Showing posts with label Scandal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scandal. Show all posts
Saturday, July 31, 2010
2:09 PM
Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon,
Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be While they would work with me
Old Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon!
Who, in the winter’s night, Soggarth aroon,
When the cold blast did bite, Soggarth aroon,
Came to my cabin door,
And, on the earthen floor, Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon?
Who, on the marriage day,
Soggarth aroon,
Made the poor cabin gay,
Soggarth aroon,
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring,
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon?
Who, as friend only met,
Soggarth aroon,
Never did flout me yet,
Soggarth aroon?
And when my heart was dim
Gave, while his eye did brim—
What should I give to him,
Soggarth aroon?
Och, you and only you,
Soggarth aroon;
And for this I was true to you,
Soggarth aroon;
In love they’ll never shake.
When for Old Ireland’s sake
We a true part did take,
Soggarth aroon! _John Banim
Such was the legacy left behind by the Irish priests of the 19th century. What shall future generations say of those of the 21st? Perhaps such sanctity can only be maintained in an atmosphere of persecution. I shiver for the day when that persecution arrives to cleanse the Church. Let us pray that we all have the strength for it.
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Friday, April 2, 2010
God's MessengerFive years before the scandal began to emerge in secular print, I had been prepared in my youth by a priest to whom my confidence is forever and irrevocably dedicated, for I do not trust him as a prince, but as himself. He may not be called ‘Venerable.’ The Church has certainly not yet named him ‘Saint’ or ‘Blessed.’ I may only call him ‘Beloved.’ Beloved Malachy—Father Malachi Martin.
As a child of the South-eastern corner of the American States, I grew up surrounded by souls, well-meaning as they were, who brutally assaulted the Church so dear to my heart with the wildest accusations about her practises and the continuous threat of my personal damnation. Their arguments being based on emotion and ill-informed prejudice, I often had occasion to take pride in the pristine philosophy of Roman Catholic theology and the immemorial structure of the Body of Christ.
Though at thirteen, I had been taught more than most and had studied more than most Catholics, I was by no means wise. I certainly could not distinguish between the essence and the accidents of the Church’s rites. To see a divorce between the two would have been most injurious to any young soul, and this revelation was creeping on me day by day as I realized more and more the differences between the post-Vatican culture in which I partook of the Sacraments and the Traditional teachings instilled by my parents.
Scandals committed by clergy and religious against the Church first erupted in my world through the news I read and the pervading ugliness in Novus Ordo churches and Masses. These were revolutions against doctrine primarily. The declining beauty of the churches my family attended (we changed parishes several times) was a necessary evil in fleeing from the heretical dissidence preached by our former pastors. It was either ironic or deliberately unkind that the bishop gave the beautiful sanctuaries to the Leftist priests, but then that Ordinary himself was the object of more egregious scandal but a few years ago.
‘Well before the year 2,000 there will no longer be a religious institute recognisable as the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church of today... There will be no centralised control, no uniformity in teaching, no universality in practice of worship, prayer, sacrifice, and priesthood.’ _Malachi Martin
Just so. Such statements and such facts had the power to wrench my peace into shambles, but Father Martin always had a way of putting me back together. Whenever the Pope bewildered me, or a primate scandalized me, there he was the—true Jesuit, full of Ignatian fire for the papacy and for the truth.
‘We’ve never sat in his chair. He is the man chosen by the Holy Spirit; stop trying to be Pope.’ Such words mean so much coming from a man who looks on the facts unflinchingly and quite willingly discusses them. The same line means very little from the Neo-Conservative Catholics practicing this ignominious rule: ‘never criticize a priest.’
The further addition of Father Malachy’s personal theories and opinions behind papal motives were stunning, humbling, and wholly convincing. Through his works of thinly veiled ‘faction’, I found myself moved not only to forgive, but even to understand the plight tearing Holy Mother Church apart. It is the same condition tearing mankind apart everyday, and it comes back to the grossly simple principle that man is fallen.
He is fickle, weak, self-centred, and choked with sloth. Man’s is the nature that may on one day hail the Great Rabbi as he rides into Jerusalem on a stately ass with palms and praise, and five days late foam at the mouth for his death. In an hour of precious intimacy, he vows to follow his beloved Friend even to death; not a day later he denies every knowing Him.
It is a daunting task, in the wake of these fresh scandals, to turn one’s eyes to the countenance of the Lord. His indignation would surely burn us to cinders, yet if we could look at Him, there would be no surprise in His face. He recoiled in horror already at Gethsemane, underwent the torment required for expiation on the cross, and pronounced the words of forgiveness even in the midst of His Passion.
Yet, one must learn to emulate Dismas and not Gesmas in order to be with Him in paradise. We must not expect God to prove Himself by rescuing us from torment, or that which we love. Malachi Martin made the inexorable point that in trying to play the World's game, even in the name of charity and prudence, leads to servitude of Mammon. It must be a crucified, perhaps marginalized, Church to which we belong, not one exalted in this world.
Accept this then: Judas has manifested himself again. The calumny, torture, and death at the hand of the World are to follow.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
And the Lord said: Simon, Simon, behold Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat: But I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not: and thou, being once converted, confirm thy brethren. (Luke 22: 31-32)
There are very few places of privacy when one does not live alone. Sharing my flat with two other co-workers, amicable people though they are, I find it necessary to keep myself guarded for fear of either disturbing them or embarrassing myself. The refuge of the cemetery then serves not only as an ever available place to work an act of charity—prayer for the dead—but also an acceptable location for emotional catharses.
So I wound my way to Cmentarz Powązkowski. The sky was as startlingly blue as a robin’s egg, puffed with velvet clouds of pearl, grey, and white, and the samite sun shone warm against the cool breeze of early spring. I hastily padded through paths of poured asphalt, rippled with the triumphant impression of cypress roots. Finally, I came to the humble grave of the soul dearest to me in that consecrated earth and lit my votive. Lost amidst the trees, the wind, and the lofty, ornate monuments of this necropolis, I began my rosary, and at least I could weep undisturbed.
I returned home without the pain clenching in my bosom, feeling the deadened sense that comes after a storm of tears. But I had been familiar with this ache since the feeling of thirteen and knew that it would not necessarily prefigure relief. This morning held the promise that it might have.
The air was chill, but the sun was working heatedly through my jacket with his intense light. I felt myself actually dew with sweat as I panted towards church, balancing the safety of my cakes baked for the post-Mass reception with the necessity of arriving on time for my catechism class. Though five minutes late, my students were later, and after class, I snatched my palm and went outside in a state of giddy expectation.
Waiting without the church for the procession to begin, I tilted my ornate palm to breathe its fragrance. Whereas in the United States, I had only carried one blade of a palm branch on this day, and in South Korea, a sprig of juniper, the Poles craft magnificent works of dried flowers twisted with palms and bound about with dyed sprays of tall grasses.
Father Wiesław emerged from the church in his crimson vestments, and proceeded to heartily bless the garlands. Then came the Gospel reading of Christ’s triumphant procession into Jerusalem, the only scene in His narrative where His glory was acknowledged after the fashion of this Earth. With jubilation we sang:
All glory, laud, and honour,
To Thee Redeemer King!
To Whom the lips of children
Made sweet hosannas ring!
Inside we went, and as we entered the church, I felt my euphoria evaporate and the clench in my bosom returned. It intensified throughout the second Gospel reading, and finally erupted with Peter’s thrice repeated denial of his Messiah. A very different verse then sprang to mind: ‘Put not your trust in princes: In the children of men, in whom there is no salvation.’ (Psalm 145: 3)
This includes princes of the Church, who can disenchant far more ruinously than earthly princes. And if it was true of the first Pope, human reason must accept that later popes can generate the same disappointment. Yet, even as the personal acts of a system’s proponent have nothing to do with the system’s goodness, it always gives rise to the most ruthless cut of all: scandal.
Yes, Holy Mother Church has been smeared with filth, though she herself is clean from within. Members of her body, worse still the priests charged with the care of ‘least of these,’ have abused their position, exploited the trust of those around them, and made a blasphemous mockery of the paternity they ought to feel towards every body possessed of a soul on this Earth. It is vile enough that such men should exist, that they should perpetrate such heinous acts, but that is not the only cause of indignation from those of the world or of sorrow amongst the faithful.
A woman would experience shock and dismay at the maltreatment of perverse men, but surely the thing that would drive her soul to desperate, outraged, frenzy would be the indifference of a man who has professed to love her in such a situation. To be the target of a lewd comment is one thing; to receive such a comment and observe nonchalance in the aspect of one’s protector is another.
Doctors are pledged to heal the sick. However, when one of their own commits malpractice, what is most often the protocol of the medical community? I don’t think I can personally imagine the fortitude of a doctor who would expose the wrongdoing of a colleague. More often than not, doctors close ranks one with another, regardless of the innocence of the accused. Churchmen, however, ought not to behave like doctors, nor should they put up paltry defences at such a time as this.
That most of the charges concern euphebophilia and not pedophilia is but a bitter relief. That the facts have been misconstrued by an anti-Catholic media is hardly soothing and to some is even debatable. I do not care to hear arguments concerning the small percentage of pedophile clergy to normal priests. I do not wish to hear that other religious ministers or officials of the secular order are guilty of the same crimes, or even that most abuses of children take place within the home.
And, good GOD! Do not bring up the argument that the secular authorities were available to report to, and the exposure of these crimes need not have rested entirely on the Church’s hierarchy. Since when has the Church been more tolerant of evil and less compassionate to the victim than the secular order? Where is the institution that would unfrock a priest who dared to proposition a woman in the confessional? What happened to the severe consequences the Church held out to her sons that dared to violate the trust of the innocent?
Why, why, why did not the ears of bishops, cardinals, and popes prick up at the merest hint of such accusations and then dispatch their inquisitor?
‘But he that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and that he should be drowned in the depth of the sea.’ (Matthew 18: 6)
I would like to see anyone find a verse in the Bible that speaks so explicitly concerning the protection of man’s privacy, to which a priest has a lesser right than any other soul on Earth. Almost in vain, have I looked amongst the priests of my acquaintance for the outrage and indignation I feel myself. There is often more of that self-conscious dumbness of professional loyalty than the righteous anger of an incensed father.
It is impossible to say how strong or weak my faith is, until my childish punt has weathered greater storms. The wave of this scandal may not have submerged my vessel, but without the assistance of one man I would still be cringing and fetal on the floor of the deck, prey to the prevailing tempest about me.
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About Me
- Jacobitess
- Warsaw, Poland
- Domine, spero quia mundum vicisti. Lord, I trust that Thou hast overcome the world. Panie, ufam, żeś pokonał świat.