So glad faithful Dad missed Catholic Church scandals
AS much as I miss my father, sometimes I am glad he is dead. It is nearly 41 years since he died but I still find myself wanting to talk to him.
It is likely he would struggle more than I do with modern technology. He never really embraced the telephone.
In our quiet country valley, we were likely still on a party line at the time of his death. Those modern marvels allowed nosey neighbours to listen in on conversations if they timed it right (and were sufficiently quiet lifting their receivers).
Dad, who liked nothing better than a good yarn, became awkward and almost monosyllabic on the telephone. It was painful being on the other end. I doubt his reticence was due to the exorbitant cost of toll calls in those days. He was simply uncomfortable with this contraption.
I can’t see online shopping holding much allure for him either. There would be no fun in that. He relished the chance for a bit of banter with whoever was behind the counter and, after a shopping trip, he would often retell the conversations he’d had.
But what I am most glad about is that he is not witnessing the scandals surrounding his beloved Catholic Church.
Dad didn’t talk intimately about his faith, but as kids we just knew it was important — not only because we ate fish on Fridays and were dragged off to church every Sunday come hell or high water. At Easter, it felt like we never left church.
The 10 Commandments were drummed into us. We knew Dad was a firm believer in ‘‘do unto others as you would have done unto you’’, and also setting a good example, acting with decorum, and pride coming before a fall. Damn was a swear word in his eyes and none of us would dare take the Lord’s name in vain. He would be appalled at some of our language today, I’m sure.
One of my sisters was disappointed he didn’t have an answer for one of her deepest spiritual questions. It related to something said each Mass before communion: ‘‘Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed’’.
‘‘What is the word?’’ she’d wanted to know. Now 53, she wonders if not knowing the word has held her back. Before his failure to respond, she’d thought Dad knew everything.
In a country town, the weekly Mass was an important social event for families who lived in farflung surrounding valleys. We knew Uncle Dave would always be late, Dad’s singing would be embarrassingly low and that for us kids a fit of the giggles was never far away. After Mass, the adults stood around outside batting the breeze for what seemed like hours while we ran amok around the church grounds.
In my smartypants teenage, I clashed with Dad over the church’s stand on contraception. How could a church which insisted on celibacy for priests and nuns be opposed to contraception, I argued. Wasn’t stopping people from having sex the ultimate contraception? I cannot recall his response to my cleverness, but I am sure he did not agree. Innocent days.
I still remember Dad’s horror in the 1960s when a family friend was caught out as a serial sex abuser of young girls around the district. Such behaviour was so far removed from his own, he found it incomprehensible. I can only imagine what he might make of years of church coverups of paedophilia within its ranks.
Would he think the anger directed at Pope Francis on his recent visit to Ireland was fair enough, given the inability of the Vatican to respond decisively in the face of multiple scandals over many years?
I wonder if he would agree with John Allen, editor of the Catholic magazine Crux and a Vatican authority that this time is a potential tipping point, not just for Pope Francis, but the Catholic Church writ large.
He says ordinary Catholics had stuck with the church ‘‘because people in power were saying, ‘we understand how awful this is, it has to be fixed and we’re going to fix it’. What is punching Catholics in the gut right now is the thought that what they were told about the determination to get this sorted simply wasn’t real.’’
The last time I visited my hometown church it was still defying the efforts of the Buller River to carry it away. The lawn was mowed, but the building seemed forlorn. Nothing to show the visitor this had been the centre of a bustling community. On the door, a postCanterburyearthquake sign warned anybody entering would do so at their own risk. I was glad Dad had missed seeing that.
❛ Dad didn’t talk intimately about his faith, but as kids we just knew it was important — not only because we ate fish on Fridays and were dragged off to church every Sunday come hell or high
water.