorrow morning.” “You know very well, Mr. le Cure,” answered the poor man in a most supplicating tone, “that my wife has been sick, as well as myself, a good part of the year. I am too poor to give you five dollars!” “If you cannot pay, you cannot have any mass sung.

You know it is the rule. It is not in my power to change it.” These words were said by the curate with a high and unfeeling tone, in absolute contrast with the solemn distress of the poor sick man. They made a very painful impression upon me, for I felt for him. I knew the curate was well-off, at the head of one of the richest parishes of Canada; that he had several thousand dollars in the bank. I hoped at first he would kindly grant the petition without speaking of the pay, but I was disappointed.

My first thought, after hearing this hard rebuke, was to put my hand in my pocket and take out one of the several five-dollar gold pieces I had, and give it to the poor man, but I was prevented by fear of insulting that priest, who was older than myself, and for whom I had always entertained great respect. I knew that he would have taken my action as a condemnation of his conduct. When I was feeling ashamed of my own cowardice, he said to the disconcerted poor man: “That woman is your wife, not mine. It is your business, and not mine, to see how to get her out of purgatory.” Turning to me, he said, in the most amiable way: “Please, sir, come to tea.”

We hardly started, when the poor man, raising his voice, said in a most touching way: “I cannot leave my poor wife in the flames of purgatory; if you cannot sing a high mass, will you please say five low masses to rescue her soul from those burning flames?” The priest turned to him and said: “Yes, I can say five masses to take the soul of your wife out of purgatory, but give me five shillings; for you know the price of a low mass is one shilling.” The poor man answered: “I can no more give one dollar than I can five. I have not a cent; and my three poor little children are naked and starving.” “Well! well,” answered the curate, “when I passed this morning before your house, I saw two beautiful sucking pigs. Give me one of them, and I will say your five low masses.”

The poor man said: “These small pigs were given me by a charitable neighbor, that I might raise them to feed my poor children next winter. They will surely starve to death, if I give my pigs away.” I could not listen any longer to that strange dialogue; I was beside myself with shame and disgust. I abruptly left the merchant of souls finishing his bargains, went to my sleeping-room, locked the door, and fell upon my knees to weep to my heart’s content. A quarter of an hour later, the curate knocked at my door, and said: “Tea is ready; please come down!” I answered: “I am not well; I want some rest. Please excuse me if I do not take my tea tonight.”

It would require a more eloquent pen than mine, to give the correct history of that sleepless night. The hours were dark and long. “My God! my God!” I cried, a thousand times, “is it possible that, in my so dear Church of Rome, there can be such abominations as I have seen and heard today? And how cruel, how merciless, we, Thy priests, are. But are we really Thy priests? Is it not blasphemous to call ourselves Thy priests, when not only will we not sacrifice anything to save that soul, but will starve the poor husband and his orphans? What right have we to extort such sums of money from Thy poor children to help them out of purgatory?

Do not Thy apostles say that Thy blood alone can purify the soul? “Is it possible that there is such a fiery prison for the sinners after death, and that neither Thyself nor any of Thy apostles has said a word about it? Several of the Fathers consider purgatory as of pagan origin. Tertullian spoke of it only after he had joined the sect of the Montanists, and he confesses that it is not through the Holy Scriptures, but through the inspiration of the Paraclete of Montanus that he knows anything about purgatory. Augustine, the most learned and pious of the Holy Fathers, does not find purgatory in the Bible, and positively says that its existence is dubious; that every one may believe what he thinks proper about it.

Is it possible that I am so mean as to have refused to extend a helping hand to that poor distressed man, for fear of offending the cruel priest? “We priests believe, and say that we can help souls out of the burning furnace of purgatory, by our prayers and masses: but instead of rushing to their rescue, we turn to the parents, friends, the children of those departed souls, and say: ‘Give me five dollars; give me a shilling, and I will put an end to those tortures; but if you refuse us that money, we will let your father, husband, wife, child, or friend endure those tortures, hundreds of years more!’” It would take too long to give the thoughts which tortured me during that “Is this the sucking pig of the poor man of yesterday?” I asked.

With a convulsive fit of laughter, he replied: “Yes, it is just it. If we cannot take away the soul of the poor woman out of the flames of purgatory, we will, at all events, eat a fine sucking pig!” The other thirteen priests filled the room with laughter, to show their appreciation of their host’s wit. However, their laughter was not of long duration. With a feeling of shame and uncontrollable indignation, I pushed away my plate with such force, that it crossed the table and nearly fell on the floor; saying, with disgust which no pen can describe: “I would rather starve to death than eat of that execrable dish; I see in it the tears of the poor man; I see the blood of his starving children; it is the price of a soul. “No! no, gentlemen, do not touch it. You know, Mr. Curate, how 30,000 priests and monks were slaughtered in France in the bloody days of 1792. It was for such iniquities as this that God Almighty visited the church in France.

The same future awaits us here in Canada the very day that people will awaken from their slumber and see that, instead of being ministers of Christ, we are the vile traders of souls, under the mask of religion.” The poor curate, stunned by the solemnity of my words, as well as by the consciousness of his guilt, lisped some excuse. The sucking pig remained untouched; and the rest of the dinner had more the appearance of a burial ceremony than of a convivial repast. By the mercy of God, I had redeemed my cowardice of the day before. But I had mortally wounded the feelings of the curate and his friends, and forever lost their good-will.

Chiniquy, Charles (2012-02-07). 50 Years In The Church of Rome (Abridged) (Kindle Locations 3255-3257). Chick Publications, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

frosbel: ^^^^

The Catholic Church will reject anything and everything that exposes their Lies

There is ample evidence to buttress my points, but I will wait until you complete your rebuttal.

Btw, these same evil practices have been recorded by countless other prominent people, if you want us to open a can of worms, I am much obliged

dokie:

lol.

maybe you are a disgruntled ex seminarian or something. bring on whatever you want. the post above was obtained from christianity.com very much a protestant website, but since it makes nonsense of the lousy book and the irresponsible excommunicated priest, you are showcasing on this thread, it has to be a catholic plot to cover lies. get a life frosbel. the catholic church was here before you and your likes, it shall be here long after you are dead, and all your posts will only take you closer to your pay master's abode - hell, except you repent.

if i had the time, i'll go through all your posts and expose the ignorance and evidence of an absence of common sense in them all. not for your consumption but for others who may think you have something to offer. lets see how things go.