What is sickening and repulsive is the deliberate cover-up of sexual abuse cases of Catholic priests by the Catholic Church as an institution. https://www.sundayguardianlive.com/

Our church is broken. My church is broken. It broke many years ago. Reading about priests abusing children wasn’t all that shocking to me back in the 70’s when the searing pain of a ruler slam on my hand still stung. Something was always inherently wrong with these people. These representatives of a religion. Why were the nuns so mean? The punishments so harsh. The confessional so sinister? The fasting so lengthy? The teachings so scary? Limbo? Purgatory? I never felt warm and fuzzy in the church. The pews were too uncomfortable and kneeling for so long was just barbaric. Why did the nuns dress so absurdly? My body rejected my religion I shook, swooned and at times giggled uncontrollably in reaction to these figures, actions and reactions. Something was wrong. Made no sense. These thoughts ran fluently and fluidly through my unsanctified body.

Yet!… conversely…why were the priests so nice? They handed the communion wafer to me gently, compassionately. I felt he knew me. My name. Surely, he did not, but I felt special and chosen. HE placed the sacred wafer, in those days, with a soft and accepting demeanor on my tongue. Such an ‘intimate’ and private discourse. Yet! Wierd! Did my tongue have the discoloration of the cherry tootsie pop I snuck into my mouth an hour ago? Did I have bad breath? An ugly mouth? As much as I LOVED the heavenly host melting on my tongue (not mentioning the appreciation of this petty nutritive sustenance) there was the profound pride in its receipt. ‘I received’, we would say, as if we just won The Nobel Peace Prize. And we EARNED this gluten free snack…with its ‘sacredness’ under-appreciated. It was the gestalt of the parade to the altar, the ‘affectionate’ synergy with the priest, the special, however paltry, snack we ‘received’ so slowly dissolving and entering your empty and needy belly. This was good. Sound. And as innocent and misunderstood as was possible.

Priests were not the enemy for me. Although we didn’t know them personally growing up, we knew their names. They were truly movie stars. You ‘watched’ them. At the altar! {for girls did not have the privilege of being an alter helper. Only boys. Hmm….} At the stations of the cross! One’s First Holy Communion and Confirmation were the only times you were truly part of them and had interactions with them. Their overt life. Their being. Their purpose. {Confession didn’t count-a covert operation). They all were eye- pleasing! Even if plain looking or even a bit homely, their ‘costume’, solely bring a starched neckware, was an engaging and agreeable sight. No bizarre headpiece. No thick lengthy black layered robe with hidden pockets and ropes for purposes unknown and questionably shady. No hideous witch shoes. Nope! They were revered by all. The nuns would treat them as if they were sent down from God personally to their convent…to their hand-picked parish. Nuns would coquettishly blush when interacting with these men, flirtatiously giggling at any utterance directed at them by these special figures. Amazing how a nun’s demeanor would change THE MINUTE a ‘Father’ made his presence. Truly sickening. A demeanor sparsely seen in the classroom. And, sometimes, a certain knock on the classroom door would cause a metamorphosis so poignant that YOU KNEW whose presence was about to enter…and it certainly was not Mrs…..

To earn this gift of the sacrament of communion, was always a piece of cake, and I was thrilled that it wasn’t the nuns who decided what my consequence was for ‘having disobeyed my parents three times’. Nope! As ominous and nearly malevolent the confessional appeared, upon entering you KNEW the drill. The gig. How to ‘play’ this game by the time you were seven years old. You weren’t chastised there! It wasn’t a classroom, but rather a simply-super-solemn cubicle. You knew it was a priest behind the mysterious shroud. A scary/kindly figure who would never ask WHY. You never knew what priest was your confessor. His person obscured by mysterious shadows. His head bowed with respect, he listened intently to your rehearsed confession. He knew them by heart. I don’t know how, in retrospect, he kept from either chuckling or passing out from boredom. They were all the same and… you knew this too. The reciprocal game of ‘’Bless Me Father’ by Hasbro! The anxiety you felt waiting in the pew for your turn vanished the minute that trap window opened! Voila! Another successful confession accomplished, thanks to the kindness and laid-back demeanor of a priest. Surely someone to like. To confide in. To trust.

Our priests lived well. As a kid I so admired their lovely accommodations in a handsome brick, shuttered colonial next to the church. At times, and I cannot remember why, I would be permitted to visit the rectory. Usually to ‘deliver’ something. A homily? A holy card? A scapula? I daresay what it ‘might’ have been… As I remember, one was not ordinarily ‘chosen’ to enter this exclusive residence for these lucky fellas! O! God surely blessed them. Lovely detailed surroundings. Draped windows. I clearly remember the oversized dining table in an ornate dining room, already set up for dinner. Wine glasses at each place setting! I knew this because I was in charge of table setting for special occasions at my house. And, wine glasses were ALWAYS included in correct chore completion. Great meals were going to be prepared. Home- cooked. Wine! Cigars! Later, a bourbon by the fire… then off to prayers and a bed, as I picture it in my mind, surrounded by curtains reminiscent of Mr Scrooge’s bed. However these were drapes made out of luxurious velvet fabric. These ‘Fathers’ were always well-coiffed and clothes were always well-pressed. All in all, these holy guys were a pleasing lot. Why wouldn’t they be? They lived well. Ate well. Dressed well, and little did I know what might also be lingering there in their lives…

In high school a certain handsome ‘Father’ represented himself as more an entertainer. A comedian who traveled the halls like the Pied Piper. A man ‘of the cloth’ who choose his female ‘pals’ carefully…. And they were pretty girls. Or popular girls. You know, the girls who always knew what to say. What to wear. Where to go. Girls whom he KNEW would be flattered. I was not one of them. And in a way this was a rejection, even though I clearly realized that this was NOT how it was supposed to be. ‘Just another proof that having blonde hair, a petite figure and a great personality got you certain perks’! Cheerleading…cute boyfriends…the popular clique…it was all the same. Except it WASNT! Being a ‘Priest Buddy’ was not really natural… was it? But no one spoke of this. No one questioned why this unholy ‘camaraderie’ was so accepted and nearly blessed! Though I thought it was kinda creepy at the time… the full extent of this ‘creepiness’ would prove to grow exponentially over the next 40 years. And I daresay proved to be so much worse than these disturbing and abnormal scenarios I witnessed. Well, SHAME ON THEM. And, more to the point…SHAME ON THE CHURCH. MY CHURCH! Why did it take so long? Too long? Did the adults, the nuns, the teachers not see this as odd in my school? Peculiar? Irregular? Did they not discuss this? No talk amongst the faculty about how Father ‘so and so’ should behave more ‘priestly’? Report this? Were they afraid? Complacent? Or, most disturbingly, did they not even notice that this was ‘off’. Inappropriate. Even I, back then, remember inquiring certain girls about what was ‘talked’ about in the office…in the hallway…why would ‘spiritual’ counseling be so funny? So engaging? So ‘fun’? Something was amiss…. And this wasn’t the beginning.