Writing Catholic After the Abuse Scandal 11 comments

By David Griffith

“Where have all the Catholic writers gone?” Robert Fay asked on the literary/culture blog The Millions at the end of November.

As someone who identifies as a Catholic writer, when I read the headline I was like, “Oh, no he didn’t.”

This is a sore subject for my wife and me. Our shelves are filled with the authors Fay mentions—Merton, O’Connor, Tolkien, Spark, and Percy—authors that most literate folks, Catholic or not, will recognize absent a first name, as well as some conspicuously absent (Daniel Berrigan and Annie Dillard), and many other contemporary authors who publish in widely read journals and with reputable New York houses.

As you can imagine, reading Fay’s article while in the presence of all these writers’ books, gave me pause.

He wonders why with “such a rich Catholic literary heritage with many contemporary admirers...there has not been a new generation of Catholic writers...one where their inherent ‘otherness’ is not edged to the margins, but is at the very heart of their craft.”

The reasons why are “obvious” to Fay. The Church’s stance on “abortion, artificial contraception, and the ordination of women” amounts to a “full-cultural retreat.” Then, as if the Church hadn’t alienated itself enough, the priest abuse scandal broke.

The sum total of these decisions and grave omissions, have lead to fewer people in the pews, and a bad connotation for the word “Catholic.” What had once had such rich, intellectual connotations in the 50s and 60s, has now become synonymous with oppression and pedophilia.

Suffice it to say, one markets himself as a Catholic writer at his own peril.

What’s interesting to me, from my limited historical perspective, is that what once made Catholicism en vogue and a useful critic of culture is now its great weakness.

A theology professor once described the Church’s slowness to change as a huge ocean liner, it does not turn on a dime; it must chart its course deliberately and carefully with the long view in sight. Culture, by comparison, seems to swerve, bob, and weave much more adroitly, albeit at times dangerously.

But what does seem to have changed drastically in Catholicism is indifference with what many members regard Church authority. Fay blames Vatican II for this, but focuses not so much on the rise of the laity, as the loss of the Latin liturgy.

It’s hard for me and others of my generation, born after Vatican II took effect, to evaluate this claim because we have no point of comparison—I’ve attended two Latin masses in my life; in both I felt dazzled but lost.

Fay sees the loss of the Latin Mass as potentially having a much deeper impact than I do, saying, “it’s anyone’s guess whether the reemergence of the Latin Mass will spark a Catholic literary renaissance.” It’s as though the linguistic permaculture that Catholic writers once seemed to grow out of has been destroyed by the run-off from mega-church parking lots.

I would argue that it’s not so much the loss of the Latin liturgy, but ecumenicalism and multiculturalism, which have, over time, helped us to see that it’s intolerant to claim that we are the “one true church,” that gay people are going to hell; that contraception is a don’t-ask-don’t-tell situation.

But then I read Fay’s post again, and it dawned on me the question is probably just rhetorical. Not many people are really all that concerned.

Let’s be blunt: Catholicism has lost much, if not all, of its moral authority and its cultural cache. And it will take some years—a couple generations?—of no scandal and of progressive change (women priests, anyone?) to regain its standing, but even then there will never be another period of foment for Catholic writers like the 50s and 60s.

As I wrote in my two-cents in the comment section at the bottom of Fay’s article:

“The world of the 1950s and 60s was open to the voices and visions of Catholic writers much more so than today...[because of] the fact that O’Connor and Merton were writing in a prophetic mode that took aim at the often distorted theology of Christians who saw faith as a way of maintaining the status quo, the old balance of power in a world that was rapidly changing.”

So while Fay may be correct that there aren’t as many Catholic writers in the world as say fifty years ago, his reasons why are incorrect. The Catholic writers I know, and even some young evangelical writers with who I am familiar, are keenly, almost neurotically, aware of their “otherness.”

The big revelation, at least as its occurred to this writer, is that despite the serious moral hypocrisy that many in the Church demonstrated, and despite my imperfect, sometimes unorthodox faith, I still feel an urgent need to follow in the footsteps of Merton, O’Connor, and Berrigan. I still feel an urgent need to assert my “otherness,” but in a less aggressive more reflective manner.

There is not the same savor for the triumphalism of Merton, O’Connor, and Dan Berrigan, because to write triumphantly after the priest abuse scandal would be to mark yourself for criticism. Sure, I’m nostalgic for that prophetic voice crying out in the wilderness, but that must be tempered by the knowledge of the great evil that was allowed to happened to so many children.

It seems to me that the loss of a melodious universal language is not the culprit, so much as the loss of grace. It has been bred out of us in favor of something, as O’Connor wrote, “more palatable to the modern temperament,” something that is its opposite, which is a sense that we can do it alone.

If there is to be another flowering of Catholic writing, it will be because writers have been able to recognize that we have arrived at a moment when the age-old heresy is once again rearing its head; that salvation can be achieved by works alone.

For my brothers and sisters of all faiths, and those of none, let me assert that I believe that a renaissance of religious writing in general will happen when we start writing stories that openly question, in the face of such doctrinal division and scandal, where grace may still be found.