It being the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel, I am minded of a project a few years ago during the Amazonian Together Walking when the demon idol was venerated in the Vatican Gardens and the demonic idol bowl was ordered by Francis to be placed on the altar above the bones of St. Peter.
There was an initiative to get priests world-wide to recite – at a fixed time – Leo XIII’s Prayer of Exorcism (the so-called long prayer to St Michael – Chapter 3 of Title XI in the Rituale Romanum.) with the intention of expelling diabolical influence from the Vatican.
I fully believe that this is still necessary.
Priests can recite Chapter 3 privately without special permission. That is not what it will say in your old Rituale. The Pontifical Commission “Ecclesia Dei” wrote (my emphases) in 2018 to Bp. Dewayne of Venice, FL, that “this prayer should not be used publicly or privately over persons without express permission of the local Ordinary. Further, public use over places or objects is also prohibited without the permission of the Ordinary. The prayer may be said privately by priests as part of their personal prayer.” This draws on the 29 Sept 1985 letter from the CDF concerning exorcisms.
This prayer can be prayed publicly over places, etc., specifically as rite of exorcism, but that would require the permission of the local Ordinary. This project, on the other hand, was private recitation by priests who happen to have gathered in the same place – and they can be in other places, too – for the sake of praying against demonic influence in the Vatican.
Who can doubt that the Devil is constantly on the attack? Who can doubt that prayer by priests against the Devil’s attack is a good thing?
I’ve posted before that I made recordings of the Latin of Chapter 3, the long Prayer to St. Michael for the use of priests and bishops to work on their pronunciation. HERE
NB: Lay People! Do NOT use this prayer! Instead, pray the beautiful Lorica of St. Patrick. PRAYERCAzT: The Lorica of St. Patrick – text and recording
That said, and in view of the events in the Diocese of Libville recently, here’s a rendering of what that proposal might look like were it to become a regular practice in the Eternal City, to give spiritual support to the Holy Father by praying for the purification of the environs in which he must carry out his heavy mandate.
But such an initiative would not be appreciated by the Enemy.
Nor the Enemy’s clerical agents….
Rome.
The afternoon hangs crooked over the small square, its shadows stretching across the cobbles like jailhouse stripes. The church looms above it all, poker-faced and saying nothing. Beyond the Tiber, the Cupola surveys the City like a boss you don’t cross.
The World’s Best Sacristan™ shows up early, giving half an hour to a clock that isn’t his. At the side door of the sacristy, he scans left and right. A few tourists, a few locals. Cobbles and shop doors. He thumbs his phone, pockets it, and ducks inside.
That’s the signal.
All through the neighborhood, priests emerge from alleys and around corners. Cassocks hang like trench coats, Saturnos ride low, and rosaries swing like brass knuckles. Satchels gripped tight, they walk with deliberate steps, eyes cutting across cars and faces. Maybe there are tails from the Vicariate. Maybe there’s nothing. Hats tip to the polite; the punks get stone stares. One by one, the priests disappear into the church, while the Great Roman™ takes up a watchful position by the door.
Inside, the Sacristan brings the place to life. Switches flip, candles catch, and the thurible begins to scorch. They can sense St. Michael already there, sword drawn, staring mean and ready to go.
A priest steps in wearing a gold cope and humeral veil that shine like oncoming headlights through fog. The Blessed Sacrament is exposed. More cassocks arrive, knees bend, and the pews begin to fill. Some priests stay in the aisles, standing like statues in black.
Silence settles over them until a bell chimes like a starter pistol.
Rosaries come down on wood. Black books slide out like heaters before a job. The scrap is on.
Latin pours out like bourbon, smooth and golden. Every voice has its own edge, its own accent, but the words cut clean. This ain’t mumbling. This is battle.
The sound fades slowly, one voice and then another, though some keep whispering. Four priests make for the confessionals. Violet stoles carry grace into the dark: heavy priestly hearts go in, light ones come out. Business handled.
The door keeps swinging. More cassocks arrive, and the prayer goes on. One delayed priest leans toward his brother and whispers, “Amice, non est mihi liber. Tuum, ut recitam…?” A smile, a handoff, and the Rituale slides across the wood like contraband.
The war machine keeps grinding, time ticking away while prayers rise like smoke from the thurible in the sanctuary.
Then the bell sounds again. Benediction. Chant gathers thick beneath the vault, and the Divine Praises rise through the haze. The tabernacle closes, the key is tucked away, and the curtains are straightened.
Genuflections. Sunlight.
Back on the street, the priests go their separate ways, some alone, some in pairs or groups, taking scattered routes through scattered shadows.
One cleric crosses the Tiber by way of the nearby Ponte Sisto, its great circular water passage yawning beneath him like an exit wound. Past shops, cars, and gates, his eyes keep cutting toward the corners. The Vicariate. He remembers the advice. Priests have been burned before.
At the coffee bar, the open door sends out the smell of coffee grounds and floor cleaner. He stops dead as his rosary vanishes into a pocket. His free hand flexes, knuckles tightening before they loosen again. Then he steps inside.
“Tracer.”
At the counter, the only client tosses off his doppio caffè corretto al vetro. He lifts the brim of his fedora and turns from the bar toward the cassocked silhouette framed against the light.
“Monsignore.”
September 22nd, 2026
The Collect for Sunday Mass this week in the Extraordinary Form wound up in the Ordinary Form Missale Romanum as the Collect for Saturday in the 4th Week of Lent. Go figure. It had an ancient source in the Gelasian Sacramentary. For a change, the redactors of Fr. Bugnini’s and Card. Lercaro’s Consilium, with their scissors and glue pots, didn’t mess around with this prayer.
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