The accusations of pedophilia in the Catholic church have never faded from the public eye, and while there are moments when other cataclysmic events push the tragedies a little further back from our immediate view, the fact that children were abused by prelates is never far from our consciousness.
As a Catholic, I am particularly devastated by the black mark against my church. There are many Catholics who have abandoned the pews with an anger that approximates the searing white flame of a votive candle. There are others who never loved the church enough to be devastated by her failings, people who could not or did not want to live according to the difficult, demanding and yet necessary obligations of being a true Catholic.
I belong to neither group. I still sit in those pews, coming back to them like the immigrant who comes home after long journeys. I find great peace there. I never hated the church for telling me things that I might not like to hear, things about sexuality or penance or the mandate to “be my brother’s keeper.” I am told to be generous of spirit, to turn the other cheek, to forgive, and not judge, and I find all of those things extremely difficult. It’s not a surprise that my patron saint, the only one I really pray to on a regular basis, is St. Michael, the angel with the sword and the kick-ass attitude.
