The Day the Earth Stood Still
. . . In the end, what was meant to be a sign of unity in the Church was transformed into an open battle in our seminary. The rector, a Sulpician, was a priest from my diocese. He was particularly incensed when I – the only seminarian from our diocese there – signed a petition challenging his authority to bar Catholic seminarians from attending a Mass with the Pope. On October 7, 1979, more than 200,000 people gathered on the National Mall in Washington, DC to welcome the Holy Father and celebrate the Eucharist with him. . . . I was horrified at the way they were singled out and ostracized, and I wasn't having it. On that day, I parted ways with the "trendy dissent" crowd. . . .
The Sacrifice of the Mass Part 2
. . . Then, suddenly, EWTN was gone. Early in 2008, EWTN converted to a digital signal ahead of the national transition that was to take place. To the dismay of many Catholic prisoners, EWTN was lost to us. The local cable company promised to restore it after the national transition to digital television, but that has not happened. EWTN is no longer available in the prison, and is deeply missed. I am approached daily by Catholic prisoners asking how we can restore EWTN. Without EWTN for daily Mass, I was stranded again. A friend challenged me to do all I can to regain the ability to celebrate the Eucharist. I wrote for an appointment with the current prison chaplain who told me he would approach prison officials for approval to have Mass supplies if our bishop also approved it. . . .
The Sacrifice of the Mass Part 1
. . . When I looked up at one point, I noticed a small wooden tabernacle on a shelf in the corner of the office. The tabernacle was hand carved by a Catholic prisoner, and was incredibly beautiful. Sitting there with the deacon's essay in my hand, I noticed a small Sanctuary Lamp that was lit. I realized with a great jolt that the Blessed Sacrament was in the tabernacle in the deacon's office. I felt overwhelmed, and tears came to my eyes. For the first time in over five years, I was in the Presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament. The chaplain smiled, apparently thinking that I was reacting to his essay. . . . I awoke at 3:00 AM smelling smoke. A prisoner with a book of matches was trying to ignite my blankets while I slept, insisting that Satan awoke him in the night and asked him to do so. . . .
Hey, Jude!
. . . We of "a certain age" remember all too well the Beatles' famous song, "Hey, Jude." Be careful! Some of the lyrics may escape you, but the melody is addictive. It can easily become "stuck in your head." I can hear it this very moment playing on neurons that first fired forty years ago. Was the song about the same Jude - the Patron of Hopeless Causes - whom we honor today? I was a teenager when I first heard the Beatles' "Hey, Jude" in the late 1960's (UGH! THE SIXTIES!!!). I remember thinking, at age fifteen, that the song was about St. Jude, Hope for the Hopeless. I liked the song, and even took some comfort from it for that very reason. It sounded like a prayer, and it seemed fitting that the Beatles, whose popularity edged toward idolatry - like a lot of the 1960's - might pray. Prayer or not, it has been sung like one since . . .
Guess What's Coming To Dinner!
. . . An avid Clint Eastwood fan, my sister rented the video of the 1979 film, “Escape from Alcatraz,” and we watched it together sometime in 1984. In a memorable scene, Eastwood’s character had his first meal in the Alcatraz prison’s dining facility. It was spaghetti. Clint Eastwood watched as another prisoner fed a bit of spaghetti to a mouse hiding in his pocket. Edified by this snippet of humanity in such a place, Clint dug into his own spaghetti. The camera zoomed in, and both Clint Eastwood and the viewers caught sight of maggots squirming on the tray. Clint wasn’t the only one eating his spaghetti. My niece – then five, and now married with daughters of her own – came into the room just at that scene. She squealed, “EEEEUWWW!” and ran off. It was a month before my sister could serve spaghetti again. . . .
The Whoopi Cushion
. . . Whoopi Goldberg now ridicules the case against Roman Polanski, inferring that it is unjust to impose a penalty in a case from so long go. Moreover, and most shockingly, she minimized the child’s victimization with the astonishing statement, “It wasn’t really rape, rape!” The inference here is that the victim “consented,” despite being drugged, and despite being thirteen years old. If Roman Polanski was a Catholic priest, Whoopi Goldberg would want his head presented to Herod on a platter. . . . As the national priesthood scandal unfolded seven years ago – at which point I had already been wrongly imprisoned for eight years – my bishop wrote the following to a Vatican official: “Whatever the truth is about [Father MacRae’s] guilt or innocence, the Diocese of Manchester was in a difficult situation during his public trial. I do not feel that the Diocese can publicly advocate on his behalf without risking grave public misunderstanding.” . . .
To the Readers of These Stone Walls
. . . Recently, I obtained the great honor of celebrating weekly Mass in my prison cell. Sometime soon, I will write about, the struggle to bring this about. At Mass, I like to use the First Eucharistic Prayer - the Roman Canon - the most beautiful and ancient of the Canons of the Mess. It affords an opportunity to pray for people by name. I pray there for the readers of These Stone Walls, and I keep a list of those who left comments so I can pray for each of you by name. . . . I want to call your attention this week to , “Pornchai’s Path to the Narrow Gate,” a new article by author Ryan Anthony MacDonald. It can be found under “Commentary” here at These Stone Walls. If you have been reading These Stone Walls, then you know of Pornchai - my friend and a fellow prisoner - who will soon be received into our Faith. . . .
Clerical Claustrophobia Part 2
. . . At the time I was accused and faced trial in 1994, my attorney sought the help of my Diocese to defend the case. I was sitting in the attorney’s office on the day he called the Chancellor of my diocese asking for details of the protocol for reporting accusations of abuse to state officials.The Chancellor, a monsignor, said that the diocese had never had to make such a report until accusations emerged against me. I was the only one, he said. Months later as I prepared for trial, the Chancellor and a diocesan lawyer issued a press release about me. Knowing that I refused “plea deals,” maintained my innocence, and struggled to mount a defense, the press release declared: “The Church has been a victim of the actions of Gordon MacRae just as these individuals.” My trial, from that point on, was but a farce. . . .
Clerical Claustrophobia Part 1
. . . Many bishops and brother priests have been in denial about how easy it is to be accused. As one astute prisoner said to me at the height of The Scandal in 2002: “Let me get this straight. If I say some priest touched me funny twenty years ago, I’ll be a victim, I’ll be paid for it, and my life will be HIS fault instead of mine. Do you have any idea of how tempting this is?” (“Sex Abuse and Signs of Fraud,” Catalyst, November 2005). I cannot pretend that I am not angry about the distance and risk aversion practiced by many of my brother priests in my regard. Over time, however, that anger has dissolved into sadness, not only about them, but about the climate of fear and dismay created by The Scandal and kept in motion by people with axes to grind. As more than one reader commented here on These Stone Walls, “Satan has targeted the priesthood.” . . .
Naked in the Public Square
. . . As I was led into the lobby with all my prison hardware clinking and the two armed guards at my sides, I felt the cold stares of dozens of wary eyes upon me. There had been a lot of idle chatter in the bustling hospital lobby, but everyone suddenly fell silent as I was led through their midst feeling … well … like a prisoner. I tried to stare straight ahead, a tactic that was not as easy as the silence quickly evolved into a torrent of whispers. I thought I even heard a gasp or two. . . . In the patient waiting area, an elderly woman smiled at me from across the room. I tried to smile back. I was trying hard not to look like Hannibal Lecter. . . .
Postcards From The Edges
. . . When The Scandal reached its media apex in January, 2003, a reporter for a local newspaper met with me in the prison visiting room. At the end of our visit, she said – and this is a direct quote – “The news media, and my paper in particular, are so anti-Catholic, editors won’t let us write stories about falsely accused priests.” A week later, the reporter canceled a second scheduled visit. I never heard from her again. . . .
Anatomy of a Sex Abuse Fraud
. . . It turned out that a year before making the claims, Sean Murphy and Byron Worth were inmates together at the Massachusetts Correctional Institute in Shirley, MA where they concocted the scam and rehearsed the details of their stories. Sean and Byron were indicted for fraud and larceny, and faced a 2-year return to prison for the scam. Sean’s mother was also indicted for the fraud. The Boston news media buried the story in the emerging tsunami of settlement demands for claims against priests. Sean Murphy’s return to prison was, for his own interests, time well spent. After his release, he made news again last year for masterminding a scam involving the heist of Super Bowl rings. . . .
Witnesses to Hope
. . . In his stunning and deeply moving book, People of Auschwitz, published in association with the United States Holocaust Museum, Auschwitz survivor and historian Hermann Langbein wrote:“The best known act of resistance was that of Maximilian Rajmund Kolbe, who deprived the camp administration of the power to make arbitrary decisions about life and death.” In June, 1979, Pope John Paul II knelt on the floor of Cell 18 . . .
The Catholic League Just Published Due Process For Accused Priests
The Catholic League just published Due Process for Accused Priests. Please take a moment to read . . .
A Measure of Truth
. . . There I was, a 41 –year-old Catholic priest strapped to a chair in a dank office surrounded by electronic equipment with sensors on my fingers, and probes monitoring my heart rate, respiration and blood pressure while a poker-faced examiner asked me graphic questions about sex. When it was over, he told me we would be repeating the test with “re-phrased” questions in a week’s time, and then again a week after that. “Don’t even think about it,” I was told. . . .
Kill the Priest Again!
. . . She had lots of comments in her friendly letter, but in the end she wanted to know only one thing:“Are you mistreated there? I would hate to think you are mistreated.”As I read her letter, my cell mate, Pornchai, was studying for a Catholic Distance University exam. I looked up and said, “This nice lady in the UK wants to know if I’m ever mistreated.” He didn’t even look up from his book when he said, spontaneously, “Does she mean by us or by priests?”I was stunned by the irony of his question. When I didn’t answer, he looked at me. I expected sarcasm in his eyes, but there was none. He thought it was a good question. . . .
Take a Hike!
. . . Growing up, Scott refused to be left behind. My older brother and I were blind to the strength of Scott's relentless tenacity. He may have struggled to keep up with our mountain climbing skills, but I now see that we lagged far behind him in determination and sheer strength of will.In March of 1970 the three MacRae brothers climbed New Hampshire's Mount Chocorua during a treacherous Nor'easter . . .
A Day in the Life
. . . Still a regimented life, to the extent possible, is essential. So many prisoners give in to the throes of depression by sleeping half the day and ruminating most of the night. Such depression feeds itself and leads to an empty life devoid of meaning. It is tempting to fall into it at times, but it is spiritually toxic.And so no matter what keeps me awake at night, and that list is sometimes long, I am out of my steel bunk with its two inch thick mattress every . . .
Field of Dreams
. . . As I rounded a bend on the 1/4 mile track near the outfield, I was overwhelmed with a sense of the foreign. I was alone for a few moments for the first time in years. I was surrounded by silence after all the years of senseless prison din, and I was in the company of trees. It was a setting that I instantly knew could save me from Dostoyevsky's despair. . .