THE SUNDAY TIMES: My daughter was baptised into the Roman Catholic faith when she was two months old. She is now six, and should really be gearing up for her first communion. The fact that she isn’t is down to one factor: the parish priest at the local church was suspended, pending investigations into allegations of child abuse.
He was eventually cleared of all charges, which was nice for him but didn’t really work for me because I don’t want any of my children left alone with adult men in any context where the words “child abuse” are hovering in the air. In recent years that context has, sadly, broadened to include the entire church.
To be blunt about it, my daughter was baptised because we feared she might die — she had complicated open-heart surgery a few weeks after she was born, and for some reason I found the sacrament intensely comforting. Beautiful, too.
Her father, a cradle Catholic, lost patience with his childhood faith long ago. I’m only nominally Catholic — my (late) father was pathologically anti-clerical, which makes me wonder what happened in his childhood to make him hate priests quite so much, and my mother, although educated by nuns, is nominally a Muslim.
But I was born into an otherwise Catholic family, and baptising your child into the faith is what you did when I was born. My mother then remarried another lapsed(ish) Catholic; my sisters went to a convent school. None of us was exactly what you would call religious, to put it mildly.
Nevertheless, there were aspects of Catholicism that I loved, and not only because they made me good at reading religious paintings (this is why RE lessons are so important — never mind God; feel the culture). They were mostly all the things people make fun of and call superstitious: the ceremony, the ritual, the saints, the relics, the Latin, the grace.
I went to Lourdes and Knock and Medjugorje — once each — and dragged along friends who observed the whole thing with amazed, incredulous hilarity (“You can’t seriously believe ... ?”) but I always found myself moved. I went to a particular church in the Rue du Bac whenever I was in Paris, because of St Catherine Labouré, who had always answered my calls for intercession, especially ones concerning my daughter. I’ve probably lost you right there — but never mind, because at this point they’ve lost me, too.
It is simply not possible, having read the papers or watched the news over the past couple of weeks, to stick with the programme. Like many of my generation, I could hardly be described as a good, or even decent, Catholic, but I’d managed to hang on in there, in the vaguest way imaginable.
Vague because it’s hard to pay lip-service to a faith that you feel hates you; a faith that would rather let you die in childbirth than have an abortion, won’t let you take the contraception necessary to prevent said abortion, hates gay people despite having many homosexual priests; a faith that talks ignorant nonsense about HIV and Aids, that would rather watch people die in Africa than let them use a condom; a faith that is unbelievably slow to say sorry about the fact that some of its members are habitual rapists of children.
I mean, you know, at some point you just give up. Not one of these things is defensible taken individually. Collectively, they are beyond comprehension.
A faith based on central authority and infallibility must understand that failure immediately to condemn the rape of children — in Ireland, in America, in Austria, in Germany, in Italy, Spain, Switzerland, the Netherlands and Brazil, so far — is essentially to allow it. >>> India Knight | Sunday, March 28, 2010
THE SUNDAY TIMES: Victims of sex abuse to sue Vatican: NEW revelations about Pope Benedict XVI’s alleged role in covering up accusations of sexual abuse by Catholic clergy have exposed the Vatican to the risk of lawsuits brought by victims around the world. >>> Tony Allen-Mills in New York and John Follain in Rome | Sunday, March 28, 2010
