Opinion
QUOTE OF THE WEEK “one of the most horrific cases in the history of Hays County.” –Sheriff Gary Cutler, story, pg. 1
Hays Free Press • February 19, 2020
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Defending my church when no one else will Guest Column Christine Flowers
T
he 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. And yet, I stay, because there is no other alternative for me. There is no other faith, no other place. For that, I am ridiculed and criticized, and for that I am doubly committed to remain in those pews. But the scandal of men who abused the innocence of children and young men, and who were aided and abetted in their crimes by fearful or venal administrators, has made me ashamed. It has placed me on the defensive with those who already hated a church that stood proudly for the dignity of the unborn and the sanctity of a marriage open to the creation of human life. It has made it difficult for me to say that we speak with one, holy, apostolic and moral voice. Last week, a famous lawyer who will not be named here because he doesn’t deserve more publicity, admitted that he might have named the wrong priest in a lawsuit filed by his client, a 50-year-old who claims he was abused in the archdiocese decades ago. As a lawyer, I am astounded at the fact that someone in my profession could have been so careless as to accuse the wrong person of committing a crime so heinous that it is considered by many to be worse than murder. I know that lawyers make mistakes, and I know that we are sometimes blinded by money or crusades or hatred of our opponents, but when you are dealing with claims of sexual abuse, you damn well better get your facts straight before you start pointing fingers. It looks as if the person who should have been named actually died several decades ago. And when confronted with his mistake, the lawyer gave a comment that looked, sounded like and amounted to nothing more than an “oops.” This is a problem. We have been saturated with news stories about immoral, criminal priests, to the point that it is now common to simply dismiss all Catholic priests as the punchline of brutal jokes. The media has made it easy to ridicule my faith and the good men who have devoted their lives to it. But it’s not just the media. We now have lawyers, those members of my profession who are committing acts of near if not actual malpractice, subjecting the wrong defendants to accusations in the pursuit of some raw and vengeful justice. I expect that many of my readers will be angered by this column. There are those who will never admit that the church, my church, has been treated unfairly by the press and the courts and by they themselves. They will recoil at any call for self-reflection, because the subject of child abuse is so horrible and soul-destroying. We need, and want, our sacrificial lambs. But unless we take the time to examine these cases one by one, under a bright light that has the power to bring out flaws and discrepancies, we are no better than the people we accuse of abuse. Because false accusations are as destructive as true crimes. And lawyers and journalists, of all people, should know that. Christine Flowers is an attorney and a columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer. cflowers1961@gmail.com
Hays Free Press Publisher Cyndy Slovak-Barton News Editor Anita Miller Sports Editor Moses Leos III
When did your rock last roll? Guest Column by Jase Graves
L
ike many Americans allergic to adulting, I often zone out on Facebook when I should be doing something more useful – like scooping the litter box or lecturing my children about the dangers of social media. Inevitably, I come across one of those surveys posted by Facebook users who are probably planning to hack into my account and steal my pet selfies. I recently saw a survey that asks you to identify various rock concerts you’ve attended, and since my teen years were in the 1980s, attending rock concerts was a rite of passage that ranked right up there with cursing at your Rubik’s Cube and sporting your first fuzzstache. So hold on to your Hacky Sack, and let’s do this!
FIRST CONCERT In August of 1985, a friend’s parents dropped off two of my fellow 15-year-old nerdlings and me at the legendary and slightly dilapidated Hirsch Memorial Coliseum in Shreveport, LA, for the “World Infestation” tour of the hair metal band Ratt – with Bon Jovi, ironically, as the opening act. As we sat at the back of the venue’s top row seating with our mouths agape, we could actually feel our undeveloped mullets standing on end as we were initiated into the world of live power chords, drum solos, and overly excited girls with impressively permed, crimped, and teased hairdos as far as the eye could ogle.
LAST CONCERT Since my wife and I are now the parents of three teen daughters who
would rather fold laundry while watching Wolf Blitzer discuss geopolitics on CNN than hang out with us, we’ve caught a few concerts on our own over the past couple of years. Our most recent event was the Billy Joel concert at Globe Life Park in Arlington, Texas. The show was fantastic, and it was great to remain comfortably seated with hundreds of other boring, middle-aged couples singing along to hits from our teen years while waiting for an opportune moment to take a bathroom break.
BEST CONCERT I witnessed the epitome of 1980s British metal and poor spelling when Def Leppard performed in Shreveport for the “Hysteria” tour in 1987. Not only was I amazed by the laser show and Leppard drummer Rick Allen’s inspiring one-armed performance, but standing near the stage in my sleeveless Union Jack shirt, I was surrounded by hundreds of squealing teenage girls who didn’t seem to mind that I was there – or that I probably forgot to wear deodorant.
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WORST CONCERT Nothing against the R&B legend, but I only went to see Keith Sweat in 1988 because the girl I was dating at the time liked Keith Sweat. I’ve got about as much rhythm and blues as Mr. Rogers on his least-funky days in the neighborhood.
MOST SURPRISING CONCERT I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the 1988 Rush concert in Shreveport was a true revelation – despite the relatively small number of bodacious babes in attendance. From Neil Peart’s phenomenal percussion work that demonstrated what a truly inadequate drummer I was, to the Toronto band’s cerebral lyrics, the show left me feeling exhilarated, more respectful of Canada – and slightly smarter.
LOUDEST CONCERT The concert that probably contributed most to the fact that I often can’t hear my daughters asking for money was the 1988 Texxas Jam “Monsters of Rock” festival at The Cotton Bowl in Dallas.
The lineup featured such eardrum-slaying legends as Van Halen, Scorpions, Metallica, Dokken and Kingdom Come. Van Halen’s Sammy Hagar actually lost his voice at the concert – and I lost my ability to tell the difference between the smoke alarm and the microwave beeping when my chicken taquitos are ready. It’s nice that my wife and I can still occasionally get away to see elderly 1980s icons taking advantage of the fact that their fans are now old enough to carry a line of credit. But these days, I mostly get my head banger fix from the praise band at church. And if I’m feeling particularly nostalgic, I’ll rock out to Def Leppard on my iPhone while I scoop the litter box and take a few pet selfies. Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. susanjase@sbcglobal.net
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