In the bayou country of Louisiana, there lived a pastor who rode a donkey; the pastor’s name was Fr. Beauprè and the donkey’s name was Jacquò. This Fr. Beauprè was a good and amiable man of God who gave his blessing politely and with generosity to everybody from the mayor to the poorest catcher of shrimp, and Jacquò was the finest of donkeys: a handsome beast, white as milk with soft ears that pointed straight ahead and little hooves that clicked merrily as he carried Fr. Beauprè when he traveled from town to town. When the Archbishop came to bless the shrimp boats, Jacquò always led the procession, his head decked with pom-poms and ribbons, silver bells and streamers and when Fr. Beauprè gave a blessing Jacquò would bend his head in a graceful bow.
And in the evening when the business of the Parish was finished, Fr. Beauprè would come down to the stable with a special treat for Jacquò. He would speak to Jacquò as to his friend:
“Good evening, my little Jacquò, I hope you are not too weary tonight? Well, here it is, your bowl of wine, all fixed with sugar and spice. There, dip your nose into that. You know the cook made many remarks as I prepared this bowl of wine, but I told her you deserved it. And you know something else? The baker offered me a fine horse. Never fear, my little Jacquò, I would not exchange so good and gentle a donkey as you for the finest horse in all the world.”
But as any child of one year could have told the donkey, there is a bottom to every bowl of spiced wine, and there comes an end to every happy time. For Jacquò it came on the day that Fr. Beauprè stopped to answer the greeting of one Alphonse, a hulking fellow with a thatch of black hair and one eye that squinted. This one bowed low to Fr. Beauprè and he smiled at Jacquò and how could either of them know that he had been thrown out of the house by his own father who was wearied to death of this Alphonse’s drinking and his bragging, and his looking for ways to eat meat everyday without lifting a finger.
Alphonse admired the donkey as he said: “Ah, what a fine donkey you are riding, good father! Just let me look at him. A treasure, a jewel, a pearl, not even the Bishop has his equal.”
“So, you like my little Jacquò, eh?”
“I love all God’s creatures. I wish I had a piece of sugar for this beautiful donkey, but alas I do not even have even so much as a crust of bread for myself.”
“My poor man, you have no job?”
“I have been ill and unable to work, and now my own father has thrown me out of the house. No one will give me a chance to work.”
“Oh, oh, that is terrible, if you do not keep your hands busy with God’s work, you will soon be doing the devil’s. If...if I would give you a little work.”
“Oh, good father, try me, only try me.”
“I shall, and until I find a good place for you, I shall let you take care of my little Jacquò.”
And so this Alphonse came into the service of Fr. Beauprè and of Jacquò. For a time he performed his duties faithfully and well, especially when the pastor was within sight. So highly did Fr. Beauprè come to regard this ‘artful’ one that he even delegated to him the task of bringing to Jacquò the evening bowl of spiced wine. Jacquò, even though he was only a donkey, missed the gentle voice and the wise conversation of the good father. But, donkey that he was, he liked his spiced wine too well to care whose hand it was that held out the bowl. Until, on a certain evening this Alphonse came into the stable and held the bowl a good six inches away from Jacquò’s nose.
“Does the little donkey want his little bowl of wine? Ha, ha, well, this is the last time I will have to play servant to a jackass. Already the pastor has found me a fine new job. Tomorrow I go to New Orleans, to work for the Archbishop himself. I’ve put up with you long enough. All those compliments to a jackass. And who has a good word to say for Alphonse? Nobody! Well, I’ll take care of that tonight.”
The donkey moaned, for, he understood something wasn't right...
“Ah, you want your wine, do you? Well, watch me drink it. And take this, I’ll give you some fine slaps before this night is out.”
Then this Alphonse pulled the pastor’s donkey out of his warm stall. He dragged the poor beast across the churchyard. Then with kicks and with prods he forced Jacquò to go into the bell tower. Up the stairs they went, right round and round until they reached the belfry and there Alphonse left the poor beast standing on a tiny platform, high above the earth, in the pitch black of the night. The cry that Jacquò gave woke up the whole bayou. Fr. Beauprè came running, all the men and women of the parish came running and that crafty Alphonse.
“Jacquò, my poor little donkey, what are you doing in the belfry?”
“He’s trying to get down father.”
“He must have gone mad, or drunk too much wine. Who would ever believe this of Jacquò?”
“Look, look at his ears, sticking out like two swallows. Come down Jacquò. Come down!”
“Ah, you poor beast, how did you ever get up there? Do come down, ha, ha.”
But they had to wait until morning. And they had to take Jacquò down with a derrick, a rope and a sling. All the town stood and laughed to see Jacquò come down swinging through the air. His legs dangling and his ears flapping. When his feet touched the earth again, he headed straight into his stable. He hung his poor head down to his knees. But his heels beat a tattoo against the stable wall. Now, that should have been the end of it, with Jacquò safely on the ground again and Alphonse on the way to New Orleans.
But humiliations are like thorns, they stick fast in one softest spot, which is pride. Everyman knows that unless they are promptly pulled out by being offered up to the God who sent them they will fester until the whole soul is poisoned and sick. But Jacquò was only a beast and not a man. So even six months later, Fr. Beauprè wore a sad face as he brought in the evening bowl of wine.
“Hey, Jacquò, what is troubling you? Your ears droop, your hooves drag, you roll your eyes at everyone, except me of course and today you even bared your teeth to a poor man with an eye that squinted. And the way you look up at the belfry every time you pass the church. Sometimes I think you are thinking of climbing up there with me on your back. Oh, if people would only stop laughing at you and wagging their heads. Well, my poor Jacquò
that is the way of the world. They take our one little mistake and use it as an eraser to rub out the memory of all the good that went before.”
“That is another thing, the kicking in your stall. You never even lifted your heels before”
But Jacquò was only a beast, and so the good father’s words of wisdom rolled off the tops of his ears. For seven long years those ears drooped and those eyes rolled until the people muttered when they saw him: “What a bad tempered old jackass!” And Fr. Beauprè began to look twice at the fine horses that friends offered him. He was in fact, riding out to look at a horse on the very day that he was stopped by a hulking fellow with a thatch of black hair and one squinting eye.
“Good day, good father! And how is your good little donkey?” “Good day, my good man, but I am afraid, I cannot recall your name.”
“What, father? Don’t you remember Alphonse?”
“Oh yes, Alphonse, but what has happened to you? Why are you not in New Orleans?”
“I have done all the work that is there, good father and besides, I miss Jacquò.”
“You did? You know he has not been the same since you left.”
“Indeed, dear, sweet, Jacquò. Here, pray, the little jackass, let me stroke you.”
Now with seven years of waiting Jacquò's kick landed Alphonse in the hospital. Now the road lay clear for the happy days to return to Jacquò but it is the way of a donkey to think that one moment can wipe out seven years. Fr. Beauprè said as much the next evening when he came to the stable with the bowl of spiced wine.
“Hey, Jacquò, here is your treat, though no one in the parish would think you would deserve so much as a drop on the end of a straw. I paid a visit to our friend Alphonse in the hospital today and he told me with tears that it was he who led you into the belfry seven years ago and now you think you have paid him back in full. Ah, my poor Jacquò, if you only knew what you’ve really done. You’ve made everyone afraid of you. No one will ever trust you again, and even I; how can I be sure that your heels will stay on the ground? Tell me, was it worth it?
You poor beast. You only wag your ears and roll your eyes. You will never understand.
Poor Jacquò, that moment of revenge, that second of satisfaction was it worth the seven years spent in hating and making himself disliked? Was it worth a future of never being trusted?
And poor human beings who hold grudges, do they realize that as long as they hate, they shut themselves off from God’s love and his grace? Even after that fleeting moment of revenge the habit of hating will not leave them, everyone will mistrust them and because they have no sorrow for their sin of revenge the love of God will not return to them. How can they ever pray to God: “Forgive us as we forgive others”? And how can they come into the Church, into the presence of the Lord who has told us that he will accept none of our gifts or our prayers until we have made peace with all our brothers?
So, that is the story of the pastor’s donkey, which we have told you, because you are sensible. You are wise human beings and you know that if you did hold a grudge you would be nothing but a donkey!”
