I continue to be torn in my feelings toward the latest child sexual abuse scandal roiling the Archdiocese of Philadelphia.
In my print column today, which you can read here, I wrote about the varying reactions the things I have written have caused.
I actually looked forward to going to Mass Saturday night. That’s because it was celebrated by our new pastor, Monsignor Joe McLoone.
He’s no stranger to people here in Delaware County. He is the pastor of St. Katharine Drexel in Chester.
He joked about going from Chester to Chester County, how different the two parishes are, but the things that unite us as Catholics as well. Make no mistake. The caring, comforting words he spoke were exactly what the faithful needed to hear.
I should have warned him that in addition to the culture shock of going from the urban environment of St. Katharine Drexel to the suburban Downingtown, there also would be another culture shock he no doubt would deal with. It’s one I’ve already encountered.
Many of Downingtown’s founding fathers, the men who worked in the mills and populated the town, were very proud Italians. They formed the bedrock of St. Joseph’s Parish and much of the town’s culture. I know. I married into one of those families. I’m sort of the Irish black sheep of the family.
Monsignor McLoone used his Irish warmth and humor to disarm parishioners during his homily. He struck exactly the right tone.
After the Mass, while he was greeting parishioners, I introduced myself and he thanked me for the things I had written about him. He also indicated there was a reporter from the New York Times talking to parishioners and waiting to talk to him. After years of dealing with him at St. Katharine Drexel, I assured him he would do fine.
Actually, it was me who should have been thanking him.
That’s because during his homily he also touched on something that I often tell people when they ask me if the church’s troubles have soured me on Catholicism.
I always tell them that while I abhor the scandal and abuse dogging the church, I don’t go to church for one man, perfect or imperfect.
I go for an hour alone with my thoughts, and to contemplate the week and my life.
I find it increasingly difficult to find even the tiniest slice of solitude in life these days. I seem to be “plugged in” 24 hours a day.
I know a lot of people who have abandoned the church in these trying times. It would be all too easy to do. But it seems to me the church likely needs us now more than ever, probably every bit as much as we need it.
I don’t have all the answers. I have lots of questions. A lot of days I feel like I’m just adrift on this vast wave of information I wrestle with.
One day at a time, I suppose. The monsignor indicated that he would be away from the parish for about nine days, because he is taking his 84-year-old to a family wedding in Ireland.
It has long been a dream of mine to visit Ireland, where I am told we still have relatives. I sometimes joke that when I finally go, I only want a one-way ticket.
My parents used to say that our family name was actually O’Heron, but they dropped the “o” when they came to this country.
Shame.
I kind of like the sound of O’Heron. The same way I like the sound of McLoone.
Welcome, monsignor.
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