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Essay Why I Am (Still) a Catholic
By JASON BERRY
Editors Note: The
University of Illinois Press has just published a revised soft cover edition of
Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Catholic Priests and the Sexual Abuse of
Children by New Orleans author Jason Berry. The paperback edition features a
new introduction by the author and a new foreword by Fr. Andrew M. Greeley.
First published in 1992, Berrys book, an investigation of clergy child
sexual abuse, grew out of articles published in the Lafayette, La., weekly
The Times of Acadiana, and the National Catholic Reporter. The
book received awards from the Religion Public Relations Council and the
Catholic Press Association. In this essay, Berry discusses the impact that the
writing of the book had on his own faith.
Media Rites
Lead Us Not Into Temptation appeared during a storm of news
reports about pedophile priests and positioned me as a critic of bishops with a
fortress-church mentality. In 1992, the church had lost $400 million in legal
and medical costs from cases involving 400 priests. Today more than 1,000
priests have been involved in legal action, according to Dallas attorney Sylvia
Demarest, who has kept a database.
Fr. Andrew Greeley, in a 1993 article, estimated that 100,000 men
and women had been abused by 2,500 priests -- 6 percent of priests in the
United States. Financial losses have reached $1 billion, according to Fr.
Thomas Doyle, who in the mid-1980s as the canon lawyer for the Vatican Embassy
in Washington entreated bishops to form a response policy. Ostracized by church
leaders, Doyle played a heroic role in the book. Today he is a military
chaplain and testifies on behalf of victims against the church.
The book had a role in moving some dioceses to form review boards
and to respond compassionately to those making accusations, and to see that
abusers received medical treatment without being shielded from the courts. The
good news, I suppose, is that most bishops learned it is dangerous to recycle
pedophiles. Yet in a church desperate to ordain unmarried males, seminaries
draw from a restricted pool of candidates and attract many men with
psychosexual conflicts, as well as a disproportionate number of gays. (I do not
imply an equation of pathology and sexual orientation.) This situation
wont change as long as celibacy is the law. A calcified power structure
does not reform itself.
As the book became a reference text in newsrooms, I was much in
demand for interviews. Becoming an expert, a public-anyone, answering questions
posed by Katie, Oprah and others gave me a mingled sense of achievement and
detachment. I was glad my work was taken seriously. Yet as I attacked church
leaders for a culture that harbored child molesters, no interviewer ever asked:
With all that youve dug up, why are you a
Catholic?
That question followed me into green rooms, the waiting area in TV
studios, as I sat in chairs where makeup artists cosmetized my face and
assistant producers hovered in the wings. Was there a rush in all that
attention? Sure. But I knew that in this image-besotted country it doesnt
matter what people are famous for as long as they show up at the studio. I knew
that clergy sex abuse had finite limits in the flow of news. The media would
eventually lose interest. I would go on to other projects.
Still, I received more than Andy Warhols proverbial 15
minutes of fame. I was interviewed on the three network news broadcasts; CNN;
Today; Good Morning America;
20/20; documentaries on CNN, BBC and A&E; daytime talk
shows; and by satellite for far-flung network affiliates. I flew to distant
airports where limousines met and delivered me to hotels where I never paid a
bill.
Throughout all that, one question worried me.
You, a Catholic? Why?
Just in case it was ever asked, I had a sound bite: Well, we
didnt give up on democracy because of Watergate, and I wont give up
on the church because of corrupt bishops. But nobody asked the question.
I finally started using the line in answering other questions. Had anyone
probed the issue of my faith I doubt Id have had the courage to express
doubt. In truth I had a great hunger to believe: The betrayal I felt was
disproportionately great.
Core issues
The long road of research and writing dislodged my
spiritual moorings. Sexual secrets of priests and bishops leaked into my life
from cops, nuns, lawyers, detectives, social workers, ex-priests, prosecutors,
therapists and a small army of priests driven by moral outrage. At first, the
leakage of those secrets stoked a morbid fascination with the internal dynamics
of the church, the sweating surface of a culture that is
corrupting, in the words of Chicago psychologist Eugene Kennedy, a valued
source. It was a culture that beckoned a muckraking journalist. Yet as the
scope of facts surfaced I, a cradle Catholic, felt a personal disgust and
embarrassment about the way the church was run.
As my sense of the church changed, so did my own spiritual
interior. The altars, icons, mosaics, narratives and rites of Catholicism have
a grace in the mind of faith. I was excavating a second church, a shadow-church
that most Catholics rarely encounter, an ecclesiastical culture honeycombed
with sexual secrecy.
As I advanced the research through freelance newspaper
assignments, two ideas clashed within me: the church I had known and the church
I discovered.
Images of myself and others
On Mardi gras night, 1993, I sat in the ABC affiliate, waiting to
be interviewed via satellite by Nightline in Washington. Wearing my
best suit, I watched footage of the days parades, and thought about what
to say. Finally, I gazed into a camera, unable to see the interviewer, hearing
his questions in an earplug. For about eight minutes I gave answers, at one
point calling him Ted, as if we played golf together.
The travel became surreal: Id fly off at dawn and be back at
dusk the next day, in time to watch the program just taped. One muggy night, I
was standing in line at the supermarket, speed-reading The National
Enquirer. You were on Donahue today, said the woman
working checkout.
I was.
You done good, baby.
Thank you.
Phil wear a wig?
Not that I could tell.
I told my mama his hair was real.
Camus and the
sinned-against
I saw the survivors of clergy sex abuse as moral witnesses,
holding a mirror up to the church. Today that notion may seem quaint, with
tabloid TVs relationship meltdowns that mock the struggle of trauma and
recovery. Yet in the early 1990s, as survivors went public on talk shows, they
had a catalytic impact on news coverage of the crisis.
Scores of readers contacted me, in letters or by phone, wanting
their stories to be heard. I felt oddly like a confessor, or perhaps
counter-confessor, hearing the sins of the church. I had no clerical training
and, of course, no absolution to give; yet I felt a responsibility to listen,
within limits on my time, as I began moving on with my career. The survivors
wanted validation of their suffering from the church: apologies, solace,
justice.
These encounters intensified the free-fall of my own spiritual
life. Raised in a loving home, I felt shaped, as it were, to accept divine love
as pristine and durable, despite travails in life or horrors in the world. Yet
now, attending Mass, the continuity of my spiritual past sank into a gulf of
sadness. I knew too many secrets. Bishops reminded me of mobsters. How does one
honor a teaching authority that flouts its own rules?
In a 1986 Commonweal essay, Loyola of New Orleans
theologian James Gaffney assessed the declining numbers of people going to
confession and attributed it to changing perceptions of sin. Gaffneys
piece had a profound effect on my thinking. The institutional church, he
argued, betrayed insensitivity to women and ignorance of married life.
Catholic moral thinking habitually understood sin in relation to sinners
more than in relation to the victims of sin, he wrote. The victims, the
sinned-against, did not find solace in the confessionals. I quoted Gaffney in a
chapter called Therapy: The New Confession, and applied his notion
of the sinned-against to the survivors whose struggle I found
myself chronicling.
My spiritual guide in those years was an agnostic, Albert Camus,
the French novelist and political philosopher. His notion of resisting evil,
and his emphasis on the search for an ethos of personal responsibility, had
sonic boom echoes for me. I carried paperbacks of his works on airplanes,
rereading essays first encountered in my 20s. Raised in working class Algeria,
Camus became a clandestine journalist in Paris during the Nazi occupation. His
essay The Almond Trees is a meditation on unjust power. What
we precisely want is never again to bow to the sword, never again to count
force as being in the right unless it is serving the mind, he wrote. I
was probing a pathological power structure: Bishops, proclaiming the sanctity
of life in the womb, recycled child molesters and approved counterattacks by
lawyers on the victims. Theirs was a sword not in service of mind or
heart.
Camus passionate descriptions of Algerian seas and skies
touched memories of my childhood in New Orleans: the feral beauty of
sun-streaked banana stalks, mammoth rain clouds, the gorgeous blue after-sky;
sensuous palmetto leaves, the riotous flora of yards with Japanese plum trees,
jasmine and honeysuckle. The harmony I felt outdoors folded naturally into
stories of saints told by benevolent priests and nuns, vivified in stained
glass windows; icons that looked like real people, mosaics conveying scenes of
Jesus life -- all, taken together, formed a spiritual web over my
impressionable years.
Childhood memories rolled back on me as I interviewed survivors:
There, but for the grace of God, go I. More than a few survivors were
like Vietnam veterans with post-traumatic flashbacks. My thoughts occasionally
reeled with images of priests molesting kids in sacred spaces -- images drawn
from graphic legal testimony.
Was my belief in a loving God the product of sheer fate, a happy
childhood? Was faith-as-a-gift some luck of the draw?
Again, Camus: Our task as men is to find the principles that
will calm the infinite anguish of free souls. We must mend what has been torn
apart, make justice imaginable again in a world so obviously unjust, give
happiness a meaning once more to peoples poisoned by the misery of the century.
Naturally, its a superhuman task. But superhuman is the term for tasks
men take a long time to accomplish, thats all.
Recovering from severe childhood abuse is a superhuman task. There
is a psychiatric term for the worst ravages of child abuse: soul murder.
Embittered by the church, some survivors had no faith; others struggled to
regain or redefine it, a struggle with which I identified. If one is taught to
believe in a loving God, and that belief is stolen, the promise beyond life is
empty. Most appalling to me was the bishops silence, a refusal to accept
full responsibility and chart a path for change. My issue was not with God, but
the men who governed the church. Then why not become a Lutheran or
Methodist?
In Camus I found the beginnings of an answer.
What is a rebel? A man who says no, but whose refusal does
not imply a renunciation.
Rebellion cannot exist without the feeling
that somewhere, in some way, you are justified. It is in this way that the
rebel slave says yes and no at the same time.
Implicit in my reporting was the existence of another church, a
moral presence worth preserving. The problem was the power
structure.
In 1990, as research took me to Chicago and Cardinal
Bernardins attempts at a reform policy, I at last had an end in sight, a
conclusion to the narrative begun in Louisiana in 1985. Yet attending Mass was
hard; the serenity I had felt in the sacraments was ebbing. I visited empty
churches in the afternoon, praying for a sign of Gods approval, trying to
just get through it.
A muckraking cue
Lead Us Not Into Temptation is a reporters journey
across the country, as assignments took me from Louisiana to Washington,
Baltimore, Detroit, Cleveland, California and Chicago. The work that most
influenced my approach was that of Lincoln Steffens, whose early-20th
century exposé of corruption in big city governments earned the term
muckraking. In his autobiography, Steffens wrote: I had a
theory of graft that I was about to put to a scientific test: that political
corruption everywhere was the same. I followed a similar geographic
trail, bent on proving that the concealment of clergy pedophiles in Louisiana
was replicated in other dioceses.
In many depositions -- transcripts of pretrial testimony -- church
officials involved in pedophilia cover-ups were grilled by plaintiff lawyers
about their own sexual activities with consenting adult males. This did not put
pedophilia, a pathology, on a par with homosexuality, an orientation. But the
documents charted a rationale for secrecy about a range of sexual behavior
patterns: cover up, deny, counterattack. There was no shortage of duplicity
about priests having sexual relations with women. Yet the perverse irony of the
culture, as Andrew Greeley noted in a National Catholic Reporter
article, is that transgressions of heterosexual priests drew punishment from
bishops, while the behavior of actively gay clerics was quietly ignored. I
found the ties between gay men and clerical life to be a kind of schizophrenia
in the churchs internal culture.
As if felled by a thunderbolt
In the years I worked on the book I kept telling myself, there
is a reason for this -- a reason for the despair at warring images of
church within my imagination. In the early stages of reporting, as my articles
drew national attention, New York publishers kept rejecting the
book-in-progress. My literary agent speculated that Manhattan editors feared
retaliation from the church. It was the religion editor at Doubleday, Thomas
Cahill, a Catholic, who finally accepted the book. (Cahill later published
How the Irish Saved Civilization, and has since become a full-time
writer and lecturer.)
With the contract offer in August of 1991, I felt a great weight
lifting. Events in Chicago would require some final reporting; the manuscript
needed some tightening; but the book was done. I was married then, and my wife
was in the final term of pregnancy with our second child. My misgivings about
the church had not changed; but as we talked about names for the baby and began
house hunting, a chapter of life was closing.
On Oct. 11, Ariel was born, with Down syndrome. I had only a vague
sense of the term as the pediatrician explained that our infant daughter would
be retarded. We had no advance warning; the insurance had not covered
amniocentesis. In the heartache of those early hours, we decided to inform our
7-year-old daughter about the babys condition only later, and in gradual
stages, so that she would feel joy about her new sister. The budding ballerina
pranced down the hall outside the incubation cribs where Ariel slept.
After 18 hours at the hospital, amid sadness and tenderness among
family members, I went home in late afternoon to shower and gather items to
take back. A Federal Express driver arrived with an envelope from New York:
payment for the book, the largest check I had ever received. I told God I would
give back every cent to have a normal baby. And then the years of search and
anguish came crashing down like a tidal wave. I was enraged at God, in a state
that can only be called raw fury, bellowing profanities, cursing God as I fell
to my knees, screaming Why? Why? Why? pounding the rug with my
fists, sobbing and screaming until a blinding force hit like a thunderbolt,
shoving me back against the bed. I realized that Ariel was life, given by God,
and at that moment, wallowing in shame, flooded with thoughts of the baby and
the sorrow surrounding her arrival, I begged Gods forgiveness, praying to
be a good father and provider.
Ariel had a septic defect, or perforation in the
heart; the cardiologist advised that the heart might perform a natural closure.
One hole did close, but another opened. She was so frail, yet with a sweetness
and resilience that achieved rare beauty. Her needs were immense. At age 2 she
turned blue with pneumonia and went to the hospital. A new cardiologist
recommended immediate surgery, cautioning that she might not survive. The
alternative was to watch her die slowly. In March 1994, she underwent
open-heart surgery at Tulane hospital.
While she was in the ICU, a 7-year-old girl there died of kidney
failure. I remember offering words of consolation to the childs father in
the hallway, though I have forgotten what I said. Ariel recovered and went home
after a weeks stay.
Ariel is 8 now, with a diagnosis of pulmonary hypertension --
inoperable lung disease. No physician will make a life forecast. Every cold or
virus runs the risk of sinking into her chest; she takes several medications,
and oxygen as needed. And yet in the last year she has grown an inch and a
half, and added 10 pounds.
Her cognitive level is about age 3. In May she finished nursery
school, the only Down syndrome child in her class; she begins a special school
in the fall. Some Down children with her lung condition have lived into
adulthood. Her pediatrician said it best: I dont take the view that
my patient is dying. She is a child with a life-threatening illness. The
best chance for longevity, the specialists have told us, is in pharmaceutical
advances, medicines fostering organic growth of the lungs.
The prayers I said when Ariel was in her infancy were lined with
desperation. I went to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church on Rampart Street and the
shrine of Saint Jude, patron of hopeless cases. I wanted my daughter to live
and be happy. Thus far, those prayers have been answered.
I wish I could say that this childs indomitable will to
live, as more hospitalizations followed, inspired her mother and me to find a
new threshold in our relationship. Raising a handicapped child strains the best
of marriages, and ours had problems before her birth, which, as time passed, we
were unable to resolve. In 1996 we divorced, with a shared custody
agreement.
The second church I excavated is still a wretched reality in my
life. Perhaps it always will be. But at some point I decided not to let a
sleazy power structure rob me of -- what? Being Catholic? Yes, I suppose you
could say that. Mass for me is still a complicated experience, though
improving. I search for good liturgies. A year ago, I was gazing at a pond in a
lovely Mississippi countryside, when a friend asked: Why dont you
leave the church?
Because I havent found a spirituality to replace
it, I blurted.
My spiritual interior still has images of greenery, though it is
parched with memories of an evil I will carry to the grave. I still get
occasional phone calls, mostly from reporters seeking information or a comment
when abuse cases arise. I am glad I wrote that book and glad to have gotten
beyond it in my work.
In Ariel I learned how unguaranteed life can be. A sense of
something primordial and eternal came upon me slowly. I kept praying because I
didnt know what else to do. Through my child I sensed a glimmer of light
beyond the sky, a force that can blast you to the knees, something I had only
vaguely thought about before -- in the tale of Saul-into-Paul, or in the
faith-bewildered characters of Flannery OConnor, certainly not in
muckraking me -- a force outside the self that simply comes, a spirit
that upsets all ones reading and embattled purpose with the swift, sudden
mystery of sheer love.
National Catholic Reporter, September 1,
2000
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