These Stone Walls: More Loose Ends and Dangling Participles
. . . Somehow, at some point when I wasn’t looking, These Stone Walls became noticed, and it seemed to happen suddenly. In the last few weeks, some friends who keep track of such things have told me something astonishing. TSW is showing up on the first page in a number of Google searches. As a prisoner with zero access to the Internet, I can be forgiven for not having noticed. Google didn’t even exist when I was sent to prison, and the Internet was in its virtual toddlerhood. . . .
When Priests Are Falsely Accused Part 3: The High Cost of Innocence
. . . It's ironic that this same priest is often angry with me because he doesn't think I am angry enough. I assure you, he's wrong on that score. But being angry and feeling let down does not excuse me from doing the right thing. It does not excuse me from fidelity to the Gospel, fidelity to the Church, and fidelity to my own sense of right and wrong. At the end of the day, I am still wrongly imprisoned, but I have the freedom to choose the person I'm going to be while wrongly imprisoned. When I began this three-part post three weeks ago, I set out to write the nature and scope of the injustices that took place in my diocese. Now that it comes down to it, I can't. It feels too much like vengeance. There is far too much at stake for me to settle for something so unfaithful as vengeance. . . .
In the Year of the Priest, the Tale of a Prisoner
. . . It's hard to describe the brokenness of the person sitting a few feet away staring intently, lost in a mindless TV show. Most of you do not have a category in which to understand the aftermath of such a shattered life. Skooter, his head shaved, his right arm covered in prison tattoos, looks as menacing as a wounded person possibly can. Skooter said I am the first person he has ever told of his past. I believe him. He wasn't able to tell most of it even to me. Instead, he spent all night writing, and gave his story to me in the morning. He titled it, "The Life of Skooter." It's not an easy story to tell. . . .
Going My Way
. . . It’s clear how very much that world view is shaped by the media. Hollywood's treatment of Catholics and the priesthood has sure changed since Bing Crosby donned a Roman collar. One of my friends watched The Bells of St. Mary's, then stopped by my cell to comment. He loved it, but added that today Hollywood would have Father O'Malley on administrative leave for his interest in turning a street gang into a choir. . . . Some of my friends tend to see me as a sort of poster-priest for injustice, ill-treatment, and poor morale in the priesthood. When one friend read Bernadette's comment, she asked point blank what I would do if I knew at ordination what I know today: Would I still become a priest if I knew what was in store for me? Would I still become a priest if I had any sense of the suffering to follow? Would I still become a priest if I had any sense at all? Bear with me. My answers are coming. . . .
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.” . . .
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. . . .
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. . . .