And by this I mean the Pope has an app.
You can download Click to Pray from the Google Play store just like any ordinary secular app that will tell you something you want to know, like how many steps you take a day vs. how much time you spend on the couch wishing the bong were close enough to reach, and in mere seconds you will be praying with Pope Francis.
Get ready for this, because the Pope prays big. There are none of the simple entreaties to the Almighty that we regular citizens send flying heavenward in our times of need on His Holiness's app, nothing like “Oh, God, please don’t let my wife find that motel key I might have left in the cup-holder,” or “Sweet Jesus, are the Patriots really going to win another fucking Super Bowl?” The Pope prays in multiple sentences, sometimes sentences with subordinate clauses. This month he is praying for human trafficking victims. It’s pretty drab compared to last month’s, when he was praying for the women of Latin America to stay away from temptation. The wise Pope knew that Carnival was coming up, and the Spanish-speaking women of the world were planning on drinking rum and wearing nothing but beads for a solid week. The Pope was reminding them to pray before partying.
But the eloquent-bordering-on-rambling nature of the Pope’s prayer portfolio needn’t trouble you—you just glance at the prayer, punch the icon and a quick “Like he said,” goes flying up to God. This so beats the shit out of Catholic prayer as I remember it, kneeling in some pew ramrod straight, because if you let your butt touch the seat behind you some nun would correct you with a fervent whack from a hymnal, muttering endless rosaries during services that were as long and as torturous as a Say Yes to the Dress marathon.
But Catholic kids nowadays—they can bang out Rosaries as quick as their sticky little fingers can fly over their touchscreens, and be back to playing Fortnite before the Mass really gets rolling. We had to stand, sit or kneel there woodenly, as the rhythm of the Mass called for it, watching our classmates genuflect back and forth, in my case paying particular attention to a seventh-grade girl named Barbara, who had matured into a size 38 bra by the time she was 12 years old, and was rumored to be dating a Marine. Even thinking about her now…
Well, there I go, sinning again. Where’s my phone?